102 - A Message Made From Bones

7

I don't quite know where I am going yet; all I know is that I must keep running, my anger nipping at my heels, the pain and fatigue secondary to it.

If I stop, it will consume me.

Perhaps Jay could've helped—if I'd just let him.

But while I'm also temperamental, pride is my next greatest sin.

I burst into the old city at a sprint, running so fast that I'm forced to collide with the side of a building to stop myself. My palms crash into the wall, causing the worn, tan brick to crack upon impact.

With each strained breath, fire lances through my ribs, my back, and my hair hangs in my face in a thick curtain, matted from my run. Without much regard for the knots, I pull it back and hastily tie it in a low bun. The cold autumn air burns my lungs, my throat still raw from Quinn's magickal chokehold, giving me something else to focus on that isn't all the things I could've said to Lenora in retaliation. If I weren't so worked up, I'd feel the chilly breeze licking my skin, my exposed arms, but it feels like spring to me in just jeans and a loose grey top.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing out the images of him, but my stomach still flutters at the reminder of my fall.

Keep moving keep moving—

Shoving off the wall, a sharp pain twists in my ribs, stopping me before my first step, my knees wobbling beneath me as I catch my breath.

With a colorful curse for being so hot-headed that I aggravated my injuries, I force one foot in front of the other and step out onto the moonlit street.

By the end of the block, I successfully manage to stuff that anger into a cage somewhere deep and can now appreciate where I am: Count this as my very first day off—night off.

Usually, if I'm not recovering from injury (and premonitions aside), I don't get more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep before I have to get back on the field. So, being out for half a day—while it wasn't by choice—is a blessing in disguise, and, even if the Slayer in me is still prowling for a fight, I don't feel entirely bad for sleeping through patrol.

I smile, letting myself embrace every stride of this midnight stroll despite my body threatening to collapse under me at any moment. The only thing keeping me upright is my slayer-hunger, racing through my veins like an eternal river of black fire. It doesn't seem to ever sleep, even when I'm too exhausted to stand.

A cool wind kisses my face, blowing loose red strands of hair backward. The night is quiet; the neighborhood asleep. Every shop window is dark, with only the silver of the moon and the yellow glow from the iron lampposts to light my way. I continue at a leisurely pace, not caring where I'm going; the only focus is on slow breaths, in and out, until my chest no longer feels so tight and my skin is no longer hot.

I'm not thinking much about where I'm going, turning down blocks here and there. I've patrolled the City of London almost every night for the better part of two years; there is not one street that I haven't been down at least a dozen times. So I'm no stranger to this neighborhood and its tendency for demonic activity: there is a graveyard a few streets over, and its mausoleums are prime for nests. Faith and I sweep it at least once a week, clearing it of zompires as recently as a couple days ago.

Only one of the mausoleums is off-limits. It is home to a vampire named Stephen, who had to prove himself to us before we decided he was as harmless as he self-proclaims. We make sure to check in on him every time we visit—and check his blood with a device that Angel had used when he worked at Wolfram and Hart. It looks like a glucose meter but tests for traces of human blood instead.