102 - A Message Made From Bones

23

All I know is that I must keep running, my anger nipping at my heels, the pain and fatigue secondary.

If I stop, I'll be consumed.

I burst into the old city at a sprint, running so fast that I collide with the side of a building to stop myself. My palms crash into the wall, the worn brick cracking under the impact.

With each strained breath, fire lances through my ribs, my back, and my hair hangs in my face in a thick curtain, tangled 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.

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—

A sharp pain twists in my ribs when I shove off the wall, 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, I force one foot in front of the other and step out onto the moonlit street.

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

Usually, if I'm not recovering (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 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, though my body threatens 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 ever seem to sleep, even when I'm too exhausted to stand.

A cool breeze kisses my face, blowing loose strands of red 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. 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 mausoleum is off-limits. It is home to a vampire named Stephen, who had to prove himself to us before we decided he lived up to his self-proclaimed harmlessness. We make sure to check in on him every time we visit—and check his blood with a device which Angel had used when he worked at Wolfram and Hart. It looks like a glucose meter but tests for traces of human blood instead.

So long as Stephen continues passing, he continues to exist as more than a pile of ash.

If nothing else catches my attention tonight, I may be half inclined to pay him a surprise visit.

A few cars pass by, but I naturally stick so close to the shadows that I doubt the passengers see me walking. My ears hone in on every little noise, sorting out what is the skittering of rodents, the cawing of birds, and the clattering and humming of machines. A few distant voices. None particularly piqued my senses.