102 - A Message Made From Bones

12

Faith is waiting for us in the stairwell of the dilapidated building neighboring the Doctor's, twiddling a stake as she leans against the wall. The structure is now a shell of what it once was: the ground level is an abandoned retail store, frozen in the 1980s, with dusty wardrobes from that era still hanging like ghosts on what racks are left or lay scattered on the floor.

I nod at the stake in her hand, brow raised at the whittled end. "What's up with the fatty?"

"Mo made these for us," Faith explains, tossing it over, and I snap it out of the air. The piece is approximately one foot in length, about two inches in diameter at the blunt end, and the point is whittled twice as long for easier penetration. Despite its uncommon size, it doesn't affect the handling. I've used large stakes before, when I was a rookie, and the size comes in handy when up against a meaty vamp—but generally, I prefer to keep narrow ones on my person because they're easier to carry in the waistband. Thick vampires be damned—I'll find other ways to dust them.

Its wood design looks familiar, made of polished mahogany; the sculpted ends are what remains of what it used to be. I toss it between my hands, familiarizing myself with its weight, its grip. "Did you—"

"—Whip them up with a literal snap of my fingers?" Moira finishes for me, smiling wickedly. "Yes. They're made from Lenora's dining chairs. Wasn't very happy with that."

Gently prodding the tip against the smooth pad of my finger, testing its sharpness, I mumble bitterly, almost mindlessly, "That woman hasn't been grateful for a single thing, even if her kids' lives depended on it." The Slayer begins to stir within me, awakening like a slumbering beast—and hungry for a fight. I have to resist the intrusive urge to draw my own blood, needing to feel something other than the kindling fury. Though there are so many ways I'd like to kill the Doctor, I plan to keep him alive...

At least until I find Jay's buyer and get all the information I need from them.

And then I'll kill them both.

Take my time with it, too. Savor it.

I stamp down the dark pleasure rising with the thought, pushing away the images, and find Faith's gaze. "What's the plan?"

She jerks her head toward the stairs and leads us up two floors to a loft that provides a vantage point overlooking the alley and the Doctor's building. At one of the windows, Kai is crouched, back against the wall, peering out.

The slayer likely hears us coming, but she doesn't acknowledge us as she quietly reports, "Two day-walkers on the roof; a vamp each on the third and fourth floor—both keeping to the shade; two with red eyes on the second floor; and at least three on the ground—I only see one of them that isn't sun-shy." There is a slump to Kai's shoulders that I've only ever seen when she was unconscious.

"We got here minutes after Moira found you," Faith tells me. "No one's been in or out."

"Then they wouldn't have had time to transport him. He was on the second floor." I chew the inside of my cheek, thinking, and then ask Kai, bracing myself for her bite, "Any sign of him?" I won't even blame her if she takes this out on me.

Kai's sleek ponytail whips across her pale face as she finds our stares—particularly mine. Something wrenches in my chest at seeing the icy fire in her eyes gone, melted by pure desperation. Not even when the Doctor had a knife to her throat did she look so grave.

And though I see her finger aching to point in my direction, she just gently shakes her head. Her expression, once tight with spite only ever aimed at us, softens, and all that hidden fear finally flashes beneath her snobby façade. Kai's beauty is striking even when hardened with anger, but she is just that much more devastating when her eyes are sparkling with tears. When she can't hone her sharp features and lethal glares.