Disclaimer: The characters Jez and Morgead and any others you recognize belong to L.J Smith. Any you don't recognize are mine. Well, kind of. Some are based on mythological figures. Plot's mine though.
A/N: Sorry I've been gone so long. Well, here's another J/M story that's been in the back of my head for quite some time. It's post-Huntress, just so you know. For those of you who are wondering what's going on with my other J/M fic (which I'd be very flattered if you were) I've put it on hold because I just really don't like the direction it has taken, & the characters seem extremely flat to me. Sorry. If you feel otherwise, please tell me so!
1999, 2 years after the events in Huntress.
A low groan interrupted Morgead's cautious path across the waterlogged floorboards of the ancient, decrepit Victorian house. He froze in mid-stride, certain he hadn't caused the noise; he'd been way too careful not to cause any commotion. That was straight from the Standard Reconnaissance for the Creatures of the Night 101 handbook. His spine stiffened anxiously in preparation for an attack. Blood pounded in his ears as he strained to hear any other evidence of an assailant. Only after a minute and a half did he pick up the familiar scent.
Dammit Schrader, is that you? You're making enough noise to wake the undead. Particularly those who live in this hellhole. Keep it down, will you?
Sorry, was Circle Daybreaks' newest European imports' maddeningly unapologetic reply.
I'd say that goes for the both of you, Morg. Ash Redfern butted in while situating himself outside the back entrance to the house. You're broadcasting everything like a handheld radio. Tighten up your shields.
Morgeads' only response was a clenched jaw and a very rude gesture, which thankfully the other two vampires couldn't see. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been feeling scattered, not quite as focused as he should have been, a dangerous mistake in times like these. Unfortunately that was a side effect to being the soul mate of one of the few people in the world who could hold back the coming darkness. Morgead paused for a moment to gather himself, breathing deeply and mentally pulling everything to him. All that existed was here and now. No worrying about an attack on Jez while he was gone, or how they were going to resolve their latest argument. Just this, just the objective.
Alright, I'm going in. Morgead resumed his deliberate course towards the living room where voices could be heard.
We should stay out here, less chance of being trapped, countered Schrader with his usual nonchalance.
This is a recon mission, and we're not going to find out anything sitting on our asses out here. They've got a spell muting the sound around their living room; I'll have to get closer to hear anything. Give me half an hour. Morgead broke the connection, effectively ending the conversation, and sidled up to the doorway. The voices from within had stopped. Morgead remained crouched next to the entrance.
Two vamps just exited out the back, I'd say it's safe. He began to employ a technique that he had been working on. He began by once again steadying breathing, focusing on within. Once his mind touched that sleeping ember of emerald fire deep inside him, he slowly started to draw out that energy, until he had formed a kind of cloak, or cloud around him which conveniently shielded his thoughts, breathing and heartbeat. As soon as he felt secure, he cautiously rose from his crouch, and crept into the now darkened and deserted room. He began to search the room for any evidence of the NightWorlder's intentions. After several minutes of meticulously rifling through miscellaneous papers in the bureau against the north wall, a thin white strip caught his eye, protruding from the bottom of the coffee table. Morgead slid under the table as a mechanic does under a problematic car. Gently he probed the edges of the table until his questing fingers found the nearly imperceptible groove. Carefully he pried the false bottom off the coffee table revealing the incriminating documents. He quickly flipped through them. A triumphant flash of white in the dark was the only evidence of his glee. Quietly he eased himself up off the floor, the documents cradled in his hands. He was too preoccupied with his fortuitous find to notice the black shape that had detached itself from the curtains to shadow his steps.