Reckless Season 2
Gratitude: Part I - Act 1
Eighteen months earlier...
"Ma'am?" A hand shook her shoulder. Suddenly there was a brilliant light in her eyes. Was she dead? "Ma'am, can you hear me?" Can I hear you? Of course I can–
"-sir, here's another one."
"Ma'am, the ambulance is on its way," repeated the gentle voice. The bright light shifted and partially illuminated the face that belonged to the voice. "Just hold on, everything'll be alright."
Meg nodded to the best of her ability, her surroundings solidifying and the pain along with it. She let out a low groan as she tried to sit up.
"Easy," the policeman comforted, sliding a hand around her shoulders. He helped her sit up and Meg looked around, trying to figure out where she was. How she had gotten here. The answers to either of these questions didn't seem forthcoming. "Watkins," the comforting voice called out to someone in the darkness, "get these people some blankets."
Half an hour later, Megan Brandon sat wrapped in a blanket in the back of one of many ambulances, sipping a steaming cup of tea. Red and blue and white flashed all around as the warehouse swarmed with detectives and uniformed officers.
"What happened?" she was finally able to ask once the medics were finished with her.
The man who had found her stood with a notepad next to her and a group of several others. "That's what we're still trying to find out, ma'am," he answered, never lifting his eyes from the page.
"Miss," Meg corrected absently, taking another sip of her tea.
"Whatever you say ma'am," the officer nodded. "I'll need to ask you some more questions later, if that's alright with you." Meg didn't answer. "Ma'am?"
"How long were we in there?" she asked quietly, her eyes flitting over the hundreds of people huddled in blankets in the parking lot outside the warehouse. The sun was setting and around the perimeter that the police had formed, flashbulbs and boom mics could be seen.
"We're working to determine that as we speak," the officer answered noncommittally. "Several of you have been reported missing, so I would say several days on the conservative end. You're lucky you were found when you were. The emergency rooms are overflowing with injured."
"Injured?" Meg asked lowing her tea to catch the officer's glance. The officer didn't seem inclined to elaborate so she changed the subject. "Who found us?"
The officer looked up from his pad, then glanced around the busy parking lot to the blond haired man in the tan jacket. "He's over there. Said he heard screams coming from inside."
Meg stared at the man from across the parking lot. There were several officers standing around him taking depositions and it was clear several television cameras were eager to get to him. Even from this distance, there was something about him. Something about all of this that she couldn't put her finger on.
"What's his name?" Meg asked as the officer turned to move away. The policeman turned back and looked down at his pad. He flipped a page and then shrugged, drifting away into the sea of blankets and uniforms.
--
October 1987, NYC
Logan Kilpatrick held his briefcase in his left hand, his suit in a dry-cleaner bag draped over his arm and his right hand out into traffic making irate little gestures trying to indicate he wanted to cross. His car was within sight, but the crosswalk was in the wrong direction and he was in a hurry. The briefcase was slowly tearing his arm off.
"Goddammit!" he shouted as he jumped back from the spray from the truck that sped past.
"Hey," said a voice behind him. He ignored it and took a step into traffic, willing to risk body damage to as many taxis as was necessary to get across the road. He was going to be late. Again.
"Hey," the voice repeated as the woman stepped closer, holding her umbrella over her head in the slight drizzle which promised more rain. "You're the guy," she said curiously, staring intently at his profile as he continued to ignore her.
"I'm a guy," Logan agreed when he realized she was not going to leave. "The city's full of us."
"You're the guy who rescued us from the warehouse," she stepped closer and held the umbrella over them both. "I know because I recognize the jacket."
Logan glanced down at his soaked khaki jacket. "The city's full of them too."
"It is you, isn't it?"
Logan made no answer, but saw his break in traffic and dashed onto the wet street.
--
Niki was slouched over her drink in the deepest corner of the club. She missed the Nail Biter. Without Diego to run it, it had closed several months ago. It had been the last demon bar in New York with class. The Slayer didn't need to look around to know her new hangout was no demon bar. She had been here, years ago, with Toe Tag City. She almost smiled at the memory. She had first tried Stuff in the car over here. She had lost her virginity to the lead guitarist in the alley after dusting a vampire. Then she'd been arrested... Such fond memories.
The Marionette didn't have much going for it besides the occasionally good band. The liquor was watered down and could have been mixed by a monkey. And, naturally, they had never heard of Stuff.
Niki took another sip. At least it was a break from all the boredom. For the past six months, since most of the inner city's demons and vampires had been wiped out in the battle against the Creep and his Nosphorus, there had been many nights without a vampire sighting. And often when she did come across a vampire, he or she was a veteran of the battle and carried the silver bracelet. Niki cursed the idea of the bracelets. Given as incentive for the vampires to fight on the side of the Slayer, now they were reminders of those she wasn't allowed to slay. Now they were being flaunted. Not that she wanted to slay the allies who had made victory possible... she was just so damn bored.
Keller had left two months earlier, just when the sex was getting good. Said there wasn't enough work in the city any more for his unit and they were being ordered back to Europe. Of course, she couldn't come. The Council wouldn't hear of it. They probably wanted to keep as many oceans between them and her as possible.
Niki Valtaine tipped her glass to her lips but only a drop hit her tongue. The glass came back down on the table with a sigh.
"Can I get you something?" a voice asked.
Niki slouched further over and shook her head. "Not unless you want to carry me home."
The figure nodded. "Good, cause I don't work here anyway."
Niki frowned and glanced up from her depressingly empty glass. The figure set a bowl of cashews down on the table and set his fedora next to it. "Whistler?" He said nothing but began eating the cashews.
Niki smiled and leaned back in her chair. "How was Asia?"
"A lot like New York City," the demon answered between mouthfuls. "Except with more Asian people." He munched a handful and then remembered. "Oh– and great food."
"What brings you back here?" the Slayer prepared for the bad news. But the demon shrugged.
"The miracle of flight." He munched. "And the hotdogs: Buddhists can't barbecue to save their lives."
"So... no bad guys? No demons you're here to warn me about?" Niki felt the worried anticipation turning to disappointment. The boredom didn't seem to want to let up.
"I didn't say there weren't any bad guys," the demon defended. "They just don't happen to be the reason I'm back."
Niki clapped her hands together. "Great, who are they and where can I find them?"
Whistler sighed, finding the bottom of the nut bowl. "The Deceivers... and I expect they'll find you."
Niki nodded. "Okay, and how do I kill them?"
The demon slowly took up his hat and set it on his head. His motions were slow and simple. Finally he locked eyes with her for the first time since he sat down. With a shrug he shook his head. "They're the first and only of their kind: how is anyone supposed to know how they're to be killed?"
Niki frowned. "Well, you're a big help."
Whistler shook his head. "I'm not really here anyway."
Niki blinked. "Uh, come again?" Then with a shock she awoke from the dream and found herself tangled in her sheets back in her room. With a groan she collapsed back into the pillow. She wished her slayer premonitions would quit depicting her like an alcoholic. A glance at the clock told her the time of night. Scrunching her eyes closed she managed to get back to sleep.
--
Logan tried to balance his briefcase, suit and bag of groceries while trying to open the door. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the porch light snapped on in the twilight. He calmed himself with a sigh and seized the doorknob with two fingers. He wasn't sure why he had become so jumpy lately. He hadn't seen any of them in several months. That was the way he liked it.
As Logan wrestled with the physics of the common doorknob, he reflected on how normal his life had become again. With no more late nights at the "office" or "business trips" he was actually making headway toward his promotion at work. Soon he would be assigned to the bigger cases. Pass a few tests and he would be in criminal court before the end of this year.
Then he felt it. With a smile and the click of the bolt, the door opened. The warm air washed over him and the homely glow of the kitchen and wonderful things cooking therein greeted his senses. He turned to dump his work things in the living room and nearly ploughed into his daughter Hanna. He caught himself before swearing –as she would surely tell– and ducked to the side to let her pass. As his life was getting more normal, she was getting ever more moody and sullen. With all the time he had been away last year he smiled: thank God I didn't miss her teenage years.
Turning around from the coffee table with only the groceries he came face to face with Rachel, his wife, who was standing before him, holding up a letter of some kind. She did not look pleased. Oh... Sh–
--
Gratitude: Part I - Act 2
"When were you going to tell me about this?" Rachel held the unfolded letter in front of Logan's face.
Logan's mind raced with excuses. He couldn't see what it was, but he had a few guesses. After all, he had been living a second life for almost a year. Eventually Rachel would figure it out.
"Uh," he began, his eyes blinking rapidly. "It's not what you think–"
"It sure as hell better be," she frowned. She glanced at the letter again and then back to him. "You're getting the promotion, right?"
Blink. Promotion. Right. "Oh, yeah. I am getting a promotion–" Too late. Poor recovery.
"What did you think I thought it was?" Rachel's frown deepened. She dropped the letter to the coffee table and crossed her arms. "What are you not telling me?"
Logan swallowed. Way to dig your own grave. "Umm," he stammered. Rachel was looking less impressed with every passing second of hesitation. Then the answer sparked into his mind. "Honey, do you remember the warehouse?"
Now it was Rachel's turn to blink. She glanced into the distance as the memory of her husband's 'heroism' was recalled. "You mean when you found all those hostages last year?"
Logan nodded. "Right," he sighed. "Well, one of them tracked me down today - that was why I was late—" only a little white lie "—and I was afraid they were sending me letters. I didn't want to worry you."
Rachel was in fact looking quite worried. As she understood it, Logan had stuck his neck out for over a thousand drugged and injured people whom he had found in a warehouse... considering the police had never made any arrests, it was dangerous to be recognized as the one who had liberated them.
"But," Logan interrupted her thoughts, his own memories of the battle which had been the real cause of those casualties filling his head, "since it isn't a letter from a devoted fan, there's nothing to worry about."
Hanna poked her head in from the front hall, eager to pounce on her father in any argument between her parents. "What are we worrying about?" she inquired.
"Nothing," Rachel said gently, her arms now uncrossed. "We were discussing your father's promotion."
Logan shrugged. "I don't have it yet."
"You will," his wife smiled, drawing him into a hug. The embrace lasted long enough for Hanna to scoff with teenaged disgust and retreat to the kitchen. "Come on," Rachel said at last. "Food's getting cold."
--
Niki poked the small key into the lock and opened the door to her mailbox. Inside was the small but adequate cheque from the Watcher's Council. It paid for rent and groceries and not much else.
As she reached in for it her eyes turned to look out the glass door to the street where she saw the sight she had been expecting since the dream.
Whistler stood on the sidewalk under the umbrella of a hotdog stand apparently arguing with the vendor. This made her smile and she closed the mailbox, the cheque in hand. Her smile slowly faded as Whistler, his hands gesticulating passionately, drew a knife and began to gut the vendor in the middle of the sidewalk.
Niki closed her eyes and shook her head in disbelief and once she opened them the scene had returned to Whistler gesturing at the poor excuse for a New York hotdog and the uninjured vendor indicating the poor excuse for exact change with which Whistler had paid.
The frown still present, Niki left the lobby and returned to her room, her mind searching for not only the cause, but also the meaning of the hallucination. Had it been a vision? A premonition?
The Slayer had never experienced premonitions in the form of daylight hallucinations before.
She decided, after a night off because of slow business, to also take the day off from her job-hunt and take a stroll through the park.
It was an absolutely spectacular day. After last evening's drizzle the ground was a little spongy but the grass was a brilliantly fresh green and everything sparkled. Each color was enhanced as it it always is when wet: the traces of late summer dust washed away.
With the fresh air in her lungs and the sun on her shoulders, Niki's troubles seemed far away and unimportant. She sat down on a bench which looked relatively sun-dried and stripped off her black leather jacket, leaving only her white T-shirt. Setting down the coat and closing her eyes, she let the warmth of the sun settled into her.
When finally the direct rays of the sun peeked out from the branches of the tree, Niki had to scrunch her eyes closed to keep from being blinded. She raised a hand to shield her eyes but a shadow had already fallen across her.
She opened her eyes and saw a young woman standing with her back to the bench, head blocking the sun, apparently stopped for a rest. The young woman had short dark brown hair and was dressed for this weather - unlike the Slayer.
Niki closed her eyes again, shifting her head into the shade of the surrounding trees when something made her open them again.
Staring at her now in the broad daylight was the young woman, her face contorted into the form of a vampire. Leering. Niki's eyes widened. All around the creature's mouth was bright red blood. She stared at the Slayer with an amused contempt until the wind blew.
With the rustling of the branches, the shade disappeared and the sun stabbed into both the Slayer's eyes, temporarily blinding her. When the afterimages had disappeared, Niki was alone on the side of the path, the woman nowhere in sight.
The Slayer walked home without another thought of what a beautiful day it was. Someone or something was trying to tell her something. Maybe it was her own instincts telling her things were too quiet. Maybe she was inventing enemies since she no longer had any to fight. Or maybe not.
Spending the rest of the day in front of the television, combing the news for reports of unexplained deaths, she cancelled her plans of drinking that night in favor of patrolling.
As soon as the sun had set, she stuffed some stakes into her pockets and hopped on the elevator down to the lobby. She had gotten less than a block from her apartment towards Central Park when she felt someone following her.
Her heart pounded and her senses were on fire. Finally some action! She didn't know how she knew, but this stalking creature was not one of the allies. The allies wearing the silver bracelets tended to stay away from her - they knew she was resentful of their immunity and didn't want to push their luck too much.
The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end and her skin was tingling. With a fist gripping the pointed spike of wood, Niki ducked off into an alley to wait for her stalker to pass. Sure enough, the shape passed as a silhouette against the opposing street light. Everything about the sight and movement of the figure shrieked vampire. Niki waited a heartbeat before springing out.
It was over in the blink of an eye. Niki didn't even get a glimpse of the face of the vampire before she thrust her stake into its chest it had become a pile of dust on the concrete. She searched the dust for a moment, looking for the glint of silver. She found none. With a satisfied nod, Niki continued on towards the park and found no other vampire all night.
Waking up the next morning with a groan of satisfaction, she stretched out on her bed and squinted into the light of the sun which shone in from her window.
Bleary eyed and in search of coffee, Niki stumbled out of her room towards the kitchen. She wasn't sure what time it was, but it went Slay, Sleep, Coffee, Sleep, Bar... then she wasn't sure where it went, what ever 'it' was, but that order had treated her well so far, so she generally gave in to it. Now it was Coffee.
Plunking down on the couch in the living room, she switched on the television. The noon news was on –hinting at the time– and the percolating of the coffee maker could be heard.
The gurgling of the coffee maker filled the small apartment, making it seem as though there were someone else there – even more than the voices of the news anchor. Without that precious caffeine, Niki couldn't really call herself awake. It would be a lie.
They hadn't rounded up any suspects, the reporter continued. Gurgle, went the coffee. The smell of the beautiful coffee began to spread from the kitchen. Velvety. Smooth. Heinous. The crime last night was heinous, the reporter continued. Although there were no signs that the victim had been either robbed or sexually assaulted, the police weren't willing to attribute the murder to a random act of violence yet. There was always the possibility of a drug related—
Gurgle, sputter, went the coffee, as if to say 'pay attention to me.' Niki's eyelids were heavy and she had a great urge to go back to sleep. She sank into a more comfortable position on the couch: nearly laying with her feet up on the coffee table and only her head propped up to watch the TV.
She folded her hands on her stomach when she noticed something black on her fingers. With a frown she opened her eyes and then squinted to get a better look at it. The black mark covered her right hand in patchy splotches. It was dry but smudged when she rubbed it.
Gurgle, gurgle. The aroma of the coffee was overpowering now and she stood, turning up the television as she moved into the kitchen. She retrieved a big mug – the biggest one she had and set it down on the counter. It nearly slid off but she caught it, realizing she had set it on top of a black felt-tip marker. With a frown she set the mug aside and picked up the marker.
With infinite slowness, she looked from the uncapped marker to the ink on her hands. With a frown she glanced back towards the fridge and the whiteboard on which had been scrawled in her handwriting: Now you see our power.
Niki slowly looked back towards the counter where her coffee mug sat innocently. Beside it was the coffee maker. There was no coffee in the carafe, no water in the small tank and no smell of delicious coffee filling the room.
Niki blinked. She looked back at the whiteboard and its cryptic message. Then the words of the news anchor from the other room started to penetrate.
"To recap our top stories for this hour; a brutal murder on the Upper East Side last night has stumped police inspectors who can find neither motive nor suspects. The woman, who we are just learning was local area resident Megan Brandon was apparently walking home just after sunset last night when she was brutally attacked and stabbed once in the heart..."
Niki, her eyes wide and her body growing numb, slowly made her way towards the kitchen table where her black leather jacket had been dumped early this morning. With hands which refused to tremble, she emptied its pockets until she found the stake. Her shallow breathing ceased when she noticed – how could she have missed it last night? She hadn't been drinking! She hadn't tasted Stuff for almost a year! This wasn't fair! Yet the blood on the end of the stake would not be rationalized out of existence.
Niki swallowed. She slowly moved back into the living room and sat on the floor in front of the television, the stake clutched in her hands.
Beside the news anchor was the floating head-shot of Megan Brandon. Bright young aspiring law student. Recent survivor of the Atlantic Avenue hostage crisis. As Niki stared at the picture, the face of the woman from the park flashed before her eyes. The same woman. The Slayer leaned over slightly to look back into the kitchen at the whiteboard message.
Now you see our power.
Gurgle, gurgle.
--
Gratitude: Part I - Act 3
"Hey– hey, Kilpatrick" Eric called, his head sticking out of his office. "The Senior Partners want to talk to you."
Logan set his briefcase back down on some secretary's desk. "Very funny," he smirked and turned to go but Eric, though offended, didn't back down.
"I'm serious, didn't you get the message?" He raised his eyebrows as Logan considered how his machine was always chewing up his messages. He glanced back at Eric who gave an encouraging thumbs up.
Logan shrugged and took off his khaki jacket, taking both that and his briefcase back to his desk before straightening his tie and heading for the elevator. The Senior Partners were three floors up.
Logan adjusted his tie several times in the elevator, completely ignoring the flirtatious efforts of the young woman who happened to be riding to the same floor. Logan had never even considered having an office affair. Lawyers, at least the ones he knew, were treacherous. They wouldn't think twice about blackmailing him. Besides, he thought as he adjusted his tie again, he had more important things on his mind right now.
He exited the elevator ahead of the disappointed young blonde and approached the reception desk. The secretary took one look at him and waved him in. She touched her comm key.
"Mr. Kilpatrick is here," she advised. The doors opened and Logan strode into the simple conference room to find himself facing a man and two women who sat on the opposite side of the table to him. There was no chair on his side. These were the Senior Partners of Morgan, Lewis & Bockius. Logan swallowed. If he really was up for a promotion, they didn't look very happy about it.
"Mr. Kilpatrick, come in," the man in the center offered. Logan nodded gratefully and stood opposite him. "We've called you here as a special favor – we know you're hoping for a promotion and we recognize your potential..."
Logan's jaw tensed. The spark seemed to dim in his eyes. He could almost hear what was coming next. Unfortunately we currently have an excess of criminal defense attorneys in this branch but if a position opens up sometime in the future...
But the partners said nothing of the sort.
"Assuming you do pass all the necessary legal red tape and make it as a criminal defense attorney, you will have shown incredible..." the man's brow creased as he searched for a term, "...upward momentum."
The woman to his left nodded. "We will be announcing this to everyone in a short time, but we wanted to give you forewarning in case it affects your decision to press for the promotion." She took a deep breath and continued. "This firm is currently in the process of being taken over by a prominent law firm from Los Angeles." The other woman nodded.
"In less than eight months, we expect Wolfram & Hart to have reorganized the structure of this firm..." She swallowed. What she was saying was that in eight months, the three of them would be demoted to junior partners in a larger, more aggressive firm – or bumped out of a job altogether. "We thought you might want the chance, once you've completed your evaluations, to apply for partnership is another firm."
Logan's worry had turned to deep concern. His mouth was suddenly dry. "I... I don't know what to say," he frowned. "Thank you for this information, but I intend to stay the course in this law firm for as long as it exists."
The partners nodded and collectively they stood. The man in the center extended his hand and Logan took it. "I know you'll make an excellent Senior Partner one day." Logan nodded at the compliment and left as soon as it was convenient.
The drive home never saw the troubled frown from his face.
--
Niki didn't go patrolling that night. Nor did she lock herself in her room. She went looking for Whistler.
As it happened, he found her. Hiding in her usual corner of the Marionette, she was busy looking for him at the bottom of a shot glass. The premonitions got one thing right at least.
"Aren't you going to welcome me home?" the demon sat down with a cavalier smile. "Not even a 'how ya been' from my favorite Slayer?"
Niki took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I killed someone, Whistler. Someone who... who I don't think I was supposed to kill."
Whistler frowned. "Ya do realize you're talking to a demon, right?"
Niki scoffed. "You wouldn't hurt a fly," she dismissed. "The thing is, I think something or someone wanted me to kill her. It wasn't just a random accident." She held up a finger. "And I'm not going crazy."
Whistler held up his hands defensively. "Never said you were. Only a crazy person would think you're crazy... and we can't trust what crazy people say:" he tapped his temple "they're not quite all there."
"You said something about the Deceivers..." the Slayer stared off into the distance, recalling her dream.
Whistler frowned. "I did?" When he got no response, he shrugged. "I take it back: you're completely nuts."
Niki frowned again in irritation. "In my dream," she clarified. "You said they'd contact me." She sighed heavily and toyed with the empty shot glasses. "I think they did."
"How so?" the demon inquired.
"It doesn't matter," she waved a hand to banish the entire incident. "What matters is how do I find them and how do I kill them?"
Whistler shrugged when her gaze settled on him. "Don't look at me. I haven't seen a seer since the Biter closed down."
"No demon intuition?" It was a shot in the dark, Niki knew it, but it saved her from having to call Addison.
Whistler thought about this. Finally he broke into a little smile. "You could try stabbing them with sharp things. It works for almost everything else."
The Slayer sighed. "Thanks anyway."
Whistler tipped his hat. "Glad I could help." He looked around the small dark corner, searching for something. "When do they come with the menus?"
--
He wasn't dressed for this. He knew it. He ducked under the yellow 'police line - do not cross' tape and stopped in front of the young man who was photographing the chalk outline on the sidewalk.
"I thought you were all done here," he crossed his arms and frowned. They couldn't keep Park Avenue cordoned off indefinitely.
"Who are you?" the young man asked, lowering his camera and speaking with an unusually authoritative tone.
"I'm Inspector Zucher, who the hell are you?" This impudent young man was probably a defector for the press - Zucher hated those. They snuck in dressed like investigators and snapped a roll of pictures for the evening news.
"Agent Harrison," the young man replied curtly, retrieving his badge from his jacket, "Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"What could possibly interest you about this case?" Zucher demanded, shaking his head. One thing he hated more than the press was the feds.
"I'm afraid that's classified," Agent Harrison replied, returning his badge to his jacket and tucking his camera into the bag which hung over his shoulder. "But since you have no leads whatsoever, I think it's safe to say your case is going nowhere. The FBI, however, has confidential leads which point to several possible suspects living in Manhattan."
"Do share," Zucher suggested with an patronizing tone.
Harrison shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir. But rest assured, those responsible will be apprehended and dealt with."
Zucher shook his head with disdain. "Oh good. We're safe in the hands of the federal government." His sarcasm lost on the young agent, the inspector turned and left, ducking tiredly under the yellow tape and shoving his hands into his pockets in the cool evening.
A brisk walk took him back to his sedan he could make out a shape standing near the diver's door. As he drew closer, he was getting ready to unclip his holster when the form stepped out of the shadow. He was pale faced and dressed all in black. He had black spiked hair and silver piercings all over his face.
The Goth planted a cigarette between his lips and said in a toneless voice, "Got a light?"
Zucher looked down to check his pockets for his lighter, at the same time unclipping the guard on his gun holster. When he found the lighter, he looked up in time to see the Goth's hand strike out like a snake and seize his neck. Zucher struggled in vain and the Goth easily lifted him off his feet, a silver bracelet jingling as the black sleeve drew back.
There was no chance to go for his gun as the vampire threw him into the alley. It wouldn't have made much difference anyway. The Goth followed into the darkness and neither of them came out again.
Less than an hour later, the sedan was towed to the impound.
--
Gratitude: Part I - Act 4
Agent Harrison slowly put the file back on the dashboard of his car. His jaw slowly dropped. Impossible. This was... he stared into the abyss of the night and shook his head. This was impossible. The Cremator had been killed ten years ago. He had seen her body. He had seen her buried!
But the tell tale calling card was there. In that folder. This woman who had been killed —a murder which might have been overlooked— was a subtle clue to the web of disturbing and unexplainable murders which had been flagged by the Bureau for decades.
Either this was a copycat killer and the murder of Ms. Brandon had been a sloppy mistake... or the Cremator was back. Harrison swallowed.
In the darkness and silence at the heart of the city that never sleeps, a taxi tore past Harrison's car, heading East. In the back, as the taxi moved through Harrison's headlights, the agent could clearly see a young woman in a black leather jacket.
Without a second thought, he threw his car into gear and accelerated around the corner after them.
--
Niki stood by Whistler's side in the dim light of very early morning. It had taken ten minutes by taxi to get here. The darkness was just beginning to yield to the grey light of dawn. Before them was a small baseball diamond where several men were gathered.
The Slayer and the demon were standing out of earshot and out of sight. Niki was trying not to fall asleep on her feet.
"What are we doing here?" she asked tiredly, pulling her leather jacket tighter around her.
"These guys are new in town," Whistler informed her.
"The Deceivers?" Niki prompted, carefully drawing her short sword. But the demon shook his head.
"Nah, just vampires. I followed them in here from JFK." He turned away from them and tugged his fedora down to cover his face as a pair of vamps walked past them to join the group.
Niki wasn't so interested in concealment. "Then let's get slaying—"
"Not so fast," Whistler took her arm, covering the gleam off her sword with his plum jacket. "Don't you have a code of conduct?" To her quizzical glance, he lifted something out of his jacket pocket. "You've sworn not to slay vamps wearing these, haven't you?"
Niki glared at the small silver bracelet. IXI. "Where did you get that?"
Whistler cocked his head. "I bought it for sixty bucks from some schmuck at the airport."
The Slayer was exerting a great deal of effort to continue to remain inconspicuous. "So you're telling me that every vamp— they've all been playing me?"
Whistler shrugged. "Well I can tell you that these guys here certainly didn't shed blood for your side in the Civil War." He dropped the bracelet into her hand. "What did you expect would happen? Giving carte blanche to anyone with a bracelet... Terrible idea."
Niki ground her teeth. "I didn't hear you complaining a year ago!" Without another word she pulled her sword from where it was hidden inside his jacket and charged the group of vamps.
--
Brian Harrison kept his head down as he watched the scene play out before him. The suspect was engaging a group of at least ten, armed with what looked like a sword. Instead of running away, the men were rushing her and one after another were being decapitated.
Harrison's eyes widened as one after another they turned to dust. He had been searching for this person half his career. She could incinerate a person at will. Leaving no evidence or DNA. The victim couldn't even be identified. The perfect murder.
The FBI had been tailing a serial killer they had named the Cremator as far back as the mid seventies. He had followed the woman who they had pegged as their main suspect here to New York City where she had been killed in a random fight on a subway.
That was ten years ago. Harrison had been convinced the murders would end when out of nowhere they started up again. He had found no leads until the murders had shifted back to New York a few years ago. Either Nikki Wood was not the Cremator serial killer or this new girl was a copycat.
He had personally seen the Cremator, or who he had thought was the Cremator, impale someone on a sharp stick. The person had promptly been incinerated. When he had seen the murder of Megan Brandon and the ME's autopsy report, he had feeling the Cremator was back. Why had Megan not been burned to ashes like the rest of them?
Harrison shook his head. The crazy bitch was leaving clues. On purpose. She knew he was following her and she was taunting him. No one at the Bureau would believe him. How exactly did she incinerate people? they would laugh. Does she shoot fire from her eyes like Superman? He grimaced as she finished off the thugs with the sword, strolling away from the cloud of ashes. Whoever she was, he vowed, he would take her down. No matter what it took.
--
Logan smiled in his sleep. They were all back at the beach. The sun was bright and the ocean was cleansing. The butterscotch ripple ice cream was dripping. Hanna was laughing; bright and sunny laughter, like he remembered it when she was six.
Rachel was smiling. She was smiling at him. No more suspicion, no more resentment. They were a family again. For one perfect weekend they had been a family again.
Logan rolled out of bed. He wasn't sure what woke him up, but it couldn't have been for no reason. Then he heard something else. A door closing. He swallowed. Training his ears, he listened to the deep silence of... he glanced at the clock... 3:16 am.
A muffled scream jolted him into action. His heart pounding and his adrenaline surging, he raced down the stairs to the front door which was standing ajar. Rachel rolled over in bed, mumbling something in her deep sleep.
On the front lawn in the darkness played out a scene from Logan's nightmares. Hanna was struggling against the grip of several laughing vampires. Tears streaked her face as they pawed at her and tore her pajamas.
None of them saw him as he raced out the door, fury and terror competing for dominance in his mind. Before any of the vamps could turn around, he had body checked one halfway across the street and shoved a second to the ground. He delivered a vicious kick to the face of a third and felt something familiar and unwelcome building in him.
Logan closed his fists to conceal the incriminating light he knew was beginning to spark between his fingers as he vaulted over one of the vamps and snatched Hanna from the grip of the last two.
Their faces morphing, Logan hid his daughter's face from the sight. With a hiss they began to spread out to circle him. The three who had been knocked down got up with snarls.
"Honey," Logan said through clenched teeth and with a trembling voice, "don't look." She nodded into him as he hugged her tight.