A/N: After receiving a thoughtful review, I'd like to add something... if any of you don't like Celia (or anyone else, for that matter) in this story, please feel free to express your concerns. It's wonderful to get positive reviews, of course, but honesty is more important :) With that said, I hope you all can keep in mind the fact that Celia is possessed by a demon, so naturally she's not going to be the nicest person all the time and will be able to do some things most regular women could not (for example, dropping Eric!)
Thanks again for all the reviews, good and bad, and I hope you all enjoy Chapter 3!
. . .
Chpt. 3
…
Silver Guardians HQ, Silver Hills, California
7:30 AM
The doors slammed as Eric stormed into the reception room, the snarl on his face warning everyone to stay far away; and so they did, watching with wary expressions as he continued on his way to his office, ripping the red beret from his head and crushing it with his large hand, his combat boots echoed with each step on the cold floor. He didn't even notice the pretty young woman standing outside his office with a bright, perky smile on her face; she frowned in disappointment when he brushed by her without a word and disappeared behind the door.
The computer always took forever to load and he tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk while he waited, his dark eyes bore into the bright monitor, watching the icons pop up one-by-one. When the process was complete, he leaned forward and swiftly typed in the letters and numbers that were on the back of the plate on the Silverado, tense with anticipation, curiousity practically oozing out of him. A good thirty seconds passed before the computer beeped loudly and pulled up a picture of a man in his mid-30s, largely built, dark hair and gray eyes. Instantly, a vivid memory flashed before Eric's eyes...
... Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Eric had been stationed there ever since his graduation from boot camp three months prior, and so far found the military life suitable for him, certainly moreso than the civilian world; the discipline was refreshing, the level of dedication to their career was admirable in his fellow Marines, and-- while he couldn't see himself befriending any of them --he had to admit he had a grudging liking for many of his comrades.
Classes ended at 1700 hours and the Marines were promptly released for the day, sending dozens of young men out into the surrounding city for alcohol and women... but not Eric. Instead, he changed into his PT uniform and headed out for a long run, anxious to work off the day's frustrations with a good sweat. He was going by the MWR building-- where the computers and phones were --when a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped outside, adjusting his patrol cap. He wore the rank of a Staff Sergeant, and carried himself like he was a Colonel. Eric didn't recognize him.
"Marine," the SSgt. said, simply.
Eric glanced at the tag on the front of the Marine's uniform and noted the name-- Greer --before nodding and saying quickly: "Staff Sergeant."
Eric turned forward again and missed a step in his stride, tripping and heading straight for the ground. Eric mentally braced himself for the impact when he was sharply yanked back and steadied by a large hand wrapped around his bicep and one on his shoulder. Eric locked his stance and took a deep breath, shaking off the vertigo and twisted.
"Easy…ya okay, kid?" SSgt. Greer asked in a smooth southwestern accent, gray eyes a mix of concern and good natured amusement.
"Uh…yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks." Eric didn't make an attempt to put space between himself and the Staff Sergeant until the larger man let go of him.
"Settle yer pace." SSgt. Greer advised with a small smile, touched his hat the same way that cowboys did in the movies and started walking away. Eric watched his back for a few seconds then continued on his way; confused by his own reaction and the Staff Sergeants words spinning in his head. There was something about the SSgt. that struck a chord with him, and whether it was the older man's clear sense of calm pride, or the fact that he obviously had Native American blood running through his veins, or something else, he didn't know. All he knew was that he wasn't soon to forget SSgt. Greer...
"Son of a bitch," Eric muttered, staring at the screen in disbelief as he tried to take in the information listed there. Elijah Greer. Thirty-four years of age. A towering 6'7" tall and 209 lbs. And, without a doubt, the very same Staff Sergeant Eric had encountered three years ago while he was still at Camp Lejeune, even before his first deployment. What were the chances he would pop up again? And who the hell is that chick?
A little more digging brought to light a DUI Eli had been slapped with a week before he shipped to boot camp, but otherwise a clean record; and when Eric looked him up as a Marine, he discovered Eli had served as a Spec Ops Marine for over ten years, had three deployments under his belt, and a good amount of awards to show for it and climbing though the ranks of the Marine Corps. He was also an Expert marksman and graduated top of his class from boot camp at Parris Island. But as impressive as Eli's record was, it still didn't clear up who was driving the truck licensed to him.
The Impala's license plate didn't yield any better results. Instead of one of the two men he saw that morning, a picture of a middle-aged, Asian woman appeared. One thing was certain. They were not FBI agents.
. . .
It wasn't an unusual thing for the Winchesters to draw the most attention in a general area. Either because they were laying a beat down on someone or something that had picked a fight with them or it was just their looks and presence. The patio of a local restaurant where they had finally stopped to get a meal was no different.
The brothers had an air around them that lingered with a feeling of both protection and danger. Both over six feet in height in a world that the male average was a little passed five, their long spines completed with broad shoulders and wide chests. There was something in the air around them that lingered like a natural warning, telling some to keep away and others to stick close.
Just because it was typical didn't mean that either brother enjoyed the scrutiny at all. They had been trained since childhood to stay out of the public eye and attention; to go unnoticed. Winchesters preferred the shadows. Thing was with six brutal murders very near by, everyone that wasn't a familiar face was under scrutiny. So they did their best to ignore the suspicious looks of some and the admiring looks of others.
Again, as usual, most of the female population were either creating fantasies about one brother or the other while others will still trying to choose which one to have fantasies about.
Sam was four years younger, but taller than his elder brother by a good three inches. Though he didn't seem it, as he was always hunched over research; either his laptop or thick dusty books in languages that had been dead for centuries. His shaggy mop of brown hair made him seem even younger, but his age and then some was written in his cerulean eyes and the scars on his skin. Sam had the lingering feeling of childhood and innocence that the bare threads were still clenched in his fist. He had a spark in his eyes, a calm and gentle tone and a smile that could melt others will to what he wanted and needed with a breath.
Dean was the polar opposite of his brother; shorter, rougher, harder than his little brother. His dark blonde hair always cropped into a military like cut and he forever had a five o'clock shadow. While Sam hid his emotions Dean's were worn visibly. He was unpredictable, flashing from playful and casual to vicious and even violent. The deep set, green eyes could burn and send shivers down the spine or make someone trust him without hesitation. And like his brother his story was carved in scars on his hide and heavy in his eyes.
It was that sense of lingering danger and mystery that sucked in the attention, appreciative looks and glares to stay away.
The brothers ignored them or tried to. Dean kept his hands busy, a nervous habit that if he sat still to long would send him into making odd noises and complaining. One hand was methodically scratching the fur and muscle around the albino German Shepherd sitting at his side. Valentine's head was laid casually across his thigh and keeping his bright blue eyes shut, ignoring everything but Dean's hand.
Dean's other hand was busy with a yellow highlighter and a local newspaper. His eyes raced over the obituaries, circling and highlighting anything that looked unnatural in nature.
"Anything?" Sam asked, not looking up from his computer.
"This guy choked on a bagel," Dean muttered. Sam's eyes lifted from his screen, where a map of Silver Hills was displayed and Sam was methodically marking possible dens. He had to admit there were too many.
"Dean--" Sam sighed, annoyance clear in his voice.
"No, nothing Sam," Dean snorted back. "No brutal murders, no cut throats, animal maulings, mutilations, unexplainable circumstance not even a goddamn heart attack!"
"Dean!" Sam snapped sharply, ice blue eyes flashing around to the disapproving and intrigued looks aimed toward them. "Keep it down."
Dean snorted loudly and tossed his paper aside with a snarl and lifted his hands to rub his face, pulling at his tanned skin. Valentine lifted his head off Dean's thigh and yawned loudly before twisting to scratch at the base of his ear. Dean mimicked the move. It was hard to distinguish if the dog had picked up the trait from Dean or vice versa.
"I'm sick of this shit," Dean snarled.
"Well, if we could get into a motel--"
"No," Dean snapped flatly. "Not until--"
"I know, I know," Sam growled. "You and Red don't want to settle so they can find you until you know where they are."
The younger Winchester shook his head, frustrated with his work clicked the map window down and pulled up a few more, mostly concerning subject matter of deals with creatures from Hell. Dean lifted his eyebrows at his brother's grumble.
"You got a problem?" Dean asked sharply, returning one hand to scratching Valentine's ears. "'Cause usually you don't have a problem holding out, boy wonder."
Sam bristled. "Let's think, we haven't stopped moving in almost three days, I'm sick--"
"Were sick," Dean muttered.
"--and we all need a shower. I love the truck and Impala but I want a goddamn bed," Sam snapped. "And
some privacy would be nice."
Dean rolled his eyes but his attempt to retort was cut short when the sky flashed and a deep warning rumble of thunder rattled over head. Both brothers lifted their eyes toward the heavens, watching the swirling gray and black clouds twisting and braiding with white. The sound made several civilians jump and scramble to try and make way indoors or home. Both brothers knew too much about weather and storms to fidget. It was a dry rain for now. They weren't in any kind of trouble for rain fall until the entire sky was steel gray. They had time.
Dean cleared his throat and started again. "Privacy for what? Looking at maps?"
Sam snorted under his breath. Dean's interest perked and his jaw shifted to lock into place.
"What the hell are you doing?" Dean's hand snapped out and roughly snagged the laptop and yanked it toward him, spinning it around.
"Dean!" Sam barked, his voice drowned out when the sky split open again, cracking in lightening and thunder.
The elder Winchester's green eyes flashed over the web pages, they narrowed in rage and he shoved the
laptop back toward his little brother. Sam scrambled to stabilize the computer glaring at Dean.
"Damnit, Sam," Dean snarled, baring his teeth like an animal. "When the hell are you going to quit this!? Bobby told you, Ruby said it, I told you to stop! Hell, even Celia said there isn't shit that can be done!"
"She only said she didn't know of a way!" Sam argued, both brother's voices risen in the fight and disregarding the looks and mild distress of those around them.
"Sam, she knows the ins and outs! She's been possessed for twenty six years! She knows!"
"Dean, I'm not going to--"
"To give up!? You have to! No matter which way you fold it I'm fucked! Alright?! Deals a deal!"
"I can find something!" Sam barked, his voice tinged with some color of distress, maybe desperation.
"Sam. I'm going to Hell." Dean ground his teeth together, disgust at the thought clear in his voice. But it was alongside the finality in his tone. "I don't want to but there is no fucking way out, alright?"
Sam stared at Dean for a few long seconds. Then he hardened, blue eyes going steely cold.
"You know, Dean, if you're so damn ready to lie in your grave why don't I just shoot you and be done with it!?"
Sam scrambled, shoving his laptop into his satchel, practically knocking his chair over and stormed away, his shoulder slamming into another man's as he went and uncharacteristically didn't apologize. The albino German Shepherd lurched up to his paws and broke into a lope after the younger brother.
"Sa-Sam!" Dean barked. The younger Winchester didn't turn back. The elder cursed and shoved himself up out of his chair. "Sam!"
Before he could move forward a small but unnaturally strong hand settled on his shoulder and shoved him back down. Dean jerked around tensing sharply, but relaxing again seeing the familiar red eyes.
"Celia," Dean breathed.
"Don't chase a Winchester," Celia said calmly, slipping into the chair next to Dean. A step behind her the second German Shepherd, black and tan Buckshot, sat back on his haunches.
"I'm a Winchester."
Celia rolled her eyes and threw Dean a look. "Really? I didn't know," she growled sarcastically and tugged her Stetson cowboy hat lower around her ears. Dean snorted loudly at her.
"He needs to give it up, it's useless," Dean growled.
"Not to him." Celia lifted Dean's half finished coffee and sipped it. "He's doin' what he thinks he needs to do to save yer life."
"It's not working."
"Let him try, damnit. Yer all he's got left, Dean, he's tryin' his damndest and yer not helpin' much."
Dean ground his teeth together.
"And when the Hell have ya ever distrusted Sam's judgment?"
Dean heaved a sigh and rubbed a hand across his face then scratched his ear and tugged at his hair.
"Never," Dean said finally and blinked, momentarily blinded when another bolt of lightening split the sky.
"Don't start now." Celia finished off his cup of coffee and stiffly stood. Dean followed, tossing a few crumpled bills on the table and snagging the obituaries.
"Anythin'?" Celia asked as they fell into step, following the same path that Sam had charged down, the two shepherds on their heels.
"Nothing. They must have just moved into the territory, these six are their first kills."
"Seven," Celia corrected. Dean perked his eyebrow. "Just saw it on the news over the bar; that kid died on the way to the hospital."
"That's unusually fast reporting," Dean muttered, seeming somewhat disinterested by the news of a teenager dying.
"That's what I said and got a few looks. Evidently they get the news fast. This guy, Collins or somethin', practically owns half the city. People and information, and if someone ponies up the price he spits it out in record time."
"Must've had one of the paramedics on the payroll," Dean muttered, disapprovingly.
"Yeah." Celia shrugged and sniffed, the air smelled like a coming storm. "Monopoly makes me nervous. And I keep hearin' the word 'mutant'."
"Mutant?"
"Yeah. And that makes me really nervous…"
. . .
Dominique was nearly two hundred years old, but-- of course --didn't look a day over thirty with his smooth, olive skin and wide, youthful eyes; Nadira watched him cautiously as he spread out on the makeshift couch and plucked absent-mindedly at his teeth with a toothpick. Behind Dominique stood his twin brother, Dante, hands placed protectively on the back of the couch, eyes scanning the dreary, gray room suspiciously. Ransik and his mutant followers had commandeered the Time Force prison ship when they escaped from captivity, and now used it as their base of operations; it was convenient, really, as many dangerous mutants had been stored there in cryogenic containment and Ransik could release them one-by-one whenever he wanted to.
Maybe there won't be any need for more mutants now. Nadira smirked, eyes settling on the vampire standing the corner of the room, his arms folded and his face void of any emotion-- his name was Dixon, Dominique had said when introducing his pack-- the group consisted of seven vampires, ranging in ages from Dominique and Dante to the youngest, Peter, who was only fifty, and that was including his nineteen years as a human. Dixon was over a hundred, Nadira knew that much, but he was mysterious in all other aspects, rarely speaking.
"You shouldn't stare, princess," Dominique growled, his gaze suddenly directed straight at her.
Nadira jumped in surprise, then glared. "I'll stare wherever I want to," she snapped, "this is my home, remember?"
Dominique chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound; above him, Dante's face contorted in a tight-lipped smile. Unsettled, Nadira turned to go, but was stopped by her father as he entered the room and grasped her arm with one of his enormous hands; he squeezed so tightly it hurt, but Nadira only whimpered slightly, too low for anyone to hear.
"So this is your band of merry men," Ransik said, gesturing to the group.
Dominique stood. "They are," he replied.
Ransik paused, clearly scoping out the vampires, searching for any weakness. He spotted Dixon. "They're certainly not impressive looking," he spoke, "but looks can be deceiving, yes?" At Dominique's slight nod, he continued: "Of course, before we make any decisions... you're going to have to convince me this will be worth my time."
Dominique glanced at the television set up in front of the couch, then pointed at it and spoke to one of Ransik's drones, a cyclobot: "Turn that on." The robot did as ordered, and as the screen flickered and came to life, a woman's voice could be heard broadcasting from the sight of a brutal murder: "... so far the police have made no comments regarding who could have done this, but the Silver Guardians have assured the people of Silver Hills that they were taking extra precautions and it won't happen again."
Nadira frowned. "What is that?"
"That," Dante spoke up, his own French accent a little dimmer than his twin's, "is what we did." He grinned wolfishly, the screen reflecting in his eyes and then grinned wider at Nadira's clear discomfort.
The screen changed and the view became a row of bodies, each carefully concealed in their own body bags while workers loaded them into vans to take them away; the reporter went on speaking, describing the scene as "shocking" and "disturbing", and informing the audience that six teenagers were found dead. Their bodies badly mutilated. A seventh was rushed to the hospital, but died en route.
"You... ?" Ransik began, watching Dominique for any kind of reaction.
"All of us," the vampire answered.
"We can operate at an entirely different level than what you're used to," Dante said, "your... mutant friends, will look like amateurs to the people. In no time, the city will belong to us. There will be no one to stop us."
Ransik blinked once, then again, his mind racing. "Well," he said, slowly, scratching his ragged chin. "There is someone... a few someone's, actually."
Dominique snorted. "You really think those 'cops' could take us?" he asked, incredulously, "If you underestimate us that much... you're not worth our time."
"I'm not speaking of the police," Ransik said, harshly, "there are others. More powerful. They've stopped every mutant I sent into the city."
Dominique took a step forward, closer to Ransik. "I'm... not... a mutant," he whispered, his voice low, threatening.
"Nevertheless," Ransik said, "you shouldn't dismiss them so easily."
Dante rolled his eyes, growing impatient. "Who!?"he demanded, his voice rising with anger.
Ransik and Nadira exchanged glances, then the mutant leader stepped forward, glaring at Dominique, meeting his eyes. "You'll see... " he promised.
TBC
…