Part 2: The Warehouse
She sighed deeply as she rolled over in bed and onto her back. It had been one of the better rests she'd had in a long time; no dreams, just a hard sleep. To some, it might seem like a weird thing to be thankful for, a dreamless sleep. But if they had seen the things she had in her dreams, they wouldn't be so quick to judge. Besides, her dreams had a nasty little habit of coming true, especially the bad ones.
Buffy nestled herself farther into the comforter, allowing the feather mattress to contour to her body. A part of her mind was scolding her for enjoying the comfort, telling her that she shouldn't get to feel good until Dylan was safe and sound back with them; but she was just so tired, that she didn't listen to it that night. Well, Giles had warned her she would eventually reach a point where she couldn't get out of bed if she didn't slow down. Seems he was right, like always.
"Are you plannin' on gettin' up anytime tonight, love, or should we go kick some demon ass without you?"
The blonde slayer opened her eyes into small, sleepy slits and saw a grinning vampire standing at the side of the bed, finishing getting dressed for patrol that night. Spike watched as the beginning of a smile touched the edges of her lips, only to fall away again once the last remains of sleep quickly left her. He hated that she didn't smile anymore. True, she would sometimes raise the tips of her lips in what could almost be mistaken for a smile, but it looked as if it took all her energy to do just that. And it never reached her eyes. Not once in the past three months had he seen her really smile, no matter what he did.
"Yeah," she sighed deeply, pushing herself up from the comfortable spot she had slid into. "I'm coming."
No sooner than she had stood up then she weaved slightly before falling back to a sitting position on the bed. Spike's eyes widened as she leaned forward, her head in her cupped hands like she had a headache.
"Buffy-love?"
When she looked up, she found him now standing in front of her, a worried look on his face. Rubbing her eyes hard, she insisted, "I'm fine."
"You're not fine," he bit back. "You're exhausted."
Turning her head away, she rolled her eyes. It was an old fight they had been having for the past two weeks. He would insist that she was too tired to go out, she wouldn't listen, and they would be arguing for the next thirty minutes before Giles would tell Spike to just let her come along because there was no stopping a determined Buffy. If the Watcher never interfered, they would probably fight all night, neither willing to back down. If Spike didn't want her to go out with them, then he shouldn't wake her. Of course, they both knew that if he didn't, she would just get up and head out anyway, only alone. At least this way he was there if something should happen.
"Don't start," Buffy warned as she stood and headed past him to the bathroom.
This was usually the part were he grabbed her by the arm and insisted that she stay in that night, but he let her pass this time without a word. He just stood there and sighed when he heard the door slam shut. Really, what was he going to do with her? She was so tired she could hardly even keep her eyes opened, but she was still going to go out with them. He didn't care if she was the slayer and had a higher stamina for this kind of thing. If she kept this up, she was going to end up in the hospital, or worse.
Sighing, he turned to the door and went downstairs to wait for Buffy.
The slayer stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself. She knew she looked like she hadn't slept in days; in truth, besides the deep sleep she had enjoyed this afternoon, she really hadn't. There was too much going on for her to sleep for too long. She had to get back out there and find Dylan soon. She didn't have much time left before…
Groaning, she rubbed her face again, trying her best to look a bit more presentable than before. Her eyes still looked red and blotch, but a bit more focused than before. Satisfied with that, she pulled at her shirt and headed out to meet the others.
**********
Moury left the bar in his usual drunken state. Okay, so maybe it wasn't so much as left on his own free will but thrown out because he ran out of money. Really, you think that his fellow demon friend would take pity on him because of his lack of cash this month, but does that no good two-face son of a Fasel? No! Even after Moury had gotten him that job in the first place, he gets all upset because he couldn't pay tonight. Okay, he hadn't paid in the past three weeks, but that was beside the point. Wait. What was the point again?
The Ste'le demon weaved a little, half from the booze he had consumed, half from slipping on a small patch of ice in the middle of the side walk. He hiccupped and then frowned deeply when he saw that his usually pink, patchy colored skin had turned to a solid black color. No, wait. That was the glove he was wearing. At least, he hoped it was a glove and not his camouflage ability. His wife hated it whenever he changed on her, and hated it even more when he drank. To come home both ways would spell certain death.
"Ouch," he heard a woman cry from ahead of him.
The demon looked up to see a dark-haired woman bending over an expensive car with a popped hood. Smoke was flowing up around her, as she tried to figure out what was wrong with the sports car. A small grin grew on Moury's lips. Yeah, this is just what he needed, a little mugging of the rich to tide over his debts for awhile.
Rich people were always so easy to rob on the street. They usually would take one look at the demon hidden under the hat and coat collar and high tail it the other way, leaving their stuff for him to go through and take what he wanted. Why, he bet he could even get the car if he did this right. She'd run, and he'd hotwire it and be sittin' pretty for the next couple of months. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea.
He charged up to the woman, grabbed her by the shoulder, and spun her around to face him, all the while growling like some sort of feral animal. However, he was the one that got the scare whenever he found who exactly the woman was. It was Catherine Becket, which meant that nearby was-
"Oh, damn," he groaned slowly as she grinned.
Moury felt someone grab him by the shoulder and spin him very much like he had done the woman. But, thanks to his drunken state, he stumbled and fell back towards the car, barely missing the heiress, who quickly sidestepped him. It took a moment for his fuzzy vision to come into focused on the obviously pissed vampire that was growling from deep within his throat as he held the demon by the lapel of his coat.
Deciding that maybe he could play up the drunk, he placed a sloppy grin on his face and slurred out, "Ssspike. What can I do you for? For you. I'll leave the doin' to the ssslayer."
He gave out a drunk laugh, but the vampire just continued to glare at him coldly. "Moscow, Moury," Spiked growled. "Remember?"
Gulping, the demon dropped his chin to make his eyes look wider and more innocent as he asked, "I take it the girl wasssn't there."
"Not for awhile, as we understand it," a new voice answered.
The demon turned his head to find the slayer standing nearby, her arms crossed and her face even. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she stared at him, almost as if she wished that Spike would throw him her way to let her have some fun beating the crap out of him. Moury licked his suddenly dry lips as he thought that, if he didn't play this right, that very situation could happen, and he didn't think that the slayer would have much of a problem killing him for the old info he had given them.
"I just-I just tell what I hear, you know," he defended lamely, becoming more and more sober by the moment. "I don't know if it'sss accurate or not."
"Well, you better get more accurate," the slayer threatened, a touch of a growl in her own voice.
Swallowing hard, the demon thought quickly. "I-I heard something's goin' on tonight," he offered eagerly. "Sssomething that might have to do with your girl."
He watched as the slayer's eyes widened and she looked from Spike to the older man, whom Moury assumed was her watcher, as if one of them might be able to tell if he were lying. The vampire then tightened his grip on the demon's coat and moved in closer and hissed, "What?"
"There-There's this club, in the old industry section of town called The Warehouse. A real rough place, owned by some guy named Pushkin. Place for demons, roughnecks, and such. All I know is that word in the underground is for the demons to stay away from there tonight cause some old friend of his is coming in and bringin' some kids or something another. Word is, the guy has a real thing against us nocturnal people, and is teachin' the kiddies his views, too."
The group exchanged a look, as if they were trying to decide whether he was being honest or not. After checking on the other two, the vampire's eyes came to rest on the blonde slayer who seemed to have the final say in the matter. She seemed to consider it for a moment, drew in a breath, and nodded her head. Spike let go of his jacket, and Moury quickly tried to stumble around him to flee. The slayer, however, stepped in his way.
"For your sake, you better hope you weren't lying," she warned coldly.
Gulping, the Ste'le demon shook his head in acknowledgement, before taking off down the street as fast as he could to get away from the group. He ran for a couple of blocks before collapsing against a brick wall, clutching his side. Moury huffed and puffed for a few minutes, trying to catch his breath and make the pain in his side go away, before moving slowly to the telephone booth at the end of the street.
Still wheezing, he closed the glass door, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a little white card. He dialed the number and waited for three rings before a man's voice answered.
"Yes?"
"They're on their way," Moury told him, checking over his shoulder and back up the street as if he were afraid they would appear from his mentioning them. When no one showed up, he let out a sigh of relief, glanced down at his free hand and frowned. It was still the shiny coal black like his jacket, but he could see his fingernails. Damn camouflage.
**********
Dylan trailed along beside Sebastian, lost in her own little game of 'blow out a big puff of smoke like it's a cigarette.' Sure, the ice-cold air hurt her lungs sometimes if she took in too big of breath or did it too quickly; but it at least gave her something to concentrate on besides Grandfather's over-powering and stinky aftershave. Why he chose that as his sent of choice really solidified Dylan's theory that the man was absolutely insane. Of course, maybe he wore it as a repellant of the undead and living alike. Lord knows she'd stay away.
"Come along, children," the old man called over his shoulder to the pair. "We do not want to be late."
Dylan eyed the old man, staring a hole into the back of his balding head. It would seem that walking behind him like this would provide her the perfect opportunity to escape. After all, she could be as quiet as a mouse when she wanted; part of that whole damphyr thing she had going.
She had even tried it once, back in New York. Unfortunately, Grandfather is a lot smarter than that and she hadn't even made it a block before Bastian caught her. As punishment, the old man had cut her meals in half and doubled her training hours. They had leveled off again, but it definitely got the message across to not do that again.
Ah well, she'd just have to move on to Plan B. Now if she only knew what Plan B was, she'd be set.
With one last look to the old man, she turned to Sebastian and whispered in a voice so low that no human ears could pick it up, "Where are we going?"
The brown-haired boy glanced at her. There was surprise in his eyes from her actually talking to him like another kid, but he quickly replaced it with his usual evenness. "The Warehouse," he whispered in the same low voice. "I think."
Her eyebrows drew together. "That a club?"
Drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Bastian nodded his head before looking forward again towards their destination.
A club? Grandfather was taking them to a club? But she thought he said they were going out to train? Of course, that usually meant that he would take them to some cemetery he had already chosen, look for a fresh grave, sit back and bark orders while a fledgling tried to kill her.
As of yet, she still couldn't really claim that she herself had dusted a vamp on her own; Bastian always seemed to step in just in time to save her from becoming Vampire Chow. Well, unless you count that one time in that small town outside of Paris. The vamp was on top of her, so she kicked at him with all her might. He stumbled back from the force, tripped over his own headstone, and fell right onto a small sapling someone had planted in his memory. The vamp had apparently been a so called 'tree hugger' when he was alive, and well, apparently that tree didn't like his affections.
They rounded a corner and came into one of the many rougher parts of the city. Grandfather paused at the corner, and the two children came up around him to see what he was looking at. Halfway down the street was a large group of people standing in front of a building, bundled up in thick coats as they waited to be let into the building with the neon sign of 'The Warehouse' hanging from its side.
It looked like the heavy metal kind of crowd. A few of the men had tattoos going up the side of their faces or covering their hands, and Dylan was sure that they had many more, but were being covered by the jackets. Some of the women's hair was dyed two different colors and had piercings all over their faces and ears. Dylan couldn't help but stare at one that had half black hair, half pink, a nose ring, a stud under her lip, several rings in her left eyebrow, and a couple of black, tattooed tears coming out of her right eye. If the people were any indication, this looked like a place her father would have probably enjoyed back in his younger days.
Grandfather smiled at the sight of the harder crowd, then started forward towards the club. "Come along, children. Mustn't keep them waiting."
Sebastian and Dylan exchanged a look. Okay, so he wasn't crazy; he was certifiable. There was absolutely no way they would fit into that crowd, but that didn't slow the old man down. He only paused for a moment when he found that they were not following him and called for them to catch up.
Bastian then raised an eyebrow at Dylan. She groaned loudly and dropped her shoulders like children do whenever their parents tell them to do something they don't want to, and headed after the old man.
The rough crowd eyed the old man and two children with a sneer as they made their way through. Sebastian and Grandfather didn't bother to look at them, instead just stared straight ahead at the doors like they had blinders on so that they couldn't see the crowd. Dylan, however, turned her head from side to side, looking at every one of them that were staring at her. She gulped a little, not liking the looks one bit, especially from that one bald guy standing by the door. His stare was different from the others, like he had a thing about little girls. Subconsciously, she moved closer to Bastian as they passed him and headed inside.
The inside of the club wasn't much better. It was nearly completely pitch black and it somehow seemed darker with all the people dressed in black crowded inside. The only thing that really stood out were the neon heads out on the dance floor that were bobbing up and down to the song that the live band was screaming.
The smell of fake fog was in the air, causing Dylan to feel slightly sick. She didn't care what people said; she could actually smell the stuff and it always made her nauseated. Oh, yeah, wouldn't that be cute. She could see it now, her puking all over some three hundred pound Russian guy, ruining his leather jacket. God, she hoped Bastian was as good a fighter as she thought he was.
A man came up from the crowd and headed straight for Grandfather when he saw the two children with him. The guy was dressed in a gray, tailored suit, making him stand out from the rest of the crowd significantly. He said something to the old man, but Dylan didn't know what. One reason was she only understood a few words of Russian, and another was the music was drowning all sound out. Really, the only word she caught that she understood was 'children.'
Grandfather grinned warmly, a chilling sight for anyone to behold, as he responded to the man. While they were talking, Dylan leaned in close to Sebastian and asked, "What's he saying?"
"That we're not supposed to be here," he answered, watching the two men before them, almost like he was reading their lips instead of actually hearing what they were saying. Bastian's eyebrows scrunched together before he said, "Grandfather says we're expected."
"By who?" the girl asked.
The boy shrugged as the old man turned back to the kids, smiled, and said, "Hurry up, children. They are waiting."
When he turned to leave again, the two kids looked at one another, then proceeded to follow.
*********
Phew, just barely got this out before I left for Spring Break (yeah!) Anyway, just thought I'd let you guys know that the chapters will probably be coming out further apart than I like because of some computer problems I had recently and the amount of school work I have this semester. Also, I want to say thank you for the great reviews. I just get so happy when I see them. Well, have fun guys.