I never was a fan of big, creepy, abandoned warehouses that have no lighting. So, shuffling around one in ballet pumps (they were not my idea) with only a little torch and my gun was not really my idea of fun.
Yet here I am, wandering around in the dark on my own in a big box made out of rusty corrugated iron.
I'm having tons of fun.
Aidan is in here somewhere too, and so is Alex. Mickey called us the moment he lost the trail, telling us where he was headed for and that since he had been out in the sun, he'd be looking for somewhere shady and secure. Aidan swears blind he saw Alex come in this one, but I'm not convinced.
I guess that might be because I'm bitter about being made to wear ballet pumps. Not proper ballet shoes; I mean those pathetic girly ones that are hardly shoes and more like a bit of material covering your toes. Still, it keeps my footfall quiet - though I might as well have worn no shoes at all.
We're going in different directions, starting from the front on either side, working over to the back. The plan is to trap him in and corner him... at least, that's the plan. We might be able to at least keep him in the warehouse though, if not the building. Until Mickey and Connor get here.
I hope we get this over with quickly. I don't want to drag it out any longer than we have to. Though knowing Mickey, he'll wanna gloat first.
Or just generally speak when he shouldn't.
Walking slowly and taking care not to knock the forest of empty shelves around me makes every muscle in my body move with measured tension, though the adrenaline rush is only making me want to run like hell out of there.
After all, it's not the dark you should be afraid of; it's the things it's hiding.
And in here, it's quite possibly hiding an undead version of my friend. An undead version of my friend that has been out in the sun, burning himself hungry.
Yeah. I love my job.
I move around a corner, narrowly avoiding causing a domino effect with the shelving. I point my torch at the floor, focusing on not tripping on something as I go forward, but my thoughts are all wiped when my torch light falls on a pair of sock clad feet, frozen to the spot.
I flick the beam up, watching in horror as Alex turns his head, shying away from the light. He half opens one eye and looks at me for a long moment, his pupil like a pinprick of black in a sea of deep blue. Instinctively, I move the light off his face, forgetting just for a moment that he's not my friend anymore.
"Didn't know you were into warehouse lurking too," he quips, his voice dripping in bitter sarcasm. Well, I guess even death would never take his sharp tongue away. I don't say anything. Apparently we're both paralyzed. I can't make my hand move to the gun in its holster at my hip. I can't do it.
I might have been able to if he hadn't said anything, or caught me so off guard. He watches this for a moment, the internal conflict that I know is betrayed by the expression on my face, but I can't help it.
"Let me go, Joey," he mutters after a long, long moment, "all I want is to find the vampire who did this to me and make him pay. That's all I ask," I'm already shaking my head. I'm torn between my instincts as a hunter and my instincts as a friend. Gimme the straight jacket. "I'll even hand myself over when I'm done, if that's what you want!" he pleads, backing off half a step.
He stops though, when my hand goes to the gun. I pause again as he freezes, his eyes fixed firmly on the distance between my hand and my gun. His own hand flexes and I watch in horror as his knife slides into his hand. He doesn't look very happy, to say the least.
The blade glints in the torch light ominously and I can't help the surge of extra adrenaline that sets my heart racing. Everything is conflicting and I can't decide what to do. He's faster, stronger and let's face it, a whole lot more determined than I am. But my pride and my hunter instinct won't let me back down.
As a confused friend? I want to let him go.
Biting back the tears that threateningly sting the backs of my eyes, I shake my head and he moves forward raising the knife, his expression grim.