sunnydalealum | (no subject)

Just keep an eye on that card every now and then, he said. You'll know where to go when the time's right.

Beth's entirely aware that probably means it's magic. Which means there's any number of other things it could be doing. Which means she seriously considers not taking it home with her, in case it could be used to track her -- but the only other place she could keep it is at the shelter, and she won't do that. It'd endanger everybody else there, the ones who come in for food, the ones who work there, Peter --

She won't, that's all.

So she sticks it to the fridge with the same magnet Spike left for her back in May, and that's where it is the Monday after Thanksgiving, when she sees that it's changed. There's an address there now, in that same elegant typeface, like it's been there all along.

Aequitas. She's looked it up. Latin for justice.

It's with a certain sense of fatalism that she steps off the bus a block from the address on the card, five days later, and walks toward the building.

(It's also with the same black wig she wore that night, as a sole concession to paranoia.)

Threaded | Flat

The area, filled with abandoned buildings and dark alleys as it is, may not be the first place you'd go look in if you wanted a wild night out. But there's something in the air, something in the way the ground vibrates beneath your feet that tells you this isn't just any place. This isn't just any night.

The line stretching from the rusty double doors certainly isn't just any kind of line. Humans, young and old, mingling and chatting and cheering with demons of different sizes and shapes and species, vampires smoking right in their midst, and not one of them seems to mind standing around waiting in the cold, dark night.

Up front, there are a handful of big fellows keeping an eye on things. One of them (a tall, wiry guy with black and white-blond hair) checks people's cards, another (big blob of a man with a head the size of a ripe melon) holds up...something right in front of every last one of the eager party-goers.

A mic?

Someone's singing, softly in the distance. Row, row, row your boat, gently down the--