"I'm no fighter." Brighton was quick to reveal with raised brows.
"But you are armed," Viktor stated.
Brighton gave no answer.
"Viktor." Grigori approached him as Viktor made a mental check of everyone aligned with him: the three wolves, Darksmith, Kelly in transit. "You mean to transport these four men, and yourself, plus one in transit without knowing precisely where he is and without a proper marker to keep your locations in check - have you ever done it before?"
Viktor kept his eyes trained on the toe of his grey, Versace, patent leather dress shoe and the inane thought flitted through his mind that he hoped the decorative lines of the shoe would not dizzy him. "I'm doing it now." Viktor did not look up. "Everyone, stand where you are and do not move a muscle, do not even blink - and if you can help it, do not even breathe." Viktor flexed his arm, gripping the club's handle. He could hear the sound of metal clang as he was deftly in tune with his instrument of destruction. Only Viktor could hear it, only he could see the vibration of the ground, the heartbeat of each man he was to bring with him on his journey. There was the harsh sound of metal dragging slowly against steel as though a clammy echo of a creaking door had been opened, and then Viktor saw nothing but the black.
They were gone. Grigori looked at his charge, sitting in the ergonomic chair, staring at him questioningly. And who is this kid? Grigori thought to himself as he stared at the young apprentice of Darksmith. Ahh yes, Grigori Rasputin: healer, supreme master of the mystic arts - errant babysitter. Grigori thought wryly.
He clapped his hands together and wore an effectively bright smile commanding the attention of both children. "Okay," he rubbed his hands together, speaking lively. "Who is up for some chocolate ice cream and some cake?"
Kelly sat in the convertible. His red BMW drew stares from the locals, as it was clearly expensive. They must wonder who he was, but Kelly was not concerned about the attention he drew to himself. Dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, black overcoat, and slacks, he sat in the driver's seat checking his emails on his smart phone - in that instant he felt an oppressive hand placed firmly on his shoulder, making him gasp. He whipped his head to see who could have possibly caught him, Kelly Payne, off-guard. His eyes met blackness.
Kelly started. His feet were no longer neatly tucked into the driver's seat of his newly-refurbished car, but planted on a hard unseen ground. Kelly fell backward, and his derrière hit asphalt. He cursed. "Damn it Viktor, some professional courtesy is not only welcome," Kelly said, picking himself up and dusting himself off, "It is advised."