Rusty couldn't quite remember everything Nemsemet did in sequence, but he remembered the raspy chanting and the feel of the energy gathering in the air around the ancient sorcerer, and the damage it did when it was over. It was only the healing factor of a werewolf and the fact that he'd decided, early on in this adventure, to let the Knights and other official members of the Court lead the way. He was a mercenary, and what sounded good when he was drinking and doing a little bit of drugs turned out to be a terrible idea dead sober. Still, he'd given his word and brought the packmates he had in the area to the party, a bunch of growling, hairy, smelly leather-clad thugs looking for a fight. They were paid muscle, but they were getting paid and pickings were lean since the glory days.
Maybe it was because Nemsemet was standing there, glowing eyes in a metal mask and moth-eaten regalia, in a posture of supreme confidence as thirty or so beings, some of them extremely powerful, and others just hanger-ons but good for numbers, came to confront him. Count de Lacy was at the head, wielding some sort of talisman; bronze, somewhat dinky, especially in the face of Nemsemet, who was exuding some sort of anti-glow that sucked the light from the room when he started his movements and chanting. Rusty's instincts kicked in, it's why he stayed human, why he watched what was going on, and why he suddenly felt a spike of cold fear through his wollygots. He'd learned a while ago to pay attention to those instincts. In 1968, the instinct said, "Bite your buddy." Now it said, "Oh shit."
So when the energy started lancing out, he he dove for cover behind some hieroglyphic column. He felt his packmates die, suddenly and violently, without even a chance to fight back. He felt the sensation through the way they were linked, through pheremonal signal, through the immense bond they had.
Then and there, he decided that he wasn't being paid enough to die and left the Count's cronies to their most gory and glorious demise. After all, de Lacy was a bit of a prick, even if he did offer Rusty some incentives to come along. Nemsemet was a monster; Caradoc might as well have asked him sink an aircraft carrier single-handedly.
The place was a museum, which meant the exhibits were all around in a mouse-maze of hallways, frustrating dead ends and lots of exhibits of Egyptian artifacts for the current display. It felt like a miracle when he kicked open a gray-painted door stenciled "employees only" that led to a straight hall, and, miraculously, an exit. Some jowly security guy with a belly that strained his tan-khaki shirt tried to say, authoritatively, "Hole-on a minute there, boy..." and got bowled over by a big, hairy biker with his adrenaline churning.
Somehow, instinct perhaps, he managed to navigate out through the lobby, where he only paused long enough to turn the "OPEN" signs to "CLOSED" in a momentary fit of conscientiousness. his way to the parking space where he left his bike and got on that thing; he looked back and saw the lightning play in the windows. He thought he could hear the dusty rasp of sandpaper and realized that was the fucking mummy's laugh.
He got on the bike and blew lights all the way to the city limits...and then found himself forced to stop. He wanted to go. No, he didn't want to go. HE COULDN'T GO.
He spent thirty minutes trying to find a way to concentrate on hitting the gas on the side of I-81, otherwise known as The Fuck Outta Here (toward Jersey). He watched everyone else manage to toot in and out of the area in their vehicles, oblivious, before he gave up and headed in, leaving a trail of glittery exhaust in his wake as he dipped down and then up on grass and over to the lane of traffic heading back into New Camden...
---
Of course, the first place he thought of was his favorite customer, a guy that seemed to know everyone. Parael was still buying plenty of weed but that was a slowdown from a decade where he easily did a million in sales of party drugs to the guy. Rusty had a tolerance for drugs that was pretty iron-clad, but that was for obvious reasons; werewolf stamina. He had no idea how Parael didn't OD in the 1970's. Of course, the supernatural world had a bit of a code of honor about delving into people's business, reinforced by violence if people poked around one's secrets too much. So he didn't ask, "So, what the fuck are you, anyway?" Dangerous question in this community.
He pounded on the door and hit the doorbell and pounded on the door. It was not Rusty-like to be quite this frantic, but he'd just watch the evil old bastard maul an entire court's worth of supernaturals with the same effort he used to blow dust out to clear a sinus. He also was trapped in fucking New Camden with that thing, and he needed a sorcerer's advice...
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