It's dark.
Not a creature is stirring, but one of the waitrats is basting.
Asleep in her bed,
Buffy Summers rolls over, and a wisp of pale mist floats out of her mouth.
Beverly Marsh nestles further into her blankets, but she doesn't wake, not even when another gusts out of her own.
Down the hall, where
Moiraine lies in serene repose, another trace of mist streams toward the others.
Anthy's eyelashes flutter, but she doesn't open her eyes; if anything, her sleep deepens.
A thin strand of mist trails from
Giles's room, where he's still fast asleep.
Harry and Angie are sprawled together, motionless, as their own scraps of mist float free.
They're joined by others, pale glows against the darkness; and they weave together in a massive web like a thick fog, spinning, rising, arching . . .
. . . into a small box.
Which a spider-like hand shuts.
Can't even shout
Can't even cry
The Gentlemen are coming by
Looking in windows
Knocking on doors
They need to take seven, and they might take yours 