   âCleaners? I donât suppose these are the ones who deal with cobwebs in your attic. How long until they get here?â Giles crossed his arms, momentarily forgetting the bleeding wound in his palm. Sod it, thatâs going to stain the jacket. God, he was one cantankerous bastard when heâs in pain and at a loss.
   âSince you care so much about its livelihood, do you even know what that thing is? We both know it isnât a bear, a dog or a wolf.âÂ
It was impossible to forget the fact the man was bleeding. Mick wasn't so young anymore that even the sight of a vein, much less the smell of blood, had him letting his inner monster out, but he was very much aware.
Very distracting.
"I didn't name them," Mick chuckled a little at the man's sarcasm. "And soon enough. They're very prompt, but vans do have an upper speed limit."
The P.I. looked back down at the monster he was pinning, his fingers searching with idle curiousity for a pressure point. It would be so much easier to deal with the Cleaners without a bleeding human around, but Mick supposed that was the beauty of subvocalization. They would just look very peculiar.
"Of course he isn't. What he is," Mick said evenly, "Is not your responsibility. I imagine he is someone that just suffered a great deal of loss. Do you want to kill everyone that is even the slightest bit different than you?"
He smiled thinly.
"The Cleaners remove threats," to vampires, but being revealed would also be one. "I daresay they might agree with you."
