He spoke quietly and calmly even though he knew the words would irritate the scribe. "Two days into the new month, a few weeks after her eldest daughter's twenty-ninth birthday, Mary Wilson will drop her teacup. It will shatter on the floor."
There was a thump and the sound of a slash, a pen slammed into paper and then pulled to the side. It must have marred the text quite dreadfully. "Mr. McCray."
He opened his eyes, viewing with distaste the small room, the two uncomfortable chairs, the small table, and the scribe who'd been assigned to document his words. The lad still wore a full suit, jacket and tie firmly in place, even after a week of working together. He himself, an unwilling recruit, had never shown up in anything more formal than jeans and a sweater. "Please Wesley, I've asked you to call me Zeke."
"Does this prophecy have any relevance?" Wesley broke off, mentally counting to ten. Zeke wished the lad wouldn't think quite so loudly. "Is the smashing of a teacup a portent of some impending doom perhaps?"
"What do you want me to say?" Zeke snapped. "Would it do you any good to know that your Slayer is going to take one look at you and run out the door?"
Wesley's lips tightened. He stood abruptly. "Now you're mocking me. You think I don't know that this," he waved his arm to indicate the room, "is scraping the bottom of the barrel?"
"You've been dumped down here, left to rot. They'll never entrust you with a Slayer," Zeke said, echoing Wesley's thoughts. Wesley stormed out of the room without looking back. Good for him, Zeke thought; it would get him noticed, set him on the path to that that not so bright future he couldn't wait to grasp. "And if I could get you to believe that your Slayer would steal the body of another Slayer, you'd stop it, and the world would go to hell," he whispered toward the closed door.
After staring at the door for a few minutes, Zeke closed his eyes again, turning his thoughts back to Mary Wilson. The loss of the teacup really was quite devastating; it had been in her family for five generations. The Council could find others to document their apocalypses. The Wilson family was restful. He would follow their little dramas.