Even Bariel had to admit the job didn't sound much like a crusade at all. To be generous, it might be called a mission; to be less so, it should probably be called an errand. Still, folding into Foxy was certainly more exciting than siting in the office for another day and for those not interested in excitement (read 'Graham') there was the promise that he'd have the opportunity to either show everyone how much he knew about the occult or, if there was in fact nothing unusual at play, to be extremely rude to Mr. Charles.

It was clear that he couldn't decide which prospect was more appealing.

So three quarters of the company loaded up into their vampiric chauffeur's treasured automobile, Bariel sitting stiffly in the front passenger seat and Graham grumbled his way across both backseats. The car was clearly not designed with men (or close enough) of Bariel's stature in mind and the only position that allowed him relative comfort that didn't block Jack's access to the gears was a hunched, knees to the chin one. Graham, meanwhile, had stretched out across the back seats, buckled whichever belts wherever they would hold him and proceeded to ignore his surroundings. He lit a cigarette, deaf to protest, and began to read.

The smell of smoke wasn't too objectionable for Bariel, it reminded him of old battlefields and the memories that it brought were comforting, but he still found Graham's utter irreverence confusing. It wasn't just that he acted like angels and vampires were mundane, he acted like they were mundane annoyances to be tolerated until they left him alone. He also didn't much care for the way Graham treated the possessions of other's, having made the mistake of leaving a jacket at the office once only to discover the pockets to be full of ash the next day. It had apparently been closer to Graham than the ash tray, and therefore clearly a reasonable substitute.

Still, he couldn't deny that the man knew things. When they had first met, it had taken him only a few minutes and a couple of seemingly innocuous questions to determine not only that Bariel was an angel but that he had previously been of the Thrones. His knowledge would doubtless be an invaluable asset should they come upon anything at the caravan site, though it would probably be best to keep him far away from this Mr. Charles. Although Bariel had not yet had the doubtful pleasure of meeting the man, Jack had made it fairly clear what he could expect.

With the smell of smoke and Jack's uncertain narrative passing the time nicely, they seemed to arrive at the caravan park almost too soon. And there the man was, one eyebrow raised in patronising disdain at the little car. His expression changed slightly when not just the babyfaced Jack emerged from it but also the wide frame of Bariel. His lips pursed in disapproval and he tossed the keys at Jack before turning away sharply.

"I'm sure you'll be able to find the caravan, it's no. 67. Do tell me if you find any pixies there." he sneered over his shoulder. Graham had finally managed to pry himself loose from the back seat and clambered out with a vindictive expression on his face, only to see Mr. Charles leaving and his chance to vent a tide of verbal filth over him vanishing. Such was his disappointment that he let loose a curse not heard aloud for over four hundred years. The word blossomed into an inky black shape in the air that stank of tar before fading gently.

Still glaring at the park owner's retreating back, Graham stomped off. "Well we might as well go and find this caravan then!" he grumbled, patting down his pockets to find his fourth dozen cigarette of the morning. Bariel gave Jack his best attempt at an exasperated smile and moved to follow him.

After all, they did have a job to do.