#IF YOU CAN BARELY HANDLE THE VIOLENCE/GORE SO FAR HERE IS YOUR OFFICIAL WARNING FOR EP 9 OPENING

[dramarants]

underling: kicheol sir, here's a change of clothes for that speck of blood on your collar junmo, cosplaying carrie: ... *takes a drag*

[vizhi0nw]

Ghost

Pairing: Kenny Ackerman/OC

Warnings: Violence, Language. This chapter in particular contains extremely graphic content - rape, as well as disturbing gore. There is consensual smut, as well. 

Words:  5.5k

Summary: Kenny Ackerman had never met someone with a reputation just as bad as his own.

AO3

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

Part 2 of 4

Citadel

Eight months passed before another stranger burst through the door to Leyla’s shop.

The bottle of booze she’d shared with Kenny still sat, half empty, on the shelf. She hadn’t touched it once - it remained stationary, a reminder of her meeting with Kenny that she still, eight months later, couldn’t get out of her head. 

She couldn’t get him - that cocky smile emphasized by pearly white teeth, the smell of tobacco and sweat and blood, out of her head. Part of her had hoped he’d return, maybe offer to purchase something from the shop even though it wasn’t a shop anymore, it was just Leyla’s getaway. 

When the strangers entered, Leyla looked up, eyebrows raised, as she expected to see him - but instead she saw an unfamiliar face. Two unfamiliar faces, rough looking men with somber demeanors. They weren’t MP’s - they would have worn their uniforms, all poised and professional. No, MP’s weren’t this quiet.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” Leyla finished wiping down the countertop, tossing the rag aside and bracing both arms on the slick-clean surface. “This isn’t a shop. I know it says it on the sign but...we’ve been closed for a while.”

The two men looked at each other, exchanging glances. Leyla pushed herself up, fingers creeping beneath the countertop where she’d tucked a gun away, right between two bottles of liquor. Her hand closed over the handle right as the two men moved. 

Two bottles crashed to the floor as Leyla yanked her hand back, raising the gun and firing off a shot that caught the first man in the stomach. The impact of the buckshot knocked him back, and before Leyla could fire again, his companion had vaulted over the countertop. Ensuring that she had a firm grip on the weapon, she braced herself as she was slammed, hard, against the liquor shelf. More bottles toppled from their resting place, crashing against the floor. Wet, sticky wine cascaded down Leyla’s face, obscuring her vision, but her fingers managed to grasp the neck of a bottle. 

She screamed and smashed the half-empty bottle of booze that she and Kenny had shared together against the side of her attackers face. He groaned and covered his eyes, face marred from glass - Leyla fired off another shot from her gun at random and felt something splatter against her skin. 

Blood, not wine. 

Furiously wiping her eyes, Leyla blinked. There was a body slumped in front of her. Her other assailant was approaching, knife in hand, seemingly oblivious to the hole Leyla had blasted through his gut. She barely had time to brace herself before she was caught and flung across the countertop, tumbling and landing on the other side, hard. She heard something crack, but wasn’t sure what it was - a wrist, perhaps? 

Leyla’s gun was gone, missing. She lay, disoriented, on the ground. 

“Stupid bitch,” the man spat, palm clutching his stomach to prevent his guts from leaking out all over Leyla’s nice, clean floor. He snarled and kicked her in the abdomen with a steel-toed boot. Leyla grunted, teeth clenching together. “Gonna...fucking kill you. Gotta kill you.” 

“Like hell you are.”

Precision. 

With what little strength she had, Leyla launched herself forward and caught him by the legs. He fell, arms flailing. Leyla immediately went for the wound, gushing blood - she slammed her fist over and over into the bloody pit until her hands were stained crimson. Then, she reached down and twisted. His guttural screams filled the shop, until they didn’t. 

By the time she was done, he was dead, or very nearly dead. His fingers were twitching, eyes open but glossy. 

“Fuck,” Leyla grasped the lapels of his coat. “Who the fuck are you?”

She received only a groan. She reared back and slapped him, hard, and she seemed to refocus.

“Answer me! You’re about to die anyway - tell me so I can fucking kill whoever sent you on this mission!” 

“L-Lord Byren. He s-sent us.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

No response. There was no more life in his eyes. 

Leyla released him and let his head fall unceremoniously against the wooden tiles.

The shop was silent, save for the drip, drip, drip of spilt wine and liquor. It was all over Leyla’s face, shirt, and arms. The red liquid mingled with the blood and she couldn’t tell which was which or how much of each there really was. It made her nauseous. 

She slipped off the corpse, finally realizing just how badly she hurt. Her ribs ached, throbbed, and she assumed they were broken. She had a split lip and she could feel a bruise coming in on her cheek. Her left wrist was most definitely sprained. 

Still, she lived. 

                                                ______________

Kenny’s usual nightly walks through the alleyways of Mitras were normally the only time he truly had to be alone. 

It reminded him of his “wild days,” as he’d fondly referred to it, sneaking around and slitting throats by order of the King. Now, he was the leader of his own squad, and while he relished in the fact that he got to leap into action-head on and wield guns instead of knives, part of him missed it. The solitude. The mystery. The patience it took to stalk his prey and move in for the kill. Each time he walked along the riverside, he was reminded of the many times he’d frequented the water to toss corpses. He’d lost count of how many MP’s he’d stripped and dumped. It had to be in the dozens - hundreds, maybe? That’s what the legends were saying.

Kenny never listened to the legends. He, for some wild reason, found strangers recounts of his “wild days” to be boring. It was much better to do, not hear. 

The cigarette between his lips was starting to taste bitter. He discarded it, grinding it beneath his foot. When he looked up, he caught a flash of grey before he felt a surprisingly firm hand lay flat against his chest and back him against the alley wall. 

His knife was in his hand before the figure could even speak. 

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Kenny paused. He was close, oh so close, to spilling the girls guts across the ground. He recognized her voice immediately, pausing only when she lifted her head to look him in the eye. 

A bruise marred the deep brown skin of her cheek. Her eyes were bloodshot, as if she hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Her full lips were stretched into a line, nose crinkled as she glared daggers at Kenny. 

“I need your help,” her voice was strained. “Kenny.”

He raised his eyebrows. She eased off him, stepping back a few feet. She wore an oversized jacket, hood flipped up over her head. She looked just as grimy and suspicious as Kenny did, and he almost laughed at the comedy of it all. 

He’d tried to kill her eight months ago. Yet here she was, asking him for help. 

“You know, I never caught your name before.”

“Leyla.”

“Leyla,” he tested the name on his lips. It was a pretty name for a pretty girl, he concluded. “What exactly do you need me for, Leyla?”

“I need information.”

“Information on what?”

Leyla glanced around. It was the dead of night, and Mitras seemed even deader. There were no MP’s slinking around at this time, nor were there any civilians out. This was Kenny’s hour, and nobody else’s.

Except for now.

“Two men attacked me yesterday. I managed to kill one and interrogate the other before he succumbed to his own wounds,” Leyla gestured to her bruised face with one jabbing finger. “Before he died...he said that a man named Lord Byren sent them. Does that name sound familiar to you?” 

Lord Byren. 

Kenny winced. He almost considered lying - he knew Lord Byren, of course. Or, he knew of him. The tales were far from delightful. The idea that he was going to potentially get involved with Leyla’s drama with Byren made him hesitate even telling her the information in the first place. 

Part of him, however, couldn’t lie. The stories about Byren painted him as relentless. He’d send more men and Leyla would die. 

Kenny coughed. He needed another smoke. 

“I know of him. Evil bastard, he is. He ain’t someone you wanna mess with.”

“I never stole from his estate-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kenny hummed, lighting another cigarette and letting it hang from his mouth. “I told you last time, the people up here talk about you. The phantom. He probably sent those men because he assumed you’d come for his shit next.”

“I don’t know how he found me.”

“I sure as fuck didn’t tell him. Byren isn’t someone who’s company I frequent,” Kenny waved a hand. “You’re shit out of luck. That’s all I can tell you.”

Leyla reached up and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She let out a deep sigh, eyes closing for a minute, before they opened, shining with renewed determination. 

“I need you to take me to him.” 

“Oh, for fucks sake, Leyla-”

“I have a plan and I need you for it. Please. You’re my way in,” Leyla gulped. “I need to get these people off my back before I can keep doing what I’m doing-”

“Have you considered that what you’re doing is stupid?” Kenny snapped. He tilted his head back and blew a long stream of smoke into the night sky. “I know you care about those people in the Underground, but take it from an old timer - they ain’t worth it.”

“Maybe to you.”

“You really wanna get yourself killed for those people?”

“Why the fuck not?” 

Kenny stubbed his cigarette a little too hard against the alley wall, ashes and embers falling to the floor. She was a stubborn brat. A stubborn brat who needed to wake up and realize that she was going down a path that would eventually get her killed. 

It had taken Kuchel’s death for him to finally, officially, shed the mantle of Kenny the Ripper and let his notoriety fade away. He knew that Leyla didn’t have the same luxury of family. 

“You’d toss it all away. Your life,” Kenny murmured. “For a bunch of bottom-feeders. Fucking pathetic.”

“I want this asshole off my back and I want you to help. You can either pussy out now or I’ll do it myself-”

“You ain’t doing it yourself. I’ll help you,” Kenny pushed himself off the alley wall, glancing down at Leyla. “On the condition that, once you’re in, I be nowhere near the scene when all hell breaks loose.”

“Deal.”

                                                    ____________

Kenny was staring. 

Leyla had caught him, multiple times. He’d tear his eyes away and pretend to be fiddling with his anti-personnel gear, his guns and his hooks. Then, his eyes would wander. His gaze would float across the expanse of her thigh, up past the corset squeezing her waist, to the mounts of her breast, the curve of her neck. He’d lick his lips, and when Leyla would gesture, he’d sharply turn his head and pretend not to be looking.

Rinse, and then repeat. 

Leyla hadn’t donned her work uniform in several years. She’d only worked at the brothel after her grandfather had died - he would have been ashamed to see her dressed like a harlot and taking cock for cash. She’d needed the money and had been desperate. She’d been lucky to have avoided the more...primal clientele, and when she’d left, she’d managed to save up a decent amount of cash to get by. It was then that she’d realized her true purpose. 

She’d kept the outfit for sentimental reasons, having never thought that she’d be putting it on again. She was painting her face, now making sure her cheeks were flushed pink and her lips were a deep ruby red. She’d styled the coils atop her head into a neat bun, with Kenny having observed, mildly fascinated, for part of the time. 

“Women and their hair,” he’d snorted and gone back to cleaning his gun. 

“Men and their guns. Always so volatile.” 

Kenny had ducked his head to hide his smile, then. 

Now, they were ready, with Leyla having donned an overcoat to hide her outfit, while Kenny’s own coat was hiding the armory of anti-personnel gear he’d strapped to his body. Then, they linked arms and began walking towards Byren’s palace, with Kenny taking the lead. 

The sun was beginning to sink beneath the horizon, and Mitras was winding down for the night. It was the first time Leyla had ever dared reveal her face to the above-ground public, though she knew she wouldn’t be recognized by any of the civilians, or even the MP’s. 

She truly was a phantom. 

“Keep your mouth shut and let me talk,” Kenny pinched her arm as they approached the Byren estate. It was a mansion, similar to that of other nobility, right near the east side, near the wall. The house was a beautiful, architectural wonder with an impressive courtyard and columns made of bright, white stone. The gates were tall and made of iron. 

There were guards - two of them. When they saw who was approaching, they stepped forward. 

“Kenny.”

Kenny tipped his hat. He slipped his arm from around Leyla’s and gripped her shoulder, hard. “I have a gift for Vibro. I heard he’s collecting whores.”

Leyla bit her lower lip. This part had been Kenny’s idea - he’d revealed to her that Byren had a particular taste for women who couldn’t fight back, something that disgusted Leyla to her very core. 

“He is,” the guard said. He approached Leyla rather languidly, reaching out to unceremoniously grip her chin with one gloved hand. Resisting the screaming urge to bite his fingers, she allowed him to tilt her face upward, a thumb tapping her lips and indicating for her to open her mouth. “She has all her teeth. Good.”

“I thought he’d want them toothless. Less bitin’.”

“Will do.”

The guard shrugged. “He likes to take risks. She’s good - we’ll take her in.”

Kenny’s smile was wide and almost grotesque. “Tell him this is a ‘thank you’ for getting me out of a tight spot with the MP’s. I owe him.”

Kenny spun on his heels and walked away, not even bothering to shoot Leyla a final look. She could only watch him go for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest before the guard began dragging her past the gates and towards the house. 

The courtyard and the columns were becoming less and less beautiful by the second. The architecture seemed demonic instead of angelic. She felt as if she were being dragged into hell. 

                                                    _____________

Lord Vibro Byren was a disgusting creature. Middle aged, relatively solidly built. He had these blue eyes that seemed to swim with smug malice, and the shock of red hair atop his head was thin, but no less vibrant. He was the opposite of Kenny - dignified, polished, but Leyla knew it was all fake. It was all a ruse. There was a monster lurking beneath his nobility. 

Unlike Kenny, he tried to hide it. Perhaps it was because he had an image to keep up. 

The mansion's great room was open, with shockingly high ceilings and hanging chandeliers. The floorboards were a polished, deep brown wood and the walls were plastered with family portraits and painted landscapes. Leyla had been discarded before Byren, who was seated on a large, velvety couch. There was a woman splayed across his lap and a book in his hand, though he’d snapped it shut the minute Leyla had been tossed like a ragdoll into the room. 

Now, he was staring, eyes narrowed to slits.

“She’s a gift, from Kenny,” the guard said. “This is his ‘thank you’ for what you did last month.”

Byren hummed. The woman laying across him lifted her head from his chest and looked at Leyla’s with big, glassy doe eyes. She seemed under the influence of some sort of narcotic - opium, most likely - though Leyla saw no pipe. She moved at Byren’s command, scrambling off towards the kitchen when he lightly tapped her on the shoulder. 

Leyla could see a few other girls seated in the corner, huddled around. They were all dressed like her. Something about them seemed familiar, but Leyla didn’t have time to analyze their faces before Byren’s harsh voice snapped her back into reality. 

“Leave.”

The guard nodded and disappeared through the double doors from which he’d come. Leyla was alone with the beast, sitting before him on her hands and knees.

He sat up fully, adjusting his crinkled dress shirt. 

“Name?” 

“Rose.” 

“Hm,” Byren looked her up and down, his eyes, of course, lingering on her breasts. “You look decently fed. A bit too thin for my taste but...a whore is a whore. I’ll make use for you.”

“T-thank you.” 

“Kenny brought you, huh?”

Leyla’s face felt hot. In a soft voice, she said, “yes.”

“Did he fuck you before he brought you here?” 

Leyla shook her head. Byren seemed pleased, rubbing his hands together. He stood up, suddenly, and headed towards the kitchen. When he returned, he held a bottle of wine in his tight grip. Very slowly, be beckoned for Leyla to come closer. She obeyed, shuffling forward until she was standing in front of his seated form, the toe of her foot end-to-end with his own. 

He brought the uncorked bottle of wine to his lips, taking a massive swig. Then, he offered the bottle to Leyla.

“Drink.”

“I...I’m not-”

“Drink.”

It wasn’t anything other than a direct order. Leyla’s snatched the bottle from his hand and down a massive gulp, gritting her teeth at the bitter taste. He took the bottle back and let it sit on the table by the arm of the couch. Leyla still stood, awkwardly fiddling with the hem of her skirt before she was yanked into Byron’s lap. 

Big hands fondled her cheek. His lips were rough against Leyla’s own, and she had to kiss him back - she hated it. She hated how, for good measure, she shoved her tongue into his mouth and scraped her fingers across his scalp. 

He needed to believe her. He needed to believe her for just a few more minutes. 

There was a knife strapped to her upper thigh, and he had yet to find it. 

Leyla placed suckling kisses against his lower lip, tugging at the skin with her teeth. His hands were planted firmly on her waist, keeping her in his lap. Leyla’s own hands were free, one creeping very slowly beneath his dress shirt to palm the firm muscles of his chest, the other slipping beneath her skirt to grab the -

He seized her wrist, suddenly. 

No.

When Leyla ripped her lips from his own, he was smiling. 

“I knew a Rose, back in the day. She looked surprisingly like you.”

Leyla was discarded from Byren’s lap and onto the floor. His cheeks were flushed red, the buttons of his dress shirt popped open to reveal a heaving, tan chest. Those sick blue eyes were wide, and as Leyla scrambled to unsheath the knife from her hip, she heard the click of a gun. 

It was the doe-eyed woman. She held the weapon steady, though Leyla could see the faintest tremble in her hand. 

“She had a knack for poking her nose where she shouldn’t,” Byren began buttoning his shirt. “As did her husband. They were smart as a whip, both of them.”

Leyla sat back on her haunches and watched as Byren stood, sauntering back into the kitchen and returning with a gun of his own. This one was older, with a wooden handle carved with what appeared to be the estate’s official insignia. He held it up, angling it so Leyla could get a full view of the weapon. “I shot them with this gun, right here in this very room.”

Leyla’s throat went dry. Her tongue felt huge in her mouth, and she could only glare at Byren as he continued to talk as casually as if he were addressing the weather. There was a ringing in her ear and Byren’s next words sounded muffled, as if she were hearing him through a tunnel. 

“The woman choked on her own blood while her husband tried to save her. I shot him in the head. It was far quicker than what he deserved. I killed them both because they didn’t like what I was doing here. They didn’t like how I ran my estate and how I spent my own money. A shame, really. I considered them friends. They had a child, too. Cute little thing. Her name was Leyla, if I recall. I never forget a face, even if that face is all grown up.”

“You killed my parents.”

Byren tilted his chin upwards. He extended an empty hand and barked, “Marissa!”

The trio of girls huddled in the corner of the room all perked up. One of them - a plump girl with round cheeks and bright, blonde hair, walked over on shaky legs. All color was rapidly disappearing from her face as she came to stand beside Byren, shoulders bunched up, head ducked. 

“They didn’t like what I did to my toys.”

Leyla gasped as Byren cracked Marissa in the back of the head with the butt of his gun. The girl collapsed, letting out a keening wail. The double doors to the great room burst open, and half a dozen guards rushed in, guns drawn. 

Despair settled over Leyla like a raincloud. Byren was very slowly kneeling, having pulled his belt free from its loops. Marissa was lying on her back, trembling, as Byren very slowly peeled her skirt away from her legs. His fisted his cock and began to stroke, while the barrel of his gun prodded at the exposed lips of her cunt. 

“They didn’t like what I did,” Byren seemed to be speaking to himself, now, furiously getting himself off, eyes glued to Marissa. “They didn’t...they didn’t think it was right.”

He slipped the barrel of his gun past her hole. Marissa gave a wail. Leyla’s nails were scraping against the floorboard, and she was going to move - she had to move, gun be damned. She could move fast enough only if she -

BOOM.

Blood splattered against Leyla’s cheek and she screamed.

She heard one of the guards stumble away and vomit. 

Leyla turned her head away before she could fully take in the gore. She heard Byren grunt as his orgasm ripped through his body, and Leyla could only imagine him painting Marissa’s corpse with evidence of his release. 

She was dry heaving, the panic truly setting in. She heard Byron zip up his pants, the floorboard creaking as he stood. When Leyla finally dared to look up at him, she saw that his once pristine, white shirt was doused in crimson, and his hand, along with his gun, was drenched. 

“I’m going to keep you,” Byren said wearily. “I couldn’t keep your mother. But I can keep you-”

“Like hell you are!” 

Byren’s hand, the hand that was clutching his gun, practically exploded in a mist of flesh and fingers. More loud pops rang out, and several of the guards dropped dead. Leyla caught a glimpse of a figure zooming above the rafters of the high ceiling and out of sight. 

Leyla ran, fully expecting to feel a bullet pierce through her back. The guards were busy with Kenny, firing up at the ceiling, only to drop like insects when Kenny returned the favor. 

She didn’t. When she looked back, the woman, the doe-eyed woman, was still standing still, gun trained on the spot where Leyla had been lying moments ago. Byren was curled up on the floor, clutching his ruined hand. 

Leyla only had a moment to enjoy the fresh air of the outdoors before she was swept up by Kenny. She screamed and wrapped her arms around his neck, hearing him chuckle as he latched his hook onto a nearby building and soared over the gates of the Byren estate. Leyla kept her head buried into his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as the wind tickled her bloodstained cheeks, tearing away her tears before they could fall.  

Any other time, she mused, she might have enjoyed flying. 

                                                  _____________

“You’re shaking, kid,” Kenny said softly. His own bottle of beer was half empty. Leyla hadn’t even touched hers. 

The amount of rules Kenny had broken for this girl was astronomical. Internally, he was screaming at himself, cursing, for even getting involved to begin with. He’d intended to walk away when he’d dropped her off at the Byren estate. Walk away, maybe creep in for just a moment to see how it was going, and then leave and, hopefully, never speak to the girl again. He hadn’t wished ill will on her - he would have been quite content, had she been able to kill Byren like she’d planned. But he hadn’t wanted to reveal himself like that, though he was unsure as to whether or not Byren, or the guards, had even seen him or really heard him to begin with. 

Still, it had been stupid. He’d come back, and for what? Some girl? Some girl he’d been tasked to kill a year ago? Now, she was here, sitting at his kitchen table, wearing one of his shirts and a pair of pants that, back in the day, had belonged to Levi. 

“He killed my parents,” Leyla said, her words barely audible. “I met him. I...I knew him. It was him. It was fucking him-”

“You still don’t know why he sent those men after you?” 

Leyla shook her head. “I don’t know why. He’s sick, Kenny. He’s sick in the head.”

Her fingers were shaking so hard that her nails were clicking against the table. Kenny reached out and placed his hand over her own, stopping them. They sat like that for a moment, until eventually, Leyla seemed to come back into herself. She reached out and finally down some of her beer. 

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Fuck, Leyla-”

“I won’t be able to do my job properly until he’s dead,” Leyla replied. “He knows who I am, now. He knows that I’m alive. He’ll keep sending people after me.”

“Not unless you leave. Get the hell outta’ the Underground. Go to Trost, or hell Shiganshina,” Kenny urged. He knew it was useless. She was a stubborn bitch. “This ain’t worth it, I swear.”

“I don’t fucking know anything else, Kenny!” Leyla erupted, her voice rising to a shrill cry. “I sneak and steal. Sometimes, I kill people. That’s all I fucking know how to do!”

“You can learn.” 

“I can learn when he’s dead.”

“This ain’t even about those people anymore. It’s about your parents. You’re on a goddamn revenge trip.”

Leyla’s slap stung. Kenny was anticipating it, but he’d forgotten that the girl could put some power behind her hits. When he turned back to look at her, there were tears in her eyes and her hands were trembling yet again. 

“Shut the fuck up.”

“See, that’s when I know you’re stuck. Ain’t nothing better you have to say,” Kenny ran a hand down his face. “Start livin’ in the real world, kid. There’s only one way this shit ends, and it’s with you six feet under.”

“I’m killing him. You can’t convince me otherwise. I’ll do it alone, too. You don’t have to get involved.”

“Good, cus’ I ain’t,” Kenny chuckled. “This one is on you.”

“That’s fine,” Leyla levelled a steely eyed gaze at Kenny, sinking back into her chair. She crossed her arms and stared at her bottle of alcohol. Letting out a tch noise, she pushed it across the table. “Finish this for me.”

“Can’t. I’m done for the night,” Kenny’s eyes flickered to the window. It was dark out. “You headin’ back home?”

Leyla followed his gaze to the night sky. She seemed to ponder over something for a moment, tongue flicking out to wet her lips. After a while, she made a low humming noise and said, “I feel like...I feel like I should do something thank you. I want to do something to thank you.” 

“You can thank me by not going on a suicide mission,” Leyla shot him a sharp look, and Kenny raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Fine, fine. I’ll drop the damn topic.”

“I saw you staring at me, when I was getting ready.” 

“I didn’t know you used to be a whore.”

“Only for a little bit, after my grandfather died.”

“The profession doesn’t suit you,” Kenny mused. Part of him wished he’d been more direct with his staring. Leyla was attractive. She was half his age, probably, but she still filled out a corset rather well, and her tits were nice. “You don’t take too kindly to men telling you what to do, it seems.”

“Who says they were the ones telling me what to do?” 

“When I fuck a whore, I like her to be responsive. When I tell her to cum, she cums. When I tell her to suck me off, she sucks me off,” Kenny sneered. “I like being in charge.” 

“So do I.”

“Then thank me this way,” Kenny murmured. “Let me take the lead.”

The noise Leyla made was intoxicating. Kenny’s dick twitched in his pants as Leyla languidly tiptoed over to him, her soft palm cradling his face. Then, she casually slipped her shirt over her head. Next, her pants, and then, her undergarments. She stood naked as the day she was born before him, shameless. 

She jerked her head towards Kenny’s dingy little bedroom, and he’d never stood so fast in his life. All thought flew from his mind and the only thing he could focus on was Leyla’s cute, round ass, her perky tits, the smooth plane of her stomach and the sparse, dark curls between her thighs. 

 When her lips met his, he was in heaven. Or something close to it. 

“Kenny,” his name rolled off her lips like sweet, sweet honey. His clothes were everywhere, on the floor, across his headboard - he didn’t care. He was tossing everything off as quickly as he could, craving raw, skin-on-skin contact with the woman currently lying beneath him. How long had it been since he’d taken someone? Years, possibly. Most definitely since before Uri’s death. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Kenny pressed his forehead against Leyla’s shoulder. She’d taken his long cock in her small, yet rough hands and was stroking fervently. He turned his head and caught her in a quick kiss. “Gonna make me bust - let me in.”

Leyla kissed him again, chuckling against his mouth. He’d prepared her well with a few pumps of his finger into her tight cunt, and now, she was ready for him - all tight and wet and hot, just like he’d remembered. No, better than he’d remembered. Leyla wasn’t like the others he’d had before. She was different. 

He couldn’t put a finger on why, she just...was. Perhaps it was the familiarity. 

“So good. So fucking good,” Kenny gasped. He curled over her, pounding her into the mattress, one hand reaching up to grab the headboard. Her legs curled around his hips and her mouth was open, her moans punctuating the wet smack of skin against skin. There was fire twisting within Kenny’s gut, a raging inferno that made him feel as if it could burn an entire forest, an entire town, to the ground. It was all rage, all pent up energy - he needed it out. He needed it inside of her, nowhere else. 

“K-Kenny,” Leyla gave a strangled gasp, reaching up to drag her nails down his back as she came up. Kenny yanked himself out and painted her thighs with his release, reaching down to squeeze the last few drops against her skin, for good measure. He collapsed by her side, and Leyla leaned over to press a kiss against his shoulder. 

“Just stay the night,” he breathed. “I’m not going to be able to walk you home after that shit.” 

“Didn’t know you’d offered.”

“I’m a...goddamn gentleman. And an old man, at that,” Kenny’s eyes fluttered shut, and he heard Leyla chuckle. “Don’t start takin’ advantage of my generosity, though.”

“I won’t,” Leyla’s lips found his forehead. “I...thank you. For everything you did today.” 

Kenny was already asleep. He dreamed of Kuchel, that night, like he always did. Her corpse, cold and hollow, lying in the bed. He dreamed of Uri as well, though he hadn’t gotten to witness his friends death, and he was glad for it. The dreams never got any more pleasant, any happier. Shorter, maybe, but never better. 

He wondered what Leyla dreamed about. He would have asked her the next morning, but when he awoke, she was gone. 

[xthebirdofhermesx]

Hellsing: The Return - Chapter 2

Chapter 2! Oh Section XIII... what you do’n?

(∩｀-´)⊃━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT?! ｡ﾟ･*.｡ﾟ☆--c(`-' ∩) 

MATURE CONTENT FOLKS. There’s violence, strong language, smut, and gore cause... well Hellsing. No warnings beyond that currently (no sexual violence or anything like that), so have at thee if ya like. All Chapters compiled here, but I’ll be posting inline for anyone who just tumblrz.

Chapter 2 - Divine Intervention

“Chief Makube,” Integra said walking into the foyer of Hellsing Manor by herself, “To what do I owe the pleasure of you staying in the lobby today, unlike yesterday?”

The older man was tall, Italian, and bore a scar over his right eye that stretched from forehead to jawline. He smiled and spread his hands gracefully, as if to indicate he was also alone. “Today I have no children to entertain,” he smiled. “S’cuzzi for not being able to conclude all business yesterday, Sir Hellsing… but I’m afraid the Vatican does not know that today, I am here.”

Seras, having been leaning against the banister with crossed arms and a dower expression, raised an eyebrow and looked to her human master. That… was a fishy statement from the head of Section XIII, Iscariot Division. Integra was no less impressed or concerned, but her expression remained stoic.

“Well, you have my attention,” she said and turned. “Please, follow me. My office will be more comfortable.”

Up the stairs and to the only door visible from below, Integra lead the way to her office as Makube and Seras followed. The Knight repressed a smirk as she was the only one to see Alucard’s smile fade into the shadows before she opened the curtains behind her desk. “I can assure you, Chief Makube,” Integra said and nodded for Seras to close the door. As she did so the room flashed with black and red energy, Pip securing the room at Seras’s will. “This room is secured from eavesdropping,” Integra finished with a small smirk.

As she sat behind the desk, Makube sat in front, crossing his legs and weaving his fingers on one knee. “I apologize for dropping in unannounced, Director. Unfortunately the nature of this visit is… sensitive.”

“Not to be indelicate, Chief Makube,” Integra said, lighting a cigar, “But shall we cut to the chase?”

Makube smiled patiently. “Of course. There is a leak, a potential traitor to The Vatican and specifically Section XIII within our ranks. I would like to enlist the aid of the Hellsing Organization to investigate and hopefully find this mole.”

Well. That… had not at all been what Integra, Seras, or even Alucard would have predicted coming from this conversation. As Alucard’s deep laughter began to echo around them, Makube’s expression fell from pleasant to concerned, and eventually to slightly upset when Alucard manifested from the shadows in the corner.

“Oh this is quite the welcome home present,” the ancient vampire chuckled.

“When did this occur?” Makube frowned at Integra.

“Last night, actually. I fear you came to call before any official statement could be released. I’d barely finished breakfast when I was alerted of your arrival.”

“He has a plane to catch,” Seras stated of Makube, Arms crossed and standing now near to her vampiric master.

The Chief swallowed audibly, but regained his composure rather quickly. “Well then this may be all the more swift a resolution. Though I must request as few casualties as possible?”

“We’re not murderers, Makube,” Interga’s tone was flat and unforgiving. “We’re monster hunters.”

“Of course, I was not implying anything. Allow me to explain.” Spreading his hands, the Leader of Section XIII went into detail about a few investigative missions that had gone deadly unexpectedly approximately six months prior. At first it had not raised any concerns as these thing happened occasionally. However it seemed that the number and frequency of these events had been slowly increasing, and it was not until a single survivor confessed with in intensive care that the attackers who’d killed them all were not of the original investigated threat. He was then assassinated that night in his hospital room in Vatican City.

“This has happened now outside of Roma, as well,” Makube pressed the tips of his fingers together, elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “Not only does there seem to be a white clad figure leading an attack against the Vatican, but one of our own is giving them information on where to find our people to take them by surprise and murder them all.”

Integra twisted her cigar between two gloved fingers as she thought. Makube was not his aggressive predecessor Maxwell, nor his embittered subordinate Heinkel Wolfe. Neither was she a fool, and an olive branch from the Vatican could still be a trap. The Vatican as a whole had made no bones about believing the Protestant Knights to be blasphemous, and specifically the Hellsing organization, Integra herself in fact, to be the worst of them. She wasn’t entirely certain if she’d been officially declared a witch in the eyes of Rome or not.

And yet intuition told her Makube was sincere. How frustrating.

“With all due respect, Chief Makube, and I mean that sincerely,” the knight said, tapping ashes from the end of her cigar into the ashtray, “I have a far greater respect and appreciation of your methods and approach than I could ever have for your predecessor. But what guarantees do I have that this is not an elaborate trap for my organization?”

“Outside of my personal word and promise that if it is, I have been kept in the dark and know nothing of such a plot?” he sighed and spread his hands. “None. But if this is a trap for Hellsing, it is not the act of Section XIII or an openly sanctioned operation from the Vatican.”

“How delightfully dangerous,” Alucard chuckled, his grin upsettingly wide.

“I also can guarantee you that even if it is a cu,” Makube added, eyeing the elder vampire, “They might, at best, be prepared for you and Ms. Victoria. No one at the Vatican knows of Alucard’s return, clearly.” Meeting eyes with Integra, the chief smiled. “And I don’t intend to enlighten them at this time.”

That… pushed Integra’s eyebrows up.

“Noted,” she said, keeping all other surprise from her response. “If we agree, what would be expected of us in this endeavor?”

“Discretion. Once we leave this room, I will deny any knowledge of this conversation. I merely came by to apologize  for any offensive comments Agent Heinkel Wolfe made yesterday.” Makube sighed and shook his head. “The most recent attack happened this morning in the wee hours. We received the briefest of communications in the form of a video message from one of ours before they were killed and the phone destroyed. The White Cloaked figure was seen for a brief second. Does it not, to you, seem as if a supernatural threat in Scotland, where this occurred, would be reason enough for Hellsing to investigate?”

“Will the Vatican let us onto the site?” Seras inquired.”

“By the time you arrive, they will not have yet. The scene is being held for their investigation, but you can arrive first. I will… waylay them as long as I can. Heinkel and my assistant have not yet been informed, or Agent Wolfe would very much want to go. However, I will handle that.”

“I see. So we are to go as soon as now, then?” Integra grumbled.

“I know we are not… friends, Sir Hellsing,” Makube started, leaning forward in his chair. “I know that the Vatican sees the Protestants of your Council of Twelve and the Hellsing Organization as heretics, and in the past has been an open enemy. However, we want the same thing - safety of the people, and the end to monsters. And this… has potential to threaten us all.”

“I doubt greatly that a single other member of your organization would agree that we have the same goals,” Integra sighed and stood, snuffing her cigar out. “However I agree that if there is someone hunting the Iscariot, it is at least prudent to make certain that they will not turn their aggression toward Hellsing, The Council or The King once they are done.”

Makube gave a partial smile and nodded, standing to take Integra’s hand as Alucard’s chuckling began to grow in volume. “I will accept that, Sir Hellsing.”

“Should we find this mole along the way, how should we be in contact?”

“A phone call to my mobile will suffice. I should think we can communicate in such a way that anyone near would not decipher the information exchanged.”

With a nod, Integra watched as Seras escorted the man out. When the door was closed she closed her eyes and shook her head. “I do not like this.”

“Oh come now, my master,” Alucard purred in open amusement. “This, will be fun. ”

Integra sighed and cut her eyes to Alucard. “Your definition of fun differs greatly from mine.” Standing, she tilted her head to one side and cracked her neck in the attempts to relieve a newly growing tension. “I will get my things together. Yours are in your rooms below,” she explained and turned to him with a look of narrow suspicion. “Have you been down there yet?”

With a wide grin, Alucard stepped back towards the shadowed corner of her office. “Why look at some dusty old stones, when I have such a lovely view of angels from up here?” But any retort Integra might have had she kept to herself. It was no fun to say it to the wall, and Alucard was gone.

***

“I don’t like it, Master,” Seras grumped from the wall of Integra’s bedroom. She leaned, much as she had downstairs, with arms crossed against the wall. It was a good way to tell when Seras was unhappy about something. She hadn’t pouted in years, not in sincerity. But when she was displeased about something, her face tilted down and she crossed her arms. Everyone had tells, if one knew for what to look.

“I don’t either, Seras,” Integra sighed and tucked the neatly folded change of clothes into her small overnight bag. It was never a poor idea to bring a change of clothes to a murder investigation. Better to not need it than need it and be caught without. “But we won’t know if it is a trap until the trap has been sprung, and if it is not, and Makube actually came to us for help, then perhaps that is a bargaining chip we can use in the future.”

“What could we possibly bargain with the zealots and fanatics for?”

“For them to stay the hell away from us.”

Seras wobbled her head back and forward at that in consideration. “Alright, you have a point there. Want I should get my things?”

“No, I want you to stay here. The men trust you, and as much as these words are foul tasting to fall from my lips, Makube is right. They will not be prepared for Alucard.” Integra sneered. “I hope I never have to say that again.”

“Yeah, that statement physically hurts me to hear from you, Master.”

“ I think I threw up a little myself, ” Pip chimed in.

“EW GROSS NO THROWING UP INSIDE ME!”

“ WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? Dégueuler all over Integra’s floor?!”

“Children, please,” Integra sighed, zipping her bag. “Seras, I must go purchase plane tickets for myself and Alucard. Would you please call Sir Gregory? I’ll need to speak with him.”

“Why Sir. Gregory?” Seras and Pip asked in unison.

Integra just smiled. “Because, he will agree to help me.”

[emmaswanchoosesyou]

CSBB: Part of the Narrative (12/17)

Emma Swan just wants to write the follow-up to her bestselling debut novel, that’s all. But when she gets off to a rough start with her new editor, Killian Jones, she knows it’s not going according to plan. Then, an unexpected figure from Emma’s past reappears and life begins to mirror the crime thriller she’s penning. Suspicion and secrets abound–but love might too. A writer/editor AU with a thriller twist.

Rated E. Includes sexual content, kidnapping, some gore, mild violence, and minor character death–not to mention salty language! On Ao3 here.

Chapter warnings: Confrontations, one main character striking another, lots of swearing, and a thing at the end

Buckle up, pals, shit’s getting real! Thank you so much to all of you who have been reading and commenting and waiting for things to get here, and to all of you who helped me get here. Thank you to all the wonderful ladies at @captainswanbigbang for all you’ve done to make this possible, and all the support you’ve given. Sophie @shady-swan-jones made the delightful banner and another photoset that I adore. Kayla @bleebug did some incredible art for the first and sixth chapters, which you can check out here and here. And all the love and thanks to Kris @sambethe for beta-ing this and making it a ton better. Like seriously, she’s the best.

[Ch. 1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]

Chapter 12

Emma grapples with Killian's betrayal. She gets a lot of writing done, and she and Henry talk on the phone every day, but something is missing. They're on their way to reforging their broken relationship when the unthinkable happens.

Emma, a few days before upon discovering Killian’s and August’s involvement

Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so livid. She was furious, so angry she was red and almost crackling with it.

Cleo held her back, tried to keep her from rushing right over to Killian's and punching him in the face. And then going to August and punching him twice. "Emma, think about it. Be smart, and don't let your anger get the best of you."

"Oh, they'll get the best of me. The best of my right hook," she growled, settling back into her couch.

Cleo snorted but shook her head. "Do you have any alcohol in here?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Let me get us some," she said, reaching for the whiskey and pouring generous portions for the two of them.

"After this...do you want me to give you a lift anywhere? Or do you want to talk about it?"

Grimacing, she shook her head. "No offense, Cleo, but the last thing I want to do is talk about my feelings right now."

"Understood."

&&&

Cleo left after an hour or so, during which time they polished off their drinks in near-silence, broken only infrequently when Emma had a question or Cleo remembered something pertinent.

Mindful of the alcohol she had consumed, Emma called a cab over to Killian's. She was still in a rage, still shaking, but she needed to talk, to yell, to see if he had any defense at all.

She pounded at the door. When Killian opened it with a smile and the tantalizing scent of pasta reached her nose, her resolve weakened for a second. Until he opened his mouth like nothing had happened, like he hadn't been lying to her for at least two months--

Her vision went red, and she slapped him. She felt a pang of guilt at that, but wrapped her anger around her like armor.

Killian implored her to stop, asking her what had happened, and the concern on his face made her even angrier. How dare he get to act like he hadn't done anything, like she was being irrational...

She stepped out of range of his grasp, not wanting his touch to weaken her, to tempt her to put this behind them. Emma waited until he closed the door before gritting out, "You were spying on me? What the hell, Killian? For August? What the actual fuck?"

She watched the color drain from his face, watched the guilt fall onto his shoulders and weigh him down. Mixed with the satisfaction of being right was the sharp sting of betrayal, the hurt of her trust in him being broken .

"I--wha--how did you find out?" Killian asked.

That now all-too-familiar rage settled about her again. "That's really what you want to know? How I found out?"

Killian reached for her again, and she pushed his hand away. Not forcefully, but she was still far too angry for the comfort of his arms.

He sighed.  "I suppose that's not what matters now. I am sorry, though, I want you to know. I quit, I told August before our first date that I wouldn't continue to spy on you."

"Just...why? Why would you do that? Betray my trust like that?" Her voice broke, and this time her anger was for herself, for showing that he'd gotten under her skin.

"I...it was selfish, and wrong. I was trying to get away from a bad situation in London, and August offered me an out in exchange for my work and information on you. I didn't ask why, and he never volunteered a reason."

To her shame, she felt tears welling up, and she pushed them away as he continued to speak. "I stopped early on. I--I didn't count on you, Emma. You should know that. You swept through my life. You captivated me, mind, soul, and heart. I wouldn't--I can't begin to convey how sorry I am, but I also promise that I'd never hurt you or betray you again."

She drew in a deep breath, his declaration overwhelming her. It was like a punch to the gut, and she knew what she had to do. She could feel her heart breaking. She hadn't meant to get so attached so quickly, but--well, she didn't have a choice about it now, not if she wanted to remain true to herself, to do what was best for her. "Too late," she said. "I--I can't trust you anymore. You lied to me, and that--that's it for me."

He pleaded with her, and she tried to pull herself together as she assured Killian they'd still be able to work together as professionals.

As soon as she was done talking, Emma felt exhaustion creep over her, leaving her more emotionally drained than she'd been in years. She felt like someone had put her through the pasta machine sitting on Killian's counter, and she needed to leave. Now.

"Goodbye," she whispered, trying not to think about the devastated look on his face, or that she was leaving half her heart there with him.

&&&

The next week passed in a sort of fog, nestled between generous servings of ice cream and deliveries from Granny's. ("No, this isn't a thing we do for most customers," said Ruby, "but you're family so you get the onion rings with less effort and only a little colder than they'd be in the diner.")

Emma missed Killian more than she could have possibly imagined. She had been falling for him, that much was obvious. But beyond that, she hadn't realized how much of a friend he'd become. Somehow, he'd become the person she texted with weird things from her day or the bizarre writing thoughts she had. And she missed Killian texting her encouragement or pictures of cute animals. Or his thoughts about prominent literary figures and what kind of pajamas they probably wore.

At least she had Henry. Regina seemed to have found out that something had happened between her and Killian, and seemed more tolerant of the increasing frequency of calls between her and Henry. Finally, she even relented and consented to Henry spending a weekend with Emma.

She embraced the joy of having something positive to plan. There was relief too, that his visit in two weeks would keep her from moping. It wasn't a distraction, per se--how could her son ever be a distraction--but it kept her busy.

Emma was keen to introduce Henry to all her favorite Boston haunts, all the ones he'd be allowed into, that is. Until one day when she was talking about yet another thing she wanted to do, just one more museum she wanted to pack into his visit--

"Emma--Mom--you know I'll be just as happy if we don't do anything, right? Like, we can just watch movies and read comics and hang out. There'll be other weekends," Henry told her.

She let out a sigh of relief even as she felt a pang of disappointment. "Okay, kid. We can do that. Is Mario Kart still a thing, or...?"

He laughed, but they agreed, and she smiled, thinking about all that the weekend would bring.

Cleo was a big help, too. She invited Emma over for dinner with her husband and daughter, and she gratefully accepted, even if she did worry that it would be a little awkward.

It wasn't until she got an official email from Mills & Booth talking about the possibility of Killian being sent back to the UK--deported, and the necessity of having a meeting about the situation, that she really started to grapple with the new reality of her life and how awkward it could be. She had actually gotten some writing done during the week, and had sent it to Killian. Her tone had been professional, and she'd done her best to keep any sort of emotions out of the two emails she sent him. But it was her dinner at the Foxes' that brought things into focus. The meal had been pleasant enough, but it was obvious to all of them that Cleo had a lot on her mind.

Finally, during dessert, Cleo blurted out, "It's Killian. Apparently he's being deported. Immigration seems to have suddenly and 'randomly' found some mistakes in his paperwork."

Emma paled, her stomach dropping out from under her.

Just...no.

She might not be able to handle having Killian in her life romantically anymore, but the idea of him being gone, across the ocean? Forever? It was unthinkable.

She was barely aware of responding, but judging by the concern on Cleo's and Alex's faces, she had managed to say something. Then, bless her, Cleo told her that she was dragging her along to the meeting they were going to have about it at Mills & Booth.

&&&

She was distracted when he came into the room, too wrapped up in worry that Killian might leave permanently to actually notice him coming into the room. It wasn’t until he joined them on the couch that Emma started in surprise, but quickly schooled her features into something more neutral. She held her breath, waiting to see how the meeting, and Killian’s future here, might unfold.

Killian greeted the room awkwardly, and Regina was all business as they began. Cleo looked wary, and August had that punchable, smug look on his face. Though that faded as soon as Regina mentioned that a stay had been granted on Killian’s deportation.

Emma let out a sigh of relief and looked up, surprised. She hadn’t had a clue that Regina or Cleo were on top of this, at least not beyond knowing about it. She zoned out, only coming back when she heard August speaking. "First, I think we should really take a look at why Killian is here, and what he brings to the table. It might be easier to help you find a job back in the UK and just go with an American editor, or at least someone whose papers are in order."

"No!" Emma exclaimed, and everyone turned to look at her, with varying degrees of surprise on their faces

Killian’s face was a study in gratitude, and she had to look away. Instead, she stared August down. "No. Killian isn't replaceable. He's been a great editor, and his help and input have been invaluable. Changing editors at this juncture would have a very negative effect on the quality of my book, which I think we can all agree would be a bad thing."

"Are you sure you're not allowing your personal attachments to cloud your judgment, Miss Swan?" Regina asked.

"I am," she said, managing to keep her voice even as her heart twisted, "given that we've ended our personal association."

It was only then that she realized that maybe Regina hadn’t known before, if her raised eyebrow was any indication, but she seemed to like Emma more for defending Killian given their situation. Her expression warmed, sympathy glinting in her eyes. "Very well. So we can all agree that Mr. Jones is important for this novel--"

"--but we need to figure out whether his work on other projects is up to par. Otherwise, why bother with anything other than telecommuting?" August intejected.

Emma rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.

She clearly wasn’t the only one annoyed, since Regina’s scathing reply had him blushing. He recovered quickly, though. "I'm just trying to do what's best for Mills & Booth, and that includes maintaining a team that can work smoothly together. Is that really happening?"

"Yes," Emma said fiercely. It might not be entirely accurate at the moment, but she and Killian would get there. Hopefully.

But August didn’t look quelled, even through the subsequent exchanges. The reason for that became abundantly clear when the door burst open and Cora Mills strode in, poor Ariel trailing behind and desperately trying to stop her.

Cora Mills--Regina’s mother and the founder of Royal Hearts Publishing--was here. Regina didn’t look thrilled, but then, the feud between them--apparently related to Regina’s less-than-advantageous marriage--was well known in their circles. No one did, except perhaps for August.

The silence in the room stretched on before Cora finally broke it. "Hello, Regina. Your office is lovely, even if this is quite the collection of...professionals in it. Between the one in trouble with Immigration, the glorified beat cop, and the felon, I'm actually impressed Mills & Booth hasn't imploded already."

Emma felt her cheeks heat and rage pulse through her veins at the dig on her and the people she cared for. She leapt up from the couch, ready to fucking tackle Cora. Killian held her back, and Cora smirked. "I'd expect nothing less from an orphan of unknown parentage with a rap sheet.”

When Killian let her go so they could both fight her, Cleo was the only thing holding them back.

Then Regina spoke from where she’d made her way to the center of the room to stand in front of Cora. "Mother, what do you want? Or did you just come here to insult me and mine?"

"No, I came here with a proposition. Regina--and August, you both know very well I have plenty of contacts that could help fix Mr. Jones' little tiff with the authorities. And I'd gladly help promote Miss Swan's nove, if that's something you think is a worth cause," she said.

"But what do get out of it? I've never known you to do a damn thing for free," Regina said, looking more peeved than intrigued.

Cora replied, "I don't want anything but time with you, Regina. I've loathed being so cut off from my only child."

"How sentimental of you, and it might be more believable if I hadn't just seen a plan Mr. Booth drew up granting you shares in Mills & Booth."

Emma gasped and so did Killian, both of them shocked by this revelation.

Cora briefly tried to defend herself, but Regina told her to leave, clearly unconvinced by her mother’s motives. "Get out," she said. "And if you would kindly refrain from insulting my colleagues or bullying my assistant while you're on your way out, I'd appreciate it."

As soon as she left, they were quiet for a moment until Regina affirmed their commitment to getting Killian out of his immigration situation. They all nodded, except for August, who wasn’t meeting the glare Regina directed at him with one of his own.

They all left the room, one by one, not speaking to each other. Emma was aghast, floored at the entire meeting, but especially at the revelation that August was causing even more trouble than she’d realized.

&&&

Muttering to herself, she read from her screen. “Jacob looked from one side to the other, frantically trying to clear his head. But if his foster mother wasn’t responsible for taking him away… who was?”

Emma looked up from her laptop and pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. She reached for the coffee mug sitting on the side table as she pondered her next move. She had realized, much to her chagrin, that her original plan for the antagonist wasn’t as well-developed as she would have liked. It couldn’t be the foster mother--after developing the character, she just knew it wouldn’t work.

The leather of her chair creaked as she shifted, brow furrowed in thought. She had to think of something, but she was just so… stuck. Writer’s block was the worst.

She was interrupted from her “research,” which totally wasn’t going to be her perusing the Crate & Barrel website for hours, by a knock on her door. Puzzled by who it could be, she went to answer it. Through the peephole, she saw a deliveryman standing there with a bouquet.

“Emma Swan?” he asked as she opened the door.

“Uh, yeah,” she replied, gobsmacked by the arrangement of lilies and peonies that he hurriedly deposited in her arms before scurrying away. “Thanks, I guess?”

She took it inside and pried open the accompanying note.

Dearest Emma,

I cannot thank you enough for your supportive words during that hellish meeting. I know you're not particularly fond of me at present, and I don't blame you for that, but words cannot express how grateful I am that you stood up for me and my job.

I don't know what August's game or plan is, or how you want to handle it, but I'd like you to know that from here on out I am 100% on board with whatever you would like to do. If you decide you don't want to act, that's fine. If you decide you want to look into August's behaviour and reasons for spying on you, you need only ask and I'll assist you.

I owe you, and not just for sticking your neck out for my job and our partnership. I owe you for being the kind of woman who inspired me to step away from people like August, for being the kind of woman to remind me of what there is to live for. And whatever else I might be, I like to think I am at least a man of my word.

This isn't to make you uncomfortable, and if it does so, feel free to chuck this letter and the flowers. I made sure I had them sent to your home, since I wouldn't want there to be another floral mix-up like the one I heard about with Ariel a few years ago.

Thank you again, Emma.

Yours,

Killian Jones

Emma stared down at the letter, her eyes burning with unshed tears. One fell onto the page, blurring his signature. He had clearly written the note himself, and she was full of conflicting emotions.

On one hand, she wasn't afraid to admit it--she was still more than a little angry. But that anger was fading a little more each day as she realized the ways Killian had been manipulated into his actions. He still should have told her, but it was getting harder to hold onto her anger.

She wiped at the tear that had tracked down her face, once again noting how much she missed him. His silliness, his easy affection, the flowery speech…life was a little bit dimmer without all of it. She snorted as she read the last paragraph, the reference to her fiery reaction to Ariel's bouquet, one that she'd thought was hers, amusing her. Of course someone had told him about that.

Honestly, Emma wasn't sure she was quite ready to bring him back into her life. At least, not fully. She had a lot of other things going on, between the book, Henry, and now the August situation. But she could reply to him, lessen the tension between them.

She could at the very least do better than ignoring his gift and his note. Walking over to her sink, she reached in the cupboard for the vase she knew was up there gathering dust. She filled it with water and placed the bouquet on her kitchen table, smiling as she opened her email client to reply to him.

Hey, Killian--

Thank you so much for the flowers, they’re lovely. Peonies have always been a favorite of mine.

I’m not sure yet what I want to do about the August situation.Thanks for offering your help with whatever I decide.

I’ll be honest, I’m not ready to let bygones be bygones yet. Though I do miss talking to you and having you around. But I… well, I’m still not ready. Maybe I will be soon, though. Just give me some more time to work through stuff.

I do have some questions about my story. I think I’m kind of stuck, and I’m wondering how to proceed. I think I might have gotten onto the wrong track with my original antagonist, and I don’t know how to resolve it. Do you have any thoughts? (I’ll send you what I have, don’t worry.)

Thanks again for the flowers.

Emma

She thought about the rather abrupt ending to her note, but grimaced and hit send before she had a chance to overthink it. Drawing in a deep breath, she got up, more at ease and ready to work on completing Jacob’s story.

&&&

“Whoa, kid, slow down,” Emma said, laughing as Henry dragged her out of The Garden, chattering a mile a minute. It was Saturday, and he'd been with her for a little over a day at this point, and it had been one of the greatest days in her recent memory.

"But it was so cool! That final goal..." Henry said excitedly, jumping up and down as they made their way to the Bug.

She wrapped an arm around his shoulder, an affection stronger than anything she'd ever known rising in her as she pulled him close.

He grinned up at her. "So, grilled cheese? At that place where your friend Ruby works?"

"You've got it. And it's going to be the best grilled cheese you've ever had."

"Will there be hot cocoa?" Henry looked up expectantly.

Emma smiled back down at him. "Of course! Where do you think I first had it?"

They pulled up to the diner and slid into Emma's favorite booth. Belle nodded across the counter in greeting. "The usual, Emma?"

"Yep! And an extra for Henry here."

They unbundled, taking off their scarves and coats as they settled in. Ruby bounded out, her enthusiasm apparent in her every step.

"Hey! I've heard so much about you, Henry. I'm Ruby, one of Emma's oldest friends," she said.

"Indeed she is." Emma laughed. "And that lovely lady bringing us cocoa is Ruby's wife, Belle."

"Everything smells so good," he said. Wonder lit his face, and his eyes were wide as he took in his surroundings.

She smiled at him. "I don't think you'll be disappointed."

They chatted while they ate their food, Ruby and Belle joining them as they could. Henry agreed that the grilled cheese was excellent, but that he needed more samples for comparison's sake.

They were walking back into Emma's apartment when Henry asked her, "So where's Killian? You haven't said anything about him the whole time I've been here., He seemed cool, and you seemed like you liked each other. My mom even said you went to a meeting for him or something."

Emma stared down at him, bemused. "Did she now?"

"Yup. And no avoiding the question."

"Jeez, some people are determined."

He just looked up at her expectantly.

"Okay, fine. Um, yeah. We're not seeing each other anymore. No hard feelings, it just didn't work out," she said. And she meant it. Ever since she'd received the bouquet from him and replied, they'd resumed a tentative friendship. He sent her jokes he thought she’d find funny or the occasional small bouquet. She'd replied with thanks and funny stories of her own, and she knew her anger was gone a few days before, when she'd been walking to work. She had passed a little antique shop she'd walked past a million times before, but this time, she saw an old ship in a bottle in the window.

It had immediately made her think of Killian. She'd gone in and bought it without a second thought. Emma still hadn't given it to him, and she wasn't sure when she would, but she knew it meant the worst of her anger was over. She wasn't ready to get back together or to throw herself into his arms or anything like tha, but she wanted him back in her life.

Shaking her head, Emma pulled herself out of her reminiscing. "So… yeah. He's great. And I think we're friends again, maybe, but that's it."

Henry look at her dubiously, clearly doubting her protestations.

She shrugged. "That's just how it goes sometimes, kid."

She couldn't shake the feeling that she might have protested too much, especially when she heard Henry mutter, "Adults are a mess, ugh."

&&&

The rest of Henry's visit passed peacefully, the two of them enjoying their final day together reading comics, watching movies, and playing video games. Emma and Regina had managed a cordial discussion and farewell at the end as they made tentative plans for another weekend in a few weeks.

She was pulling the sheets from the couch where Henry had slept, considering how she needed to invest in a sofa bed if he was going to keep staying with her  when she heard her phone buzzing with an incoming text message.

Killian: I heard through the grapevine that Henry was there this weekend. Hope it went well!

Emma smiled down at her screen.

Emma: Wow, it's almost like I told you about this weekend in my last email. :P But yeah, it did. I even got him to agree that grilled cheese from Granny's is awesome, although he has the nerve to say he needs to try others to be sure it's the best

The three dots appeared immediately, and she awaited his quick reply

Killian: He's clearly as feisty as his mother, haha

Emma: Which one lol

Killian: Both! Regina scares me a little, but I can't deny she's audacious and ambitious. And I have every confidence in your pursuit of the best grilled cheese

Emma: I always do get my sandwich

The conversation dwindled at that point, but Emma wasn't entirely surprised when a "surprise" delivery person appeared at her door the next day.

But instead of the flowers she was half expecting, it was a box. The person making the delivery just shrugged as she looked at them inquisitively.

She took it inside and opened it, reaching for the sheaf of papers inside the neatly presented box. And then she laughed, full-on belly-laughed. It was a subscription to a grilled cheese box--or at least, vouchers for grilled cheese at some of the places around town that were known for offering good, cheesy sandwiches.

Once she was done laughing, Emma didn't hesitate in taking out her phone and dialing Killian's number. "Hey, thanks for the grilled cheese," she said as soon as he picked up.

He laughed. "You're welcome, lass. I saw it and I couldn't help myself. I figured you and Henry could get some cheesy enjoyment out of it."

"And if Henry can't make it, you could come, if you'd like," she suggested, chewing on her lip, hoping he couldn't hear the complete uncertainty in her voice.

He paused. "What are you suggesting, Emma?"

"I...I think I want to be friends again."

"Truly?" He sounded so eager, and it tugged at her heartstrings.

"Yep. Do--do you want to come over and talk about it?"

Killian replied almost before she was done asking, "Absolutely. I'll be over soon. If you meant today, that is."

"Red rover, red rover, send Killian on over," she said, smiling even as the butterflies danced in her stomach.

&&&

It was an hour later when she let Killian in, and Emma muffled her laugh at how puppy-like he was in his earnestness.

“Hi, Swan. I didn’t bring anything. Should I have brought wine? I wanted to get over here as quickly as I could,” he said, eyes shining with hope, even as his ears were tinged in red.

Emma let out the laugh. “Okay, calm down, Jones. Just come sit on the couch with me.” She patted that cushion, and he sat next to her.

They sat in silence until he grew serious. “So…”

She nodded at him. “Yeah…”

“One of us should probably begin,” he said with the smallest quirk of his lip.

Biting her lower lip, she agreed. “And I think you should. I--I need a moment.”

“I don’t think I can apologize enough. For going behind your back, and lying about it,” Killian said hurriedly. The earnest look had returned, but there was something new with it--contrition.

“It’s just--I...I told you everything. You know it all, and you still lied to me.” Emma was getting incredibly annoyed at her newfound tendency to get choked up, and here she was, getting choked up again.

“I know,” he said, hanging his head.

She twisted her hands, looking down at her lap, and said, “I can’t do that again, you know?”

“And I can’t blame you for that.” He turned his gaze away from her and his shoulders slumped.

“But here’s the thing, I want to. I want to try. I miss talking to you, I miss being with you. And I want you,” Emma said, taking a deep, fortifying breath.

That hopeful look from earlier returned, even when he replied, “I’m sensing a ‘but’ in there, lass.”

Emma hesitated. “I’m really having a hard time with you lying to me and hiding things when I was vulnerable. You knew about Henry, you knew about prison, and you even fucking knew about Neal.”

“I told you about Milah and about the Navy.” He wasn’t quite defensive--no, it was more like he  was pleading with her.

“But you neglected the part where you were keeping tabs on me, and where August was basically blackmailing you with your visa. I mean, Jesus, Killian.” She shrugged, shaking her head in disbelief.

Killian buried his face in his hands for a moment before reaching over and seeking to entwine their fingers. “I--well, like I said, I have no excuse. I--Is there any way we can move past this, though? Or, perhaps, through it?”

She acknowledged his question, tinged as it was with desperation, with a serious nod. “I mean, I think we can try, as friends? I’m willing to. Just...promise me, no more lies.”

“As friends? So we’re not together again? For lack of a better phrase. Or is it just professional?”

“Can we…take it slow? And figure it out as we go?” Her voice was tremulous, indecisive.

He bit his lip, looking conflicted. “Part of why I did what I did was that I didn’t want to get hurt again. And I still don’t much like the idea. It just seems to me that not doing a good job of figuring out what we are could lead to more miscommunication and pain, rather than less. And I don’t want that for either of us, Emma.”

“I care about you. A lot. But so much is going on right now, and I’m trying to figure out how my life works again,” she said, wincing at her inability to offer him reassurance.

“I think I can do that.” To his credit, he only sounded the tiniest bit sad. His mouth was turned down, and she could see pain in his eyes, but he tried to smile.

Emma threw herself into his arms, embracing him tightly. After a moment, she pulled back, chagrin clear on her face. Wincing again at the mixed signals she was sending, she asked, “Is this okay?”

“It only wouldn’t be okay if you didn’t do that,” he said, finally laughing a little.

She laughed. “That didn’t even make sense.”

“I know,” he said, still smiling.

&&&

Before she knew it, Henry was back for his second weekend visit. This time they had a chance to do some of the sight-seeing they hadn’t been able to the previous time. They even made it out to Cambridge for a visit to the Harvard Museum of Natural History, as per Henry’s request.

Henry was a smart kid, and he immediately picked up on the frequency with which she received incoming texts, and he was wily enough to peer over her arm and see that most of them were from Killian.

He shot her a more knowing look than any eleven year-old had a right to. “So you and Killian are friends again?”

She blushed and ducked her head, trying to hide her smile. “Uh, yeah, something like that.”

“Are you all back together?!” He was all but bouncing on his feet, eyes wide as he looked up at her.

“Not really. But he’s around again, and we spend time together,” she tried to explain.

And it was true, after a fashion. Emma and Killian were texting back and forth non-stop, and they’d managed two coffee non-dates. They’d talked about her novel and helped iron out some of the issues she was having with it, but they’d also debated the merits of the latest movies they had seen and which of them had found the cuter picture of cats and dogs cuddling with each other. Emma finally felt like her friendship with Killian was back on solid ground, and that they were potentially building the foundation for something more. She didn’t want to jinx it, but she felt like maybe after this they could last.

But she wasn’t ready to confide all of that to her preteen son. So she tried to change the subject back to him.

“So, about that math class of yours, Regina mentioned you’ve been having some trouble?”

He snorted. “It’s fine. I’m doing better, now that I have a tutor.”

“Well, that’s good,” she said with a smile. Remembering one of the issues he’d had a few months before, she asked more seriously, “What about that feeling you had about someone watching you a few months ago? Anything come of that?”

Henry screwed up his mouth, a line appearing between his brows. “Not really. Sometimes I still think… but no.”

“You’d tell me if you were in trouble, right?”

He let out a loud, aggrieved sigh. “Of course. I’d tell you and I’d tell Regina.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

&&&

After a stellar visit, Emma drove Henry back up to Storybrooke. Their next visit would be able to be a little longer, with Henry having a break from school coming up. She dropped him off at Regina’s, and decided to head out as soon as she could, even though Henry expressed some interest in bringing her to the comic book shop. She begged off, having gotten very little sleep the night before between late night chats with Henry and texts from a certain British someone. Henry was disappointed, but said he understood. Especially when he started grinning when she mentioned the texts from Killian.

The drive back was long, lengthened slightly by the nap Emma took at one of the rest stops along the way. All in all, though, she felt happy. At peace. It had been a good weekend, and it felt like things were finally going her way.

She was nearing Boston when her phone rang. She normally would just wait and deal with it when she got home, but she raised her eyebrows when she saw Regina’s name on the caller ID.

“Hey, Regina--”

The other woman’s panicked voice cut her off. “Where the hell is Henry? He’s been gone since about fifteen minutes after you left!”

[deskgirl]

Fic: Devil of a Job

[[Rise of the Guardians Fanfiction

AU: Undercover/Dark Guardians: Kozmotis is an undercover DEA agent, infiltrating the Man in the Moon’s network of crime. The various organizations are headed by Sandman, Toothiana, North, and Bunnymund. As Kozmotis poses as Pitch Black in an attempt to stop MiM and his spread of the dangerous drug, Dream Dust, his only help comes in the form of a genius serial killer known as Jack Frost. All credit goes to KSClaw.

Summary: Sequel to “Face to Face With the Devil,” (which has recently been revised). Kozmotis is presented with a seemingly impossible task, but with the help of the devil, he might pull it off.

Warning: Descriptions of gore and violence.]]

     Kozmotis let himself into his darkened apartment. He slid the deadbolt into place and slumped against the door with a sigh of exhaustion. When he’d agreed to work this undercover mission, he’d had no idea what the job would require—how drained it would leave him each day. He felt like he wasn’t getting anywhere. He had no idea where the Dream Dust was being made or how it was being moved. Sandman was very careful what he let his lackey “Pitch Black” see or know about the Man in the Moon’s operations. And now this meeting… He made his way to the kitchen without bothering to turn on the lights. He didn’t feel hungry, but he knew he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

     “You’re finally back,” a voice said from the dark.

     Kozmotis threw himself backwards and felt his hip connect with the counter. Then he recognized the voice. He wished he didn’t; it had begun to haunt him in his sleep lately.

      “You’re not supposed to be here, Jack. You’ll blow my cover,” Kozmotis said. He reached over to turn on the light above the kitchen sink.

      Jack Frost sat at the breakfast bar, the infamous serial killer with the face of a child. When Kozmotis met him several months ago, at that packing building by the docks, he’d thought he was just a boy. There was an innocence to his face despite the blood coating his hands and the terrible things that came out of his mouth. But Kozmotis knew better now: he was too intelligent, too world-weary. He was no child.

      Jack was wearing medical gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints in the apartment, and he was playing with one of the larger kitchen knives from the knife block Kozmotis kept by the stove. He smiled and set it down when he saw Kozmotis tense up.

      “Don’t worry, officer, I’m not here to kill you. You went to see my friend Sandy today, didn’t you?”

      Kozmotis nodded.

      “What did he want?”

      “He wants me to kill you,” Kozmotis said. “Man in the Moon’s tasked him with making you disappear, and he gave the job to me.”

      Jack looked practically delighted by the news. “Interesting. Either Sandy has more faith in your abilities than we realized, or he’s just that desperate. Perhaps he doesn’t think you’ll succeed at all; you’re just bait for a hook. To your credit, though, you did a great job the other week. With that fire? You have a real talent for arson, officer. It’s too bad you lack the passion for the career. I can’t imagine Sandy would just throw you away. Maybe it was Moon’s order to put you on the job, then. You know, like a test. Let’s hope so. Could mean good things for you.”

      “You seem to be taking this all rather well,” Kozmotis said. “But what am I supposed to do?”

      Jack became very still as he thought about it, and his words were weighted when he spoke: “You could always try to kill me. I wouldn’t hold it against you, although I think we both know how it would end.”

      Kozmotis glanced down at the knife in front of Jack, then shook his head. “Come on, Jack, you agreed to help me because you think I’m smart. I’m not going to make a dumb move like that. Right now, you’re the only support I have. I’ve got no contacts in law enforcement because it’d be too risky. I need your intel and your protection. I don’t stand a chance otherwise. Whatever goes down between us after this mission is over, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

      “I look forward to it,” Jack said.

      Kozmotis felt a shiver run up his spine. Jack really did sound like he was excited by the notion. “In the meantime, I have to find some way to fake your death well enough to convince Sandman and the Man in the Moon. And they’re both scrutinizing crime lords who’ve dealt with plenty of cheats, liars, and narcs. I’m a DEA agent, not James Bond.” Kozmotis scrubbed at his face with a hand. He felt stretched thin.

      “I don’t see why you’re so concerned,” Jack said.

      Kozmotis gave him an incredulous look.

      Jack stood on the bar stool, climbed up to sit on the breakfast bar, and then swung his legs over so he could face Kozmotis. He was wearing sneakers that didn’t look to be his style or size. They likely served the same purpose as his gloves. “You don’t need to worry about a thing, because I’m going to handle this. I’ve always wanted to fake my own death. It’s so cloak and dagger. Plus there’s nothing more interesting than our own mortality, don’t you think? How much we can endure and how easily we can die in turns. And how history forgets some of us but makes immortals of others.”

      Jack looked at Kozmotis conspiratorially. “No one is ever going to forget me. I’ve made sure of it.”

      “I can think of a few people who would prefer to forget you.”

      “Oh? Like you?” Jack teased.

      “I meant like the Man in the Moon.”

      “That’s the best part, don’t you see? I’ve been nipping at Moon’s nose lately, so he’s been nipping at my heels. If he thinks I’m dead, he’ll stop worrying about me, and he’ll drop his guard, which is good for the both of us. Moon thinks he’s the big dog in the neighborhood. Likes to bark and snap at me, but he doesn’t realize he’s baring his teeth at a wolf. By the time he realizes his mistake, I’m gonna have my fangs in his neck.

      “Now, you just leave my death to me. I’ll handle all the details. In a couple of days, you’ll receive a call from me with specific instructions. Do everything I say to the letter, and don’t waste my time with questions, understand?”

      Kozmotis hesitated, then nodded.

      “Good.” Jack grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl, and hopped off the counter.

    “Oh, you’re running low on milk,” Jack said before he stuck the apple in his mouth, undid the door lock, and let himself out.

    Jack’s plan, when he finally called to tell Kozmotis about it, was rather clever. If grotesque. Jack gave him a list of materials to acquire and the best way to obtain them without leaving a trail for the police to follow. The list included a shovel.

    Kozmotis called Sandman when the job was done, and they arranged to meet in a parking lot with minimum security that evening. Kozmotis had expected a limo or something. Instead, the car that drove up and parked beside him was a sleek 1930s Bugatti 4-seater all in black with gold trim and tinted windows. A classic luxury car.

    Kozmotis got out of his vehicle and walked over. A window rolled down to reveal one of Sandman’s assistants. He sat on the far side and used the assistant as a mouthpiece, like always.

    “Hello Pitch. I hear you have good news for me,” the assistant said. They wore gold eyeshadow that made their eyes seem dark and delicate, and matching gold lipstick.

    Kozmotis reached into his jacket slowly and withdrew a packet of photos. “Proof’s all there, including the negatives.” He handed it over to the assistant who opened the packet and handed the individual photos over to Sandman.

    Kozmotis remembered his shock when Jack had shown him the pressurized, stainless steel vat. “It’s for beer,” Jack had explained. “Well, not today it isn’t. Today it’ll be for sodium hydroxide. You know what sodium hydroxide does, right? You’re DEA. You know what cartels like to do with bodies. I hope you remembered that disposable camera I asked for.”

    Sandman flipped through the photos. A before photo of Jack Frost laying on cold, cracked cement. His face was blank, his eyes wide and pale as ice. He was much more animated in the next photo: the one of him trying to climb out of the vat with his hands tied while a clear liquid was poured on top of him. It was just hot water. Jack had been pleased when he saw the steam show up in the photos. “It has to look like it’s boiling hot. Lye baths take forever to dissolve bodies if the liquid isn’t heated properly.”

    The photo after that was far more progressed. That photo had real sodium hydroxide and a real dead body, although it wasn’t Jack’s, and it wasn’t much of a body anymore. Kozmotis had been understandably upset about the body. After all, he didn’t know how Jack had gotten it, and Jack wouldn’t say. He just smiled. Explained that it was important that the body be the same build and weight and height, and such things weren’t easy to find. “He’s already dead. You can’t do much about it now,” Jack had pointed out before having Kozmotis help him lift it into the vat.

    The next photo was in a new location: somewhere with hills and grass and nothing much else in sight. Kozmotis and Jack had drained the vat into stainless steel barrels and driven them out of the city where Kozmotis had been put to work digging a pit deep enough to pour all the evidence. It had taken a long time for everything to seep down into the ground. Fine bits of bone had been left behind. Kozmotis had broken them up with the blade of his shovel before filling the pit in. But not before he took the last photo.

    “This is officially the worst thing I’ve ever done,” Kozmotis had said. “If I was going to be involved in someone’s murder,  I should have just killed you for real.”

    “Oh come now,” Jack had replied, “I’m sure you’ll do plenty of equally horrible things in the future. Give yourself some credit! And besides, if it eases your conscience, keeping me alive keeps you alive, and the longer you live, the more people you may save down the road. Which, frankly, feels like a bit of a Sisyphus and the boulder deal to me, but you go ahead and waste your short life however you want.”

    The assistant leaned towards Sandman as he spoke in a hushed voice. “I’m impressed,” Sandman’s assistant said. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Pitch. I assume you were careful about getting and disposing of everything you used?”

    “Meticulous,” Kozmotis said. “If you could, please, apologize to Miss Toothiana for me in advance. I’m willing to guess she’ll be disappointed I didn’t save any of his teeth, but I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any DNA evidence left behind.”

    Sandman raised a curious eyebrow as to what that meant, so Kozmotis elaborated, “People talk. Even people who are good at keeping quiet. I know that she had some sort of history with Jack Frost, and she showed me her trophy jewelry when you sent me to deliver some information about transport dates to her office.”

    Sandman whispered to his assistant, and they spoke: “I don’t approve of Toothiana’s hobby. Teeth are as good as bodies if the police find her collection. You did the right thing.” A pause as Sandman handed the photos back to the assistant to reseal in the envelope. “I’m impressed, Pitch. I’m sure the Man in the Moon will be, too. I’ll send this along to him. He’ll be glad to know that little thorn in his side is gone. By the time you get home, you’ll find payment for the job in your personal account. Keep your phone on hand at all times: you might receive an important call soon. This was big, Pitch. I’m proud of you.”

    The assistant bowed their head slightly and rolled the window up, signifying the end of the conversation. Then the Bugatti reversed and pulled away, leaving Kozmotis to stand in the dark of the parking lot alone. He looked out at the congested downtown streets, the old hotels with their classical architecture standing beside sleek new business buildings, and then he looked up. The moon was barely a sliver, like an eye cracked open to peek through its eyelashes coyly at the world, spying on all the little people down below. Kozmotis felt like it was looking right through him. He felt small and thin and transparent. He realized with a sudden clarity that he might make it out of this alive in the end, but he wouldn’t be the same person when he did. He was already changing. Already someone different. And there was no going back now.