Jesus had lost Michaela’s GPS signal off and on, probably because she had headed below ground. Even so, he had a general idea of where she was going based on the few hits when it switched on.
Back toward the projects and the bridge.
He had pushed his sedan as fast as he could, hopping on the FDR in hopes of getting downtown before Michaela could. He had gone only a few blocks when he got tangled in a snarl of traffic caused by some construction near the United Nations. Impatiently, he kept on swinging his gaze from the traffic crawling in front of him to the GPS tracking on his phone.
He got enough hits with the tracker to confirm where she’d ended up—the Delancey Street–Essex Street subway stop. Right near Connall's old lair.
It made sense he might have established another one nearby after they’d discovered his first home in the projects.
As he wracked his brain to think about the places close by that might provide cover, he had a strong suspicion as to where Michaela might have gone. The old trolley station. It was accessible from the subway platform, although sealed off with barbed wire. He also recalled that there might be an entry via the subway tunnel.
With the endless line of red lights in front of him, it would take him far too long to get there on the FDR, but so would getting on one of the subway lines to reach the stop.
Working his way toward the right shoulder of the road, he snapped on his siren and strobe lights, wending his way along the narrow pavement until he hit the off-ramp, then veered off, and up to Second Avenue. He sped along the avenue, sirens and lights blaring, one thought in his mind during his headlong race.
Please, let me get there in time.
***
Connall hunkered down in full armor on top of a wood and iron chest at one side of the room. When Michaela entered, he rose to his feet.
He wore a shirt of chain mail, and over that, a breastplate that looked as though it was made of bronze. The plate was decorated with fanciful circles and swirls, which also covered the helmet encasing his head. Conical in shape, it was topped by wing-like decorations that only served to make him seem even taller.
A Celtic psych out, which must have worked well against the shorter Roman soldiers he had faced in his day, but Michaela refused to let herself be intimidated.
In one hand he held a small, double-headed ax, and in the other he had a gleaming steel short sword, the bronze hilt of which was beautifully worked with similar circles and swirls. The armor and sword shouted that he had not been an ordinary foot soldier, but a leader in command, someone of noble birth.
In the middle of the room, on a small wooden crate, sat an ax and sword similar to those he held, and as her gaze settled on them, Connall said, “Warrior's weapons. Not that little pig sticker and pea shooter you have.”
“You think I can't hurt you with these?” she asked, and Connall laughed.
She heard the gurgle of blood from inside his chest.
“Your lover tried, but here I am, daughter,” he replied defiantly, and pounded his breastplate with the handle of his ax, although the motion seemed to pain him.
“Here we are, Father. Though I use the term loosely. It takes more than sperm to make a real father.”
“Aye, Michaela. It does. Not that I would lay claim to human spawn like you. Weak. Female,” he snarled, and for good measure, spat in her direction.
It only served to confirm that he was injured as the pinkish blob landed on the dirty gray floor.
She tilted her head. “You think I'm weak, Connall Burk? That I don't have what it takes to kill you?”
“Prove it, cailín,” he said, calling her a little girl. He jerked his chin at the weapons on the crate.
She walked forward cautiously, her gaze nailed to him for any sign of attack, but he just stood there, waiting for her to arm herself. She kept the gun trained on his chest, although she worried that the smaller-caliber weapon might not be all that useful against the thick breastplate and chain mail beneath. The knife, however, could slip between the gap at his side if she could get close enough.
A big if.
He had her beat with the longer reach of his arms, but she hoped her smaller size and agility would help her strike and stay out of the way of his sword and ax.
She tucked the gun carefully away and snatched up the sword, its heavy weight foreign. Though she had fought with such weapons as part of her Slayer training, it had been a long time.
With the sword in hand, she tucked her knife back into its sheath and wrapped her fingers around the wooden handle of the ax. She tested its weight with a quick forehand, then backhand slash, thinking that the thickness of the handle would be useful to block a blow.
Thus armed, she kicked aside the crate and it skittered across the wood floor. She wanted room to move around. Staying too close to Connall would mean certain death.
She faced him, and the neon gleam of his vampire gaze peered out from beneath the nosepiece of the helmet. He smiled, displaying sharp, pointy fangs, and although she hated that part of herself, she needed the extra strength, speed, and senses of her vampire if she was going to defeat him. Morphing, she experienced the surge of power the demon brought.
“Finally, your true face, daughter. A face not even your mother would love,” he taunted, and took a step toward her, his ax and sword raised in a fighting stance.
Michaela held her ground, wanting him to make the first move, not allowing his words, nor the emotion they wrought, to distract her.
He took another step forward, his gait slightly unsteady, although his ax and sword never wavered from a battle-ready position.
“She was a lousy fuck, your mother, but passing tasty,” he said. “Will you be as delicious when I fuck you as you die?”
Sick bastard.
She kept herself away, sidestepping as he did the same, both doing a cautious dance until Connall finally charged forward, swinging his ax at her. She avoided the arc of the blade and the thrust of the sword that followed, turning it aside with her own sword. Blades clashed and the blow traveled powerfully up her arm, numbing in its strength.
She didn't focus on the pain, quickly moving away as he stumbled past her, the weight of all his armor and weapons, plus the effects of his wounds, making it hard for him to stop and adjust. Kind of like a tractor-trailer with too heavy a load...and a flat tire.
She took the opportunity to swing her sword around and slice it down hard on the wrist of his ax hand.
The chain mail blocked the steel from cutting through skin and bone, but the force of her strike was enough to snap something. The ax fell from his hand and clattered to the ground.
He whirled, coming around wildly with his sword, driving her back before she could press the advantage.
They once again faced each other, several feet apart, his ax sitting on the ground between them. His left arm hung downward, useless, although he eyed the ax as if it might serve him well again.
She doubted it, but offered him the chance anyway.
“There it is, Connall. Pick it up if you can,” she taunted.
“Fuck you, cailín. I've no need of that to best you.” His breath was already rough, and followed by a cough that brought up blood that trickled down his chin and throat.
“Maybe you should take off some of that armor, Connall. It looks heavy. Or are you afraid a little girl like me can hurt you without it to protect you?”
“Bitch.” He reached up with his injured hand and pushed off the helmet. It landed with a noisy thud on the floor. With his face revealed to her, she saw how his hair was matted with sweat and that his normally pale skin was even more bloodless, if that was even possible for a vampire. Or maybe it was the line of brilliant crimson running down from his lips, and another cough that brought up even more blood.
Inside her compassion reared up, shocking her.
This was the monster who had raped and killed her mother. Whose very presence had made her so afraid over the years that she had joined the Slayers for both protection and information.
She wanted desperately to kill him. And yet doing so would put him out of his misery.
Decisions, decisions.
Still, she had no doubt he was dying, regardless. Jesus's aim had been true.
“How does it feel to face death again, Connall? To know you will lose. Again,” she challenged, wanting him to feel some of the anger and pain she had suffered for so long.
Her words struck truer than any sword thrust, unleashing his anger.
He roared and charged her, his sword raised high, his eyes gleaming brightly as he lost control of his emotions.
She dug her feet in, bracing herself until he was almost on her. As he started his downswing, she threw the ax forward with all her might, catching him in his midsection.
It connected solidly and doubled him over, blood pouring from the wound. The blow sent his sword arm biting into the cement, where the metal ignited sparks and kicked up concrete from the blow.
She moved aside, grabbed the hilt of her sword with both hands, and brought it flat-bladed down against his back, driving him to the ground. Her hands and arms stung from the force of the blow. But her chest swelled with satisfaction.
He hit the ground and lay there, stunned. Even wearing armor, she knew the weight and power of her blow had broken his body. She had heard the crack of bone beneath the clang of metal and the give of the armor.
She backed away from him while holding the sword in front of her in a ready position. She heaved a deep breath to calm the racing of her heart as adrenaline surged through her.
“Giving up, Connall? Afraid this little girl will best you?”
***
Rage forced Connell up to his knees, pain radiating through his arm from wrist to elbow and across his back from her blows. But that was nothing compared to the pain clutching his heart and filling his chest as the silver contamination continued to claim his life force.
He sucked in a breath, but that only brought a round of deep coughing that had him retching mouthful after mouthful of blood from his lungs.
Death was close.
But he vowed he would not enter that realm alone.
Pushing to his feet, he wavered as the room whirled around him. He brought his sword up and grabbed the hilt with his injured hand. She was strong, his daughter. Pride filled him that such power had sprung from his loins. Twisted pride, he knew, but at least he would have that joy in his final moments—and hers.
“It's time for a kiss, cailín. The kiss of my sword.”
He walked toward her, his sword held before him. She met him halfway, but there was nothing restrained about the strike of her weapon against his. The strength of it nearly ripped the sword from his hands, but somehow he managed to flick her blade aside, and lunged forward to skewer her.
The girl pivoted at the last moment, and instead of driving his blade through her midsection, it passed uselessly through the air at her side. The momentum brought their bodies flush, and he let go of his sword to grab her, but burning pain seared through his left side and dragged him down to his knees once again.
He glanced at the gap in his armor, just below his left armpit, and at the dagger buried all the way to the hilt. All the way into his heart. Its vampire-slow beat stuttered and slowed even more as the silver of the dagger wrought its deadly damage.
“You've killed me, cailín,” he choked out. He faced her, his eyesight wavering, and for a moment, it was her mother there, as beautiful as she had been before he had ripped her throat out.
“You're still breathing, Connall. Tell me what you'd do? Would you finish your opponent? Or stand and watch him die slowly?” his daughter insolently asked.
He had never left an opponent live on the field. He had always rejoiced in that final deadly kiss of either sword or fang. Savored how life had faded from his enemy’s eyes as he claimed them with death.
“Kill...me,” he said as strength failed him, and he sank back on his haunches, fighting for every breath. Struggling for every heartbeat.
***
Michaela raised her sword and approached her father, intending to finish what she had started. What she had wanted to do for so long she’d spent an entire lifetime pursuing this very moment.
As she stood before him, he raised his face to her. A human face, with eyes the same startling blue as her own. Eyes filled with pain.
“Kill...” he said again, his chest heaving with the effort of even that one word.
She raised her sword high, pictures of her mother filling her mind, reminding her of why she must do this. Why she had to end this wretched monster's miserable life.
But she couldn't.
Couldn’t make the killing strike. Couldn't finish him as he had stolen the last precious moments of life in so many opponents, and innocents.
Instead, she let her arms drop and she held the sword at her side, ready to act, just in case it was all a ploy. But as she stood there, watching him, his breath came ever slower, until with one long, final exhale, it stopped and his eyes glazed over, lifeless. His body slumped a little more, but remained upright.
Stunned, she stared at him for a long moment in disbelief.
Was it possible? Was this truly the fulfillment for which she had waited so long? And now that it was here...
She felt...empty. Lifeless.
Suddenly, the door to the room flung open and rebounded loudly against the wall.
Jesus stood there, pistol at the ready. Love and concern were etched on his features. Love and concern for her.
“Michaela? Are you okay?”
She shook her head and looked back down at her father. “I'm...not sure.”
Jesus took a step toward her, but she raised her hand to stop him. “No, don't.”
He lifted his palms. “I know you don't want me to interfere, but I had to make sure you were okay. Are you? Okay?”
“He's dead,” she said in tones as cold as Connall, the emptiness inside her threatening to overwhelm.
“So it's done? Did he hurt you?” Jesus asked, while maintaining his distance.
She shook her head again. “No, he didn't. It's just that...” She rubbed at the pain in her chest, as powerful as if Connall had stabbed her.
Which reminded her...
She walked to Connall and met a blue-eyed gaze that suddenly seemed condemning. Passing her hand across his face, she closed those eyes and, laying a hand on his shoulder, reached to his side and yanked out her dagger. It had served her well, and she wouldn't dishonor it by leaving it in scum like her father.
No, never her father. As she had told him, it took more than being a sperm donor to be a true father. The man who had raised her after her mother’s death was her father. Gentle, kind, and loving. Honorable, like the man standing a few feet away, waiting for her.
She squatted in front of Connall, gazing at him as she wiped the dagger as clean as she could on the leather hem of his tunic.
Then she stood and faced Jesus, knowing he would understand what she was going through. In his life he had faced and survived death more than once. “It's not what I expected.”
“Death?” Jesus asked, and finally took a step toward her.
“Justice,” she said, and was surprised at the sound of defeat in her voice.
***
Jesus had feared Michaela’s reaction would be exactly this, because he knew that both justice and vengeance sometimes had unexpected results...and even letdowns. He had learned those lessons the hard way in his many years of serving the law. There was never a brass band or ticker tape parade to celebrate, just a stone-cold body, and the disquieting relief that it wasn't you who had lost their life.
Disquieting, because you knew that next time it could very well be you.
“It's over now. You can get on with your life,” he said, hoping that he could be part of her future. That, together, they could find a way to deal with the death and mayhem that was so much a part of who they both were.
“My life,” she said bitterly, and pointed to Connall's lifeless body. “That has been my life for as long as I can remember. It's why I've lived in fear. It's why I joined the Slayers. And now...” Her voice trailed off listlessly.
“And now you're alive, and you have friends who will always have your back,” he reminded her.
She laughed harshly and shook her head. “Friends? Vampires. Humans. Another abomination like me that the Council is bound to sanction, as well.”
“Fuck the Council,” he said, and put his hands on her shoulders. Gently, he moved her away from Connall and drew her into his arms. “They don't matter, Michaela. All that matters is what you want to do now.”
She leaned her head against his chest and slowly, hesitantly, her arms crept around his waist. “I want to go home, J. I just want to go home and be with you.”
He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He kissed her forehead, and said with joy surging through his heart, “Then let's go home.”