Feisty Fiction has been rocking along quite nicely the past few weeks.

For those in need of a recap, four chapters have already been posted.

Chapter I Half of Two

Chapter II Collar & Cross by Phoenix

Chapter III Emerald Eyes by El Capitan

Chapter IV Revelations by Alexis

When you are ready, take the leap for the fifth and final chapter.

Half of One

Despite an overwhelming urgency to act, all Jake could do was stand frozen and repeat the words: “Lucian has my wife.” The reality of all that entailed slowly consumed him as it seeped into the marrow of his bones.

After exchanging knowing looks the twins jumped up with alacrity and ran to a closet across the room. Ripping open the door, they dove in and quickly dispatched all manner of refuse until they reached the back wall. Prying a secret compartment open with their bony fingers, they reached in, grabbed hold of something substantial, and with a heaving tug that sent both sprawling onto their back sides, extracted an aged carpet bag half the size of a full gown man.

Regaining voluntary control of his body once again, Jake helped the ladies to their feet before stating: “I hate to ask, but what the hell is in there?”

Crushing the metal padlock in her dainty hand Lyric opened the bag as she explained: “Fruit of rowan, Asian, of course, incense, more iron, smallish church bells, a leaded glass hand mirror with gold foil…all manner of substance to ward off, weaken or isolate the fae.”

“Christ, that’s all?” Jake expelled. “Something tells me none of that crap will defeat Lucian.”

“No,” Pandora began, “but the fae and their influence give Lucian his strength.”

“Their influence give him his strength?”

“Yes,” she continued, “Lucian is human. The fae swapped him for a changeling some three centuries ago.”

Stroking the piece at his side, “Human, you say?”

“Yes, but…” she stated.

“There’s always the but.” He countered.

“If he were to assume his human form in this world, he would age and turn to dust. Thus, he is required to possess a half-fae to remain here.”

“There’s one more thing.” Lyric added. “His powers appear to transcend with him.”

Reaching the obvious conclusion Jake offered: “Then the easiest way to deny him passage to this world is to terminate all half-faes.”

Two pairs of intense eyes bored deep into his soul before responding in stereo: “That would only be a short-lived solution. There may be more half-fae we are unaware of and even more could still come to be. Just being here is not enough for him, he wants to create a master race. Perhaps, even by procreation.”

Stifling yet another shiver, Jake grabbed the bag on his way out and barked, “Move. We have wasted enough time, Diane needs me.”

***

Head throbbing, body aching, she tried to crack open at least one of her very heavy lids, to no avail. She could feel the binds on her limbs, but instead of her hands still being tied behind her back, she was supine, her extremities were splayed out and secured at the wrists and ankles. The heavy, damp air was filled with musky incense and the way it settled and attached onto her body told her all clothing had been removed. In her dry mouth she could taste the faint salty metal flavor of her own blood. The low rumble in her ears finally identified itself as a cacophony of chants that seemed to surround, then meld into the beating of her heart, only to reverberate back out again.

Surrendering to its rhythm she felt a sharp tug, then a release as she left the confines of her body behind and began to slowly rise. Looking back through the darkness she could dimly see her body was tied to the table and surrounded by hundreds of small candles which burned different shades of green flames, from a dark lush forest at their base to a yellow-ish lime at the tips. A savage Mark appeared to stand over her head catatonically swaying slightly to and fro as foreign mumbles continued to emanate from the depths of his black soul. Between her bare legs stood Father DiCarlo, his emerald glowing gaze directed solely on her face as his hands appeared to grasp and hold the very air above her chest as he slowly inched it away from her body.

She could feel, rather than actually see hundreds of other glowing eyes around the room as they gathered, not only to watch the machinations, but to lend the support of their powers. Like faint lasers DiCarlo appeared to siphon their glimmer and fuse them into his own. The funneling basked him in an eerie viridian incandescence that continued to grow and capture all that surrounded him.

To evade the glow she continued to rise higher as the cryptic scene below began to blur.

***

Pulling to an abrupt stop in front of the old brownstone Jake checked his weapon and secured a couple of extra clips on his belt. For the hundredth time on the short ten minute white-knuckled drive over he asked himself: What the hell are you going do when you get there?

Steeling his nerves he took a deep breath and heard it. Cocking his head to the right, he could have sworn it was Dave’s voice, but a glance in the passenger seat revealed the languid eyes of one of the twins, he still could not tell them apart with a single glance.

It was then he realized the voice came from within the crevices of his own mind. Silently he called out: “Dave, where are you? What did you say?”

While weak and low, it was definitely Dave calling to him urgently: “The eyes are the mirrors to the soul, Jake. Capture the eyes.”

Then it was gone.

The car groaned as he opened his door. The ladies had already exited. With their clothing turned inside out, stale bread sticking out of their pockets, and what appeared to be pendants of herbs interspersed with small brightly colored pink, yellow, and white pomes around their necks they looked nothing, if not ridiculous. He quickly mounted the outside stairs, used his old key to open the doors, and hastened up to his old apartment. Stealth was out of the question as both women carried several miniature church bells in their hands.

As they rounded an interior corner some twenty feet from the door of the apartment he saw a very welcome committee.

“It took ya long enough, Boyo! Thought we’d a had to go in without your bloody arse.” Doyle chastised him.

In addition to the dreadlocked Reginald, Jake recognized a half-dozen Finn MacCool regulars.

“What’s the plan?” Jake inquired.

“Plan? Taint no plan, mon.” Came the Jamaican’s response. “You da boss.”

“Well,” Jake began, “all I know is Diane is in there with her crazed boyfriend, a green-eyed Father DiCarlo, and some guy named Lucian.”

“Loa has the DiCarlo. Ma ma was Mambo Priestess, I know da exorcism, but Jimmy has to be in dere ta help fight. If da soul done go, den da body live on for da spirit, mon.”

“And if I kill the body?”

“Da spirit already here, it free ta capture anudda.”

“What he sayin’, boyo, yer not ta go shootin’ the damn priest.” Doyle provided.

Without further discussion they took their places around the door and along the corridor, Jake nodded and mouthed “on three” and with a blast they were in.

Rather than gunfire, the resistance they met constituted a thousand points of light which sought to shatter individual focus and divide the men from within themselves. The second assault was instantaneous and manifested itself in a low rumbling roar which immediately gained frequency and pitch as it seared across their brains. Screaming and writhing on the floor in pain the men were rendered immobile and impotent.

Before the fae could rejoice at their victory, the twins lost themselves as they merged to form one clearly blue-eyed siren who strode with confidence and purpose into the fray, bells ringing in the left hand and leaded glass hand mirror with gold foil in the right, sparks flying from its face as it captured and extinguished each ray of light to come into contact with it.

Instantly the burning in his brain stopped and his ears were filled with the cries and pleas of the suddenly vanquished fae. All that remained was his grandmother’s cracked voice admonishing him from staring at the reflection of the shiner he brandished as a child: “Don’t stare too long, my boy, mirrors have a way of enslaving the soul.”

Refocusing her attention, she dropped the bells, adopted a blue glow of her own, and with both hands trained the mirror directly on the eyes of the dark, green-eyed menace across the room, and a battle of light began. The green rays sought to shield Lucian, yet encapsulate the woman. The blue glow tried to protect itself from capture while continuing its quest to draw the green into the mirror.

Within moments it was obvious she was no match. As the blue began to fade, Jake felt compelled to holster his piece and step into her glow. With his body supporting her back, she leaned into him and allowed him to help her maintain hold of the mirror.

A chorus of long forgotten voices began to develop in his mind mah ran eshik catorsh They whispered.

mah ran eshik catorsh

He spoke with them.

Mah Ran Eshik Catorsh

She joined.

MAH RAN ESHIK CATORSH

They all repeated together.

MAH RAN ESHIK CATORSH

They exclaimed.

MAH RAN ESHIK CATORSH

They roared.

Soon the blue glow encompassed the whole of them, but for tiny specks in the priests eyes. With precision the mirror pin-pointed one, then the other and pulled them swiftly back into itself. With a slight pop and fizzle, the green was no more.

Collapsing against him, he gently picked up the woman and placed her on a sofa he knew, despite the darkness, to be along the front wall.

The ambient glow they provided gone, Jake adjusted his eyes and saw the naked body of his beloved spread eagle and tightly bound to the dining room table. The robed figure of Father DiCarlo was a crumbled heap on the floor at the far end of the table. As he tried to discern some sign of life from her, the man standing just behind her head slowly turned and released a low and deep guttural growl.

His eyes were black, as if fully dilated, but just to make sure Jake shouted out: “Human or possessed?”

“Ugly excuse for human, boyo.” Came the curt reply.

“Good.”

As the man crouched to leap in attack, Jake aimed his hand gun to the spot between his menacing eyes and quietly, but steadily began: “This is the police, you have the right…”

Pop!

“Pencil prick moved.” Jake said, drawing down.

“I saw ‘em, mon. He was armed, too.” Reginald corroborated as he kicked a knife away from Mark’s limp hand.

Reaching down to the body on the table, Reginald searched for a pulse as the other men slowly surrounded the table.

Looking across the room at Jake, he met his eyes, shook his head slightly, and whispered: “Sorry, mon. She gone.”

A hush fell as Jake quickly stepped over, placed his ear on her chest hoping against hope to hear a beat.

Nothing.

His lips moved to hers hoping to catch a breath.

Nothing.

Taking his jacket off to cover her, he sat next to her body for hours. He prayed. He screamed. He cried. Then he prayed some more.

Nothing.

***

Fighting a wave of nausea cultivated from greasy food, hard liquor, bad coffee, and little sleep Jake Cole covered his eyes as he massaged his temples, a lifeless stub hung loosely from lips almost frozen in a groan while his other hand continued to cradle the remnants of a coffee, long stale. His jaws were tightly clenched to halt the promise of a biliously unpleasant tide.

He could hear the regulars being greeted as they knocked off from the grind and stepped up to the bar across the room from his small, dark corner, and signaled for their individual brand of “usual.” Another work day was done and he had not yet made it back to the precinct.

How many days had it been?” He wondered absently.

Indeed, how many days had it been since Diane, his wife, his partner, and the love of his life had been taken from him? How many days since he had stood in the rain in his dress uniform and mourned the only woman he would ever love. Diane didn’t deserve to die.

Pulling the old smoke from his mouth, he flicked it, unburnt, across the room and pulled a fresh one from his pocket. Striking a match off the table he almost lit it as an image of Diane conjured itself before him. Diane had always wanted him to quit smoking. She had tried to convince him it was not good for her or the baby.

Well, there was no Diane, no baby, and no freakin’ smokes.

Slamming it all down in front of him and signaling the barkeep, Cole ordered his usual, after all, it was obviously after five, somewhere.

Closing his eyes, he rotated his neck in an attempt to work the kinks out when a soft thud announced the arrival of his drink, Scotch, neat.

Reaching for it, he discovered a hand was still attached to it, a slim hand with well manicured tips maintained a hold on it.

He knew that hand.

Allowing his gaze to drift up the arm and to her attractive face, blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes without any hint of green, he asked: “What are you doing here, Miss Chatelain? I thought you were brain dead and on life support, your soul having paid the price to defeat Lucian.”

“What you see,” she explained, “is Lyric Chatelain, Jake, but who I am is Diane.”

**BLINK**

“Forget it. I’m not buying, whoever you are. I buried Diane, just like I buried Patrick, just like I buried Dave.”

“It’s true, partner,” a voice in his head told him. “We managed to save her soul and allowed her body to die before Lucian could take her.”

“Dave’s right, Jake, listen to him.” She bade.

“Prove it.” Jake challenged.

“You have a scar on your upper thigh where you were cut jumping through a window to catch a perp. One day you hope to retire from the force and buy a boat and become a fishing guide in Costa Rica. You prefer to pee sitting down. Your idea of foreplay is pulling your pants off. Hell, Jake, what more do you want?”

Before he could answer she moved closer and kissed him from the depths of her soul.

“God, Diane,” he whispered when his breath returned, “I have missed you.”