The Ghosts We Made

14.

We burst out onto the roof, the night air slapping us with its icy chill. The city sprawls below us—a broken constellation of neon and sin. Eleanor skids to a halt at the edge, gravel skittering over the side like pebbles into a bottomless well.

"Vic... please..." Her back's to me, hands clawing at the air as if she could tear open an escape route right then and there.

"Please?" I scoff, closing the distance between us. "That's a word for churchgoers and penitents, not the likes of you."

From below, the mob's tumult swells to greet us, a cacophony of anger and fear. They're a storm cloud ready to break, a clamor for justice—or maybe just blood. They scream for a sacrifice, and it chills me to think how close I came to being the lamb on that altar.

"Listen to them," I say, pointing a finger downwards. "They want someone to pay. But they don't know the whole story, do they?"

She doesn't respond, but her trembling tells me all I need to know. She's cornered, and even though part of me—the old part, the part still capable of something like pity—wants to relent, I can't. Not after what she's done.

"Confess, Eleanor. It's your only shot." My words are flinty, edged with a darkness I've come to embrace. There's no more room for mercy in this saga, not for either of us.

From the rooftop's edge, the city spreads out like a graveyard of dreams, each building a tombstone against the night. Seraphina appears behind me, silent as death and twice as cold. She doesn't even glance my way as she steps past, her presence alone enough to part the chaos below like some dark messiah among the throng.

"Vic Thorn was not your executioner," her voice carries, silken and deadly, to the unruly mass at the warehouse's gate. "Your blind thirst for vengeance has been orchestrated by the one you least suspected."

The mob stills, hanging on her every word, their fury tempered by a sudden uncertainty. Eleanor's face blanches, her eyes darting between me and the ancient vampire who now holds court over her fate.

"Vic is guilty of many things, but not this betrayal" Seraphina continues, undeterred by the animosity that seems to radiate from Eleanor. "The real murderer, the architect of your suffering, stands before you—a half-Fae playing god with human lives. Eleanor Hargrave."

Eleanor's laugh, once cruel and mocking, turns shrill, a cornered animal baring its fangs. "Lies!" She spits the word out like venom. "This creature wants to turn us against each other, divide us!"

She lunges then, not at me, but at Seraphina. It's a desperate move, one born of pure rage rather than any semblance of a plan. Eleanor's form is a blur of motion, an echo of supernatural speed, but it's nothing compared to the vampire's preternatural grace.

"Careful, darling," Seraphina murmurs, sidestepping with ease, her voice barely louder than a whisper amid the rising clamor. "Your true nature is showing."

I can only watch, gripping the roof ledge until my knuckles pale, as the drama unfolds—a macabre tableau etched in moonlight and shadow, where the line between monster and human blurs until it's indistinguishable.

Seraphina's hand is a blur, the slap of flesh-on-flesh resonating like a gunshot over the rooftop. Eleanor stumbles back, her heel skidding perilously close to the edge. I can see it in her eyes—the sudden realization that she's danced too close to the abyss, that mortality isn't just for the rest of us.

"Vic!" Her voice is a strangled gasp as she flails for balance, clawing at the air as if trying to rewind time and undo her fatal misstep.

I lunge forward instinctively; old habits die hard. But this ain't about heroics—it's about not letting her drag me into oblivion with her. Eleanor's fingers, cold and desperate, wrap around my wrist, her nails digging into my skin, drawing blood.

"Save me," she hisses, her eyes wild, betraying the fear of a woman who's always played with fire but never expected to get burned.

"Like hell," I growl, but it's too late—momentum's a treacherous thing. We're teetering over the skyline that's always been the backdrop to our sordid tale. The city, indifferent to our fate, spreads out beneath us—a tapestry of shadows and sins waiting to claim its own.

I try to pull back, to break her hold, but we're bound together by more than her grip; it's guilt, it's grief, it's the ghost of Lily that's been haunting us both, pulling us down.

"Vic, please—" Eleanor's plea cuts short as gravity decides for us, yanking us from the precipice into the open air. The rush of the fall is pure adrenaline, a high no drug can match.

The wind howls, tearing words and breath away, as the ground rushes up to meet us. For a moment, there's clarity in the chaos—a detective and a dame, locked in a deadly embrace, plummeting through the night.

"Sorry, sweetheart," I manage, the sarcasm bitter on my tongue. "This is one dance I'm sitting out."