The Ghosts We Made

15.

The wind howls a bitter symphony around us, carrying the stench of decay from the jagged graveyard of metal below. I can see Eleanor's eyes, wide with panic, as she struggles against me, her sleek form a dark silhouette against the moonless sky.

"Let go, Vic!" Her voice cuts through the roar of our descent, but it's got that sharp edge of desperation, not command.

"Sorry, doll," I grunt, my fingers digging into the leathery membrane of her wings—an unnatural extension of an even more unnatural dame. "You're not flying away from this one."

She thrashes, her body contorting in a futile attempt to slip from my grip, to unfurl those monstrous appendages that had fooled so many. But I've seen too much, been betrayed one too many times to let her slink back into the shadows. I pull harder, feeling something give—a tear, a snap, a finality.

Her scream pierces the night, half rage, half terror, as the wings come off in my hands. They flutter away like some grotesque bird struck down mid-flight, leaving us nothing but falling mortals—or at least close enough.

We're plummeting faster now, gravity hungrily pulling us toward that twisted steel cemetery. It's a fitting end for a pair who've danced with devils and dabbled in darkness. There's no magic spell, no incantation or potion that's going to soften the embrace of cold iron.

Brace for impact, Thorn. The thought flickers through my mind, a wry smirk playing on my lips even as death rushes up to meet us.

Then, it happens—impact. But it's not the bone-jarring, life-snuffing finale I expected. The collision comes with a muted thud, a strangely gentle cradle amidst chaos. For a fleeting heartbeat, hope flickers like a neon sign in the fog.

"Seraphina?" I murmur to the void, the name tasting like a prayer on my lips. Maybe, just maybe, the ancient vamp with a soft spot for hard cases decided to throw me a bone. Or maybe one of the Fae, those capricious tricksters, found a reason to pluck me from the jaws of the reaper.

But then again, hope's always been a sucker's bet in my line of work. I try to laugh, but it gets lost somewhere between my will to survive and the creeping realization that luck, like love, is never truly blind.

"Guess you didn't make it either, Eleanor," I say, though whether she hears me doesn't matter. We're both ghosts now, just some don't know it yet.

The world goes silent for a heartbeat, and then pain lights up my senses like a marquee—sharp, undeniable. I chance a glance downward, expecting the worst, but not this—a rusted rod jutting out from my chest like some grotesque flower stem. The irony isn't lost on me; in a city teeming with dark magic and darker deeds, it's a piece of mundane metal that does me in.

"Dammit," I rasp, each breath a bubbling symphony of agony. "Not even... original."

A shadow looms over me, and for a second, I think it's the reaper come to collect. But death apparently has familiar eyes—the same ones that haunted every smoky dive bar and sleepless night since she left. Lily.

"Vic," her voice is a whisper, a ghostly caress against the tumultuous backdrop of my fading consciousness. "You stubborn fool."

"Guess I..." A chuckle morphs into a cough, and I taste copper. "...never could refuse a lady."

"Always playing the hero," she says, kneeling beside me, her form translucent yet achingly real. "Even when there's no one to save."

"Turns out," I manage through gritted teeth, "I'm just saving a dance for you."

Lily's smile is sad, tender. It tugs at something deep within the wreckage that was once an untarnished soul. Her hand reaches for mine, passing through but somehow still warming the chill that's set into my bones.

"Vic, I forgive you," she tells me, and the words hit harder than the fall. "For everything—the lies, the danger, the end... I only ever loved you."

"Redemption, huh?" I say, the concept as foreign as a clear sky in this grimy city. "Seems... overrated."

She shakes her head, her ethereal hair shimmering in the dim light that's left in my world. "It's not about how you fall, Vic. It's about facing the ground. You've faced it now."

"Face up," I quip with what little humor I can muster. "Always did know how to make an entrance—or an exit."

"Shh," Lily soothes, her presence a balm to the chaos inside me. "Just rest now."

As the darkness encroaches, all the sharp edges of life seem to blur, fade. And there, in the eye of my personal storm, I find a quiet sort of truth—one that doesn't need the bright glare of interrogation lamps or the harsh filter of whiskey to stand stark and solid.

"Maybe dying's just the last case to crack," I muse aloud, the edges of my vision dimming. "And I've always been good at solving puzzles."

"Rest now, my detective," Lily whispers, her voice the last thing I cling to as the shadows come to claim me. "Rest."

In the end, it's not the cold embrace of the metal that comforts me, nor the unforgiving concrete of the city—it's the ghost of a love lost, found again in the silent spaces between life and death. There's redemption here, somewhere in the grey; I can feel it, even if it took a crummy learning curve to see it.

"See you on the other side, Lily," I breathe out as the darkness swallows me whole.

The city's heartbeat throbs in my ears—or maybe that's just the blood rushing out of me. A crimson tide pools beneath, seeping into the greedy ground. I can almost hear the rusted metal drinking it up, a vampire's kiss to cap off a lifetime of dancing with devils and dames.

"Vic," Lily's voice is a whisper on the wind, a silk caress against the rough bark of reality. "Let go."

It's a strange thing, dying. You think you'd fight it, but there's something comforting about the surrender. The pain ebbs away, the fear with it, leaving behind a peculiar warmth. It's like the sun breaking through after a week of rain—unexpected, unwelcome at first, but then you can't help but bask in it.

"Easy for you to say, sweetheart," I cough out a laugh, a wet sound that bubbles with my life's essence. "You've already done the hard part."

She doesn't respond, and I don't need her to. Her silence is enough, a gentle shush like the librarians of old, only this time, I'm not being scolded. I'm being guided to the end of the aisle, where the final chapter awaits.

"Always thought I'd go out with more... fanfare." My voice is fading now, the words slurring together like drunks at closing time. "Guess even the best of us don't get to choose our exit music."

I expect to feel anger or regret, maybe even fear. But there's nothing. Just the quiet acceptance that this is it. The final scene in Vic Thorn's sordid tale, and there's no encore waiting in the wings.

"Hey, Lily?" I whisper, unsure if she can hear me, unsure it matters. "Save me a seat at the bar, will ya?"

There's no answer, but I smile anyway. Because I know she will. She'll be there with a dry martini and that look in her eyes that says everything's going to be okay—even if it's not.

The darkness isn't so scary now. It's just another alley in the city, another shadow to explore. And as I slip into it, I feel light, unburdened. Like I'm shedding my skin, leaving behind the grime and the grit of a life lived hard.

"Goodbye, Vic Thorn," I murmur to myself, or maybe to the city that's been my mistress and my muse.

And then, there's nothing at all. Just the quiet. Just the peace.

Just the end.