Chapter Thirty-One - Author's note: My apologies for how LONG this chapter is. But I just couldn't break it up. Besides, I've posted some short chapters recently, so hopefully this makes up for them. Oh, and even though this is the raid, this isn't the end! More stuff has to happen yet! As always, votes and comments are lovely!

Update! Gorgeousness on the side there courtesty of the equally gorgeous sylverlady96. Kudos to her!

On Saturday afternoon, Nightingale was pressed up against her door, ear jammed up against it, trying desperately to hear the conversation going on out in the hall. Behind her, Peppermint and Silk were sitting still as statues, having been roughly told to shut it by a panicked Nightingale.

"Listen, Bobby, I don't know where you're getting this information, but it's obviously false," she heard a voice plead. 

This time, she did not recognize the sound of Hank's voice with disgust but, instead, nervousness. He sounded desperate, begging, as though something terrible were about to happen.

"I don't care. Even the rumour is bad enough," Nightingale heard Bobby reply. Her blood practically ran cold as her stomach twisted itself into a complex knot with worry. Bobby sounded panicked. He never sounded panicked. Had the unthinkable happened? Had he-

"Yeah, but don't do anything rash," said Hank. He sounded as though he was aiming for a calm air of composure, but Nightingale could hear the anxiousness behind it.

"Anything rash? I heard that it's possible I might have agents storming the bordello tonight and you want me to be calm?" shouted Bobby.

The sound was loud enough that it was not only Nightingale, but also the sharp-eared Peppermint and Silk that heard him, too.

Nightingale had only to glance their way to see that their faces were pale with fear. Silk gave a little whimper and Peppermint shushed her, though Peppermint's own eyes were wide with terror.

"And who the fuck did you hear that from?" they all heard Hank reply. His voice was raised too now, not the soft, entreating tone it had been before. "Not the Corp, I can tell you that for sure. Trust me, if something were going to happen tonight, we'd know. Half the government is on our payroll."

There was a short pause and Nightingale prayed silently to any God that would care to listen that Bobby would accept Hank's argument. After a few moments, during which Nightingale swore she could hear the beating of her own terrified heart, Bobby spoke.

"I guess you're right," he said. Nightingale gave a sigh of relief, closing her eyes and sinking down against the frame of the door. But at his next words, she stiffened once again. "But I'll be hiring some security, just in case. God help me, if government agents come through my fucking door, they'll be sorry they did."

Now it was both Peppermint and Silk who gave whimpers of pure terror. Nightingale though briefly of using her gun, but then remembered not only that she'd given it to David for safekeeping until that night, but also that using it would probably get them into far more trouble than they were in already.

And so Nightingale, though a similar terror battered at her, rounded on Peppermint and Silk. "Shut up," she snarled. Her expression must have been quite terrifying, for the two Inamoratas jerked back and were immediately still.

"Security?" asked Hank. "Where are you setting up these hired guns, then?" There was more than polite, professional interest in his voice. The question was too prying, to nosy to be something he could be justifiably asking in his capacity as Bobby's Inamorata salesman.

Luckily, Bobby was thick enough not to hear this in Hank's tone. "Don't know," he replied. "But I'm going to protect my investments, you can be sure about that."

"And by his investments-" Silk began.

Nightingale quickly cut her off. "He means he'll kill us to save his skin if he has to," she told the two of them. Her tone was blunt, cold, and cruel, and reminded her a shocking amount of the way David spoke.

Silk looked ready to faint, and probably would have, had it not been for the fact that Peppermint shook her by the arm and told her, her voice a strange mix of aggressive and soothing:

"Don't worry. Nightingale and Detective Beckett won't let that happen. They're here to save us, and I'm sure ten government agents can handle whatever pathetic security Bobby can cobble together."

As much as it made Nightingale proud to hear the confidence in Peppermint's voice, Peppermint's words grated against her raw nerves. What if what Peppermint said wasn't true? What if she and David couldn't protect them?

Nightingale shook her hea violently. "Screw your courage to the sticking place!" she told herself, realizing only after the words had left her mouth that she had, in fact, recited aloud.

"What was that?" asked Silk, looking even more nervous. "Was that a code?"

Despite her anxiousness and her tumultuous mood, Nightingale laughed loudly and gaily, her voice like the trill of a bird and not the laugh of a woman. "No, no," she said, shaking her head, smiling a little disdainfully at Silk. "Just muttering to myself. The code you have to wait for will be far less subtle."

"It's going to be a shout, right?" asked Peppermint.

Nightingale nodded. "When you hear the agents shouting, you're to leave your client and take shelter. If you're with an agent, Agent Castleman will have, by the time the raid starts, have set up a device that scrambles the signal from Bobby's remote to our anklets. So don't worry that you'll get a lethal shock. All you have to worry about will be bullets."

"All we'll have to worry about," snorted Silk, and Nightingale could not blame her for her skepticism. After all, with what they'd just heard, the possibility of flying bullets had increased dramatically.

But Nightingale quickly forgot about Silk as she heard footsteps approaching the door. Too light for Bobby's but too heavy to be an Inamorata's, she assumed it was Hank approaching her door. And so, opening the door, she stuck her head out, careful to make sure Bobby would not see her.

"Hank!" she hissed, voice barely above a whisper but insistent enough to get his attention.

His head jerked from side to side, his chin leading the rest of his face as, in a comical fashion, he looked around for Bobby. Seeing that he was gone, he followed Nightingale's beckoning and joined the three Inamoratas in her room.

"Well?" she demanded, crossing her arms. "What the fuck is going on?"

Hank sighed. Then, raising his eyebrows, he motioned behind Nightingale. She turned her head to see that Peppermint and Silk had clambered to their feet and were watching Hank with expressions that were somewhere in the awkward stage between nervous and seductive.

"Mind doing something about that, Miss Nightingale?" he asked.

Nightingale rolled her eyes. "It's fine," she told her frightened sisters. "He's the Corporation source. Tell them, Hank."

"Equiano," he said to Peppermint and Silk.

Their relief was almost tangible. It rolled off them in waves, infectious in its release. "Oh," they said in perfect unison. Confidently, Peppermint strode towards Nightingale and Hank to join in their conversation. Silk hung back a bit, standing behind Peppermint and Nightingale, as if worried Hank would hurt her.

"Now, what's happened?" asked Nightingale. Her anxiousness was evident in her words as her tone was harsh and insistent.

"Bobby's heard it from someone that his bordello's going to be stormed tonight," said Hank. Giving a sigh, he ruffled his hair with his hand and closed his eyes. He looked weary but not particularly nervous. Perhaps he was too worn out to be worried. "Luckily, the leak applies only to this bordello and none of the others, so there's no worry that any other bordellos are in danger. But somehow, he's got a worry that the York Bordello's going to be raided."

"And?" said Nightingale, though she'd heard enough of Hank's and Bobby's conversation to know what Bobby was planning on doing.

"He's hiring security. Likely some ex-military or something. He told me that he's going to have them guard the bordello. He wouldn't say anything else," said Hank.

Nightingale nodded. "Dav- Detective Beckett need to know this," she told Hank.

Hank raised his eyebrows doubtfully. "And how do you intend to do that? I know, you're the 'miraculous Nightingale', but even you aren't so miraculous as to be able to telepathically-"

Nightingale smiled as though she'd bitten into a lemon, so bitter and sour was her smirk. "No, I'm not that miraculous," she said. "But I'm intelligent enough to know that you, since you work for the Corporation, could easily tell Michael about this, have him relay it to Pierce - his half-brother - who would then inform the team of agents who will be storming the bordello."

Hank was silent for a moment and the room was quiet enough that he must have been able to hear the appreciative giggles from Peppermint and Silk at his expense.

"Fine," he said. "I guess that would work."

Nightingale only raised her eyebrows.

"Well, I'll go, then," said Hank stiffly, eyeing Peppermint with irritation as the girl laughed aloud.

"Goodbye, Hank," said Nightingale. She did not smile at him, did not even grace him with even the slightest upturn of her lips.

"Goodbye. And good luck, Miss Nightingale. You'll need it. I sure as hell wouldn't want to be in this bordello tonight," said Hank. Without another word, he left them all to ponder his words.

When Peppermint and Silk laughed, Nightingale snarled at them to sober up and be serious. "After all," she told them when their faces fell and they looked startled at the old, cynical Nightingale showing beneath Nightingale's new, happier demeanour, "Tonight is the biggest night of all our lives. Try not to fuck it up, okay?"

Grumbling about what a poor mood she was in - which Nightingale ignored - they left her alone. They must have told all of the Inamoratas to steer clear of Nightingale, for she spent the rest of the day by herself.

For the rest of the day, her anxiousness mounted. Though she tried to recite, tried even to read, she could not keep her wild imagination at bay. Her own thoughts seemed to have turned viciously against her, for she imagined all sorts of horrible scenes in her head - Rose shot by the hired security, Clarence killed by a stray bullet, David strangled to death by and enraged Bobby.

So she paced about her room, barely noticing as time slipped away. She was so dazed, so lost in thought, that Magenta had to be sent to bring her out into the Club.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" asked Magenta. Her eyes were sparkling and her head was lifted high. The mad glee in Magenta's face made Nightingale worry about what she might do should she corner one of her clients.

Nightingale only grunted, dressed quickly, and followed Magenta to the Club.

It was as though she'd expected the Club to be different, what with that night would entail. However, it looked the same, what with all its clients milling about, dressed in drab colours, so dull in comparison to the glittering Inamoratas.

It was the same, of course, except for the twenty guards lining the room. Bobby had made no attempt to hide them in the crowd as David had hidden his agents. Guards, with weapons at their hips, circled the room, glowering at clients like so many malevolent vultures.

"You got my message?" asked Nightingale when she'd greeted David with a kiss.

He nodded. Nightingale noted that he was barely even trying to keep up the facade of being a client, for he barely responded when she kissed him and made no move to touch or caress her the way he ordinarily was required to.

"I did," he replied tersely, eyes tight and mouth even tighter. Based on the way he was tensed, Nightingale could tell he was just as anxious as she was.

"David," she said softly, touching his arm. He did not reply and so she repeated his name, letting her fingers run over the cuff of his jacket. "David."

"Yes?" he snapped. He looked up and his eyes bored into her with such intensity that Nightingale could practically feel his stare scorching her skin.

"Are you...all right?" she said.

The smile that appeared on his face, though fleeting and anxious, was genuine. "I'm fine, Nightingale. This is my job. This is what I do best."

Nightingale nodded. Together, they sat down at a table. Nightingale felt a hand touch her hip and then a whole arm draw her close to a warm body and was astonished to feel that it was David who was pulling her protectively into his chest.

"How are you, Nightingale?" he asked. His words were flat and Nightingale got the sense he was asking the question only to pass time; after all, his eyes were not on her, but instead sweeping the bordello.

"How the fuck do you think?" she retorted. Far at the back of her mind, she realized that had someone else posed her the question - namely Robin - she would not have responded so harshly.

"Answer the damn question," came David's snippy reply from over her shoulder. By this time, he'd wedged her so that her back was against his chest and their hands were intertwined under the table. Nightingale knew the reason for the latter, as she could feel him slipping her gun into her hand.

"Anxious," she retorted. "I want to be free more than anything, but I desperately don't want tonight to happen?"

"And why's that?" asked David. He brushed her hair aside so that he could plant a kiss on her neck while murmuring the words in her ear. Nightingale was astounded at his forwardness before she realized that he was only playing the part of her client.

"All I can imagine are horrific scenarios. My sisters being beaten to death. Rose being shocked. You getting shot. That last one's the worst," she said, the confession escaping her lips as fast as though it had wings.

David went still as a stone at her words, his entire body seeming to turn to immobile, immovable granite. It was as though she had somehow magicked him into a deathly, stony stillness, for he did not even breathe and Nightingale could barely feel the beating of his heart against her back.

After a moment, he said, voice calm and composed as ever, "And why would that be the worst?"

Nightingale did not answer him, and he was silent. He either did not want her to answer or did not care - Nightingale did not know which one was more likely.

After a moment of complete quiet, in which the pair of them listened to the noises of the bordello -Inamoratas laughing, glasses clinking, clients roaring drunkenly - David said, touching a hand lightly to his ear where an earpiece no doubt sat:

"Everyone says they're ready."

Nightingale felt her heart begin to flutter frantically, like the wings of a frightened bird. Never, in all her short life, had she been so afraid. Not with her first client, not when Bobby hurt her, not even when she stood before the Council and testified. This was a different kind of fear. A worse kind.

"Are you ready, Nightingale?" asked David.

Not caring that it hurt her pride, that she came off sounding like a terrified child and not a strong woman, she whispered back, "No."

He his hand to his mouth under the pretense of scratching his nose, and Nightingale heard him murmur into the mouthpiece she could see hidden under his sleeve, "Stand down for a moment."

Then, lowering his hand, he asked in a much softer voice, "Why not?"

"I'm afraid. Selfishly afraid, David. For the first time in my life, I don't want to die. I want to live. Before all of this happened, I'd be happy to get shot. Now, I want to live. I want to live, David!" she said, her voice rising to a hysterical hiss as she fought to keep her emotions at bay.

"You will," he vowed, and his words were heavy with his promise. "Above anyone else, we will all make sure you live."

"Why?" she moaned back.

"Priority of life," he explained. Though his tone was clinical and detached, there was some warmth in it. "In this mission, as with any mission, the victims of the crime are of the highest priority to save. Morally and legally, we are all obligated to save victims first, bystanders next, agents after that and, finally, criminals. You, as the most important victim, are the highest priority of the team. We will keep you safe, Nightingale. You are the most important person in this bordello, possibly the most important in any of the raids."

It was as if someone had dropped a blanket over her, so strong was the feeling of safety that David's words gave her. So, it was with a calm very much like David's steady stoicism, that Nightingale nodded.

"I'm ready, then," she said.

David nodded. She felt his hands close around hers, squeezing her hand closer to the gun. Then he rose to his feet.

Nightingale watched as every one of the agents rose with him. It was miraculous to watch them all shed their disguises as usual clients as they stood before their Inamoratas. Nightingale, standing with David, quickly did a head count to make sure every Inamorata was accounted for. Luckily, all were present in the Club.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he cried, holding up his badge in his left and holding his gun loosely at his side. "If you would all pay attention! This is Detective David Beckett, representing the Council of the Western Continent!"

At his shout, every head turned. He captured the attention of all, including Bobby.

Bobby's expression of horror would have been comical had Nightingale not known what would follow it. Bobby's eyes went wide as saucers, the whites of his eyes showing all around his pupils. His jaw dropped so far Nightingale was surprised it did not fall of its hinges.

He gave a wordless shout and pointed at David.

In response, the nearest security guard ripped his gun out of its holster and took a shot at David. David, bending to the side to avoid the guard's bullet, responded with a single shot that dropped the guard to the ground.

That shot made all hell break loose. Clients ran every which way, clambering for the exits, most of them screaming at the tops of their lungs. Inamoratas, as Nightingale had instructed, quickly took shelter, hiding under tables and behind chairs. The guards and agents began exchanging gunfire, with even Bobby - who had a mad, crazed expression on his face - pulling out a gun and firing like a maniac at the agents.

Before Nightingale could so much as raise her gun, she felt herself pushed to the ground by a strong hand. Crying out in protest, her blood boiling, her entire body roaring for a fight, she glowered up at David, who had forced her behind him.

After a smattering of gunfire, he dropped down next to her, kicking over a table in a graceful, fluid motion. The table served as a shield, for at least three shots ricocheted off it, leaving them unharmed.

"You're our first priority, remember?" he shouted at her, his strong voice barely audible above the sounds of the firefight.

"I've got this gun for a reason! I'm not just going to sit here while my sisters are in danger!" Nightingale shrieked right back. "David, let me help!"

"No," he snarled. Turning his attention to a guard who had vaulted over the table and was about to open fire, he promptly punched the man in the face and, while the guard was looking dazed, David smashed him very hard in the side of the head with the butt of his gun.

The man immediately fell to the ground, collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. Based on the way his chest still rose and fell, Nightingale could tell he was alive, unlike the previous guard David had dealt with.

"Fuck!" she exclaimed, the expletive expressing her feelings far better than any other word she could come up with. "Is that how agents make all their arrests? By wounding or killing?"

David smiled tersely. "Only when they open fire on us," he told her. Then he leaned around the table to exchange a few shots with the opposite force.

Based on the way the shooting decreased, Nightingale assumed he'd hit yet another guard. Had she not been so caught up in a moment of frenzied panic, she would have been astonished at how easily and brutally David killed.

As she watched him, saw his face set in a stony mask of concentration as his eyes burned with intensity, she was finally able to see him in his element. He was powerful. Deadly. Terrifying. And she could not help but compare him to Robin, whose gentle sweetness she knew would never allow him to act in such a way.

After a few moments, David took shelter once again behind the table. He was panting now and pressing a finger to his ear.

"Nightingale?" he said, after a moment's pause. "You wanted to help?"

Nightingale nodded vigorously.

"Clarence is stuck in a corner with Rose in the hallway leading to the Inamoratas' quarters. There are two guards. Go. Be safe," he said. "Run and I'll cover you. Go!"

Nightingale nodded again and it was now not only fear coursing through her veins, but also fury. Hot, burning fury that brought her into focus and made her steady.

Springing up, she dashed out from behind the table. Her anger had lent sharpness to her senses and swiftness to her feet, for it was an easy manner to sprint across the Club, spring over eight overturned tables, and dart into the hallway, all the while unharmed by flying bullets.

On the way, she was able to see Pierce and Nicholas, sheltering together with two other agents, quickly demolishing a group of guards. She also passed by Caroline, who, while Nightingale was watching, disarmed two guards so elegantly it looked as though she was dancing.

But Nightingale turned her attention away from them. Closing her her eyes, she allowed her keen hearing to lead her to sound of Clarence exchanging shots with what she assumed were the guards. As she approached, she could see Clarence and Rose standing in the doorway of Sparkle's room, Rose cowering beside Clarence and he standing tall, somehow managing to look elegant and poised as he fought.

And, when she reached them, it was simple, so simple, for her to lift her gun and send two bullets flying at one of the guards.

Nightingale's aim was true - for her aim was not to kill, she could never bring herself to do that - and the first guard fell, his knees falling prey to Nightingale's bullets.

The commotion was enough to distract the other guard, for as he turned his gun on Nightingale, Clarence sprang forward like the most elegant of tigers and grabbed the second guard's gun. Wrenching it out of his grasp, he then smashed the guard in the face with it, sending him toppling to the ground as David had done before.

Then, twirling the gun around, he holstered it, leaving his cocked and loaded in his hand. Beside him, Rose collapsed to the ground nearly as lifelessly as the unconscious guard. Her shoulders began to shake and Nightingale wondered if she was crying.

"Bloody hell, Nightingale," said Clarence. He was panting, his chest heaving dramatically. "You're a crack-shot."

Nightingale smiled. Her own breath was steady. "You're not so bad yourself, Dr. Marshal."

He shrugged and smirked at her. "But I've had years to practise. You - you've had a few days. Well, I was right about that, wasn't I? That you're a natural assassin."

Nightingale shrugged. Together, they looked between Rose, who was leaning against the doorjamb, sobbing quite loudly, and the injured guards, one of whom was crying out and rolling around, and the other who was lying on the floor, out cold.

"Rose?" asked Nightingale, putting down her gun. She'd seen handcuffs hanging off the guard's belt and had an idea. She squatted next to the frightened girl and shook her a little. As poorly as she felt for Rose's terror, she could not let Rose descend into hysterics now. 

Rose didn't respond.

"Rose!" exclaimed Nightingale, shaking her more firmly.

"Y-yes?" stammered Rose. She looked up at Nightingale, her blue eyes swimming with tears.

"You know how to use handcuffs?" asked Nightingale.

Rose nodded. "A client of mine used them on me," she said. At the memory, her face screwed up and she began to sob anew. Nightingale was worried that he sound of Rose's distress might bring more guards, so she shushed the girl as gently as she could.

"Nobody will use them on you anymore," Nightingale promised. "No one will hurt you anymore, I swear."

Rose's tears seemed to vanish at that. "You're right," she said, and her voice was steadier now. "You're right," she repeated, and now it had a hardness Nightingale did not like the sound of. "They won't hurt me anymore!"

"They won't," said Nightingale, wary of the tone of Rose's voice. As she spoke, she stood and picked up her gun. It was still warm from the shots she'd fired. "But what I need you to do now is to handcuff the injured guard. Handcuff him, and then find somewhere to hide. An agent will find you when this is all over. But the last thing we want is someone finding you and killing you."

"Because that's what Bobby's trying to do," added Clarence, as he and Nightingale stared down at Rose.

Most surprisingly, Rose did not panic, or blanch white. She simply nodded, wiping away the remainder of her tears with the back of her hand. "Okay," she said.

"And here. Take this," said Clarence, removing the guard's gun from where he had stashed it in his holster. He handed the sidearm to Rose and she took it, touching it gingerly.

"Go! Hide, Rose!" snarled Nightingale when Rose simply sat there, transfixed by the gun in her hand. Giving Rose a nudge with her foot, Nightingale sent her off with a squeal.

"Off we go again, Nightingale," said Clarence, holding out his hand like a gentleman. Together, they made their way back to the Club.

When the got there, they found that the agents had made quick work of Bobby's guards. Only four remained, all huddled behind one table near the door through which Clarence and Nightingale entered. The rest were all dead, handcuffed, or unconscious, strewn about the room like discarded dolls.

Bobby was no where to be seen - likely, he had run off, trying to evade arrest. Nightingale had no doubt David and his team would catch him soon enough.

"Well?" asked Nightingale, staring down at the guards, who had not noticed the arrival of herself and Clarence. "Shall we, Dr. Marshal?"

He smiled, eyes glowing, his magnetism present even then. "After you, Miss Nightingale," he said, bowing like a perfect gentleman.

Together, they surged in. The first of the four guards was unconscious before he knew what hit him, by a knock to the head from the butt of Clarence's gun. The second fell prey to Nightingale's quick reflexes, for she had snatched the handcuffs from his belt, disarmed him with a very elegant roundhouse kick, and cuffed him to the leg of the table.

The third Clarence shot through the eye and the fourth Nightingale, drawing all her strength into one arm, punched into unconsciousness with a singe blow.

Suddenly, there was silence in the bordello. The commotion, the gunshots, the shouting, all had stopped.

"Status?" Nightingale heard David shout. Relief at hearing his voice hit her like a ton of bricks and she nearly collapsed under it.

"No harm!" yelled three agents in unison.

"No harm!" cried Caroline and Clarence.

"No harm!" called Nicholas, Pierce, and the two remaining agents.

"Nightingale? Status!" demanded David. Nightingale, too transfixed by the sight of the guard lying dead in front of her, a single hole where one of his eyes had once been, did not respond right away. When she did not reply, she heard his voice increase in pitch. Had she not known him to be so cold and composed, she would have sworn she heard panic in his voice. "Nightingale!"

"She's here!" called Clarence, her low voice husky. "She's here, David!"

"I'm fine!" Nightingale added, her voice weak. She could barely look away from the dead guard. She'd never seen death before, never seen a dead body. Something so still, so unmoving, where just moments ago life had been thrashing vigorously, was horrifying to her.

"Are all the guards accounted for?" asked David.

There were a few yells of assent.

"All right," said David. Peeking over the top of the table, Nightingale could see that he and the other agents had stood. They still had their guns out, still had the wary bearing of nervous animals, but seemed a touch more calm. "Spread out. Find the Inamoratas. Bring them to the Station. Arrest any live guards. Oh, and find Mr. Pherson."

At once, the agents all left the Club, some heading outside, some out into the Inamoratas' quarters. As they left, the remaining Inamoratas got up and followed them in groups of twos and threes. Most had their arms around each other, and most were trembling.

All but Magenta, who stood up from behind Caroline, grinned broadly, and marched out of the bordello with her head high.

"By the way, Agent Bure," she said, tapping Caroline on the shoulder. "Your job is fucking awesome. Where do I sign up?"

Caroline laughed and the two of them left the bordello together.

Nightingale heard a sigh from beside her and looked over to see Clarence grinning. It was an attractive grin, a lovely one, and it reminded Nightingale of what that grinning mouth felt like to kiss, to touch...

"Well, that was far more tedious than I expected it to be," said Clarence. He got up, holstered his gun, and straightened the jacket of his suit with prissy neatness that was undeniably attractive as he grinned down at where Nightingale was crouched behind the overturned table. "Come on out, Miss Nightingale. I think we're safe now."

Nightingale did not smile, for she had seen what Clarence had not. With a smile lighting up his boyish face and making his blue eyes sparkle, he had evidently not seen Bobby rise up from behind him, gun in hand, madness alight in his face.

Bobby's gun seemed to move in slow motion as he raised it to Clarence's back. It seemed to move sluggishly enough that Nightingale found time to point and scream, her voice horrific and terrifying,

"Clarence!"

Clarence just had time to turn before Bobby fired. Just enough time to turn and let the grin slip from his face, just enough time to stumble back as the bullet from Bobby's gun streaked toward him and buried itself in his pearl-gray shirt.

Nightingale saw Clarence stumbling back, red spurting forth from the wound in his chest, and could see nothing else. She barely noticed how David, with an animal roar, sprang forward and fired four shots at Bobby, landing all of them to his legs.

"Clarence!" she cried again, and caught his shoulders as he fell backward to the ground. Panic surged within her and she tore open his shirt to get at his wound. The buttons popped off and rolled away, landing with tiny patters on the floor.

There, in his chest, a giant, gaping hole was disgorging blood - blood everywhere, so much blood!

Clarence coughed and Nightingale shrieked at David, who was handcuffing Bobby. "Your jacket! Give me your jacket! Get some help!" she screamed.

David was at her side in an instant, tearing off his jacket. Nightingale grabbed it and, bunching it into a ball, pressed it to Clarence's chest. Her conditioned knowledge told her how to staunch bleeding. But it also told that that amount of bleeding could not be staunched.

"Clarence," she whispered, staring into his face.

"Nightingale," he wheezed, giving another cough that brought a bubble of blood to his lips. A third, more racking cough, sent blood spraying all over Nightingale."Nightingale, it's no use."

"Shut up," she snarled at him. "Don't say that."

He chuckled. At the same time, Nightingale could feel warmth staining her hand over the bunched- up jacket. She looked down and wished she hadn't, for Clarence's blood had begun to stain the jacket black and her hands red.

"Nightingale?" he asked, and she brought her eyes back up to his.

"Yes?" she asked. She lifted one hand to touch his face, trying to make her voice as gentle as possible.

"I really did adore you, Nightingale," he said.

Nightingale stroked his cheek, her bloodied fingers staining his beautiful pale skin scarlet and the contrast turning his eyes an eerie shade of electric blue. Though she wanted to weep, to sob, she simply smiled sadly.

"I know you did," she told him.

"Will you do something for me then, Miss Nightingale?" he asked.

"Anything," said Nightingale, and her voice broke. She'd moved her hand from Clarence's face and now both were pressed up against David's jacket, desperately trying to hold back the torrents of blood that were pouring from Clarence at the pace of his slowing heartbeat.

"Do be a dear and kiss me?" he asked. "Please?" He aimed for gentlemanly suaveness and fell short. His lovely baritone purr, so seductive in and lovely, he past, hitched and caught in his throat as another cough racked his body.

So she leaned forward and kissed him. She could taste the blood on his lips and could feel the warmth of the life ebbing out of him as fast as his hot blood drenched her hands.

When she heard him give a soft gasp and felt his heart fall still beneath her palms, she leaned back. She stared at him, stared for what could have been an hour, seeing and thinking only of the corpse looking up at her with wide, staring blue eyes.

And then she began to cry.