The end began with a Mexican Standoff. It was Jackson who drew first, on Delilah, who, in turn, endangered Ray, who, of course, threw the situation into deadlock.
Stake.
Circumstance.
Broadsword.
These were the weapons at hand, respectively.
Four years ago, Jackson Donnelly was a grieving man, a man seeking vengeance. His wife was dead, murdered, and his only drive was to find the monster who put her in the ground. That monster now stood in front of him.
Granted, when he saw her for the first time that day, before things has escalated to the impasse, he thought, perhaps, he had driven himself insane. Or, at the very least, he'd finally drank himself into oblivion.
The day was hot, dry, and long. Desert summers are like that. While Ray and Delilah had traveled to and through many of America's great cities, they had settled back in Las Vegas, where the nights are lively and the blackjack tables are plentiful. The decision was made last spring, after Ray's beloved Winnebago shuddered and whined one final time, just outside of Salt Lake City.
But there had been two years on the road, taking in national landmarks and arguing over who knew the best route to go to where. It was a rather whimsical adventure for the unlikely duo made up of vampire and vampire slayer. In truth, they really couldn't stand each other, but they'd grown used to the other's company, and such was life.
Jackson knew nothing of road trips and earmarked Rand McNally atlases when he pounded on the door to the Vegas condo, nor did he care. He was here to put an end to everything, the four years of searching led to this door, number 63-F.
It was Ray Dresden who answered.
“Yeah?”
“I'm looking for Delilah?”
“And you are?”
“Looking for Delilah. Is she here?”
Once upon a time, Jackson's voice lilted with a pleasant Georgia drawl. There was still an element of the South when he spoke, but it was drowned in a river of Jim Beam and other assorted polymalts.
“Do I know you?” Ray pulled the door open wider. Her photographic memory worked better when she could actually see what she was looking at.
“Don't think so.”
“Searchlight. You had a dog.”
“Dog? How do you...?” Jackson's memory slogged it's way through the swampy haze of Kentucky bourbon. “You're the Winnebago kid.”
“Was. Crapped out last year.”
“Oh. I'm, uh, looking for--”
“Delilah, I know.” Ray stepped back, giving Jackson though the doorway. “I'll get her.” She clambered up the stairs that fed into the upper level of the condo.
Jackson eased into the entryway, suddenly unsure of himself as he pushed the door shut behind him. He hadn't accounted for company. He'd come to kill, to react, to revenge. This was his moment, his goal for nearly half a decade, to find this bastard and end them. For her. For--
“Sarah?” Jackson didn't even realize he'd said anything until bounced of the foyer walls around him.
There she stood, atop the staircase, like an image from a dream. His dream.
“Jackson?”
“You can't. This is... what is this?” The brief euphoria was gone, replaced with fear. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Jack. It's okay.”
“No, I know what this is. This is... you're... you're not.”
He'd read up on it. He knew the basic mythology. There were vampires. He'd seen them, killed a few. He knew a vampire only existed in the shell of the person they once were. Sarah Cartwright-Donnelly did not stand in front of him. This was a monster. A killer. A creature of death and destruction.
But here she was, now at the base of the stairs, reaching out for him. He let her hand cup his face. Cool fingers grazed his cheek. He shrank back.
“No! You're not her.”
“Come on now, Jack, that's no way to greet your dead wife.”
“Don't call me that. You're not her.”
“You don't sound so sure of yourself... Jack.”
“Del! Knock it off.” Ray moved down the staircase. “You're freaking the guy out.”
“It's my husband, Ray, I can do what I want with him.”
Ray took one look at Jackson, pressed tight up into the corner of the entryway, and yanked Delilah back by the shoulder. “Leave him alone.”
“Or what? You'll slay me? Like that'll happen. Get over yourself. Go play Guitar Hero or something. I want to catch up with my boy, here.”
Jackson edged along the wall and pushed into the adjacent living room. “I don't want to catch up.” He settled himself against the back of the sofa, trying to ground himself. “So, you two live here. Are you... do you... are you...?”
Delilah perked up, amused. “What's the matter, Jack? Jealous?”
“I was going to ask if you're... vampires.” Jackson reflected on Delilah's question. “But, now that you mention it... are you two...?”
“Oh, please. She wishes.”
Ray didn't even bother to glare at her. “Shut up.”
“So, you're just... friends?”
“Not even.” Ray sighed. “It's a long, ridiculous story.”
Delilah shrugged. “There's a curse.”
The story was, in fact, longer than that. Shortly after leaving Searchlight, Ray had run into Delilah in New Orleans, where they'd gotten into an argument and then an actual brawl. While Ray never really settled into the role of vampire slayer as a career, she still knew the basics and Delilah had pressed all the right buttons to set Ray off. Unfortunately, this all occurred in front of a fortune teller who decided to teach the women a lesson about the value of life, and cursed them both.
“What did she just say?” Ray pushed her hair out of her face with one hand while the other remained securely wrapped around Delilah's throat.
“Didn't even sound like English. Get off my neck.”
“Make me.”
The woman stood over them, now. “I said, now you will learn! There is a balance. One life takes the other.”
Ray eased up her grip on the other girl. “What does that even mean?”
“It means, one dies, the other dies, too.” The woman turned and began to walk away.
“What?” Delilah pushed herself up into a sitting position. “Like, one of us?”
The woman shrugged. “It means what it means.”
“So, here we are. Living in bliss.” Ray motioned to the condo around them.
“Because you can't kill each other?”
“Slayer and vampire living it up. What a story.” Delilah slung an arm over Ray's shoulders, but the slayer immediately ducked out of the embrace.
“Slayer?” Jackson looked at Ray. “You're one of them?”
“Yeah. Found out right about the time we met.”
“And you. You're a vampire.”
“You seemed pretty sure of that when you got here, Jack.”
“Stop calling me that!” He slipped the stake out of his jacket sleeve and held it out, point first. “I know you're not her.”
Delilah smirked at the object jutting out toward her. “So you said before. But do you really know how it all works? How, when I turned, everything about my pithy previous life withered away--”
Ray interrupted, as was the rapidly developing habit between vampire and husband. “Del, stop.”
“--and how my existence as a mundane housewife and pathetic soccer mom became nothing but a speck in my mind.”
“You don't have to listen to this, Jackson.”
Jackson steadied himself. “Let her tell me.”
“See, Ray, he wants to know. Everyone always does.” She took a step toward him. “And suddenly, everything I ever wanted to be, everything I kept under the surface, every dark shadow of myself...”
Ray eyed the close proximity between the wooden stake and the vampire's torso. “Jackson... you can't do this.”
“I have to.”
“I can't let you.”
“... all that darkness set me free.”
Stake. Circumstance. Broadsword. Jackson wasn't even sure where the sword had come from until he noticed the empty display plaque on the wall. Ray held it with ease, an inch or so away from his throat.
Jackson held his ground. “I used to be a good person.”
“We all did.” Ray threw a glance to Delilah. “At one time or another.”
“I also used to be a boring person. Now I'm pretty much... well, awesome.”
“You kill people, Del. That's not awesome.”
“So? It's not like I can help it. It's something that happened to me. And I'm not afraid of it. At least I can say that much. You can't even make up your mind what to do and you're supposed to be one of the good guys.”
“It's different.”
“I don't hide from who I am, Ray.”
“You don't know me.”
“After all this time? I think I do. You're afraid. Always have been. You live in the shadows as much as I do, only you don't have to.”
“What is this, my therapy session? In case you haven't noticed, we're caught up in a situation.”
“Nothing's going to happen. Jack doesn't have it in him. Do you, Jack?” Delilah leaned in, closing the small space between herself and the stake. “You can't do it. You're too in love with me. Or her, really. That sweet girl you pined over. You were always patient. Still are it seems. Been tracking me down all these years. But you didn't expect this, did you, Jack? No, you thought it was someone else. Some ugly thug of a vamp who would make it easy, who would finally let you release all that rage. Sorry you had to find out this way, honey. But your little lady just had to go so I could have my time.”
“Time's up.”
There's a moment that occurs when an immortal realizes that their mortality has, in fact, run out. Ray had seen it on the handful of occasions when she actually took to her duties. Jackson had seen it a few times on his quest to quell his grief. It's a brief moment, though. Because, shortly after, there's nothing but dust.
“NO!” But Ray didn't have time to react. And the sword became ridiculously heavy, then crashed to the floor, settling in the pile of ash that was once both Sarah Cartwright-Donnelly and Delilah.
“Sorry.” Jackson pulled a flask from his jacket pocket.
Ray felt dizzy. Sick. “You could have killed me.”
“Maybe that curse expired.” He held the flask out to her.
Ray shook her head. “But you just took a chance.”
“Used to be a good person. Not so much, anymore.” He took another slug from the flask. “Sorry to ruin your night.”
Ray lunged at him, but he easily shoved her away. As quickly as it had come, it was gone. All that power. Five years ago it found her, settled into her, became her. But she never knew what to do with it. She wasn't a fighter, not outside of verbal sparring, anyway. And now, there was nothing. She felt weighted, as if she'd spent all afternoon on a trampoline and now, on solid ground, gravity had a grasp on her body.
Jackson took in the sight of the ash that covered his shoes, the floor, the edge of the couch. “Irony is, you want something for so long... when you get it... what's left?”
Subject and cut text from T.S. Eliot's The Hollow Men