"No, I don't," he whispered.

"You lie. To me, if not to yourself."

"Not anymore. I know what it's like to be caught up in your pain, your hate, your vengeance. It blinds you. Gets in your head so deep you can't think straight. You lose track of who you are."

"d.a.m.n you, King." Dred punched him in the eye. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He never expected King to switch sides and run with him as his second. Nor did he think King would rollover and leave Indianapolis to him. He did, however, want King broken. To have him plead for his life, beg Dred to stop. To turn over his crown before his people and Dred's. Let them all see who the bigger man was. But each blow King took only haggled Dred's nerves.

"What do you think you're showing your people, your daughter right now?"

"That I won't always be here to fight their battles for them. That they have to be willing to fight them for themselves."

The shrill peal of laughter froze everyone to their spots. Dred craned about, trying to determine where the sound came from. Heavy footfalls encroached from the tree line ringing the site. In her full war paint, La Payasa was the first to step out of the dense foliage.

"Smile now, cry later," she cried out.

With a simple application of makeup, she was transformed from an introverted, depressed, lonely, suicidal young girl into La Payasa: an extroverted, quick-witted and funny, sought out, welcomed figure who was powerful, both listened to and respected. The blood rushed to her skin as she led her shirtless cholos into battle. The entire scene devolved into utter chaos. The addition of the cholos added to the pandemonia. Those few with guns couldn't shoot: between the night and the close press of bodies, there were no clear shots.

They weren't alone.

Pastor Winburn led a dozen of the Breton Court residents into the fray. Barbers, delivery men, teachers, they rallied behind Pastor Winburn and represent for their community. They weren't there to fight, but they were there to stand tall and let people know they weren't going to be packed out of their own neighborhood.

Wayne held a man in a headlock, trying to keep him from hurting anyone. All he could think about was how he had officially entered a gray area when it came to client interaction and dreaded the idea of having to do the paperwork at Outreach Inc. on this encounter.

Lott evaded the initial volley of punches. Noles' fist struck like a warhammer. Through a dew of sweat, Lott gripped his bat with two hands against the downward stroke. The force of the collision reverberated through the handle. Lott kicked him in his undefended mid-section, then spun the handle about, connecting with the man's jaw. He made sure he stayed down before he moved on. A breathless love threatened to sweep him up in its intensity and bent him into fury.

Tristan, La Payasa, and Percy dove into the rest of the crew. Punching at the air, swinging just to be swinging, hoping to clock someone. Spinning his arms, kind of keeping his guard up, ready to jab at any near target. A cloud of dust was caught in the moonlight, like ground fog, kicked up as they skirmished. Bringing a fist down, but having left his feet to deliver the blow, there was no power to it. Jerked out of the way of the wide arc of the bat's swing. Heavy thwack to his body as he was. .h.i.t with a bat when he connected the next time.

Tristan followed through with a slashing movement, driving several of her attackers to La Payasa. Planting her heel to the back of his knee, she dropped him. She reeled backward, dodging the jabs of another boy, her slight figure dancing about, easily evading him before wandering back within range to lay him out with a couple of punches.

Lady G gagged on the taste of soot. Gasping for breath, she woke to the smell of smoke. Fire ate through walls. Flames blazed up around her. She grabbed handfuls of air, fought the urge to drift into it, to drop her hands and run into it. The layers of clothes with which she wrapped herself: a T-shirt featuring a panther wrapped by a cobra under a grimy, faded blue hoodie, under a jacket that had seen better days. No matter the temperature, she carefully selected her wardrobe in order to hide her shape. She hooded her eyes. Lady G made her way to Nakia. Pepper spray in one hand, the other clutched after the girl.

"You're safe, baby. I won't let anyone hurt you."

"Are you a friend of my dad's?" Nakia asked.

"I am," Lady G said.

"You're pretty."

Police sirens wailed. Dred's crew scattered, running wild through the mini-woods. The copse of trees offered few hiding places as uniformed officers swooped in. A police helicopter circled above them. Cantrell and Lee, trailed by a film crew, led the officers into the melee.

As soon as the chaos erupted, King threw himself into Dred. The Caliburns flew free. King quickly scrambled for the nearest one. Dred slammed into a girder then hunted for the other gun. King whirred and began blasting at the shadow creatures. His bullets tore through them, a stream of light trailing in their trajectory. With a grotesque twist of their mouths, the wispy substance dissipated like fog in the morning sun against the cleaving magic of the Caliburn. The ebon vapor tendrils faded into nothingness. Dred's face contorted into a mask of hatred and madness, though his eyes remained those of a little boy lost. He spied the Caliburn and dove after it, finding cover behind a pallet of bricks.

"Like I said before, for all your talk, in the end, you settle things the same way we do: with guns and fists," Dred said.

"I know. Most I can hope for is that when the cause is just, G.o.d will give me a pa.s.s."

"I'm afraid not, King. Luther's blood runs in both of us, my brother. There is a birthright to be claimed. We are Cain and Abel."

Brothers. Things began to make sense to King, but he didn't have time to digest the implications. He pushed the revelation to the side and rushed toward Dred, too close for him to get a clear shot. King used his Caliburn to close in on Dred's wrist, deflecting Dred's shot. The momentum threw him off balance, his gun drawn low.

Grappling in close quarters, Dred raised his leg with the hopes of throwing off King's aim, though King wasn't trying to shoot him. Dred straightened from his crouch after ducking a wild swing from King and slashed his weapon toward King's shoulder. King shifted to the side, blocking the pistol whip, and punched Dred. Twisting aside, bent at the waist, Dred's arms pinwheeled in a pendulum slice, crashing his gun-weighted hand into King's nose. Capitalizing on the lucky blow, Dred threw an uppercut which snapped King's neck backward. King sprawled on his back, dazed but still holding on to his Caliburn. When his eyes focused, Dred had drawn down on him.

"And so it ends."

"It doesn't have to be this way. We can find another way."

"King, the story ends the way all stories end: in pain and death."

"Please, Dred."

The sound of Dred's Caliburn firing caused King to fire. Lady G screamed. King managed to squeeze off three shots as the bullet punched through his shoulder and took a chunk of flesh out his back. Every action movie he'd ever seen had folks take bullets in the shoulder yet keep moving like they barely nicked themselves shaving. His arm refused to move, his fingers dancing off the edge of his hand to their own accord. Took a while to realize they throbbed to the pulse of his heartbeat. The pain exploded in his brain and all his body could do was drop where he once stood. The next bullet tore through his belly. He collapsed next to Dred, clutching his belly with his good arm. Dred's eyes stared at him, vacant and gla.s.sy, accusatory to the end.

Lady G ran to King. She stopped short when she saw how much blood there was. His mouth opened and closed. She dropped beside him, testing his hand in her lap. She held his hand, slick with blood, to his stomach, pressing to staunch the blood loss. He seemed so small in her arms. Dirty. Bruised. Not believing she deserved to mourn him, she let her tears run down her cheeks. Pulling his hand from hers, he brushed her hair from her face. A blood smear scored where he touched her.

"I got you right here." She put their hands on her heart. "I love you. You can believe that."

He knew it was too late for himself. He'd finished what he'd set out to do. He swallowed blood. His breath came in rapid flurries.

"I'm so tired."

He kissed her hand. "I understand something now. I wish I could start over and do everything right."

"I know. And you will always be in my heart."

A silence settled over the scene. Lott and Wayne wept in their own ways, to themselves. Percy sobbed uncontrollably. Pastor Winburn lowered his head. Omarosa slipped in and out of the scene to retrieve the Caliburns. Lott watched as she disappeared into the waters of the White River with them. She would find her way back to the lake. Paramedics pushed them aside to go through the motions of resuscitation, but it was too late.

King was gone.

EPILOGUE.

Stories are made up by people who make them up. The ones that work, endure. It was a time of b.l.o.o.d.y battles. A time of dark brutality, when life was short. Chivalry. Honor. Courtly love. Loyalty. Courage. Humility. Ideals of an earlier age were not entirely lost.

At first blush, nothing much had changed about Breton Court. The neighborhood waited out the evil, let it run its course like a boxer punching himself out. They survived it. Once again, it survived the city's threat to raze it. The owners of many of the condos within, under pressure from the city and local ministers, sold many of the condos to local residents. There would be no slumlords here. Wayne walked to Big Momma's place to meet Lady G. The dedication was today. The laughter of children filled the air. Percy's little brothers and sisters played on the Slip 'n Slide as Big Momma hustled them indoors in order to get ready.

The Boars walked through the neighborhood with a lawnmower. It was probably stolen, but it was the start of him attempting to make an honest living. Wayne measured progress in baby steps. Sometimes a client smoking weed instead of crack counted as improvement. And cutting lawns definitely was better than working a corner.

"I know you made it to church," Rhianna said.

"I didn't see you," Wayne said.

"Yeah. I'm on sabbatical."

"That's what you call it now."

"Yeah, we'll be back next week. Up in the pulpit."

"You may want to ease into it first. Maybe make it to a pew."

"You know, some people running around here saying King ain't dead..."

"Come on now, he ain't Tupac." Though the thought warmed Wayne. "What do you think he's doing?"

"You need a unicorn that body surfs on rainbows. Along with a mule sidekick that is the keeper of all of the secrets of the universe. We need an enchanted castle with a moat full of Skittles because that's what the rainbow turns into once the unicorn gets home." Rhianna gestured wildly as if painting the picture in the air. "Picture it: King rides the unicorn after consulting with the mule on exactly where he needs to go and what mission to pursue. And no one can eat the Skittles except for the three of them, because everyone else who tries spontaneously combusts."

"Are you high?"

"It's been months and I've done nothing but talk to a one year-old. It's okay to learn to smile again eventually." Rhianna studied the sidewalk. "And I just miss Merle, too."

"Yeah."

"Girl, where you been?"

"Around. Got my GED. Plus I got a little one to look after. Can't be running the streets with you all. I heard you and Lott took over Youth Solidarity."

"Seemed like the right thing to do. The place looks nice. Got some government grant money and everything."

"You and Lott look happy."

"Yeah. Got our own place."

"He'd be happy for you both."

"You think?"

"Well, eventually. Man was still human."

"Yeah."

"Hard to believe it's all over."

"It's never over."

"They got Noles on the Lyonessa thing. Then they started pinning bodies on him. Fool took credit for all kinds of mess including Rok, Prez, and Fathead cause the cameras were rolling. You know those detectives thought they hit the lottery."

"Makes sense though. If he going away for doing the little girl, he's gonna want some bodies on him."

"You hear about Tristan? She up, too. Wanted to take the full weight for Mulysa. Walked up and confessed to the police. I told her I would walk beside her through this as much as I could. I spoke on her behalf at the hearing. Special circ.u.mstances and all. Asked for leniency, for the system to not give up on her."

"What the judge say?"

"Judge Rolfingsmeyer still gave her five. Three suspended. Plea with a self-defense angle. She almost got off entirely, except most ladies don't defend themselves with Ridd.i.c.k blades."

In a lot of ways, Tristan reminded Wayne of La Payasa. The last thing she said to him was "Don't worry about me. I get by." She never asked for anything. She earned it or did without.

They gathered at King's final resting place at Avalon Cemetery. At the top of a large rolling hill, steep like a green pyramid in the heart of the cemetery. One of the highest natural points in Indianapolis, it was crowned by a lonely mausoleum reminiscent of a ruined abbey. Beside it stood a tower. They called it the Isle of Apples. The image of a tree etched into the gla.s.s on the tower was Lott's idea. An eternal flame burned in its heart.

The chairs were reserved for family. Nakia and her mother. Big Momma. Lott. Wayne and Esther. Lady G. Percy. Had. Most of the neighborhood turned out. Folks from the barbershop. The Boars. Even members of the police.

"I was invited to say a few words because I knew King from when he was little. He was like a son to me. A fine boy who grew into a fine young man taken from us too soon." Pastor Winburn's black suit rippled in the slight breeze. He had performed dozens of funerals in his years. None were easy. This dedication was even more difficult for him. He paused and put his fist to his lips. A chorus of "come on now" broke out among the crowd, which strengthened him to continue. "King, like all of us, was called to a royal priesthood. He was an everyday pastor in ritual and routine. A prophet interrupted, who shook up the spiritual lives of all those he came in contact with.

"He wasn't a perfect man, but who among us is? We could all pray 'Lord help me to discover the self-deceived and self-persuaded Pharisee within myself.' Iffen we feel the need to sit in judgment. But I'll tell you what he did right. He took this command seriously: 'whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.' He walked what he believed. No one was invisible to him. Every life meant something to him. And no one, not even himself, was beyond redemption.

"We believe in an author behind the story. We believe in life everlasting. We believe that relationships are forever. We believe in resurrection. We believe in hope eternal.

"Here lies our once and future King."

There was a young boy in an old man's body and an old woman in a young girl's body who sat in the twilight, locked away in a cave of their own making. No one would ever find them, for they had imprisoned one another. She believed she had him trapped, not realizing she was bound to him. Forever intertwined. They regaled each other with stories, of kings and queens, knights and quests, monsters and fairies. There were adventures and n.o.bility and sadness and death. But that was the point of stories.

"It is finished," Nine said.

"I know."

"The age is almost over."

"The Wheel of Fortuna turns again."

During twilight, the veil between the worlds grew thinnest and they could watch as if sitting on a lattice window gazing out into the world. From their perch they could spy into the world of man or into the world of fairy. A grand vista churned away in silence, with all of the delicate colors of life on resplendent display. In time they would be forgotten. Only the best stories endured. The sun was nearly set and it was time for mysterious creatures to scamper about.

"You're sad."

"Endings always make me sad. The end is goodbye."

The lovely Nine pursed her lips. Not wanting her good mood spoiled, she snapped her fingers. An elf returned with a golden chalice. Sprites handed Merle a chalice. "We have mead, but rather than drink that, a duke of this age gave me a delightful bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite, which was once the property of Thomas Jefferson."

"You are delightfully full of random," Merle smirked.

"I propose a toast. To family, even in their absence."

A brown and black squirrel, with a gray streak along its back, darted up a tree with drooping branches overlooking King's grave. Resting on its haunches, its head turned left and right on the watch for predatory eyes. It sniffed the air once, twice, then fiddled with an acorn.

And waited.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Maurice Broaddus is a notorious egotist whose sole goal is to be a big enough name to be able to snub people at conventions. In antic.i.p.ation of such a successful writing career, he is practicing speaking of himself in the third person. The "House of M" includes the lovely Sally Jo ("Mommy") and two boys: Maurice Gerald Broaddus II (thus, he gets to retroactively declare himself "Maurice the Great") and Malcolm Xavier Broaddus. Visit his site so he can bore you with details of all things him and most importantly, read his blog. He loves that. A lot.