Death ends a life, not a relationship. Jack Lemmon Older than the Earth, more eternal than darkness is The Crow. Only two things matter to The Crow- love and vengeance. If both desires burn strong enough in the restless soul of one wronged, The Crow will hear. Six weeks after his pre-mature death, Brian Kinney called…and The Crow answered. Lungs, long since collapsed, filled with stale air. Shattered bone re-knitted itself, while organs began to function once more. Blood forced embalming fluid out through Brian’s pores. Panic seized him as he came awake to find himself inside a coffin. A strange, yet familiar, voice in his head pushed aside the panic and said, You’re back for a purpose. You called me. Now get yourself out of that box so you can fulfill that purpose. Brian felt oddly calm as he busted the seal on the coffin lid, cracked open the concrete vault, and dug his way up through six feet of heavy dirt. He climbed out of the grave and saw a large black bird perched on his tombstone. Took you long enough, the bird cawed, but Brian heard the words in his head. He looked down at his dirt-covered hands and saw torn nails and broken, bleeding flesh. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said out loud in astonishment. The force of air caused him to choke and cough up a clod of black dirt. Of course not, you are beyond that kind of pain…unless you choose to feel it. Brian swung his gaze back to The Crow and then back to his hands. The flesh was mending before his eyes. In a few short seconds, all the torn skin was knitted; new nails grew into the nail beds. “What the fuck is going on?” Brian gasped. You called me. “Who are you? What are you?” I am eternity. I am death. I am the sum of things your race has no understanding of…but right now, for you, I am life. Your soul refused to rest in peace, it cried incessantly for revenge, but also for the protection of the one you love. “Justin.” He is in danger. You must avenge your death in order to save your lover’s life. “Damn it. Stockwell. Where’s Justin?” Do I look like a GPS system? Trust me, it is better if you do not see him. And it goes without saying that under no circumstance should you let him see you. “Not see him? I have to, I have to make sure he’s alright.” Brian, you are a literal walking corpse. You are not quite alive, not quite dead. You no longer belong to this world. It is your desire for revenge that binds you to this place…you will return to the grave as soon as you have that revenge. Do not torture yourself with things that can no longer be. Regret warred with resignation. Brian knew, could feel the changes in his being. He was no longer Brian Fucking Kinney, Stud of Liberty Avenue. He wasn’t sure what he was but enough of the old Brian was left to make the idea of never seeing Justin’s smile, never hearing his voice, never touching him, never being inside him again a nearly unbearable thought. You want him to be safe, yes? “Yes.” To live a full life…even if it is a life that does not include you? “Yes,” Brian said, a steely resolve hardening his voice. Then you must destroy Stockwell. * Justin hunched his shoulders forward against the driving rain but didn’t hurry his steps. He needed to think about his next move. The DNA proof of Reichert's involvement with Jason Kemp was locked up in a bank deposit box for safety, but Justin knew it wasn’t enough to stir more than a few rumors now that Stockwell was mayor. If he couldn’t tie Stockwell to Brian’s murder then the asshole would never be put away. The mailroom guy was right. It would just be his word against Stockwell’s if he went to the police. Horvath was no help. He believed, along with Michael and all the others, that Justin was just overwrought by Brian’s death and looking for an answer to something that had none. They all accepted the mugging story without question. But Justin knew with a feeling that ran bone deep, Stockwell murdered Brian. However, proving it was another matter. He was fast running out of ideas on how to nail the bastard. “Hey, Blondie, don’t you even have sense enough to get out of the rain?” “Fuck off,” Justin mumbled at the soggy, brown trench-coated man as he passed by. “Whoa. Come back here sweetheart, we have something to discuss.” Justin ignored the man and picked up the pace. He wished he had been more aware of the route he was walking, wished he had stuck to more populated streets with better lighting. Dutton quickly caught up to Justin and grabbed the smaller man by the arm. “Look, kid, I’m not any more thrilled about this than you…you think I got no better way to spend a Friday night? And don’t even get me started on the motherfucking rain. Sheesh.” He planted himself firmly in front of Justin and tightened his grip in a warning. “What do you want?” Justin looked up into the stranger’s face. The man’s shaved head glistened, wet with rain, under the dim sodium streetlight. Small gold hoops, four in each ear, outlined the curve of his lobes. His age was hard for Justin to gauge; possibly he was in his late thirties, or early forties. He was broad shouldered and heavily built. A snake tattoo curled up his thick neck from under the collar of his shirt. He had bad teeth and hard eyes. Justin tried to pull away but the stranger’s fingers dug into his arm through the fabric of his jacket. “I need to give you a message. Someone don’t like the nosey way you been poking into things you ought to be leaving alone.” “So Stockwell knows I’m onto him.” Justin couldn’t help the note of triumph that tinted his voice. “Blondie, that’s a supreme example of just why my services have been retained. You got a big fucking mouth, kid.” “Do you realize you’re working for a murderer?” “You think?” Dutton asked, a dangerous smile curving the corners of his mouth. “I know. And I’m going to prove it.” “With help from your pizza-faced friend back there?” “You’ve been following me!” “No shit.” “Stay the fuck away from me,” Justin said evenly. “Baby, you ain’t in any position to be giving orders. You’re the one who needs to stay the fuck outta my employer’s business.” “You can tell that motherfucker he’s not getting away with murder.” Dutton shook his head and clicked his tongue as if dealing with an unruly child. “It isn’t nice to call people names. In fact, it can be downright dangerous. Sweetheart, this here is a warning…” Justin never saw the punch coming. It caught him in his solar plexus and dropped him to his knees. Dutton took advantage of the weakness and aimed a sharp kick in the same place. Justin toppled over and the sadistic henchman continued to kick him in the stomach and kidneys until Justin puked and fell onto his back unmoving. “Listen up in there, Blondie. I repeat, this was a warning. Keep your sweet little ass outta where it don’t belong or next time the message I deliver will cause lasting damage.” Barely conscious, Justin wondered if there wasn’t already some permanent damage. He focused on breathing and staying awake; his torso was on fire and he thought he might throw up again any second. He gingerly rolled over onto all fours and promptly fell on his face into a puddle of rainwater. He coughed and sputtered, then thought he might die as wave after wave of shooting pain racked his body. Never before had he felt such physical agony. He heard his attacker laugh and then the sound of footsteps receding down the deserted sidewalk. Time passed. Justin didn’t know if it was minutes or hours before he was able to crawl to his knees and eventually get up on his feet. He wiped the wet hair out of his face and took two steps before he had to stop and retch again. A thin stream of stringy bile, pink with blood, mixed with the oily runoff in the gutter. The swirling water made him dizzy, so he looked away…and came face to face with the grinning image of Jim Stockwell. The campaign poster was fading and torn around the edges. Heedless of his injuries, Justin reached up and ripped the poster off the wall, wadded it up and tossed it in the gutter. He shrugged off the physical pain; replacing it was a deep sense of loss, grief, and anger that was always right below the surface. He concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other and made his way back to the loft. * “Fucking rain,” Brian said as he walked along, shivering in the thin, black tee shirt and jeans he had swiped from a nearby clothing store. He still wore his Gucci loafers, but the rest of the clothes he had been buried in were shredded and became caked in mud as soon as the rain began. I told you to take a coat as well. “Those things were hideous. I’d rather freeze,” Brian said in disgust. As you wish, The Crow seemed to sigh. I do no know why you mortals are so fond of holding on to old habits- like feeling the cold. But I suppose it helps keep your senses alert, and that is good. “Ah, wait. That’s more like it.” Brian stopped in front of a window displaying a selection of leather goods. He had his eye on a long, black leather trench coat being worn by a headless mannequin. Hurry up, then, The Crow replied, flying swiftly up to the corner of the building and using his sharp beak to snip the alarm wires. Brian pulled off his tee shirt, wrapped it around his hand and smashed through the glass door. Then he reached in and flipped the lock. Inside, he shook the glass out of the soggy shirt and slipped it back on before grabbing the coat off the dummy and shrugging into it. “Perfect fit,” he told the bird who flew in and perched on his shoulder. Very nice. Now I suggest we get out of here. You have more important things to do than worry about your appearance.Nothing is more important than appearance,” he said, a trace of the old Brian Kinney pomp and circumstance. “I need one more thing,” he told The Crow, looking pointedly to the pawnshop across the street. He picked the snub-nosed .38 from the display case and a box of shells from the lock box behind the counter that The Crow pointed him to. He loaded the gun and stuck it in one of his coat pockets; he shoved a handful of shells in the other one. “Now I feel fully dressed for the occasion,” he said with a dark grin. * Waiting for the stoplight to change, Dutton sat back in the Caddy’s plush leather seat and thought about the kid. Not Blondie, the other one. The pimply-faced one Blondie met behind the pizza joint. He wondered if he should tell Stockwell about the little meeting. It could mean a bigger pay off if the punk had something on the boss man that would require a longer engagement of Dutton’s services. In fact, Dutton had a little bit of a trick up his sleeve on that score. A plan began to form in his head on the way to his destination. He knew you could never be too careful when dealing with politicians.