Honestly, I wasn't very happy about last chapter, either. Maybe this one feels more like a conclusion? It's basically here to tie up loose ends, nothing more. All though, there are subtle references to the plot of the Caster Chronicles (as in Macon sets up to move Lena into Ravenwood more permanently). Apologies for the brief chapter. Maybe it leaves room for a sequel?

All disclaimers apply, as always.

After the failed heist, after they nearly lost each other and themselves, certain people disappear. Macon is the one to propose focusing on alcohol and drugs, rather than blatantly putting their name into the news.

They are still branded with their logo—a little black cat. Macon finally gave in after the heist and had the tattoo placed on his back so it wouldn't haunt him in the mirror but the other members could see it, occasionally. Leah received the mark on the back of her neck, hidden behind the swish of a ponytail and hot under Fitz's fingers. Fitzwilliam has the cat placed on his shoulder, near where the bullet should have pierced his skin, would have, had Macon not pushed him to the ground.

It's enough for Macon. They now have time to focus on Valerian, to focus on the rising question of what to do with Lena, and to focus on rebuilding and fortifying their defenses. They have a cozy little profit, enough to fund a renovation of the basement into a better establishment, one that resembles an extension of Ravenwood. A small part of it is used to bribe buyers out from Valerian; Macon starts picking up caskets filled with booze in the, thankfully, practically new hearse.

The funeral business starts up again. Of course, there are a select few who might make the connections in later years, that a gang had buried their loved one, but few have the courage to call any one of the members out on it. Their market is typically made of other criminals, other Casters and Cubi running from the law, or, more commonly, running from problems. Macon doesn't mind. He persuades a majority of Ravenwood's customers to follow him to the basement under the pretense of approving the deceased's appearance only to give a tumbler of scotch from his own reserves. It keeps the business running, certainly, and brings more customers by the year.

They keep their heads down, though. Obidias eventually moves to Barbados with his piece of their profit. Macon isn't bitter about it. He does have select words when the criminal attempts to steal the Caster Chronicles, though, and even more when his fingers are replaced with snakes. However, he abandoned Lucille's when he walked out the door, and Macon doesn't spend much time at all worrying about the consequences.

Time passes quickly. Years pass. Lena grows into a fine young woman who knows very little of what goes on during the evenings, as she migrates from home to home, rarely spending time at Ravenwood Manor or Lucille's. It's too dangerous, Macon concludes, to have her in one place for an extended period of time. Valerian thrives and recruits new members quicker than Macon had ever feared. The establishment never does retaliate for what happened at the mill. Macon imagines it has something to do with anticipation; his hair starts graying from the waiting and the worrying.

Leah handles Lucille's with ease, and Fitzwilliam moves in as the acting financer. Macon slowly moves from the establishment and into Ravenwood. He doesn't stay long, ever; he's constantly traveling, constantly testing how to solve the problem of Lena's curse. Leah sends letters, of course, and Lena keeps Boo with her.

He finds his answer, eventually. The tome is old—the text is cracked, and the pages are yellowed—but the words are clear. He stands as he had with the map of the city, the city he once had under his control, with his hands framing the text. He ignores the trembling in his fingers, ignores the ache in his chest. The lights flicker. He doesn't react, for a second, a minute, a century. Then, finally, a smile twitches on his lips. A short, rich chuckle escapes him. Good heavens, he wonders, is this a test? Is this a trial?

The thought is hammered into his head when he finds Lila Jane in an alley. Her murder is posed as an accident; Macon has no doubt in his mind of Valerian's hand in this. Somehow, Macon knows better than to think she suddenly had the urge to run her car into the side of a building. Leah sends her regards. Macon doesn't leave his study for a week; he pays fully for a funeral and buys his plot the next day. He doesn't attend the funeral. Fitzwilliam does, though, as no one know his face, and reports it was as lovely as a funeral can be.

He throws himself into research. Eventually, he comes up with the conclusion he had previously reached was the only plausible answer. He goes about planning as he always does, carefully and slowly. It's almost two months before he writes to Leah. Her response is given quickly, and he can't help the grin that tugs at his lips. He loads and reloads his gun in an attempt to calm himself, running his fingers over the trigger several times. Dimly, he wonders if there's anyway to stop, now. Instead of pondering it, he pens a letter asking to give residence to Lena and grabs his Colt.

It shouldn't have been done there. The citizens are asleep, literally and metaphorically, but the doors are thin enough for nerves to be sensitive. Windows are starting to dim, which calms frayed ends nicely, but the building twenty paces down has a light on in the upper floor. The diner across the street, the one with the quaint name and embossed storefront—the one he knows because he's the one who gave it a new lease on life, the one who refurbished the basement and came up with the logo—appears vacant for the night.

Few cars travel the side street; fewer of them ride with any semblance of a good intention. The alleys are well worn, and the brick has glinted crimson before the current rainfall washed the evidence away. The buildings are full of quiet people who lead quiet lives, and the alleys find themselves homes to the best the street has to offer.

Which is precisely what makes the man leaning against the wooden storefront nervous. It isn't the distinct smell of copper that somehow manages to cling stubbornly to the air or the fact his employer, the stocky man who preferred slow cigars and quick women, is toeing the line between inquiring and demanding. It isn't the sharp miserableness that accompanies rain in this dreary, mucked up town and should have, by now, ruined his mood.

His thumb works over the face of his fob. His lips pull into an indifferent frown. His brow furrow gently. He takes a deep breath. His thin fingers dance across his dark slacks. Another five minutes and he'll light a cigar. Ten, and the package he has hidden in his suit jacket will be indiscreetly placed beneath the storefront window. He leans his head back. It will be unfortunate if it comes to that; the small tattoo between his shoulders is an asset he can't afford to lose.

He glances around the street again. The hazy curtain of rain obscures most of the forms that evades the shadows. His heart titters in his chest. Thin, pale fingers tap Prometheus into slacks. He should leave. His shoes, shining in the dull streetlight, shuffle. His head tilts. He exhales sharply.

She stands on the street corner, clad in a filmy dress and Fitzwilliam's jacket. Her hair is in mussed, loose, and damp waves. Her eyes meet his, and she walks to him. Her stride is whimsical, graceful, filled with finesse and calculation. Her dress—that white dress he had first met her in—billows behind her with the wind. She looks like a goddess, all storm and rain. He steps towards her out of instinct.

They meet in front of the little diner, her eyes full of tears and his of warning. He glances at her face: hair matted together, tears running down pale cheeks, damnably thick eyelashes framing those glassy eyes. He raises a brow and pulls the package from his jacket. She holds out her dainty hand. Fitz must have had too much to drink—three shots of whiskey would do that to him—and left a blooming discoloration on her wrist. She blinks. The rain bounces off his suit. She tucks the Colt into the inside pocket of Fitz's jacket. He manages a small, tight smile. She nods. Soft, murmured words escape her rouged lips. You should have been a performer. Oh, it would have been far less condemning. His response is one of forced calm. Dancing never suited me.

Their eyes lock. Neither of them acknowledges the blatant lie.

He turns away first. He forces himself to; the letter in his pocket is heavy and it will be wet, eventually, if he waits for the rain to stop. Brogue soles trot down the alley that smells of copper and lead. His thumbs slip into his pockets. He walks quickly, distinctly, with purpose. She would do well to hide herself, and her flimsy dress, away in one of those barely lit buildings, preferably the cafe.

Whatever comes into focus of his Colt that night will become a corpse.

He won't be around to bury the poor soul. He has his own ghost to chase, one with green eyes and a dark mane of curls. His fingers tighten around the letter in his pocket.

He glances at the moon. Delphine wouldn't mind a cordial visit, surely.