note: Woww. It's over. Twenty-seven chapters, 135 pages, 80,312 words, and months - nay, years! (kind of) - of plotting and writing... needless to say, I'm pretty damn excited. It's not often that I actually finish a story. So before you begin the end, I have a few things to say. First off, a huge thanks to Sophie a.k.a. Falco Conlon, who manages to be both my rock and my sounding board and, um, incredibly cool in the process.

Thanks also to BC a.k.a. Lost Duck, and Shortie, for the 30 minute seshes and therapeutic rants and whatnot. ;)

Biiiig thanks to all my readers and reviewers, especially Rogue, Stress, Gothitica, B, Bittah, and Dholla, who have been faithfully reviewing every chapter... you guys are awesommmme.

I can't leave out Omni, truemizzie/Polly, Passionate Fire, Maddie, and Pickle, for dropping by to tell me what they thought every few chapters. :)

Special thanks go to - Yorkshire tea, "Whisperings" piano radio station on iTunes radio, hot showers, cough drops, Latin class, and my desk chair.

Ok, almost done. There is a sequel in the works, it is called "Amends." I do expect to write and finish it, but it will not be updated as consistently as "Epic" was, so if you're interested in reading, I would suggest you put it on "story alert" (once its published) so you can keep track. :)

And, finally, a request to anyone reading. If you haven't reviewed, please drop me a line, either a review or an email or something. I would love to hear what you think, how you liked it, what you thought of the end - or even just a "hey, what's up, I read this." What can I say - I'm curious!


twenty-seven: finale

I had no idea what to think, nevermind what I should do. So I continued staring, while Bumlets groaned at my side and tried to crawl away. Oscar Delancy just crossed over and kicked him down and stood over him, as if daring Bumlets to make another move. Bumlets remained still.

I knew the Delancy brothers had ties to the Dark, but that didn't explain why they were here. They weren't here for Bumlets, or for me. Then Oscar looked hungrily up toward the stairs, and I began to get an idea about what was going on. Unfortunately, my thought process was stopped by Morris's boot in my face. I rolled over with a grimace and started to stand, but he punched me down again before I could get straight.

My head reeled and my stomach protested. I wasn't the best fighter on a good day – usually my mouth was able to get me out of any trouble – and here I was, still feeling weak after crossing over, unable to get my bearings.

I scooted to the back wall and stood against it, dodging a throw from Morris. His fist hit the wall with a satisfying crack, but my luck didn't last long. He came up even closer and kneed me in the gut hard enough to take my breath away. I tried to double over and recover, but instead he pinned me to the wall with one strong arm, then brought his knife up an inch away from my face. I couldn't do much more than narrow my eyes with false bravery.

"Let's go, let's go," Oscar snapped from the bottom of the stairs. Morris turned to glare at him, shoving his arm into me as he did so. It slipped against my chest and ended up pressing on my throat. My eyes widened as I tried to push his arm away and get a good breath, but he just shoved it again, causing black spots to pop up in front of my eyes.

Bumlets was out on the floor, and upstairs there was too much noise for them to hear anything. Morris nodded at Oscar and looked at me again, almost disappointed that he had to leave. He let me go and as I stumbled forward, hit me in the back of the knees and then slammed my head into the floor.

I must have blacked out for a few seconds, but I came to in time to see the brothers heading up the stairs, Morris with his knife and Oscar in front of him with a heavy wooden bat. I felt sick, and not just because of my beating. But I couldn't move, and my head hurt so much that I could barely tell which way was up, and the best I could do was let out a strangled cry – "DUTCH!" – that I don't think come out loud enough for even Morris to hear.

They reached the top of the stairs while I was dragging myself to the first step. Oscar moved for the handle with one last, knowing smirk over his shoulder. And in that split second, with Oscar's attention averted, the door banged open, hitting him in the back of the head and sending him into his brother's chest. They staggered, but Morris grabbed the railing and managed to keep their balance.

Pie-eater was in the doorway, looking not impassive like before, but mad as hell. He punched Oscar in the jaw, hard, and then yanked the bat from his grasp and nailed Morris on the side of the head. Morris dropped like a stone and slid down a few steps backward. Pie-eater took the opportunity to give Oscar a huge push. The boy fell over his brother's body and hit the stairs almost at the bottom. I rolled quickly away.

Somehow, Oscar got up, and pulled on Morris's leg to get him down the stairs. Pie-eater advanced halfway down, slowly, but stopped, apparently ready to let them go. I knew better. They were beat up, but determined. Oscar yanked his brother up and backed out of the door, practically dragging Morris's woozy form along with him. Pie-eater didn't follow, he just dropped the bat and went back upstairs. Right before he did, though, he looked down at me. I had been watching the Delancy's, but felt his gaze, and painfully craned my head around to meet it. Once again, his face was unreadable. He left.

I pulled my body to the window and propped myself up against the sill. Oscar and Morris were still in view, resting, but glaring back at the Lodging House and arguing. I guess maybe they were more scared of whoever had given them orders than they were of whatever beating they would take here. They were going to try again. My breath caught in my throat. It was Brooklyn. It had to be. He must have known we had the Cure, and now he wasn't messing around. Maybe he'd tried to kill Specs before, maybe it just hadn't worked. But he wouldn't stand for his plans being messed up again. He wanted the Delancys to make sure the job was done.

Once again I was at a loss for to do. I slumped down into a sitting position, hoping that Pie-eater would somehow let the others know, the bigger boys, so they wouldn't be caught off guard. I tried to gather my strength. Bumlets was breathing loudly, and I'd just made up my mind to go to him when I heard a familiar, but surprising sound.

Shouting. Not just shouting, but joyful, mocking shouting. Jack's voice. I abandoned Bumlets for the window once more. Jack and Mush were rounding the corner, on their way home from a long day of selling. They had run smack into Oscar and Morris and now Jack was taunting them while Mush rolled up his sleeves, laughing at Jack's jokes but staring hard at the Delancys.

Morris had lost his knife in the fall down the stairs, and he knew that he was in trouble. I couldn't hear any words, but whatever he said to Jack was probably the wrong thing, because in the next instant, both Jack and Mush advanced and attacked the brothers, who were already dazed and hurting.

I couldn't help but grin. Jack would probably never know that he had blindly saved the day once again.

Kloppman entered the Lodging House, almost hitting me with the door. He was complaining about young ruffians and broken bones, but cut short when he saw Bumlets curled up next to the staircase. There was blood spotting the floor, both his and mine, and the brothers', too. Kloppman didn't even see me, but it was okay. I just rubbed at my throat gingerly and tried standing.

"Ha! And stay out!" Jack shouted as he and Mush burst into the lobby with identical grins.

"Oh, shit, Race, what happened? And where've you been?" Mush asked, the malice fading from his eyes. This is the kid I was used to. Jack frowned.

"Don't ask," I sighed. "Help Kloppman with Bumlets."

They ran over and I made for the stairs. I felt like I'd never seen so many steps in my life. Still, I had this need to see Specs, and Dutchy, and to make sure they were both all right.

I entered the bunkroom, wobbly, but still walking, and went to Specs' bunk. I slowed as I approached. Specs still looked awful, but his breathing was slow and even, his eyes were closed, and he looked… peaceful, I guess. He would be okay. And so would Dutchy, I saw. Dutch was kneeling on the floor, but was bent over the bed, his head on Specs' chest. His glasses were askew on his face and he, too, was asleep.

I felt strange, looking at them, like I was intruding on something, even though they were right in the middle of a crowded bunkroom. One of Dutchy's hands was under his head as a sort of pillow, the other held Specs' hand loosely. Even Dutch looked healthier, regaining some of his color. He looked like he was completely at home, resting with Specs like that.

I had a strange lump in my throat, and it wasn't from Morris. I looked around the bunkroom, at all the boys running to and fro or just lounging in bed, and I felt alone. I tried to get back that feeling, the one I'd had at the beginning of all this. "I believe in this," I thought. It echoed in my mind but there was no response. Home. This is your home. You're home, I told myself. But I didn't believe it.

I guess I was just tired, and sore. I needed a break before I got back into the swing of things. I turned back toward the door, full of confusion. As I wove through the masses, I got a few slaps on the back and quick handshakes ("Good to have ya back!" "Ey, nice job, kiddo."), but nothing could take away the feeling I had that I was walking alone, with everyone else far away.

I took the stairs slowly, not wanting to slip on the blood that was pooled. Bumlets and his caretakers were gone, probably to the hospital. You're done, I told myself. You don't have to take care of anyone anymore. It's just you. All you gotta do is look out for yourself. Just like before. Just like always. I was not comforted. I paused at the door, not really sure what I was doing. I needed to go for a walk, get some fresh air, take my mind of things. I needed a smoke, a whole one this time.

So I pushed through and went out, my hands in my pockets and my eyes on the ground, and walked where my feet took me. And for the first time in my life… I knew I was lost.

It wasn't long before my feet and head had separated themselves and began to work independently of one another. I walked aimlessly, not knowing where I was going, but unable to completely lose myself in a city that I knew like the back of my hand. I had to get out of Manhattan, but I couldn't bring myself to do that, either. So I wandered.

I tried to identify the hard emptiness in my stomach. I had done what I set out to do, so why wasn't I celebrating? Why wasn't I grinning alongside Dutch, happy to be alive? But it wasn't loneliness.

I jammed my hands deep into my pockets and leaned back against a nearby building, taking a quick break. Boots. I'd been trying to keep my mind off the whole ordeal since it had happened, but now there was nothing else to think about, and the guilt was like a constant cramp in my side.

Boots. His name was angry in my head. We wouldn't be where we were without the kid, and yet even in his innocence, he was the one punished while we ran free. We hadn't seen it coming, but we should have. And Swifty…

I shook my head, as if the action would bounce the thoughts from my mind. The only thing it accomplished was to help my headache return.

The tips of my fingers brushed against something at the bottom of one of my pockets, and I brought the package out with a confused frown. I shook it next to my ear… seeds. It wasn't that long ago that Blink had handed me the seeds. It was supposed to be part of my payment to Sofia. I guess I should have known all along that she wouldn't have accepted any payment, anyway.

I slipped the packet back in my pocket and thought of her, and Swifty. I was confident that they had made it to safety, but curious about where they had ended up. And what would they do now? Swifty's house would be destroyed, and he would have to start from scratch – again. And, again, he would most likely decide that the whole thing was my fault.

And Sofia? Maybe she would stay with Swifty. She had never been over to Our side. I wondered if she knew that Spot was about to go in and wage war. I wondered what she would think, and if she would help him. She hadn't seen him in years, but he clearly still thought of her as his girl.

I continued walking, ignoring the growing dark. My plan was to walk until I couldn't move another step, and see where I ended up. With my luck, it would probably be right at the Lodging House door, in a full, ironic circle. But I knew I couldn't go back there. For whatever reason – I was too old, or too different, or too crazy – it wasn't my home anymore.

The fact that I had just decided to end my long career as a newsie and essentially leave behind my lifelong friends did not affect me as much as it might have at another time. My mind was too busy with other things, namely the guilt that I couldn't escape. Boots' face, and his grin, refused to leave me behind.

I found myself at the edge of Battery Park, watching the sun set over the harbor, and almost enjoying the strange quiet of dusk. My feet hurt, my head hurt, my throat hurt, and the packet of seeds rattled in my pocket to remind me never to forget them again.

I had truly gone as far as I could go, with only rocks and waves in front of me. But maybe my feet knew what they were doing, even if my head did not. I looked down. I knew what I would see before I even laid my eyes on them - two gray stones, each the size of my palm, buried next to each other in the dirt off the bridle path. I looked around myself, and saw not a soul.

I stepped on the stones, one foot on each, and took my hands out of my pockets. I didn't have to be lost. I didn't have to be homeless, either, or to abandon my friends. I bounced a little on the balls of my feet and peered over the edge.

Maybe I wasn't done. Maybe getting the Cure was not the end, not for me, at least. Specs would wake from what he thought to be a bizarre dream and tell Dutchy all about it. Dutch would raise his eyebrows skeptically and laugh along with his Love. Swifty and Sofia, they would be helping Spot, somehow. And, well, Spot was probably just about getting ready to cross over for the first time in three years. Did I really want to miss any of that?

But really, what it came down to was this: Boots. I owed him.

I grinned, and was surprised at how good it felt. Then I took once last, lingering glance behind me, squared my shoulders, and jumped.

Fin.