I'm glad I was able to get this chapter in before my boyfriend came to visit. Otherwise it would have had to wait until later in the week. Thanks to kabshaw, Aspen Le Fay, dragonzfire718, and Anasazi Darkmoon for reviewing the debut chapter of this story!

Chapter II

It took her about a week to transform her apartment from a fixer-upper to an actual living space. She had scrubbed the floors, walls, windows, countertops, and the bathroom from top to bottom until she felt she would die of the fumes from the astringent cleaning products. The domestic work had turned out to be surprisingly therapeutic, though. She was cleaning away dust and neglect instead of blood and gore. She had been able to take her mind off her troubling past for just a little while and focus on getting over a year's worth of soap scum and slime off her bathtub. It was rather refreshing.

She stood back and admired her work, yellow gloved hands resting on her hips. Though she did not feel very clean herself, her apartment fair gleamed from its attentions. At least now she felt like she could take a bath or shower without fear of acquiring some mold-borne disease. She looked to Archie, who was currently engaged in batting around a toy mouse she had bought for him. He had been with her for about three years now since she had rescued him from the home of a child-trafficking drug lord in Russia. Why a man who made a living from selling children and a whole collection of potent, illegal drugs would have an affinity for kittens, she never came to understand. The kitten had been in far better condition than the children he had sold into untold suffering.

It did not matter anymore, for the man was dead by her hand. She had been contracted to end his life and so many others before and after him. Some had been worse than him and some had been not quite as bad. And then there were the few who had not been very bad at all, but had merely ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The past was the past. There was no point in feeling guilt for things she could not undo. But guilt, this alien emotion that she had sought to quell as a teenager in ruthless training to become a contract killer, was rearing like a hydra. For so long she had managed to suppress her conscience, making an art out of cool, methodical dispassion. Her cat was one of the few things that had coaxed her pathetic and neglected humanity out of the shell she had become.

Beatrix was the only one who did not laugh at me when I brought Archie back. She understood. She always understood…

Before her memories could drag her further into emotions she did not wish to entertain, she forced her mind to shutter them out. She was not ready to deal with them. She did not feel she ever would be ready to deal with them.

Going into the bathroom, she bent over the sink and splashed cool water on her face. Her reflection gazed back at her with a somber mien when she straightened. Dark brown curls had sprung free from the makeshift pony-tail she had made, framing a serious, but comely face with delicately molded, high cheek-bones. Soft, pink lips shaped a mouth that was unaccustomed to smiling often. Her fair skin was shining under a sheen of sweat.

"Erica Lynn Rosdale, welcome to your life," she whispered. "Better take care not to fuck this one up."

A pleading mew at the doorway broke through the woman's thoughts. Archie padded in and promptly began rubbing up against his mistress's legs. She sighed and picked him up, holding him up to face the mirror.

"What do you think, Archie? Do you think I can be Erica?" she asked dryly.

As expected, her feline companion merely purred and started to swing his paw at the other cat he saw in the mirror. Erica or someone else, she would always be the same person to him. She would always be the same loving mistress who fed him, cuddled him, and spoiled him rotten. She let him down and followed him out the bathroom to make his afternoon dish of tuna mixed with sardines. She watched him eat the noisome smelling mush with a thoughtful expression.

"So, I guess I'd better get around to getting a job. Not that I really need the money, but…it would be nice to have someone to talk to," she said conversationally.

"Not that," she added, with a hint of a sardonic smile, "you're not fun to talk to. Don't get me wrong, you make a lot of interesting points in our conversations. Or, at least, you do in my imagination when I imagine you talking back to me. But, you see the problem here…I'll go mad…well, crazy. Americans say crazy usually."

She stared at the few groceries she had left, drumming her fingers on the table. Her own lunch would probably consist of a sandwich or a piece of fruit. When it came to cooking, her skills fell considerably short. No kitchen deserved such as her.

"Maybe I should gussy up and go out tonight," she mused. "What was that bar Mr. McClellan spoke of…McGinty's?"

Archie provided no answer. He was boisterously chomping on his meal, oblivious to all else.

"Right, so I'm going to imagine you just said 'yes, that's the one' and 'wear the cute green blouse'," she said glibly, rising to shower. "Who knows? Maybe I'll meet my own true love there," she added jokingly.

Archie responded with a sneeze that sounded like it was almost a derisive snort.

--

There were times when Murphy wished he could go back to the way things had been before Saint Patrick's Day. That was the night when the lives of the MacManus brothers had forever changed, though they never would have guessed it at the time. That was the night they had taken their first baby steps onto the path God had set before them like a dark beacon. They had trounced a couple Russian mob peons in a bar fight. They had no way of knowing the Russians would return the morning after, wounded in pride and body and rabidly seeking a fatal vengeance.

He would never forget that night he and Connor slept in the prison cell. The voice of the priest had boomed through his skull, empowered by the presence of the Almighty. Over and over he kept hearing the same phrases, the volume progressively getting louder until he thought he would drown in the words.

They all just watched as her assailant walked away…we must all fear evil men…there is another kind of evil we must fear most…the indifference of good men!

Rain water had washed over him as it seeped through the cracks in the cement ceiling, and he had no doubt it was infused with God's love and power. Murphy could distinctly remember the sweet scent of roses filling the room. He had never felt closer to God than at that moment. He had felt his heart would almost burst from the Divine Presence swelling within him. And that was when he knew what God wanted him to do. He and Connor had both just known from that moment what their Lord was Calling them to do.

"Destroy all that which is evil," his brother had whispered in wonder.

"So that which is good may flourish," Murphy had responded, sounding equally awed.

But before all that, life had been simple. Before all that, Rocco had been alive. Murphy and Connor's best friend had died three weeks ago tonight.

"No-no-now! Everyone—FUCK! ASS!—qu-quiet! We're all goin' ta have a ttttoast ter our lad Rocco," Doc announced, his shaky voice somehow managing to silence the mass of people gathered in the small bar.

Everyone solemnly bowed their heads in respect while Connor stood.

"Roc, I know yer up there lookin' down on us unless, o' course, yer in the girls' locker room or watchin' Angelina Jolie in the shower," the Irishman said, evoking a number of agreeing chuckles around the room. "But, in case ye've takin' time from those perverted pursuits ta check in on yer lads, just know that we miss ye, and we're always thinkin' about ye."

"And the Saints will get the fucking bastard who killed you, man!" someone shouted from the audience.

Connor and Murphy's identical blue gazes met with solemn intensity. Unspoken words flashed between. Yes, yes they would.

Murphy raised his glass high and intoned while keeping his eyes on his twin, "Ta Roc!"

The dark-haired MacManus knocked back his beer in a single gulp and set the glass down with a resounding thump. His eyes wandered over the chattering bar patrons, noting how many of them he did not recognize. Doc's business had soared once word had gone out that the Russians had decided to pull out. While this was definitely good for the old Irishman, Murphy found he missed it when the bar had been frequented by a few loyal patrons, including Connor, Rocco, and himself.

Although he could not say he was disappointed with the considerable increase in the feminine presence. There was one woman in particular he had noticed. Unlike the rest of the girls in the bar, she had separated herself from the crowd. She sat isolated in a corner by herself, sipping on a martini and appraising the proceedings of the bar as if she were overseeing a court hearing. Half of her brown curls were pulled back behind her head, while the rest brushed over her shoulder just above her modest cleavage. She wore a dark green, low-cut blouse with sleeves that flared out at the shoulders and dark blue, straight-leg jeans. Black heels protruded from the ends of her pant-legs, looking sharp enough to stab someone with. How women walked around in heels so narrow, Murphy had never been able to figure out.

"Murph," he heard Moira say, "why don't you go and talk to her? She's been over there in that corner for the past half hour all by herself. She looks lonely."

Before he could even respond to the small woman, she was being whisked away by his brother for a dance. He watched the two for a few seconds, wondering idly to himself if his brother would be spending the night at Moira's apartment tonight before he decided to heed his friend's advice. He grabbed another glass of beer and ambled over to the corner where she sat, twirling her olive around in her drink. She watched him approach her, making him feel unaccountably uneasy for some reason. The expression on her face had not changed one whit from when she had been watching the drunken revelers, his twin numbered among them by now, most likely.

Her eyes were the same color as her shirt, save for being a few shades lighter. They were more like an olive green, really. For all that they belonged to a mortal woman, Murphy could feel those eyes pierce through him. Sharp, shrewd, and altogether very intense was how Murphy would describe those eyes. All the lines he had at his disposal evaporated under the unexpected force of her stare.

The nameless woman did not say anything when he stood directly in front of her.

Fuck, come on, Murphy…she's just a lass.

"Um, hi," he stuttered lamely.

The corner of the woman's mouth curled a bit. Murphy could not discern if she was smirking or genuinely smiling at first.

"Hello," she replied.

More awkward silence ensued.

"Did you want to sit?" she asked. She smiled, and the eyes that were so piercing and intense from before had been overcome by a glow of mirth.

"Aye, if the lady doesn't mind. I figured ye could use some company," Murphy responded in what, to his mind, sounded smooth. He slid into the chair across from her while she shifted her position to face him.

"I'm Murphy," he informed her.

"Nice to meet you, Murphy," she said. Her voice was pleasantly pitched, but her accent was difficult to place. It was a generic American accent, one that dominated the movies and television shows. She did not sound like a Boston native.

"And what might yer name be, or am I just ta call ye 'green-eyes'?" he inquired wryly.

He saw the slightest hint of color rise to her fair cheeks and he silently cheered himself for somehow getting through her guard. Upon closer inspection, he could see that she was a very lovely, well-proportioned woman. She wore very little make-up, which was quite refreshing. A breath of silver eye shadow, some mascara, dark eyeliner, and a dash of color to the lips were all that adorned her fair face. Murphy always found the propensity of the fairer sex to paint themselves up very irritating. He could usually find something naturally beautiful in most women he saw (some women, including one hulk of a former co-worker, were an exception). He found it far more eye-pleasing when make-up was used to enhance what beauty was already there.

"Sorry. My name's Erica. I kinda just moved here from grad school and I'm trying to get my bearings," she said.

Murphy nodded in understanding. This was probably her first experience living on her own. He felt a dash of sympathy for the young woman.

"I'm sorry about your friend…the one you guys just toasted," Erica murmured sympathetically. Her eyes had softened to kindness.

Murphy quelled the flare of pain that tore at his heart. Rocco's death, though three weeks past, was like an unhealed wound, raw and tender. Guilt, anger, and grief were injuries that healed slowly in his family.

"He was a good man…well, he meant well, I s'pose. He was a good friend, too," he said softly.

"Though I'm not quite sure what was meant by the last part," she continued, her tone growing more casual. "What was that about the 'Saints'?"

Murphy blinked back his surprise. It was not that he was disappointed the fame he and his brother had garnered in their escapades had failed to reach the woman. He was more taken aback by it, since for the past few weeks their media-gotten name of the "Saints" had been plastered over the papers and television news shows. Within South Boston, one would have to truly be out of touch with the world to have never even heard of one of the exploits of the Saints.

"Oh, ye must definitely be new," he said lightly, hoping his voice and demeanor betrayed nothing. If he said nothing on the subject, he feared it would look suspicious. After everything that had happened, he was slightly more aware of the repercussions the choice he and his brother had made had on other people. The less people who knew or even suspected the true identities of the "Saints", the better it was for both parties.

"The 'Saints' are these lads who've killed a bunch o' criminals and mob guys, especially the ones that've managed to escape the laws o' regular justice," he explained, carefully watching her reaction.

Erica took it all in, her eyes lightening up with unfeigned intrigue. "So, these men are like vigilantes administering their own form of justice?"

Murphy did not particularly enjoy being named thusly, as he knew of no vigilantes that were on missions set forth to them by God. He, his brother, and their father were fulfilling a sacred Calling. Of course, he could not tell Erica any of that. He would have to grudgingly concede that the actions of the MacManuses were going to look like plain vigilante work to everyone else.

"I guess ye could put it that way," he admitted, biting back resentment.

Erica stared at him for a while, as if she were weighing his words carefully in her mind. It was becoming clear that this was a woman who did not miss much. She probably heard some of the rancor in his tone and was now analyzing it in her mind. She could not be any older than Moira, but there was something about her that eclipsed the normal trappings of age. He wondered what those light green eyes concealed from the world.

Course we all have our wee little secrets, he thought to himself. He ought to know, for the secrets he harbored were darker and deeper than most.

"Well, looks like I have some reading up to do," Erica declared, breaking through what was quickly becoming an awkward silence.

They talked some more at length about far more trivial matters. Slowly enough, whatever had been keeping the young woman in such reserve was loosening its hold and she spoke more easily. He came to learn that she had studied psychology at a university on the west coast and had acquired her master's degree in the field, though she had no idea what she would do about a job. She had studied a fair amount of languages, fluently speaking Spanish, French, Italian, and German as well as Latin. It was almost as impressive as Murphy and Connor's own repertoire of spoken tongues. She expressed her interest in getting a job as a translator or interpreter, perhaps at a hospital if she could manage it.

"I figure whatever I learned about psychology could be useful there, as well," she said.

Her martini glass had already been emptied, as well as Murphy's glass of beer. He made a motion for Moira, holding up two fingers to let her know to bring by two more beers.

"Ye do drink beer, right? Not just girly drinks?" he asked, clearly amused.

Erica smiled in a self-deprecating way. "I don't drink that much, actually. But I'll take a beer."

Murphy snorted. "A college girl and ye don't drink? I thought that was all college kids did."

She was silent for a moment, her face unreadable. "So, what about you, Murphy? We've been talking all about me for the past half-hour."

Knowing he did not need to be told twice the subject had been changed, he decided to oblige the lady. He told her about how he and his twin brother came over from Ireland some years ago at first to find their estranged father who had left them at the age of two. They ended up carving out a niche of sorts, if one could call it that. He did not elaborate overmuch on certain points, like how he and Connor squatted in a squalid dump of a building that was touch and go with the hot water and heat. He told her about his fiery, hellcat mother who had selfishly been hoarding the knowledge of which twin was truly firstborn to herself for their entire lives.

Erica found that notion far too comical. "Are you serious? That's ingenious."

But the laughter and wide grin it had provoked was well worth the extreme annoyance he found in the situation. While he had found her lovely before, she was stunning when she actually smiled and laughed. If he had met her at any other time in his life he may well have considered asking her out. Being who he was, he could never do that with a clear conscience. Aside from the fact that it would unfairly place her in danger, he would not be the ideal boyfriend. He would not be able to give her the kind of companionship a woman like her deserved.

His brother had been enamored of Moira for quite some time now, and Murphy knew it was their work that held him back from striking up anything more than friendship with her. Perhaps they might share a casual night together sometime in the near future, but it would never go beyond that. If Connor had to suffer without the warmth and love of a woman, so would Murphy. It was only right and fair.

He saw her eyes flicker over to where Connor was thoroughly making a fool of himself by trying to dance an Irish jig with all the uncoordinated grace of a drunkard.

"So, that's Connor? You two don't look very much alike. At least not from this distance," she remarked.

"Aye, that's because we're…what do ye call 'em?" he replied, searching for the term. "Fraternal twins, that's it."

She watched his brother with growing amusement, shaking her head at his antics.

"I don't have any siblings. It must be nice. To know you'll always have someone," she said softly. A wistful glimmer lit up her eyes before she blinked it away, taking a drink from her glass of beer. "It must be nice," she repeated, turning her attention back to Murphy.

He felt an overwhelming need to comfort the woman just then. A deep sadness had revealed itself for a merely a moment before it was quickly pulled back behind its tight guard. But it had been there. Sadness mixed in with loneliness.

"Oi, Murph!" Connor interjected. His voice was thick with alcohol, but his speech was not quite slurred yet. It would take a good deal more beer before that happened. "Ye've been over in that corner chattin' up the poor lass long enough! Yer bein' selfish, now! Bring 'er over here!"

Erica's eyes widened. "What does he want?"

Murphy chuckled a bit and stood up. "He just wants to meet ye, for all tha' he's bein' a drunken eejit right now. Don't worry, ye'll like him. Course, ye already met me and can clearly see I'm the better lookin' one."

She laughed. Her cheeks had acquired a pinkish tinge to them ever since she had finished that glass of beer. It made the green of her eyes stand out even more. She rose and took Murphy's proffered arm. He led her over to where a crowd of people were gathered around his brother, who was done with dancing for the time being and was telling stories about his youthful escapades back in the mother country. The MacManus boys ever did love being the center of attention, Connor even more so.

Erica was introduced with a great deal of flourish, and she received a "proper Irish welcome" as the MacManus brothers put it when Doc served her the best of his whiskey on the house. It became quite clear that she had not been lying when she admitted to never drinking very often. There was no other way to put it. The young woman was a lightweight. But she bore it with all good humor. Her cheeks bloomed redder and redder with each shot of whiskey she imbibed. She danced with Connor and Murphy, her gracefulness belying the amount of alcohol coursing through her veins. Even Doc came out from behind the bar to show the girl a thing or two about Irish jigs.

The patrons dwindled down as the night wore on till it was just Doc, the MacManus brothers, and Erica. Moira had retired early, much to Connor's chagrin, stating she had to work at the hospital the next day.

Murphy and Connor had a clear problem on their hands. Erica was leaning against Murphy, her eyes glazed over. They had asked her repeatedly where she lived so they could take her home, but the words she grunted were unintelligible. She kept trying to lie down on the floor, but neither of the twins would let her.

"Shit, this is our fault," Murphy growled. He kept a tight grip on Erica, whose gracefulness had long since been replaced by the tendency to swerve around on her feet.

Connor ran his hands through his dirty blonde hair, trying to think on what to do with the woman who was, by now, completely out of commission.

"No, it's yer fuckin' fault for fillin' the lass up with liquor when she told ye she didn' drink much," the blonde twin retorted. His own sobriety was probably in question, but he was a practiced drinker.

Murphy hissed through clenched teeth as he considered his option. Only one seemed feasible. "We'll have ta take her with us," he stated.

Connor nodded slowly.

"Aye." He looked at the woman who had probably gotten drunker tonight than she had ever been in her life. The morning after would not be very kind to her. And he did not much care for the fact that he would probably be there when she awoke in a place not her own.

"She's not goin' ta be a happy one when she wakes tomorrow," he pointed out.

Murphy had shifted the woman into his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. She was sleeping now, her breaths slow, even, and warm against his neck. Unexpectedly, he felt a pang of warmth and tenderness well up within him. Both of the twins had been raised by their mother to bear a deep and abiding respect for women. The two of them would sooner shoot themselves in the groin rather than take advantage of a woman in Erica's condition. Unfortunately, Erica had only just met them and did not know them well enough to know the two of them would not try anything. He could well imagine how she would react when she would awake tomorrow. And he could not say he would blame her for it.

"Aye…better make sure we're stocked up on ice. I think we might need it," he remarked sardonically.