*A/N* Hello there, friends! Sorry for the wait, I know it's been a while. I lost motivation, but then I found this chapter 3/4 finished, just languishing on my computer! So, on to the story. Sorry for Lock being OOC, but in my mind, he's the type of person who thinks he is in charge, but his cohorts subtly manipulate him until they get whatever they want. He also tends to fall for anyone who frightens him. He's...yeah. Kind of dumb. Anyways, here you get to see Sally and Hal interacting some more. Sorry for the moodswings. In this story, Sally tends to be a little more...aggressive when she's working. (She's the bad cop to Hal's...bad cop. These detectives have issues!) ( Be on the lookout for their undercover names! I am willing to take suggestions!) Also, that "Shockingfellow" fellow mentioned? An alternate version of Rockefeller! (I couldn't think of any punny Halloweenish names today. Sorry about that) *Advisory* I don't own anything but my characters. Also, I changed the coverart! Yay! Do any of you have any suggestions for a better title? "The Darkest Nightmare" sounds a little bland to my tastes. Thanks to all those who reviewed. Read, review, and enjoy! PM me if you have any questions.

Chapter Six: The Devil May Care

Lock felt weak. He didn't know why. He only knew that he only felt so helpless when he was around her. Ullalume. How she always looked at him with those black, mocking, beautiful eyes. He just didn't understand. He could charm a girl faster than you could say; "speak of the devil", but this woman just threw him off of his game. It was infuriating. And oddly pleasant. This was why he was still thinking of her, days after their encounter, when the ragdoll and the witch showed up, sniffing around outside of his "apartment", looking around for some work to do.

"Can I help you?" he had asked snottily. He knew who they were. The ones Skellington recommended. They didn't look like much, to him. The ragdoll looked too plain, too frowzy to be hanging around with the likes of Skellington, and the witch… Well, the witch… he was practically reeking of magic. Hadn't even made an attempt to cover it up. They were in public for god's sake…

Here, it didn't matter. They were in some of the darker parts of Scarlem, in the tenements, where the police didn't even bother to come anymore. Even if they weren't paid off, they knew it was useless. This was the Boogie Man's territory, and nobody messed with him.

Lock vaguely wondered for a second, just a second, if this was some kind of police scheme. A desperate last gamble. But then he looked into their faces, their broken and worn down faces, and laughed. Who was he kidding? The police were in Oogie's pocket, and these suckers were just looking for some quick cash.

"I, uh, we're looking for some jobs." Said the woman, not looking at him, but at the ground. Her hair had come out of its tragically unfashionable up-do, and about half of it had fallen into her face. Lock sneered at her. What pathetic waste of a life, he thought cruelly. But still pretty, in a virginal kind of way. "What kind of jobs are you looking for?" he drawled, brow raised. He was going to drag this out, make them suffer, humiliate them as Skellington always, always, humiliated him. Hey, the friend of his enemy was also his enemy, he thought jocularly.

Then the man spoke. "Oh, you know, the usual," he said, sarcasm threaded through his voice. "Some thievery here, some bootlegging there. And oh! Murder! That's my favorite, you know? I just love killing people." Lock narrowed his eyes at the man. He was shorter than he was, but thicker, too. A lot of muscle. He could probably hold his own and more if they got into a fight.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" he snarled at him. "Shockingfellow? Walking in here like you own the place!" He wanted to see him flinch, wanted to see him jump. Damn. The man didn't move a muscle, just looked bored. Probably burnt all of his nerve endings off, Lock thought. Damn addict.

The frumpy ragdoll cleared her throat. "We, uh, we don't want any trouble, mister. We're just looking for a job to hold us over." Lock looked her over, clucking his tongue. So the mouse can squeak, huh? "You said you were a gun moll?" he asked in a tone of disbelief. "Who's? His?" Lock gestured to the witch. "You two clowns look like you couldn't even knock over a grocery store." At this, the ragdoll narrowed her eyes, red lips turned down.

"What, do you want us to prove it to you or something?" she asked quietly. Something in her tone made Lock flinch a little. Something hard and steely. "Sure. We can do that," She said turned to her partner, the witch. "Do you have your gun, Henry?" The witch pulled out a neat little pistol out of his jacket, a Smythe and West Son Ghost Special. The ragdoll rolled her eyes. "What the hell do you think you're going to do with that peashooter, boy?" she snorted.

The witch, Henry, or whatever his name was, looked slightly miffed. "I'm an excellent shot, I'll have you know," he said, fingering the trigger lightly. The ragdoll smirked, and out of her long coat came a shot gun with a sawn- off barrel. She turned to look at Lock, her expression completely unrecognizable from the mousy girl she had been a few seconds ago. She twisted her face up in a sickening, almost feral, grin, black scars at the sides of her mouth curling upwards.

For the second time in the day, Lock felt helpless. He liked her. Goddamit, I really have to stop falling for dangerous dames, he thought, cold heart banging weakly against his chest. I should've learned my lesson now, especially after what happened with Shock. He looked at the strange pair, the witch and the ragdoll. They were an interesting pair…who now had the upper hand. Lock cursed under his breath. Whether they had intended to or not, they had backed him into a wall, their weapons drawn. He really was helpless.

"So, Mr. DeVille," said the ragdoll, smiling brightly. "Who do you want us to kill first?"