Hi, thank you for reading.

I made a decision to rewrite Crossfire because I was never quite pleased with how the original looked and felt when I was done with it. I'm a better writer now and I wanted to do it justice. There isn't much that I can say except that I hope you find it a satisfying story. You don't need to read Frail Equilibrium but it might help you understand Tess a little more.

I would like to thank CB for his editorial help and AB, CS, R and Jak for their help with editing, proof-reading and idea-bouncing.

The fic is completed and I'll be trying to keep to a weekly update schedule every weekend.

Chapter I

"A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know." Diane Arbus

A cold November evening found Dante snoozing in his chair inside his office. One of those evenings when the temperature dropped below zero and the lack of moisture in the air made the wind bite like a razor. The long spat of murky skies and heavy, depressing clouds had begun to reflect on the city below. Irritation and apathy trickled through the streets like a restless poison. Petty crimes and dull witnesses grew more and more with every passing day.

The mounting tension sent ripples through the denizens of the Underworld as well. Here and there, a few foolish strays reared their head like wolves lifting their noses at the scent of fresh meat. This was no curse in Dante's opinion; he was lazy and didn't care to bother with every little small fry, but getting off his butt once in a while and mopping up the vermin was fun. And sometimes the jobs paid, too! He even had enough saved to get some necessary repairs done – namely, patching the façade. It looked like a mob armed with pickaxes had swept through. Damn demons caused almost as much damage as the pigeons.

The cheap light fixtures in the office clinked idly in time with a particularly strong gust of wind howling past outside. A crack in the façade had been poorly patched with cardboard and duct-tape, doing little to stop the draft. The anemic light of the lamps did nothing to stir him from his slumber. Few things would. He was barely roused from his somnolent state by the howling wind, merely switched the positions of his crossed legs, heels propped up on his desk.

As usual, empty pizza boxes, grimy glasses and dirty magazines littered his desk, crowding each other for space. Only a picture frame seemed cared for, the clutter pushed away from its space. Eva smiled sweetly from the lacquered wood frame. The sultry pin-up girls simpered in the faded posters littering the walls. Music might have done something to lighten the room but the long-suffering jukebox in the corner lay silent, just like the aging drum set and an old guitar, badly in need of new strings. Across from them, beyond a battered sofa, a pool table sat forlornly with its colorful balls scattered on the scratched felt, gleaming in the faint light.

The overhead fan, creaking its way through a slow perpetual circle and casting soft shadows on the floor and walls, did little to dispel the heavy atmosphere of the office which did not trouble the demon hunter in the least. Not even the lingering smell or clinging aura of the demon skulls decorating his walls could stir the hunter, let alone their faint echoes of power and tempting words. Swords, broken blades and spears, even the top half of a halberd pinned them to the walls, testaments of the hunter's victories.

A red duster hung neatly from such a broken spear, pinning an ugly mask to the wall.

"You gone deaf now?"

Dante finally peeled open his eyes and craned his neck forward to glance down past his crossed feet at Trish, standing at his door, holding a pizza box up like a first-class waitress. If only all waitresses looked that good in tight leather pants and corsets.

He grinned lazily. "Is that for me?"

"It was," she said pointedly. "Until I paid for it. The delivery guy was banging on the door. You didn't hear jack, did you?"

Now she had his attention and his eyes popped open with a start. That's right, he had ordered pizza. How long had he been snoozing? He sat up and propped his elbow on the desk.

"Guess I dozed a bit too much," he muttered then chuckled. "Must be getting soft in my old age."

Trish smirked tartly at him and walked over, holding the box in one hand. Just as Dante held his hand out to silently demand the box, she tossed a large brown envelope at him. It landed on the desk with a soft crinkle of paper and a half spin.

"This was pushed under the door. For you," she said coolly while dumping the box on his desk.

Dante eyed the envelope. His name and the name of the office were typed on – old typewriter too, not in the best condition, by the look of the typeset; the 'e' floated slightly over the rest, the 'a' sunk below the line and the 'D' had a crack right down the middle. He pushed it aside. It was probably either another request for his services or some debt he had to pay. It could wait.

He opened the pizza box and cringed. "What the… pineapples? Again?!" he groused. "This is the third time this month! What are those morons at the pizza joint doing?"

Trish cackled. "I like them," she declared.

Dante grimaced at her. "Well I don't. They've got no business on my pizza."

"At least they aren't olives."

Dante's cringe grew fiercer and he made a mock-gagging noise as he leaned back in his chair with a slice after he picked a fat pineapple slice off it. "I'm regretting the money I put into that place."

"What money?" Trish countered, taking a slice of her own. "Your tab is over 100 bucks, isn't it? I paid for this one."

"I told them I'll get it at the end of the month—and I will!" he grumped, seeing her expression.

"Just don't upset them or you can kiss pizza goodbye," she shrugged. "Maybe that's why they keep adding pineapples."

"Or maybe someone's been making eyes at the delivery boy to screw with me," he fired back irritably.

Trish did not dignify that with an answer, just chuckled and polished off her pizza. "I'm taking off. Don't sleep through the rest of the year, will you?"

She picked up the enormous Sparda sword with ease and Dante quirked an eyebrow.

"Where are ya headed?" he asked.

"Girl business with Lady," she replied, sauntering towards the doors.

She wasn't fooling him. There was demon hunting to be had. "Why didn't I hear about this job?"

"Because you aren't invited. Don't wait up," Trish chuckled, blowing him a kiss from the door.

Dante scoffed, scandalized at the idea that the two went off gallivanting without him. It was all a lot of hot air, though. If Lady wanted to pick up every exterminating job out there for the money and to satisfy her everlasting vendetta against demons of all kinds and Trish wanted to tag along for the fun of it… well, that was their business. Dante wasn't interested unless something big was going on.

"Yeah, yeah… 'later then."

Dante feigned a sulk and just enjoyed his pizza – after spending about five minutes taking off all the pineapple pieces, grumbling. After the second slice, his eye fell on the envelope again. Something about it piqued his interest. It wasn't quite the right size to be a debt collection notice or a bill. He licked some grease from his fingers, wiping them on his pants-leg, and picked it up.

Other than his typed name it was completely unmarked. He was used to being contacted through unusual means but nobody had ever crudely just crammed an envelope under his door. It was light, it couldn't have contained much. He flipped it over in his hands a few times. Something was strange about it but he couldn't put his finger on it – and that bothered him. After all the years he'd been in business, Dante felt he'd gotten quite good at picking up unusual hints and 'vibes' – whether it was objects, people, places or situations.

But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what was bothering him about this. Was it too subtle for even his sharp senses? Or was there absolutely nothing about it and he was overthinking this?

Now this is something new, he thought, turning it over again.

But the damn thing may well have come out of nowhere. He flipped it over again and with a sense of finality, wedged his thumb under the sealed flap, tearing across the edge to open it.

The black rotary phone beside him rang suddenly with a sharp, hoarse sound, cracking the silence.

Dante froze in the motion of opening the envelope and stared at the phone, as though the intrusive sound had offended him. Raising an eyebrow, he set the envelope down and leaned back in his chair, swung his legs up on the desk and thumped his heels on it heavily. The receiver bounced up and as he had done countless times before, he caught it and brought it to his ear.

"Devil May Cry," he said, boredom lacing his tone.

"Albatross," said a distant male voice.

Dante's eyebrows rose. The password, a little safety precaution he'd issued to help weed out people who didn't know what they were getting themselves into when calling him.

"So what'll it be?" he said crisply. First whiff of bullshit and he would hang up.

"They are in Amaro."

Dante frowned. The voice on the other end of the line had an edge of tension behind a façade of calm, with a faint accent he couldn't quite place. European for sure but anything more specific eluded him.

"Yeah? And who might that be? Sorry to rain on your parade, but I don't do rescue jobs-"

"Open the envelope."

The voice had interrupted him without any overt inflection or change in tone. Now equally irritated and intrigued, Dante wedged the receiver between his ear and shoulder as he reached for the envelope. He opened it, plucking out a photo. He flicked it straight and stared at it.

The smile slid off his face like wet paint. He felt his blood run cold. He pulled his legs off the desk and sat up straight.

He was staring at a photo taken in secret, the angles and awkward framing made that quite plain. He could see the inside of an old building, a library perhaps. Whatever room it was, it was rather dark and had multiple shelves crammed with books barely visible in the gloom. The few titles he could read and a few other items visible in the room told him it was an occult depository of sorts.

It was not what caused his heart to drop to his feet, though.

Vergil.

It was Vergil, plain as day.

It couldn't be anyone else, not even a demon donning his form for a cruel laugh – Dante knew them too well by now to be fooled. It was there, it was all there. The particular way his hair was swept back, the eerily familiar scowl glued to his face as always. The blue, battered coat. The contours of the face were correct – this was not the face of his brother as he had last seen it, falling away from him into the abyss, dejected and determined. Even in profile Dante could tell their faces were alike. This was Vergil, aged, just like he had, and then some. He looked haggard, an unexpected gauntness haunting his features and making his cheekbones sharp like his blade. He was clean-shaven but still bearing the marks of his corruption. Blue-black marks threaded across his bone white face like delicate cracks in porcelain.

Even the motion he was frozen in, through the camera's lens, had the same eerie familiarity: Sheathing Yamato after a strike. Dante knew that motion all too well, he had seen Vergil do it so many times, the reverent way that his brother returned his blade to its home, all finesse without even trying. He could see specks of blood on the blade as it prepared to sink into the scabbard.

The photo had captured Vergil right after a killing blow.

Vergil… who was supposed to be dead.

Dante had killed him.

No, not killed, he had set his brother free. Because Dante had killed a puppet wearing his brother's skin, broken and twisting on the finger-strings of a monster. Nelo Angelo.

And yet here he was. Walking about, still bearing the signs of his corruption – and wielding Yamato.

Dante had left that sword with Nero. Keeping it in the family, he'd said, like it was a joke. But it wasn't. He could never have held onto Yamato himself. Too painful. It was better off in the kid's hands. But if Vergil had it now… what had happened to the kid? A chill ran down his spine. He hadn't heard from the punk since Fortuna. Knowing him and Vergil though, whatever happened had not been quiet.

How long had it been since Vergil claimed his birthright back?

Dante sank in his chair, staring at the floor with the phone still at his ear. His mysterious caller said nothing, patiently content to wait and let him recover. He lost track of time as his brain struggled to process this revelation, trying to predict and anticipate the endless consequences this could have. Had some of the Order survived, tried to summon up more power? If so, how did Vergil turn up? Or had he been their goal all along? Nero could be dead already, if Vergil had claimed his sword back. Perhaps a greater demon was involved, one more powerful than Mundus – or perhaps just taking Mundus's place to start the cycle all over again, and time had already been ticking while he sat here dozing off. Doubts seeded his mind. What if he'd never truly set Vergil 'free'? What if his brother had been fighting through Hell all these years? Maybe this was something else entirely, a fell power Dante had never encountered before. This smelled like a trap from ten miles off. Nothing was certain and he couldn't trust anyone or anything he was told. The mystery caller could be toying with him and if he was, he'd live to regret ever saying 'Albatross' on a gloomy Thursday evening.

All this and more flashed through Dante's mind like lightning. The cold and cunning mind of a demon slayer assessed every possible threat, anticipated every betrayal. He'd experienced it all at one point or another; nothing could surprise him.

Yet all he could see was an old memory, one that still visited his dreams. He saw his hand reaching out for a brother falling into darkness.

And then there was the demon buried in him, what he was deep down when he forgot himself in the midst of a fight. The demonic heritage they shared which thrived on battle and conflict. That's all he ever seemed to remember them doing; fighting, endlessly. It wasn't always like that but as they grew into their powers, their demonic halves just wanted to battle, to tear at each other until one rose above as the strongest, like a pair of dogs fighting for supremacy.

Now he was staring at a ghost in the face.

The question was: would it have to be more of the same again?

"They are in Amaro," the voice repeated suddenly.

It snapped him out of his spiral of confusion and concern. Wait. They?

"Who—"

He saw it. When he managed to tear his eyes off Vergil's form, walking away from a kill, sheathing Yamato, he spotted the flash of red.

Another figure. The waning light of the hall and the awkward angle of the photo made it hard to see clearly. But Dante saw enough to be startled again. He suddenly reached into a half-open drawer of his desk and rummaged around hurriedly. Balled pieces of paper, string and a demonic charm or two spilled out from the drawer as he searched for a specific item. At last, from the far back, he plucked a battered old magnifying glass, with a broken, missing handle. He leveled it over the figure.

His breath hitched and he nearly blurted her name aloud. But he stopped himself – he couldn't play into their hands, he couldn't give out information.

Privately, though, his mind screamed.

Tess…!?

A small-statured young woman with deep red hair lagged behind Vergil, shadowing his footsteps but looking back and hesitating. Her face was barely lit and far from the camera but Dante could just see the expression on it. She was agitated. Her eyes were peeled and her lips parted slightly. Her body was tense, reluctant, almost like a dog being dragged along by a leash. Seeing her was like a second blow to the chest after seeing Vergil.

He knew her. He had known her as a teenager, when she was an angry, fearless little hellion and he was a cocky young punk himself. They were quite a pair, always in each other's face, always eager to butt heads. She didn't give a toss that he was a half-demon and he couldn't care less that she was a witch. He'd even invented a dumb nickname for her: Twig, on account of her small size and thin build. They had only known each other for a few months, while he lived in the boarding house her family ran. But it was enough time to develop a weird little friendship.

Discovering a major demon trying to force his way into the human world, getting embroiled in the chaos it raised and fighting it before they were even legal to drink, had certainly helped.

But it had cost her. It killed the last of her family, forcing her to go into hiding. More than fifteen years on, he had almost come to accept that he might never see her again.

Yet here she was. All grown up and if it wasn't for her fearful expression, she might've looked stunning. He shook his head in disbelief. She had changed but it had to be her. He'd know those eyes anywhere.

It raised a terrible thought to his mind. Why is she with Vergil? He wondered whether she was working with him. She might have, if she knew who he was – perhaps thinking that as Dante's brother he deserved help. There was no way she didn't know who he was. Tess was always too sharp for her own good – having a very sensitive sixth sense and ability to see the unseen didn't hurt. She must know.

But the look on her face…

She looked frightened. Why would she follow him willingly if she was frightened? The Tess he knew would've fought even in the grip of terror. Instead, she followed him. Could he be misinterpreting her expression?

Within the span of a few moments he'd been confronted with two ghosts. Two people he never thought he'd see again.

He pulled himself together and grabbed the receiver.

"You should know the only jokes I like are my own," he said mildly. He wouldn't tip his hand, wouldn't reveal how much this one photo had shaken him. "Who are you?"

"I desire her safety," said the voice. "The Rosengard coven cannot be trusted. There are adders in its midst. Demons stalk the roads of the city."

Covens. Dante's eyes narrowed. In the last days of their acquaintance, Tess had impressed upon him that he should only trust most of them about as far as he could throw them.

"Gee, someone's untrustworthy. I've never heard that before. I hope you're not a politician," Dante chuckled lightly even though he felt numb. "Who are you?" he repeated a little more forcefully.

"I cannot speak freely," the other one said flatly. "Please. You must come to Amaro. Time is running short. They will both perish."

The words came out sharp and short from that point on, a far cry from his usual jovial attitude. "Why, what's going to happen?"

"I cannot speak freely," the man repeated. "But it must be stopped. She must be stopped."

"Who is 'she'?"

"You will know soon enough."

Dante had to be firm with himself to not give away his irritation. "How about you cut the second-rate gypsy theatrics and tell me something useful?"

"Come to Amaro. You will know."

"Hang on—"

The line dropped dead. A long beeping sound made Dante stare at the receiver in irritation before dumping it on the phone, perhaps a little more forcefully than he meant to. He slumped back in his chair, arms draping numbly on the rests. He was trying to process everything that had just happened. The call, the photo…

He picked it up and stared at it.

It rattled him. That hadn't happened in a while.

He flipped the photo and found a penned message in neat handwriting. 'Time is short. They are in Amaro.'

Again that message. That's all he had to go on. Vergil, Tess, a city called Amaro and the Rosengard Coven, whatever that meant. How it all fit together was anyone's guess.

He threw the photo on his desk irritably and palmed his face. It was such an obvious set up. This wasn't a mere rescue mission. It was a trap. They always were. Dante was savvy enough to smell them a mile away. This one was baited so that he couldn't resist. He had to know.

He had so many questions.

He almost stood up to pace but stopped himself and instead unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, the one he hardly ever opened. He kept some deeply personal things in there, like surviving photos of his mother and their life before her death and certain mementos of jobs that had affected him personally. Like a glove bearing the marks of a precise cut. He stared at it for a long time before he tore his sight away to find something else.

He carefully picked through the items and plucked out a piece of black velvet folded around something small. He deposited it gently on the table, unfolded it and contemplated the object secreted within for a long minute. A humble, hand-wrought little round amulet of aged silver – delicately made for a woman's neck. A protective pattern of a triple moon was stamped on it and a black stone set in the middle. It hung by a piece of thick black string, a piece of an aged hangman's rope.

It stared back at him patiently.

Before vanishing out of his life, Tess had given it to him as a kind of guarantee that they would meet again. Because he had not wanted her to go. She looked so scared and reluctant to go seek shelter in that mysterious coven that it had angered him. A stupid, naïve promise from one teenager to another – who gives away a precious memento of their parents to an angry punk they've only known for a few months?!

But she had. And he kept it.

"You can give it back to me when I come back," she had said.

He had hoped the circumstances under which he would return it would have been better.

So much for hopes.

Trish found him in the same spot when she returned. The sun had just gone down. She walked in, humming faintly and just stopped when she saw him. She stared, curious, for a moment and then chose her tone carefully.

Because there was something very wrong about Dante.

"What's wrong?"

Dante had the expression of someone who had made a grave decision. He stood up and strode over to where his guns were, picked them up and calmly slid them into the holsters before reaching for his coat.

"There's something I gotta do," he said evenly but not quite in his usual lackadaisical tone. "I might be away for a while. Could be pretty big."

She folded her arms. "Do you want me to come?"

He turned around just as he secured Rebellion to his back. "No," he said unexpectedly firmly. "And I don't want Lady running after me, either. This is… personal. You ladies hold the fort."

Trish's eyebrows bowed up. Personal. Now there was a word Dante never really used when it came to demon hunting.

"You sure?" she asked, carefully casual.

"Yeah. Don't worry about it," he replied.

The envelope was plucked from the desk and carefully deposited in his coat's pocket before she could even see its contents. He walked past her for the door.

Trish watched him raise a hand and give her a half-assed goodbye wave without even turning back.

"Oh and tell Lady that I'll get her money when I get back."