A/N: I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected writers. I am merely a dreamer with too much time on their hands and a wide vocabulary. Note: Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction, he is also a serial killer. Hence why we're thrust into an AU. Enjoy.

~This is the end! I'm sorry this isn't as great as I had once planned it to be, or probably what you wanted. But I've been busy with school and I just had no drive to write this story. But I decided to finish it with an even 10 chapters letting good triumph over evil as per standard protocol. I hope you don't hate me too much for butchering a potentially great piece of AU fanfiction.

Chapter 10 – The Dragon Prevails

He watched her for a week. The way she trudged down the steps, one at a time, with her head hung low and her shoulder's slumped. Her bones, which already were popping out of her skin, were even more prominent now that she was too sick to eat. Lisbeth Salander was withering away and it made the glint in Tate's eyes sparkle with each cough, watching as her skin turned blue.

But he grew angry as he watched her sulk, as she rocked herself in the bed muttering over and over "Devil, devil, devil", her tongue heavy and her voice cracking. If she was going to die, she could die on someone else's property. He wanted her to pack up and leave, but she just lay in the large bed, pissing on herself, crying, and letting herself collapse into the darkness.

Lisbeth could barely swallow her own spit, and she felt her lungs give way and her body shut down on her. She felt death wrap its cold arms around her with each breath she took, a large shudder that took so much energy from her, and she was beginning to accept her doom. She would never accomplish the great tasks she had set out for herself, never see Mikael or Armansky again – all she would remember were those brown eyes, glowing ruby with hatred, staring down at her as he tore her apart.

A week after the assault Lisbeth pulled herself out of bed and fell into the bathtub, letting hot water run from the pipes and fill the tub with scalding waves. Dipping herself in the warmth, she let the burning sensation run over her skin and finally, she felt pain that didn't ebb from her heart. She fell asleep in the bath, waking when it grew cold, and picked herself up and covered her gray body with a towel before she made her way back into her room, ready to fall back into a nightmarish sleep once again.

Tate watched her as she lifted herself from the tub, watched as the water dripped from her skin in droplets and form pools at her feet. He licked his lips, wanting more than anything to pounce on her and maker her his one more time. Why not? He thought. He had done it already, she knew he was coming for her. What was holding him back? He followed her into the room, the towel slipping from beneath her, and she pulled a pair of cotton shorts over her thighs and an over-sized tee-shirt she had stolen from Mikael's apartment, and she inhaled the scent of his after shave.

Her mind went fuzzy at the memory of Mikael's touch, so gentle and soft, full of desire and tenderness, and she almost wanted to cry. She didn't realize until that very moment how much she had missed the man, and how her last encounter with him had been over the computer screen. Lisbeth wrapped her arms around herself, letting herself believe for a split second that they were Mikael's arms, before she felt a real pair surround her, and it felt like a bucket of ice water was being thrown on her.

"Shhh," he whispered into her ear, as her eyes popped open and her mouth opened up in a scream. Her chest began to heave, her heart thudding loudly. She squeezed her eyes shut. Please god, not again. Tate let his hands run over the bones that jutted out of her skin and smiled against the collar of her neck. "So beautiful," he murmured, planting kisses as he trailed down her shoulder. "Death suits you, Lisbeth."

Anger surged through her veins and she pushed herself out of his grip. She turned to him, her eyes glowing with hatred and agony, and she watched as Tate tilted his head at her, like she was a curious animal behind glass at the zoo. He took a step closer to her now, a twitch of a smile appearing on his lips.

"Don't tell me you're getting all brave on me now," he said, a low chuckle escaping from the back of his throat. "Don't tell me you're going to start fighting for yourself." He shook his head, a grin breaking out across his face, dimples digging into the side of his cheeks. His fists began to ball at his side, and all the anger started to fill his very core. "Don't do this to me, Lisbeth!" he screamed. "Don't make me kill you! Just make it easy for yourself, why don't you?"

Lisbeth took two steps back, her bottom bumping against the nightstand. Her hands began to clutch at the objects on the table – a pack of a cigarettes, an empty glass, the glass ashtray filled with stale cigarette butts – and she grasped the edge of the ashtray with her palm and flung it at Tate with as much force as her muscles would allow. The tray hit Tate right in the temple, sending him backwards, a giant gash emerging on the flesh. He shook his head, as if dazed, his hand flying up to the cut, and saw the blood that started to spurt from the wound. He looked at her, his eyes gleaming.

"Clever," he said, and the blood on the tips of his fingers started to disappear, and Lisbeth noted the way the wound started to heal itself, like a giant eraser was coming down to wipe the mistake clean. Her heart dropped into her stomach and she realized with utter fear that she could not kill what was already dead. Tate smiled as her face fell, as she realized with false hope that this was the end of the line for her.

Lisbeth had stared death in the face before many times. But never had she stared at the Devil himself while she did so.

Grabbing the pack of cigarettes from behind her, she plucked the packet of matches from inside and held it up in front of her. Tate eyed her curiously, looking at the thin pack in her hand. He couldn't quite make out what she was smiling about, but she took a thin match from the pack and struck it against the surface, setting the tip on fire.

There are many theories on how to get rid of spirits in one's house. There are priests that can be called, demonologists to consult, and a whirlwind of other old wives tales that have been told from generation to generation on cleansing your life of the afterlife. Lisbeth Salander was never a believer of ghosts, never once thought that after you have left this life that there was a chance of returning as a shadow of your former self. In fact, even with Tate Langdon, a boy legally pronounced dead years ago, standing in front of her very eyes, Lisbeth still did not believe in ghosts.

Because Tate Langdon was not a ghost; he was the Devil.

Lisbeth let the match fall from her fingers and she watched as it sprang to life as soon as it hit the hardwood floor. Tate let his jaw fall open as he watched the flames dance and lick at his feet, his memories of his dealings with fire flooding his memory, and steered his eyes away from Lisbeth, sprinting over the bed and heading out of the room and down the stairs of the house.

She ran into the living room and found all of the files and papers she had on Sydney Cooper's murder along with the deaths of the other girls, and grabbed her PowerBook and shoved it into her backpack that was slung on the armchair. As she forced her feet into her boots, she tilted her head up to meet face to face with Moira O'Hara, although not as she had last seen her.

She was crippled, with her face sagging and lines etched into the skin that told more stories than any writer could even begin to tell. One of her eyes were clouded over, barely even visible, and her mouth was in a tight line as she looked at the young Swede. Behind her stood the Harmon family, whom Lisbeth had completely forgotten about in the week following her attack. They looked at her, their eyes glued to her frozen form, and one by one, their mouths turned up in a smile.

"Thank you," Moira said, her voice shaky, as she helped Lisbeth to her feet. Ben took a step towards her, his strong jaw broken out in a breathtaking smile. His hand on Lisbeth's shoulder, he began to gently lead her towards the door, like a father would to his child. "You did well, Lisbeth," he praised. Even Violet, who clung to her mother with babe in arms, smiled at her.

Finally, the torment was over.

The harsh screams coming from upstairs belonged to Tate Langdon and Tate Langdon alone as the flames engulfed him, as he burned and felt the pain that he had caused every man, woman, and child that had ever stumbled onto his path.

Ben opened the door for Lisbeth, giving her a soft push out of the door, and she spun on her heel to look at the figures in front of him. "Y-You're all dead, aren't you?" she choked, looking to each face with new eyes. Violet chuckled and Vivien gave her a stern look. Ben nodded.

"Yes," he said. Lisbeth opened her mouth to speak again, to ask a million questions, but Ben shook his head. "You must leave, Lisbeth," he said. "Leave and never come back. And you must never, ever, speak of this house or what happened here again? Is that clear?" Lisbeth swallowed a large lump in her throat, her tongue tasting of dust and smoke, but she nodded her head. Ben smiled at her. "Good," he said. "Now run along."

Lisbeth turned to look out at the world around her – a bright sun hanging over head, the trees swaying in the light breeze – and all she could hear were the sounds of Tate's screams coming from inside the house, the smell of the fire and the rot as the house began to burn. The distant sound of sirens echoed in her ears, and it immediately alerted Lisbeth to the realization that she had just set a house on fire.

She bolted down the road, heading for somewhere dark, somewhere safe, somewhere away from the Murder House.

Two Weeks After – Sweden

Armansky rubbed his temples, closing his eyes as he tried to process the text he just read. "Let me get this straight," he said, dropping his hands to look across his desk at Lisbeth Salander, who was chewing a piece of gum loudly, staring at him blankly. "You went out for groceries and came back and the house was on fire and you just left?" Lisbeth nodded her head, and Armansky fell back in his chair. "Why did you leave, Lisbeth?" he questioned. "Why wouldn't you stay and talk to the police?"

"I don't do well with the police," she said firmly. Her mind was already starting to heal from her time in LA, and the fact that the fire was still following her home was beginning to bug her. Armansky shook his head. "Lisbeth, you're lucky no one got killed!" he exclaimed. "You could have been faced with a federal charge! They think you started the fire!" Lisbeth shrugged her shoulders, picking herself off the seat and slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

"Can I go now?" she questioned, looking at her boss dully. Armansky looked at her with wide eyes, his face in utter shock. She just did not care. He shook his head, letting out a long sigh, and waved his hand at her. "You can go," he said, and as Lisbeth made her way towards the door, Armansky slammed a hand down on his desk and Lisbeth looked back at him with slits for eyes.

"Why won't you tell me what happened in LA?" he questioned. "Why did you just show up after a month's worth of research, and tell me you found absolutely nothing? You can't honestly think that I believe that crock of bull shit, Lisbeth." Lisbeth took large steps towards Armansky until she was leaning across the desk, her eyes boring into his.

"I told you, I found nothing," he said, her voice icy. "Tate Langdon is dead, those girls are dead, there is no lead on who could have killed them. End of story. Case closed." She pulled away from him slowly, his jaw dropped as a chill ran down his spine at her words. It was obvious that she was hiding information from him, but he knew that he would never be able to get it out of her. Lisbeth did not ask to leave, did not wait for permission to be dismissed, and left Armansky's office, slamming the door behind her.

The Dragon walked, her head bent low, as she felt the Devil's eyes on her even as he slumbered in the ground underneath her feet. Even though he had fallen, he would rise again, and the Dragon was ready to fight fire with fire once more.

-änden