Author's Note: I'm not going to say much here because I'm sure you're all anxious to get to this chapter and, as it is, it is almost 7k words itself. But I did want to say one thing: in the story, the date is June 8th, 1999. I found it fitting that this chapter be posted today, seeing as today is June 8th, too. You guys and Diana get to learn together (just seven years apart, heh). I hope you guys enjoy and, if you would, let me know what you think. I've been waiting for this moment for quite some time (as I'm sure you guys have been, too!). Woot.

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original newsboy characters – they are the property of Disney. The main characters Stress and Diana (among others) belong to me. Any other character, when noted, is property of their respective owner.

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a Maldição de Diabo

June 8, 2007

A Devil's curse. An unsolved murder. 4 generations.
At the brink of his own destruction, he traded his life for 100 years to find out what exactly happened that night.
If that wasn't strange enough, what exactly he found out during his quest was.

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PART FIFTY FOUR

--

Patrick Conlon could not believe what he was seeing. The girl, after doing nothing but pick up a photograph and look at it, had turned into some sort of statue. She was still standing, her green eyes were still open and her mouth was wide but she was frozen – unresponsive and unseeing. He resisted the urge to wave his hand before her eyes. He had the feeling it would not do much. "Diana? What the fuck?" He reached a hand for her but, before he had made contact, pulled his hand back. He was not sure if she was contagious or not and, if she was, he did not want it.

Trying to pretend that he was not voicing a question that, as far as his common sense told him, no one could answer, Patrick lifted his head up loftily. He did not have any clue as to where this Jack ghost was but, he figured, it would be better to glance upward than to look at the floor. He pointed at Diana's still form. "So, is this normal? I mean, her freaking out like that? She ain't dead or some shit, right? Because I don't know how to deal with dead people." Then, as if he realized what he had said – and who (what) he had said it to – Patrick held up his hands and shrugged. "No offense, buddy."

Unsurprisingly, there was no verbal response. Well, there was, but he could not hear it. Which, of course, was a good thing.

"Spot Conlon must be rollin' over in his grave to know that this louse is his family," Jack muttered as he lowered himself to the floor of the small room. He could not understand what he was doing there, or what he was doing with Diana. But, right then, it did not matter. His first priority was, as always, taking care of the Daite girl. This Conlon character could, as far as Jack was concerned, wait.

With Patrick staring at Diana as if she was going to fall and shatter into a million pieces, Jack looked her over. Once again, Diana had fallen into a vision – but therein laid the problem. She had not exactly fallen anywhere. She was still on her feet, unmoving. And it was very unnerving.

Taking great care not to upset her while in that state, Jack tried to use his ghost powers to move her from her place in the center of the room over to the bed. However, while he was no longer panting, he was still drained of his energy. The fantastical exit from the building, coupled with showing off for Spot Conlon's descendent, had totally wiped him out.

But he still wanted her to be comfortable. And, since a supernatural transport was out of the question, he decided to move her physically. He placed one hand on the back of her thighs while wrapping the other around her torso and tilting her back into his arms. She was much lighter than he had thought she would be.

He shifted her so that his grip was secure before looking down into her face. There was a small pang that hit him just then; she really did resemble, in a hard-to-explain way, Stress. It was eerie so, with some of the last power he had left, he blinked. Diana's eyelids shut.

Patrick's large cyan eyes widened considerably when Diana – still statue-like, though he noticed that her eyes were now closed – began to float. He assumed that it was her friend, the ghost, back at work. "So, yeah, I guess you got this," he said, backing away as Diana was lifted into the air. "I'll… I'll be over here if you need me."

Jack just rolled his eyes as he maneuvered Diana over to the cot. "Conlon, my ass. If that was Spot he would have threatened to soak whoever it was that was messin' with a dame." He snorted, wishing, not for the first time, that he could talk to someone that was not involved in the curse. It would be interesting to tell this twenty-first century version of a Conlon just how great a great-grandfather he had. As it was, as soon as Diana was awake again, he knew he would have a few choice words for her on how to pick a friend.

Unsettled by the continued quiet, Patrick nodded to himself, smiling a half-smile that showed just how weird he thought this whole thing was. This was going far beyond "fucking weird". It was, in his opinion, quickly approaching "I think I need an MRI or something because I'm seeing shit." Okay… now what?

On the one hand, this could be the perfect chance to escape. Diana was out cold and, judging by the way she was seemingly moving on her own, the ghost – I still can't get used to the idea that I'm hanging with a fucking dead guy! –was occupied. But, then again, he knew he could not, in good conscience, leave the girl alone in such a strange situation. The fact that he had no idea how to leave this exitless room, and that the only (living) person who did know had just passed out, kind of helped, too.

So, the way he saw it, he could either take off and pretend that none of this had ever happened or he could hang around and get this girl to tell him what was going on. It was one thing to be expected to believe that she knew a ghost – and, considering the little spin he had just had, he believed it – but it was another entirely to believe in a ghost without knowing anything else. Like how she had gotten involved with a ghost and, perhaps, what her last name was.

Patrick shrugged to himself as he folded his legs under him and, careful not to knock over any of the random piles of papers and photographs, took a seat on the floor. If curiosity killed the cat, it was about to cost a New York City cab driver his job.

Once settled, he looked over at the cot. That strange, yet familiar, pillow was lying at the head of the bed. As he watched, an invisible somebody lowered Diana down so that her head was resting gently on it.

It was a really weird sight and Patrick could not help but shake his head. Who would have thought that, when I picked up that girl in my cab, that she'd be so damn freaky. It's a good thing she's cute, he added silently. He was the first person to admit that he was shallow – a pretty face sure went a long way with helping Patrick come to terms with ghosts and the like.

"So," he called out, in an attempt to make idle conversation. If there was another thing that could be said about Patrick Conlon, he was not a fan of silence, "I take it that she's gonna be okay. But, is there a time limit to this kind of thing? Cause I, you know, I got shit to do. Not to mention a job I got to get back to." Not that he really cared all that much about his job, of course. He was just wondering.

Jack just shook his head. He was standing over Diana, making sure that she was covered with the quilt. She was nowhere near as hot as she had been the last time the demon had bothered her during a vision and he wanted to keep her comfortable. But, just because she was not warm, it did not mean that Oscar was not harassing her again – he would not put it past the demon to attempt to claim her again. Here, let me just lift her eyelids and check to see if her eyes are red again…

Again, there was no response – not even further purring from that odd cat – but Patrick had not really expecting one at all. He scratched his head absently and took a second look around the room. As he had noted before, there were piles and piles of papers – photographs, letters, newspaper clippings, etc. – and he had to work to fight back a sneeze from all of the dust that was all over.

None of what surrounded him caught his attention, though. That is, not until he spied a black, leather-bound book that was perched atop one of the nearer piles.

Hmm… what's this?

Not feeling the least bit guilty, he reached for it. Oh, shit. I bet this is that dead guy's little black book. How funny is that? Nice… He stifled a snicker as he cracked the book open. Now this was something that could keep him entertained while he waited for Diana to wake back up from her trance.

And Jack, who was busy having a silent fit over the way Diana's eyes had gone from the familiar green color to an even more familiar golden shade, never even noticed.

--

Whether she was growing accustomed to her consciousness's relocation during a vision or not, Diana knew, at once, that she was gone from Jack's room. She also, from finding herself in this exact location for a second time, knew exactly where she was. The question on her mind, however, was this: What the hell just happened?

After six days of falling into various visions, courtesy of Jack's vast photograph collection, Diana was used to the way they worked. But this was different. The picture she had seen featured three people: Jack, Stress and, unless she was imagining it – the face was fuzzy and in the back of the image ­– Oscar Delancey. And the three of them were definitely outside. She was not. Instead, she was inside – in the same old diner she had found herself in when she met Honor Williams in a previous vision.

She was not alone, either.

"And that's what Osc—wait a moment… Jessa? Hey… are you even listening to me?"

Diana blinked a few times before noticing the girl that was standing before her. With that same bushy brown hair, small, wispy frame, piercing blue-green eyes and obviously annoyed expression, Diana recognized her: Honor.

I'm in the same vision again. I'm Stress again! She shook her head. Talk about déjà vu…

Choosing to ignore Honor for the moment, Diana glanced down at herself. Just as she had expected to, she found that she was wearing a white button-down blouse, with faint newsprint stains covering the front, and a long black skirt, the hem covered in varying layers of dust and dirt. She lifted her hands slightly so that they were in sight – they were just as stained with ink as her shirt. There was no doubt about. She was Stress.

She shook her head again. Remembering how this had gone last time, she decided to be honest – or, at least, as honest as she could be – up front with the girl. "No, Honor," she said, "I wasn't listening. I was a… a little out of it, I guess." She attempted a weak smile. It was interesting, meeting Honor's gaze like that. It was almost like she was looking into a furry brown face when she met Honor's eyes. This is Four, she told herself. She has the answers. I should take this chance to get them from her. "Listen, about—"

But Honor was already speaking. "Oh, Jess. You really never know when to listen, do you? This is important, too."

Important? That one word stuck out in Diana's mind. Somehow, she doubted that it was anywhere as important as the questions that she had for the other girl. But, what could she do? Just like the last time, Diana had to try her best to impersonate Stress. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

Honor's hands were on her hips but there was something about the way that she held her head that told Diana that she was pretending to be angry. "Well, you remember Oscar, right? Oscar Delancey and that brother of his, Morris?"

"Unfortunately," Diana quipped, her stomach clenching at the mention of his name. Oscar Delancey… I wish I could forget him. In her mind's eye she could see the way that he leered at her; she could almost feel the heat of his breath against her neck again. She shivered. "What about him?" It had been a surprise to her that Oscar had been in that picture with Jack and Stress but, now that she thought about it, it made sense. And, if the demon was alive when Jack was, it also made sense that Honor Williams knew him, too. But what, exactly, did she know?

"Well," Honor began, leaning in so that she could whisper, "I heard from Fae that he was back in town. And that ain't all. He's been asking around, looking for Jack." She paused, looking straight into Diana's eyes. Diana looked back, a bit uncomfortable at how the close the two of them were. But she did not move away or interrupt Honor. Now that she had met Oscar – the demon version of Oscar – she wanted to know more about him; if he figured into Jack's curse, and she knew he did, it would definitely help to hear what Honor had to say.

When Honor did not finish her story, though Diana had the feeling that there was more to it, Diana nodded. "Okay, yeah? Why's he looking for Jack? What did Jack ever do to him?" She was confused.

"Are you kidding?" Honor moved her head back so she could get a full look at Diana's face. "The strike, remember? When your boy won, Oscar and Morris got fired from the distribution center. He's back, now, looking to make Jack pay for it. At least," she added, rubbing her chin thoughtfully, "that's what Fae said. What do you think?"

Diana did not know what to think. There was a buzz at the back of her head – Stress's head – but she did not have enough information yet to turn that buzz into anything more than what it was. But that did not mean that she was not going to try. "How's he planning on doing that, do you know?"

Honor opened her mouth to reply, only to be cut off when a brash, loud voice interrupted their conversation.

"Honor? Where you at, child? I've got pots that have got to be washed and these potatoes ain't gonna peel themselves. Tell Stress what you need to tell her and get back in the kitchen."

And, just like it had happened last time, Honor glanced over at the door marked 'KITCHEN' before turning to look at Diana, apologetically. "I'm sorry, Jessa, but we're going have to finish this later. You know how Mr. Tibby gets, eh?"

Cringing on the inside – damn, why does that guy have to have such perfect timing? – Diana fought to twist her features into a smile. "Of course," she offered politely, her head still full of everything that Honor had just told her. She watched as Honor leaned forward again and let her hand fall gently on Diana's shoulder. It was the same gesture that had sent Diana back to the present the last time they had met and Diana waited for the familiar jerking sensation that signaled her exit from the past.

She was still waiting as Honor smiled back at her before disappearing into the kitchen.

It took Diana a second to realize that she was still trapped in Stress's body, that she was still trapped in the past. She looked around, confused, but all she met were the backs and fronts of uninterested diners. Though she did not understand it, the vision had not ended.

Maybe there's something else I have to see, she thought. This is just like the vision I had when I saw Grandma Étaín as a baby. I thought that the vision would end when the picture was taken but it didn't and I got to see Jack with his second cat. I wonder what I'm supposed to see now.

Whatever it was, Diana was pretty sure that she was not going to see it inside this diner. Hiking up her skirt just a tad – she was unused to the long, flowy material and wanted to make sure that she would not trip over it – while ignoring the scandalized looks from a man that was sitting alone with a newspaper, she turned towards the exit and let herself out.

It was dark outside. That was the first thing she noticed when she stepped out the door and she marveled at the blackness that hung over the Manhattan streets. There were a few gaslights littering the sides of the roads but, considering the neon-lit city of the future that she was familiar with, this darkness was consuming. She did not like it and, in an attempt to quell the panic that was threatening to rise up in her chest, she shut her eyes.

"Stress? You okay?"

Diana's eyes were still closed and now, as someone addressed her, she tried to open them. She could not. The panic that had subsided when she hid herself away from the blackness of the night began to rear its ugly head again. What's wrong with me, she wondered. Why are my eyes stuck? Trying again, Diana found that her eyes remained closed.

She tried to lift her hand, her right hand, thinking that she could use careful fingertips to pry the lids open. The hands did not move.

Help! Diana tried to yell for help but she only hear the scream in her head. Her mouth did not work, either. Nothing did.

And that's when it hit her. While she was still, technically, in Stress's body, she was no longer in control. Somehow, after walking outside of the diner and closing her eyes, she had been pushed to the side – forgotten. Once again, she was a ghost. This time, though, she was not just a phantom spectator to events of the past; she was there, but she was at the mercy of someone else.

"Stress?"

The voice was warm and filled with concern. It was familiar to her and, if she tried hard enough, she could sense how it made the true wearer of this body feel. Stress loved this voice; she loved the way it murmured her name. But she was not going to let him know that so, as eyes opened – and Diana could see again – she snapped, "What, Jack? I was thinking there for a second."

The expression that Jack Kelly wore was one that Diana was accustomed to. It was a cocky look, with brown eyes twinkling with amusement. She could feel Stress's insides squirm as that look was turned on her but she remained defensive. Her hands were crossed over her chest and her chin was tilted up. There was a hint of a smile playing out across her lips, however.

As the pair of them stared at each other, Stress waiting for Jack to reply to her retort, Diana looked around her. Out of the corner of Stress's eye Diana could see that she was no longer in the place where she had been last. Where am I? This isn't the diner, she realized, confused. That's… that's the back of Aunt Ria's building right there. How the hell did I get over to Duane Street without even moving my feet? Stupid vision. It was easier to blame things on the strange magic; she knew she was never going to figure it out and, as everyone knows, ignorance is bliss.

Jack bowed his head, letting the front strands of his sandy hair fall in his face. "Alright. I'll bite. What were ya thinkin' about?"

Diana was partly surprised when she felt Stress shake her head. "Never mind, Jack. It wasn't anything important. Just thinking about selling tomorrow's papers, that's all," she lied.

At first, Diana did not understand why Stress did not just tell Jack what she was thinking about. Assuming – and it had to be an assumption since Diana did not know what had happened between leaving the diner and meeting up with Jack – that she was preoccupied with what Honor had said about Oscar, it would make sense that she warned Jack about his return. But then, as she could see Jack watching Stress with a look of disbelief crossing his face, she thought about it another way. Stress, from all she knew (and could feel) about the girl, was stubborn and proud. If Jack was going to jokingly insult her and then try to wheedle information out of her with his next breath, he had another thing coming.

Diana was not the only one who noticed the way that Jack was glancing at her. She could feel Stress shrugging. "Don't worry about it. It was nothing. Besides, don't you have that poker game tonight?"

It was not that difficult to see that she was purposely changing to topic of conversation. Jack could see that something was bothering her and, after thinking it over for a second, decided not to press it. Tomorrow was another day, after all. He would talk to her then. "Yeah, cause I'm such a rush to go inside the lodgin' house," he said with a grin, pointing over her shoulder at the building behind her, "and let Race take all my pennies." He shook his head, adopting a more serious look. He looked like a one of those dogs you see nosing at the trashcans – lost and cute, if somewhat dirty. "And what would happen if I did go in? No one would be out to walk with you and you know as well as I do that these streets can be mean."

She laughed in what she hoped was a careless manner. Every time Jack made the mistake of playing poker with Race he complained about it. But that was one of the things she liked about him – he rarely learned from his mistakes. It made her feel useful, always having to clean up after him. Not to mention that it was nice that he looked out for her, even if she did not really need him to. If anything, she needed to look out for him, especially with Oscar carrying on with his grudge. Delancey was, usually, a harmless goon but who knew? Revenge did strange things to people. "Don't worry about me, Cowboy," she told him, trying to sound confident. "I'm a big lass. Besides, all I have to do is walk across town to get to the Girls' Home for the night. I'll be fine."

There was a firm tone in her voice but Jack, if he noticed it, did not mention it. Diana found that strange but not as strange as Stress pressing her small hands against his back as she pushed him forward toward the building.

Jack smiled as he turned over his shoulder to look at her. "But don't you think it would be a better idea if I walked you back? Someone's gotta take care of you—"

"And that'll be me, you brute," she tossed back. Diana could sense the minor levels of annoyance that occurred when Jack implied that she needed a chaperone. Oh, Stress, Diana thought, don't get all proud on him. This is Jack, here. You should know that he doesn't know any better. But, it seemed, if Stress knew that, she did not care. She continued trying to convince Jack to go inside the building. She was still grinning as she said, "Look, Jack, it's just about curfew. I know that you've got your poker game with Race and Blink tonight… so go, alright? I'll be fine, I promise."

Diana heard Jack sigh and knew that the boy was giving in to Stress. She had the strange feeling that this would be something that he would regret, though she did not know why that certainty had popped into her brain. However, it was momentarily forgotten as she watched as Jack leaned in and placed his puckered lips against Stress's cheek. Oh, how cute. A good night kiss, she thought, feeling like an intruder on what was a personal scene. She remembered how Jack had spoke of Stress, what he was going through to avenge her death and felt that the meaning of that simple gesture was magnified.

"I'm gonna hold you to that promise," Jack said. His words were said in a joking manner but Diana, even though she had known Jack for days and Stress… Stress had known him for years, could tell that he meant them.

Stress rolled her eyes. Diana felt the gesture and could not believe that she had done it – especially since she could hear the beating of her heart. She was as impressed with Jack's words as Diana was… she just was not about to tell Jack that. "Whatever you say, Jack," she said, deaf to Diana's cries of Be nice to him, stupid, he's going to kill himself for you! "Now, go. I'll see you tomorrow. How does that sound?"

Jack nodded. "Tomorrow."

And Diana, who had the very sick sensation that she knew exactly what purpose she was doing there, lurking in Stress's consciousness, just shook her nonexistent head. There would be, she was almost positive, no tomorrow.

She was right.

But Stress, of course, did not know that and there was no way for Diana to tell her. So, ignorant of her fate, Stress nodded once in return before pointing at the back door of the lodging house. Once she was sure that Jack had gotten the message – she would be damned if she had someone walk with her the few blocks it took to get back to Bottle Alley when she was in the mood to be alone – she turned around, blew him a kiss – he did not see it – and started to walk away.

With every step that Stress took, widening the space between her and Jack, Diana expected to be ripped from Stress's body and deposited back in the present. Instead, though, with every steps, Diana felt herself being buried further in Stress. She could feel the rhythm of Stress's heartbeat, and feel the rush of blood through her veins. But that was not all – she could also feel just how the girl was feeling, know what she was thinking.

It was a really strange feeling for her. It was as if she was two bodies, with two separate minds, but access to both. When she felt that Stress's psyche was overpowering her own, Diana just used the energy she had to remember who she was. Vaguely, she wondered if this was how Stress felt now, in 1999, living in Diana's soul. The thought spooked her and she resolved to ask Stress as soon as she had access to a mirror.

But that feeling of discomfort and unease was nothing compared to the jolt of fear that coursed through Stress's body just then.

Diana, who had not been paying any attention to where Stress was going, quickly intercepted the girl's senses. She saw that they were still enveloped in the strange darkness that was inherent to an electricity-deprived society. They were on a side street and, as far as she could see, there was no one else there. Why's she scared? It's just the dark, and she wasn't scared before… Wait. What was that?

She heard it – they both heard it, Stress and Diana. There was a footstep, the silent footstep of someone who, after trying to be quiet, did not care if they were caught. It was a frightening footstep.

Stress shuddered once before pushing out the fear; Diana clung to it but did not have any control. Stress embraced the darkness and, despite the obvious sound that indicated that she was no longer alone, she continued to walk on her way. She took a few more steps before doing something that Diana, even privy to her thoughts and emotions, did not expect: she stopped dead in her tracks. There had been no decision to do it, either; this was street-bred instinct.

And there was that sound again. A heavy footstep fell right as Stress stopped but, again, it paused immediately after. Her pulse quickened and her mouth went dry; Diana could feel it and was glad to see that she was not the only one who was nervous. But, unlike Diana, her instinct did not tell her to run away. Her body was primed to whirl around and confront her would-be stalker. And, seeing that Stress was in charge and Diana was just an unwilling passenger, that was exactly what she did.

"Who's there?" It was a demand of the darkness and silence was her only response. Her golden eyes narrowed, fists clenched and her head swiveled to and fro as she searched the streets. "I know someone's out there," she said, momentarily forgetting all about Honor's earlier warning, "so you better get to showing yourself."

Despite the bravado of such daring words, her voice shook slightly. She was caught midway between Duane Street and Bottle Alley with no help in sight. Stress would never willingly admit it but she was frightened.

Diana, however, would admit it and, considering she knew how Stress's story ended, she was absolutely terrified. Run, Stress, run! Haven't you ever seen a horror movie? She did not want to know whoever it was that was lurking in the darkness. Right then, all Diana wanted was just to be back home in New Jersey.

But Stress was not as easily placated. She wanted to know who was out there and she wanted to know now. "Come on out. Or are you yellow?"

That last taunt did it. The footsteps started up again, as slow and fearsome as before, as a large silhouette appeared at the end of the street. Moonlit shadows kept them hidden but not for long.

Relief flooded her body – the sudden rush was so fast and so strong that the essence that was Diana seemed to be banished even further to the back of Stress's consciousness without Stress ever being alerted to her presence – as the figure emerged out from the darkness and underneath one of the gaslights. Beneath the flicker of a barely lit flame, she could make out the leering figure and, even though that ugly leer was directed at her, she was relieved. She was not afraid of him.

She should have been.

"My, my, my... if it ain't Oscar Delancey," she taunted, a smarmy grin twisting her features in an attempt to hide that relief. "I thought you and your brother got chased out of Manhattan with your tails between your legs when the strike ended."

Oscar's leer gave way to a vicious sneer as he stuck out his right pointer finger. Jabbing it at the dark, he countered, "You think you damn newsies are all so smart. Pull a fast one over some old fogies and you think you're sittin' on top of the world. Ha!" He shook his head, dropped his hand and lowered his voice. Venom dripped off of his every word as he advanced menacingly towards her. "None of you are worth shit. That strike was a joke."

Her hands went to her hips. If there was a warning in the manner of his speech or the way he was glaring down at her, she did not notice. He was the one who, for some reason or another, had been following her and now he wanted to stop and pick a fight with her? She was not having that.

Incensed, she snapped, "You take that back, Delancey. That strike was just and you know it. Those rich mugs like Hearst and Pulitzer had no right in trying to milk us out of another ten cents per hundred. Jack was right." She looked down her nose at him, a tricky feat considering the ill lighting, and snorted. "You're just jealous that he and Dave won and you boys lost."

Now, even Diana knew that that was not the right thing to say. But, being that she was no more than a hint of who she was, there was no way she could warn Stress about that. Nor could she cry out an alert when she saw the object that Oscar had smoothly slid out of the back of his trousers.

The dull blade, despite its obvious use, found a way to glint under the weak strength of that minute, dancing flame. It did not travel just yet, though; it kept its place, stationary at Oscar's left side, dangling limply in his left hand, just waiting for the moment when it would be of value once more.

Stress, however, did not see the fearsome object and, therefore, continued to stare defiantly into Oscar's dirt-stained face. From his overgrown, greasy hair, to the dark, lifeless eyes that stuck out on his face, he looked like total hell. As she caught a good glimpse of the way the few weeks following the strike had changed the former distribution center worker, Stress faltered – but only a bit. She was not frightened now. Just nervous, perhaps.

Despite her best effort, she gulped.

Oscar caught sight of the action. The right corner of his mouth twitched, quirking upwards in mild amusement, as he shook his head. "You don't get it. You never did, did you?" He took another step towards her, his boot slapping the pavement loudly with the effort. But, when he spoke, his voice was low and intimidating. "That Jack of your's is a bigger nothing than anyone I've ever met. He's a liar and a cheat and—"

She stuck out her chin before cutting him off. "Yeah, so? You think I'm stupid or something? I know all about that. He ain't even really Jack Kelly, is he? Francis Sullivan, that's his name. But I don't care. Jack or Francis or, hell, even Queen Victoria," she added, throwing her hands up in the air for emphasis, "it don't matter. He's still ten times the man you are, Oscar!"

No! Diana struggled inside her strange fleshy prison. Unlike Stress, she had – most against her will but still… – seen all the horror movies and this was as cliché as it could get: the villain and the victim meet up and the victim, unaware of the true capacity of the villain, deliberately baits him to unfortunate consequences. And, with the knife already in Oscar's hand, Diana knew what those consequences would be. Don't do this, Stress! Just walk away!

Diana's thoughts held no sway over Stress and, if Diana had been thinking straight, she would have known that. But the truth was that, at that very moment, she was not thinking straight. She had, once confronted with the glint of the blade, forgotten entirely that she was a silent witness to an event that had already taken place, nearly one hundred years prior. Nothing she could do could change that but she had to try.

Right then, all she was aware of was that Stress was being cocky and Oscar had a weapon. Add that to the fact that Diana knew all too well – thanks to the strange, wayward dream she had that implanted the idea that Jack was the murderer in her head – that the girl had died from a stab wound and Diana knew what was coming. Unfortunately.

But Stress, it seemed, had no idea. She just stared at Oscar, waiting for him to respond.

And he did – but he did so in a way that caught both Stress and Diana off guard. Without a word, he grinned and took another step toward her, effectively closing that gap that had remained between the two bodies. With a smirk, he lifted his right hand and ran his pointer fingers down the side of her face. "You want to say that again?"

His touch did not burn against Stress's flesh as it had when he came to Diana in her dream but, by the way that Stress jerked her head out of his reach, one would never know. "Get away from me, Oscar," she said warningly, golden eyes glaring at him.

The smirk tightened and he tensed. "Make me," he hissed, taking his right hand back slowly. He raised his eyebrows, daring her to say anything else. To do anything else.

Stress may have been careless and reckless but she was not stupid. She lowered her eyes, conceding defeat. He was taller than her, heavier than her and stronger than her and she was alone. There was only so far a false sense of bravery and a loud mouth could get her. "Just leave me alone, Oscar. Jack, too. It ain't worth it."

"See, that's where you're wrong," he told her, laughing under his breath. It was rough laughter, the kind that does not evoke any positive emotion. Nasty laughter. Diana shivered, Stress gulped again. "Dead wrong."

It all happened so fast. Diana, with her focus on the knife that was in Oscar's hand, did not even have a chance to cry out uselessly before the knife was plunged into the girl's side. He left it in there for a beat before drawing it out slowly, making sure to cause increased agony with the jerky motion. Then, once the bloodstained knife was proudly displayed under the ominous moon, he watched as Stress doubled over.

It took her a second – one alarmingly long second – to realize what had happened. To know that Oscar Delancey had, with one thrust, left a gash in her side. That realization was quickly overshadowed, though. As soon as the truth made itself known to her, the pain was not too far behind.

"Why?" It was the only word she could get out before the pain came.

And then the pain was all she knew. It was hot and searing and ran down the lengths of her body. Heat swelled from her side as sticky blood stained her good blouse and dribbled down her leg. Her hand was clutching the gaping wound, eyes entranced by the way the crimson liquid shimmered in the moonlight. She was doing anything in order not to meet the satisfied expression she expected to find on Oscar's face.

But where was Oscar? Even without looking around, she knew the answer. Coward's legs had driven him and he was gone, the fateful knife with him. Not one clue remained to incriminate him at all.

He had killed her and he had fled…

Diana felt the pain double – pain beyond anything she had ever known was all but ripping her existence apart – but she did have the advantage of not being consumed by it. Struggling to hold onto something, anything, that would make this situation better, she found and clung to two thoughts that had buried themselves, amidst the sudden shockwaves of pain, in Stress's mind: the face of Jack Kelly was there, as well as the word promise.

It was puzzling at first but, with clarity that she did not even know she could possess, Diana knew what it meant. Stress had promised him that she would be all right and she had lied. She had lied to Jack, she had broken her promise and, for that, she needed to apologize.

Stress did not even need any assistance from Diana to rise above the horrible pain and cling to a little bit of hope. And, with that last goal in mind, the dying girl slowly picked herself up off of the dirt floor. There was only three blocks back to Duane Street and she was sure she could make it. It would be the last thing she did, but she would do it.

For Jack…

--

With a set of golden eyes snapping open, Diana woke up, gasping. She jerked upwards, her mouth slightly open, her right hand held out protectively out in front of her. Those eyes were filled with unshed tears and her body was trembling all over. Slowly, with both Patrick and Jack acting as awestruck witnesses, her right hand slid up to rest on her side. She felt the phantom pain of a dirty knife slashing through her skin and caressed the area, rubbing the t-shirt. Vaguely, she recognized that the fabric she wore now was quite different than the white blouse that she had been wearing in the vision but it did not matter to her.

Nothing really mattered…

As if still in a daze, Diana removed her hand and lifted it up to her face. Through a haze of tears, she looked at her hand, expecting to see it swathed in crimson blood. Only then, when she was met with clean white fingertips, did she speak:

"I… I'm sorry…"

That last word was ended on a whisper, long and drawn out and incredibly painful to hear. One single, solitary tear slid down her cheek before her eyelids lowered dramatically. Then, with a rush of air, a single exhale, the girl fell backwards, collapsing against the small cot; her head only just found that same heart-shaped pillow as mahogany curls – with those clear butterfly clips – splayed outwards, forming a strange semblance of a halo.

Diana Mason was – for the moment, at least – gone…

--

End Note: And there you have it. But, don't worry. There's still six chapters left – and quite a bit more story, too.

PS. I meant to mention it last chapter but, in case you forgot about the pillow, that was referenced in chapter 16. And the photograph, that was in chapter 25. See, I did have a reason to tell you why all those early (and some not so early) chapters were important!