Author's Note: God I hate this ending but enjoy.

Chapter Four: Enter the Dead

There was a quiet moon watching the country side and the man who stood alone, making his way down the emerald hill at his leisure. He stumbled down hill haughtily as if he were older then he appeared and feared a fall. In the late evening, dew had begun to form on the grass blades and was soaking the legs of his fine suit and making his shoes shine as it ruined the leather. But the man paid no mind to his damaged clothing. There was something more important happening. There was a reckoning in the air, and he was eager for it. He would finally receive retribution for years upon years of wrongs that he had been forced to endure and accept in silence. No more.

Another figure captured his attention and made him pause. This one was clothed in white with the palest blue trim covering the edge of her Cossack.

"You were late." She muttered, "I grew concerned."

"Forgive me." The gentleman muttered insincerely, but the woman paid no mind. "Where's Croix?"

The woman glanced behind herself carelessly. "Croix is keeping an eye on the situation."

"He promised Mithras by now."

"And you promised Mordred." The woman drew her cloak closer to her frame and peered from the edge of hood up at him. "Yet I see no Prince hiding behind you."

"I have my compatriot already attending to that issue."

"Ah yes, the second of your Master's goons." She purred. "Only she isn't aware of the finer points of your employment, is she?"

"She knows. She simply doesn't acknowledge it. Yet."

"Do you?"

The gentleman stepped back a little, and frowned. "That is not why we're meeting. Time is running out, for both of us. Where is Mithras?"

"And why would I tell you that? Croix doesn't trust you."
"You know what I think?" The man challenged. "I think you don't know."

"Are you willing to take that gamble and enter into this enterprise half-armed? I'm sure your Master would approve…"

"Enough," He waved his hand, dismissively.

"Good."

The woman withdrew her hood, letting her waves of sun kissed blond hair pool around her angular face and gray eyes and pale blue lips. She was small for a woman, delicate of frame but not weak, and angelic in her appearance. But nothing compared to her voice. Low, and gentle, with a soft accent of undetermined origin marring some of her words, those who listened were immediately fond of it. One longed to hear her voice again, to lean closer and capture some of the softer tones, to hear and smile at her laughter or comfort and weep with her tears. She was a Siren, this child of twenty years, perfectly formed and bred but not nurtured. She had a cruel history, it was said. Her mother tried to murder her in infancy. An uncle had rescued the child (who had been so near to death blue had touched her lips) and sent her away. The barrenness of home, had made the girl wild and cruel, had starved her gray eyes and made her gift of Wordcraft into a weapon.

She had been a barely a teen when Croix found her, trained, and named her- after her father: Erinnyes Malfoy, daughter of Silas.

Sydney Van Ness pulled on his gloves, watching Erinnyes with his small, self-contained smile. She reminded him so much of her mother at times. Reaching over, Sydney took Erin's hands into his and laughed. "Your Master and mine are after the same thing. And there's vengeance enough for the both…and us."

"But when?" Erin demanded sullenly.

"Soon."

Her eyes sought his. "What about Kiernan and the others? Is it…"

"Done. For good or bad, it's over now."

Erin's face darkened, and she wrapped her arms around her as if her coat was no longer enough to keep the cold out. "Let's go then…" She pleaded. "I'm cold now."

Sydney wrapped his arms around her small frame, nodded and took her away.

Even in it's full glory, the house was simple, almost poor in its design. Flat and appearing to recline on the hill that sheltered it; the home only boasted three bedrooms, a small living room and a something that was not quite a room that connected to the kitchen. In most ways, it was a typical Irish home for the region: antique and devoid of change. Even as the rest of the country rushed to what Muggles called the Information Age.

Severus would have smiled at this, but as he moved forward (against his will,) all he could feel was a thick numbness that made his vision swim. The home, once simple and beautiful, now smoldered.

Someone had taken Heaven and turned it to Hell.

The woodwork was black, cracked and steaming in the cool evening. The arson had revealed the home's framework, making the simple palace look grossly misshapen and macabre. Severus stepped through the wall, laying his hand on door as he went in.

He had only been to the Malone's home twice before, both times while Eoin had ruled the place as family head, and both times, he had sneered arrogantly at its dullness. He was the Dark Prince then, and Pure-blood and it pained him to even encroach on something so mean and shallow as this familiar residence.

Inwardly, Severus winced. How stupid he had been.

How wasteful…

Eoin had known.

Looking back now, as he traced his hands over the blackened woodwork, curled photographs and tarnished silver, Severus knew Eoin had known. The Dark Lord's Kaga had possessed the quiet sadness that came with the wisdom of knowing that no of the glorious wars fought and died for would accomplish anything in the long run. Eoin had known it was all smoke and mirrors, shadows and cloud. He had seen what none of them could have possibly dreamed up: that their great fearsome new world would be nothing but ash and shadow one day.

And surprising himself, Severus felt a deep sense of lost of his Kingdom, his army.

He was Prince after all.

Severus turned into the bedroom and retreated for a moment in horror.

Kiernan Malone, the last of the Dark Lord's Guardians, had died fighting. His body was red and seared in most places, spread haphazardly over the bed where he had fallen in death. The smell was beginning to fester as creatures that traveled with death begun to form and thrive. Severus began to cough, but forced himself into the bedroom to closer examine the body. Mordred could have been caught in this holocaust, he thought grimly. His son could have been dead.

Correction, his mind rebuked, his son was dead if he didn't find Dove fast enough. Fear began to inch into his brain before he could stop it. He paused for a moment in a vain attempt to quell his own fears. Too much hung in the balance for him to make a mistake. He knew that. He just couldn't, for the life of him, shake the feeling that he was stepping into something bigger then he had ever faced before.

There was a shutter of movement behind him that Severus reacted too late for. He became aware of an attack a moment after it occurred. Something drove him unto the bed, blinded him and fled. He caught the tail of a cloak rushing from the room into the hall. Jumping to his feet, Snape pulled his wands and followed.

The trespasser was waiting for him. It stood in the hallway, waiting: letting Severus see the black dress and bone white mask of a Death Eater before pushing into an attack. It drove it's momentum into a roundhouse kick, Severus turned prematurely. His scarred back erupted into pain but he did not cry out.

He was Prince. He would not cry out.

Doubling over for a moment, he threw his strength into a mad rush that knocked the attacker's center of balance off. The Death Eater stumbled back, recovering in time to receive Severus' one-two punch to the gut. Grabbing his wand, and never being one for physical combat, Severus shouted a hex.

It met the mark true. The attacker fell to their knees under the hex. There, Severus kicked them. They began to cough up blood under the mask, gagging.

"You're the one sent by Croix to finish Mordred, are you?" Severus demanded.

The person looked up but said nothing.

"Answer me! Did Croix send you?" Severus pushed him back, wand leveled at the Death Eater's chest. "Tell me who purchased your loyalty?" He leaned a little closer. "Tell me who made you betray your Prince!"

"I owe loyalty to no Prince." The voice returned angrily. It was a voice that Severus had not heard in three years. It was a strong voice, defiant and bold but filled with unquenched anger- a deep hallow void that nothing he could have done would remedy it. It was not the voice of a Death Eater minion but a seraph: an Angel. One who sold information to the highest bidder.

Snape took a step back but did not lower his wand.

The voice belonged to a dead woman.

"Remove the mask." He ordered, not really trusting his voice.

At first the woman hesitated, then slowly reached up to comply. She pushed back the hood of her cloak, allowing a thick braid to fall down her back. Whispering the proper incantation, she gingerly removed the mask and glared up at Severus.

"No one bought me. Not this time." Erised told him. "I've come to help you."

"You must think me a fool to believe that. You're a murderer, and a traitor. I've seen the files! It's all true…you sold us all out. Hecate Compound has a reward for your capture." Severus was ranting and he knew it. He was letting his anger and hurt win. But somehow he didn't care. He was losing control too quickly. He lifted his wand again. "I ought to kill you now."

"Do you and you murder any chance you have for Mordred." She countered. "I can help him."

"How?"

"I can help you find Dove."

"And how do I know I can trust you?"

Ari looked to her side, searching for her answers in the corner of the burnt room. Or, as Severus noted, it looked like she was talking to herself. That was a new habit. After a moment, she turned back to meet his eyes.

"How about this, Auror." She whispered, moving slowly to her sides. Severus tensed for a moment but only a moment. She was pulling the wands and throwing them down at his feet. "I surrender. You can turn me over to the Auror Interrogators at Hecate or the Kaga Dowsers at Arsan for all I care…or, you can let me help you save your son." She tilted her head, like a snake observing the best way to attack it's prey. "What will it be, Hero?"