Author's Note: Bet you never thought you'd see this one again! Although updates are few and far between for all of my stories, I am absolutely determined to finish this one. And we're close now! Aside from this chapter, there's probably only one more to follow. Thanks to those who are still reading, especially Morning Dew and Bittah (my beta and without whom this story would never have gotten this far). Enjoy!
The cold night air pierced the bare skin of both boys, who quelled their shivers in attempts to concentrate on the perilous situation ahead of them. Their ears strained for any faint sounds of a struggle, while their feet led them around the darkened, secluded corners of Brooklyn. Spot vaguely wondered would see if he were to glance over at his friend. Worry? Anger? Relief? Frenzy? A combination of all of dose? He recalled rushing from Manhattan, retracing the steps he had taken so many years ago with his namesake tugging enthusiastically at his leash. Even if dey nevah want me back, at least I can help dem wid dis. At least I ain't gonna let one of my best friends die—if she ain't dead already. The idea made his stomach twist violently, and caused his legs to quicken their pace.
"Do ya t'ink dey'd take her back ta Deblah Street?" Wager inquired, unable to conceal the anxiety in his voice.
Spot managed a shrug. "Dey might've, but if dey's comin' for all of us, like Imp says, I'm guessin' dat dey're somewheah around heah." He half-hoped that Roxy would cry out just so they would be able to follow her voice.
If anyt'ing happens ta her…he told himself, unwilling to finish the thought. He remembered the first time Roxy had entered the lodging house, a petite girl with a nose she would have to grow into and unwashed brown hair pulled back into two neat braids. It had taken three months for the girl to overcome her shyness enough to display her treasured copy of Cyrano de Bergerac. Her eyes had glowed when she described the story of romance, imagination and chivalry. Spot could not imagine waking in his bunk and knowing that he would never see Roxy's smiling face in line at the distribution office.
Jus' let us save her, Spot thought, uncertain as to whom he appealed. Nobody has to forgive me; I can be t'rown out of Brooklyn forevah, jus' as long as Roxy's okay. Behind a thin veil of cotton and flesh, his heart beat a rapid tattoo. Jus' let her be okay, and I don't care what happens ta me.
As if some higher power was finally beginning to listen to his prayers, a shrill cry pierced his eardrums. Spot and Wager immediately glanced at each other, eyes wide with fearful understanding.
"Come on!" Spot ordered the other newsboy, fists clenched in preparation and anxiety as he flew down the sidewalks he knew so well.
I'm going to die, Roxy thought, feeling her legs grow numb from exertion and her pulse pound so wildly that she thought her veins would burst. I'm going to die. She tried to remember the prayers she had learned as a child for the dying, the prayers of mourning. Instead of Hebrew, images of her entire life—what she had done, what she would never do—flickered in her mind like the moving picture shows she had once snuck into with Grin. I'll never read Pride and Prejudice, she told herself. I'll miss playing cards with Rabbit. I never did find Imp. The last thing I told Spot was that I never wanted to see him again.
Suddenly, Dash's hand grasped Roxy's shoulder. Her lungs collapsed from fear and exhaustion as his hand pushed her to the ground. The Debler Street newsies' drunken threats and the sound of her own heartbeat flooded Roxy's ears so that she could barely hear her own cry. Her shoulder hit the sidewalk with a thud. Nearing hysterics, Roxy wanted to laugh at the thought that now she would having bruises to match her other arm. Even if I am the meekest newsgirl in Brooklyn, she thought, I sure have enough bruises to make it look like I'm a fighter. When she tried to scramble to her feet, a boot pressed against the small of her back, forcing her abdomen to the pavement.
The Debler Street newsies, who had been cursing at the Brooklyn newsgirl, quieted as they watched their leader circle the girl like a vulture, until his boots were in front of her eyes. The momentary silence sliced through Roxy's frame. She did not dare to look into his eyes.
"Brooklyn arrogance," he sneared. "Dat's what lost ya dis prime territory." Sniggering maliciously, he added, "Dat and da fact dat your leadah didn't give a damn about any of ya."
Roxy's blood boiled. Hands gripping pebbles, she looked up and snapped, "Spot betrayed us all, but you'll still never be worth a tenth of him."
In an intsant, Jackal pulled the newsgirl up by her shirt collar, threw her against a nearby wall, and pointed his hunting knife against her pale throat. Her skin trembled against the metal as she choked back a sob. She lifted her eyes to the cold, distant sky and waited for the icy flash of the knife slicing across her delicate, pulsating flesh.
Instead of the sound of her own, final grasp for breath, Roxy heard a body hit the ground. Blinking, she saw two bodies struggling on the sidewalk, where she had lay a minute ago. Her lungs filled with air and she gasped, "Spot."
The Debler Street newsies gaped at the former leader of the Brooklyn newsies. "But ya left," Toad stated, pointing at Spot and swaying drunkenly.
"Real good plannin', Jackal," Cotton muttered.
"Nothin' has changed," Jackal declared, rising from where Spot had pushed him. His eyes flashed furiously as he studied the infamous newsboy. "One traitor ain't gonna make a difference." His voice dropped low as he strode over to Spot, a complacent grin on his bloodless lips. "I'm glad ya showed up for da end of dis. It wouldn'ta been da same takin' ovah Brooklyn knowin' ya was still alive."
Bulldog stepped forward, cracking his knuckles and chuckling under his breath as he eyed Spot. The Brooklyn newsie's muscles tensed, locking his gaze with Bulldog's. If dey're gonna all attack me, let 'em, Spot thought. At least I'll die like I oughta, not sick and tired of life in some dank dusty room. None of the newsies, least of all Spot and Bulldog, expected Jackal's arm to suddenly extend, knife gleaming.
"Stay back!" Jackal shouted, glaring at Bulldog, who clutched his forearm helplessly. Blood began to soak his shirt. The Debler Street newsies' eyes darted towards each other, shifting nervously under their leader's piercing stare. "Do whatevah da hell ya want wid da oddah two, but leave Spot to me, or I sweah ta God I'll kill ev'ry last one of ya." Jackal's jagged yellow teeth glinted animalistically in his mouth. No one doubted his words. Spot could easily imagine Jackal slaughtering the lot of them—Brooklyn and Debler Street newsies all. They had seen the extent of his cruelty, but the newsies sensed the depths of insanity boiling underneath a surface of ambition.
Jackal's head turned slowly to face Spot, back arched like an animal poised to strike. Without a sound, he darted forward, blade gleaming in the light. Spot darted out of his way, wishing that he had a weapon more formidable than his faithful slingshot.
The Debler Street newsies, momentarily uncertain as to whether or not to obey a leader who threatened their death, followed his example. Roxy and Wager stood close together, fighting desperately as a dozen newsies attacked them at once. Thankfully, the coordination of the Debler Street newsies was off due to their celebration, giving the Brooklyn newsies a small chance at survival.
"Run for it," Wager snapped at Roxy between punches. "I'll hold 'em off."
"Are you kidding!" she shrieked. "We're finishing this." She dodged a kick. "And besides, I've already come to terms with death tonight."
Seeing his friends struggle with the throng, Spot attempted to rush to their aid. He was two steps away from Jackal when he felt a burning pain, and a sudden dampness on his shoulder—blood. Roxy and Wager would have to fend for themselves. Jackal was not like the other newsboys Spot had fought in his years of leading Brooklyn. Those fights had been mere scuffles, using only fists, but Jackal wanted nothing less than to stand over Spot's bleeding corpse. Turning back to Jackal, Spot knew that his only hope would be to level the playing field. Without a weapon, his only choice was to be on the defensive.
For such a shriveled, deformed boy, Jackal was a surprisingly good fighter. Powered by rage and insanity, he slashed at Spot and darted out of the way of Spot's punches. It was as though he was driven by the scent of blood and the knowledge that victory was within his grasp. Watching as Spot's usually calm expression grew increasingly frantic, he taunted, "What was da maddah, Spot? Got ta be too much for ya? T'ought dat deah might be somet'ing out deah dat's beddah for ya?" He laughed as his blade swiped Spot's hand. "Killin' ya's gonna be a mercy."
I can't die heah, Spot thought, his hand numbing as blood dripped over his knuckles. Not now. Not like dis. Not when ev'ryone's countin' on me.
A sound drifted to the fight; it started as a low rumble, almost inaudible, and then grew so loud that it overwhelmed the cries of the Debler Street newsies. Jackal and Spot paused briefly as they looked up to see the cause of the commotion.
The entire Brooklyn Lodging House sped around the corner, screaming and baring various weapons. Spot, Roxy and Wager beamed to see their friends, who had been so dispirited and divided an hour ago, rallying to fight for Brooklyn. The Debler Street newsies staggered in surprise as the Brooklen newsies jumped into the fight, moving deftly as though they had not been beaten savagely the previous day.
Out of the corner of his eye, Spot saw Jackal falter, as he considered the possibility of losing everything he had worked for. His mouth trembled, like that of a dying fish, and his eyes widened at the multitude of enemies. Spot realized that this was his only chance. Without hesitation, he threw a violent blow to Jackal's face. The Debler Street leader fell to the ground, the knife slipping from his hand. Although the noise of the fight was deafening, Spot swore that he heard the scrapping of the knife against the cobblestones.
Jackal scrambled to his feet, but it was too late—Spot held the knife in his hand, watching Jackal with solemn, dangerous eyes. Jackal could see that, despite their prior injuries, the Brooklyn newsies were beating their Debler counterparts. Jackal felt his heart pound against his breast and wondered if he was going to die of a heart attack. Perhaps that would have been kinder. Dis can't be happenin', he told himself, backing away from Spot, not aftah all I done. Not aftah all I been t'rough.
Of all that Spot had anticipated from Jackal, he did not expect him to run. It took a second for Spot's brain to register that Jackal was bolting away from the fight. This moment allowed for Jackal to gain a considerable lead. Spot was faster by nature, but Jackal, although moving awkwardly due to his hunchback, ran like an animal from the mouth of a predator. The chase continued into a tenement building, up five flights of stairs, and finally, onto the roof. The noise of the fight echoed from the streets, but to the newsboys, it was as though they had stepped into a different universe entirely.
Spot watched Jackal carefully, as the Debler Street leader looked desperately for a way out. "It's ovah Jackal," Spot insisted, clutching the knife at his side. "Ya'll nevah get Brooklyn from me."
Jackal, realizing that he was beaten, swallowed. "What are ya lookin' at me like dat for, huh? Ya can't blame me for tryin'." He scoffed. "Aftah all, ya tried ta do da same t'ing, really. Jus' tryin' ta get outta dat goddamn hellhole. If anybody should undahstand, it oughta be you."
"I want ya out of Brooklyn altageddah," Spot said, ignoring Jackal's taunts. "If I heah of ya puttin' even a toe in my territory, evah again, I'll kill you."
A slow, toothy grin crept across Jackal's mouth so that his lips almost disappeared. Spot tensed, anticipating a final assault. Instead, Jackal slowly moved backward, keeping his eyes locked with Spot's. He reached the edge of the building and stepped onto the ledge. A cold breeze blew up from the streets and ruffled Jackal's greasy hair. He spread his arms so that they were parallel with the ground, and lifted his palms towards the sky. Oh, God, thought Spot as he watched Jackal lean backwards, the emptiness consuming him.
His stomach clenched for the split second before he heard the violent thud, the splintering of wooden crates, and the thick crack of Jackal's head against the cobblestones. For a moment, Spot could only stand there, holding the knife of a boy who was certainly dead now, who had wanted to escape his poverty so badly that he was willing to kill. What would he have done in Jackal's place? Eventually Spot willed himself to move, feeling dread and disgust spread like a cancer throughout his body as he made his way down the darkened staircase of the tenement building. He feared he would be ill as he entered the alley and saw Jackel's broken body.
Maybe it's beddah dis way, Spot thought, kneeling beside the finally still Jackal. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles and blood soaking his hair, Jackal was the image of desperation and misery even in death. Hand trembling, Spot reached out and carefully closed Jackal's eyelids. Wheah could he have gone aftah dis anyway?
Hearing slow footsteps behind him, Spot rose to his feet and turned to see his intruder.
"Spot, are—" a breathless Roxy stammered before catching sight of Jackal's body. "Oh. Oh, Spot."
"He jumped," Spot explained, finding it suddenly very difficult to speak; it was as though his throat was lined with damp newspaper. "I guess he figuahed he'd raddah be dead dan what he was." His mouth trembled as he struggled in vain to relate what had happened. He was grateful when Roxy rushed to him and flung her arms around his neck, pulling him close. Holding her fiercely, he said a silent prayer for the Brooklyn newsies, for his family, for Roxy, for Jackal, and for himself. Jus' let dem be okay, he pleaded with whatever higher power might be listening. Anyt'ing can happen ta any of dem, and as long as I'm around dem, I'll be okay, no maddah wheah I am, no maddah what I end up doin'.
A crisp wind rushed down the alley, carrying the echoes of triumphant voices. Above, the clouds opened up to reveal cold, glittering stars. Somewhere, he knew, people he loved were counting on him fulfilling his grandfather's promise of greatness. Then, as he thought of the solitary deaths of his father and Jackal, in contrast with the sensation of Roxy's arms around his neck, he wondered if, somehow, he had not already fulfilled that prophesy. He did not cry that evening, but, breathing deeply, he felt as though he had.
To be continued…please review!