The Demon Within
by Tanya Reed
DEATH FIC WARNING!
Disclaimer: No matter how much I wish, I will never own Relic Hunter.
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Karen stood in thefog, Nigel's brother Preston beside her. The fog made the graveside seem isolated and the scattered people gathered for the service seemed the only people in existence. Many people had known and cared for Nigel Bailey, and Karen only knew a handful of them. She felt very alone as she watched Nigel's casket being lowered into the ground.
Emotion made her reach for Preston, who gently took her hand. Karen glanced up to see tears glistening on the British man's cheeks.
"Now I have no one," he whispered.
And Karen knew how he felt. She was suddenly taken back to another funeral. One where a small boy sobbed beside her, and Karen had all she could do just to hold herself together for him.
She squeezed Preston's hand and whispered back, "I've been there."
Then, it was over. Several sympathizers came over and told Preston how beautiful a service it was. Karen might have agreed if it hadn't been Nigel they were placing in the ground.
Unable to meet the kind gazes, Karen's eyes wandered, and she saw a tiny blond kneel by Nigel's grave. Karen thought she heard the blond whisper, "Good bye, honeybun," but she couldn't be sure. For some reason, the voice and the face seemed vaguely familiar.
"Do you have a place to stay?" Preston asked, breaking into her thoughts.
"Can you recommend a cheap hotel?"
"Why don't you stay with me?"
She looked at him in surprise, "But you don't even know me."
"I know that you need a place to sleep. I know I'm probably the only person you're acquainted with in London. I know Nigel considered you a good friend."
Karen studied his face, trying to figure out if there were ulterior motives to his offer. His face seemed honest and open, and maybe even a trifle naïve. Though the brothers didn't look alike, Karen suddenly saw Nigel's likeness in Preston. Blinking away tears, she nodded.
As they made their way to his car, he asked, "Do you need help with your things?"
"No. I only brought one small bag. I'll be fine."
He accepted this and changed the subject. "Have you heard from Sydney?"
A new rush of tears prickled Karen's eyelids. It really had been like losing two of her best friends at once.
"No."
"I hope she's all right."
Karen dashed away the tears with a shaking hand. "You and me both."
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Sydney stood in the shadows and watched Grant Boudreau's mansion. Her prey was there. She had arrived just in time to see two of Grant Boudreau's thugs admit him through the big doors in the front.
The sight of him made Sydney want to rush in, disregarding everything but her thirst for revenge, but practicality won out. She knew that it would be impossible to go in and kill Martin with all of Boudreau's men around. Vengeance would have to wait.
Not that Sydney had to like it. She fiddled silently with her dagger, her eyes glued to the door. Her thoughts, as they often did, drifted to Nigel. He would have hated the waiting. Nigel liked his danger over quickly. Not that he was a coward—Nigel was the bravest man Sydney had ever known. He was often afraid, but he stared his fear in the face and never let it win.
God, she missed him. His loss was an aching burning hole in her chest. She thought of him constantly, what he would be doing, what he would say. Even in sleep, there was no relief because her dreams were all of him.
Sydney wiped a hand over her forehead, wishing she could wipe away grief as easily as she wiped away sweat.
She grit her teeth, pushing away memories of Nigel, both good and bad, knowing they would distract her. Embracing her anger, she let it once more burn away the pain. She closed her eyes, opening herself to it, allowing it free reign.
Her life was vengeance. Her soul was revenge. What she had done to DeViega only in thoughts, she would do to Martin in reality. He would die. Painfully. Horribly. His blood would drip down her skin like tears. She might go to hell for it, but she would see him there first.
A caricature of a smile flashed across her face, and a spark of frigid joy came to her eyes. She had imagined Martin's death so many times that the fantasy was almost as real as the rough bark poking her through her shirt.
It seemed to take Victor Martin hours to emerge from Grant Boudreau's house, though it must have only been about thirty minutes. At one time, Sydney would have cared that Martin sold the Heart for his own gain, but not any more. When Victor finally emerged, he seemed unaware of Sydney, which was fine by her. She knelt quietly and slid her knife back into its sheath. The hiss it made seemed loud in the silence, and Sydney froze. He didn't even turn around.
She continued to watch him, a spider coolly regarding a fly. Her eyes saw the subtle bulge in his jacket showing he was carrying a gun. Probably the gun that had killed Nigel.
The urge to lash out almost overwhelmed her, but still she held back. Soon a cab came up the long and winding drive. Martin got in, and, as he closed the door, Sydney heard him give the driver an address.
"Now, I've got you," she whispered.
Nearby, an owl hooted, its voice sounding almost like it was calling Martin's name, and Sydney's heart started to race.
It was time.
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The address given by Martin was nearby, so Sydney walked instead of taking a cab. The cool night air brushed against her skin and tousled hair she hadn't bothered to braid. Despite the fact that it didn't matter now if she were seen, Sydney kept to the shadows. Her heart, the part that she still allowed to speak, craved darkness. She had become so skilled at moving through it over the years that most of the people she passed were unaware of her existence.
Anticipation burned within her, hurrying her steps as she neared her goal. Soon, it would be over.
The hotel was a large one, modern and severe. A red clad doorman helped people with suitcases and packages, and a gold colored awning kept him from the weather.
As he helped an elderly lady with her bags, Sydney slipped by him, enjoying the employment of stealth. Though self preservation didn't interest her, a part of her was satisfied that the doorman would not even remember she was there.
Once inside, she paused. The hotel was a very busy place. People were scurrying like ants. Even so, she knew the clerk would probably remember her, no matter how busy he was, if she went to him and asked for Victor Martin's room. For one thing, he probably wasn't allowed to give out room numbers; for another, she knew that her heritage had given her unique and memorable features. This had often been useful in the past but at times, like now, it had been more of a curse.
After a moment of contemplation, she decided to try something she had seen in a Remington Steele episode once and made a beeline for the nearest phone. The hotel had its own florist so, using Claudia's credit card, knowing her friend could always report it as unauthorized use and not wanting to use her own, Sydney ordered a half dozen lilies to be delivered to Martin's room. Then, she followed as the delivery man did his job.
The plan worked perfectly and, within minutes, Sydney found herself staring at Martin's door. She just stood there, knowing she should be feeling something. Her anticipation and anger had drained away, leaving her numb and empty. She wondered if there would be triumph and joy at Martin's soul's release, or whether this emptiness would haunt her for the rest of her life.
She shrugged this off and moved on silent feet to Victor Martin's door. When she tried the knob, it turned, which made her frown in puzzlement. A man who made as many enemies as Martin should know better. Even so, it was fortuitous for her.
Martin heard the door open and turned as Sydney entered. For the first time since Nigel's death, Sydney stood eye to eye with Victor Martin. Brown glared into blue. Blue looked mildly amused. Sydney felt anticipation grip her again as she imagined that amusement turning to pain. With satisfaction, part of Sydney's mind registered that Martin had discarded his jacket.
"Sydney," he said, his deep voice grating, "how nice to see you again."
"Hello, Victor." She was surprised that her voice was steady. Though, as long as her hand was steady, that was all that mattered.
She deliberately bent and slowly drew the knife from her boot. The rasp as its sheath released it filled the air between Sydney and Martin.
"Why have you deigned to bless me with your presence?" There was subtle mockery in his face and in the politeness of his voice.
"Nigel," she answered simply, her hand gripping the knife more tightly.
"Ni...? Oh, the kid. Your assistants used to be a lot more muscular, Syd. Joe was built like stone...though, I must admit, he was as thick as it as well."
Sydney ground her teeth, preparing to strike.
"We both know that you won't hurt me, Sydney," he said soothingly. "You would never kill a man in cold blood. It's not in you."
"It's not?" she asked menacingly, already imagining how it would feel when her knife bit into his flesh. She wanted to see him bleed, to feel his pain. It would pour from him and fill the empty place in her soul. His life was all she could take from him. It didn't compare with what he had taken from her, but it would have to do.
She smiled at him, putting all of her intent in her eyes. He regarded her for a moment, and his eyes widened. Some of the certainty drained from his face, and Sydney saw the flicker of it in his eyes. She smiled wider, showing her teeth. What would his death look like? What would it feel like? Would he die silently or would he scream?
"Listen, Sydney," she heard the fear in his voice and it gratified her. "I'm sorry the kid died. It was an unfortunate side effect. Certainly, he couldn't be worth this."
He was everything, you bastard! she wanted to spit at him but clenched her jaw against the words. She would not show him what he'd taken from her. He did not deserve to see her grief. The only thing he deserved to see was her anger. And his own death.
At Sydney's continued silence, more of the man's certainty fled. Though he was a large man, she could tell that the last thing he wanted was to fight her.
Martin's eyes darted to the bed, which had his jacking drooping off the edge. Sydney knew she could never let him reach it. If she did, she'd be as dead as Nigel.
In his brief second of inattention, Sydney lept for him. He hadn't expected it, but managed to clumsily block the blow.
The two of them tumbled to the floor, wrestling for possession of Sydney's knife. Sydney was more flexible and fueled by anger, but Martin had a definite weight advantage. He rolled them over and knocked the knife out of her grip. Then, he leered at her.
Expecting her to be cowed, he wasn't holding her quite as tightly as he should have been. With a wriggle and a sharp wrench, she managed to free her arm and punch him in the side of the head. He fell off of her, and Sydney struggled to her feet.
Martin rose and grabbed her from behind, so she viciously swung back with her elbow. Something crunched as it connected with his face.
"Damn you," she heard him hiss as his arms loosened.
She went for her knife but hadn't yet reached it when Martin managed to stand. She whirled as he approached, fully prepared to beat him to death with her bare hands.
He lashed at her. Sydney ducked and lashed back, her fist scoring solidly on his cheek. He stumbled, so she followed with her other fist to his stomach. Martin bent double, and Sydney came down hard with her elbow to the back of his head.
He fell to his knees and shook his head, trying to clear it. Sydney let out a growl and kicked him, knocking him backwards. He hit the floor with a solid thud, moaned and went still.
Watching him warily, Sydney bent and picked up her dagger. When he remained motionless, she dropped to her knees beside him, studying his features. Anticipation fluttered in her belly like lust, and she paused a moment to let it wash over her. She had been looking forward to this for so long that she could already feel her knife slicing through his tender flesh, letting his lifeblood leak out onto the neat grey carpet.
It was at that moment that she decided to go slowly. Her dagger would part his skin, leaving ragged ruin in its wake. If even part of his mind was conscious, his death would bring him suffering.
Her hand trembled as she brought the blade to his throat, whispering fiercely, "This is for Nigel."
"No."
The voice was soft, but it was enough to cut through Sydney's bloodlust. She froze, the hammering of her heart loud in her ears.
Blinking, she turned. A startled cry came from her as she stared at a face she thought she'd never see again. Crouching beside her, close enough to touch, was Nigel. His hazel eyes regarded her sadly.
"Nigel?" she finally managed to get out.
"You don't want to do this." His voice was as sad as his eyes; Sydney had to look away.
"But he killed you," she said, her voice choked and stumbling.
"I know, Sydney," he replied, placing a hand on her arm. Though he looked solid and real, all she felt was a tingling where his skin met hers. "But killing him won't bring me back. It will just make things worse."
"Things can't get any worse. You're dead, and I'm stuck in a life without you. I don't care what happens to me. I just want him to hurt."
"Then call the police. He'll suffer in prison, and you won't go somewhere you can never return from."
"I just want you back." She felt tears start to trickle down her cheeks. "I want you to come back to me."
"I can't, Syd, but don't use me as an excuse to ruin your life. I don't want that responsibility."
With a sob, Sydney let her dagger fall from numb fingers. She bowed her head, and the rest of the sobs came, overwhelming everything but her sense of loss and grief. She couldn't reach for the anger to protect her; it was no longer there. Nigel's simple words reminded her of why he had thought so much of her, and she couldn't bare to think of disappointing him, even after death.
With no anger to fight them, the sobs tore through her chest, ripping at the hole Nigel's death had made. For the first time, she allowed herself to feel the pain, and she cried for Nigel and everything that had been stolen from her. She hadn't even had the chance to tell him she loved him.
Sydney sat there crying for a very long time. She cried until her body was sore and there were no tears left to shed. She cried for the boy she'd seen blossom into a man; she cried for the years they would never have together; she cried for the joy he had brought to her life. Most of all, Sydney cried for herself, a woman who was scared and crippled by grief, a woman who had no idea where to go from here.
Eventually, feeling raw and empty, Sydney came back to herself. Martin was still unconscious on the floor, but she could tell he was alive by the rise and fall of his chest.
The two of them were alone. Nigel was gone, and he hadn't even said good-bye. Sydney knew she'd never see him again.
Wearily, she took out her phone and turned it on. Sniffling a little, she dialed the authorities and spoke to them at length. Then, she got up on shaky legs and stumbled out the door, not once looking back.
The End (...though there may be a sequel ... someday)