Author's Note: And there we have it. The final (full chapter - and the longest, damn it!) of Rip's story, of A Virgin's Touch. I just want to say, right now, that I have never been so proud of something in my life. I really tried to test myself as a writer with this – it is the first time that I gave myself a deadline and stuck to it (more or less). It is the first M-rated story I ever did, the first story done with entirely original characters (no movie characters involved, damn), the first story with such controversial topics. Woot. And, because I can't believe it's finished, I'll say it again: Woot.

I say this is the last full chapter because I am debating on adding an epilogue of sorts – I always wondered if I should actually put the epilogue in that tied AVT to CLAK – you know, show Rip's first day in Queens and the ideas and thoughts that led to the actions in CLAK. If anyone is interested in an epilogue, I will be more than happy to write it. If no one says anything, I'll leave that all to your imaginations.

I do want to say thank you to all the awesome reviewers – especially Biddy! You were with me all the way, since the beginning, and for that I thank you: THANK YOU! I love getting reviews of all sorts – they let me know what anyone thinks of my work and, trust me, sometimes a little appreciation is all a writer needs to keep them going. We do this for free, for a love of writing. It's just nice to be appreciated sometimes.

That being said, I think I'm finished with this (last?) author note. I will implore you, as I always do, to review. I would be ever so grateful. It took a lot out of me to finish this story. I would love to know what you thought of it.

Thank you for reading. – stress.

Disclaimer: These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical Newsies, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers.

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A Virgin's Touch

09.20.06

They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all.

---

PART XVII

Trace, Rip soon learned, was quite different than Mack. While Mack, as leader, used his position to bum lodging fare off of the younger boys so that he did not have to sell too many newspapers – he preferred to spend his time in the brothel, sleeping his way through the various girls' rooms – Trace sold almost as obsessively as Rip did.

But, while Rip did so in order to make sure that he always had sufficient funds, Trace had another reason. And, one day in the second week of May in 1895, he let the younger boy in on his secret.

They had grown closer in the time following Mack's disappearance; luckily for Rip, the boy's body was never identified. He heard a rumor out on the streets that some kid was found stabbed to death in an abandoned hovel but no one ever connected the dead boy to Mack's long absence.

Rip's relationship with Trace never was as close as the one he had with Mack – before Mack started assaulting him, of course – but it was a friendship of convenience. Trace needed someone to replace his closest pal, Beans. Rip liked the idea of Trace being the leader of the House; as second-in-command, Rip was awarded all sorts of benefits – Mister Smith was quite generous and lenient with the boys who kept the younger ones in line.

And, of course, their shared experience of sexual abuse at Mack's perverted hands was something else they had in common. It was these memories that lent themselves to Trace's hidden hobby: searching out the local opium den, getting intoxicated in order to forget the unpleasantries and revel in the pleasure of the time.

It had been a little over a month since Trace and Rip had their conversation about Mack. Not knowing what to do as Rip stood there crying, Trace awkwardly patted his back. That cemented the fledgling friendship; from that moment on, the pair could often be seen talking after hours, discussing the events of the day. Both insisted on selling on their own and neither returned to the House early, preferring to sell as many newspapers as possible. They walked almost the entire length of Harlem between them, excusing the Negro tenements in Lower Harlem. Rip still remembered his first day in Harlem, how he had stumbled into the area and almost was beaten for his ignorance. Trace, understandably, refused to go in that area in response to Bean's death. As much as he blamed himself for Bean's death, he blamed 'those damn Niggers' more.

Rip was never exactly sure why Trace let him in his secret. But, one night, after the other boys had all fallen asleep, Trace invited him to spend the afternoon with him. Rip was quite interested to see what Trace had in mind so he agreed. The next morning, after washing up and leaving the House, Trace informed him that they could sell the morning edition of the newspaper but they would not return to the distribution center to purchase copies of the afternoon edition; Trace had somewhere he wanted to take Rip. It was a gesture of gratitude, a 'thank you' he said. Rip did not want to look ungrateful. He agreed to accompany Trace.

It must be said that, despite having walked near all of Harlem in his year and a half in the city, Rip never came across the seedy building that Trace led him to that afternoon. He had, of course, seen it in passing and thought nothing of the structure. It was small and dingy on the outside with no sign to announce it's purpose. He had assumed it a tenement, with the bums that lazed about on the porch. The loiterers that littered the front of the building, coupled with the strange aroma being emitted out from the dark windows, made Rip feel uncomfortable. He had never stopped in front of it before, not even to peddle his newspapers.

He was surprised when, after they had finished selling the limited amount of papers they had purchased, Trace led him directly in front of the building. Rip had assumed that they had to pass the place in order to arrive at Trace's destination but the older boy did not continue walking once he reached the small building. Instead, he grinned and jerked his thumb at the closed doorway. "We're here."

Rip crossed his arms over his chest. "You've got to be kidding me, Flannery."

"Nope. This is it. My second home," Trace answered. "Come on." He began to walk up the few steps that led to the doorway, stepping over a man that was sleeping on the bottom stair of the porch.

Rip hesitated. But, as Trace reached a dirty hand out to the doorknob, Rip went forward. As much as he did not want to admit it, he was a bit curious. If this is Trace's second home, why doesn't he sleep here rather than staying at the Harlem House, he wondered as he took care to make sure that he did not step on the man. The tip of his shoe nudged the sleeper slightly despite Rip's care. The man did not move.

He moved faster, just in time to follow Trace inside of the building. His first instinct, once he had closed the door behind him, was to cough slightly and cover his mouth. The room, though very dark – there was only a handful of oil lamps illuminating the room – was very smoky.

Trace heard Rip's cough and elbowed him. "Don't breathe in all the way, Rip. It takes a bit of getting used to at first but you'll be fine. Besides, you don't want these fellas to know that you're new here, right?"

"Where are we?" Rip asked in response. He took Trace's advice and began to breathe more shallowly; it was easier to breathe but the strange smell of the smoke – the same smell he had noticed before when he had passed this building – was intensified inside. It was making him light-headed.

Trace laughed at Rip's naivety. "Are you tellin' me, Rip, that you ain't never been to an opium den?"

"An… opium den?" Rip repeated, trying to make sure he heard right. Obviously, he had never been to an opium den before – and he was not sure he wanted to be in one just then. He had heard stories, overheard actually, about what happened in places like this. And, while he smoked the occasional cigarette and was no stranger to drink, he had never taken a drug in his life. "No."

Trace, who had only moments ago elbowed him in the chest, now clapped him on the back. "Mack used to tell me that you had to fuck someone to be considered a man. Me? I live for a good drag on an opium pipe. Let's make a man out of you, Rip."

"Alright," Rip agreed. What's the worst that could happen?

"Follow me," Trace said before weaving his way deeper into the room. Rip was surprised to notice that his eyes were slowly becoming accustomed to the dark. He could see that there were people lounging all over the room, most of them reclining in lush chairs or on dirty mattresses on the floor. Almost all of them – the ones that were awake a least – were dangling a long pipe between their fingers. All of them, conscious or not, were smiling lazily.

There was a single day bed vacant in one corner of the room. Trace led Rip over to it and, with a point, he gestured for him to sit. Rip did so, watching as Trace emerged back into the smoky darkness, leaving him alone.

The older boy returned within a few minutes, clutching a small blob of something – the opium? – in his hand. He grinned at Rip before taking a seat. "This is the opium, Rip. Kind of expensive but it's worth it."

"Interesting," Rip replied dryly, glancing at the small gummy substance that just sat in Trace's open palm. "If it's so expensive, how do you afford it?"

"I sell a lot of papers," Trace replied simply before shrugging. Rip could feel the motion and could tell that Trace was lying a bit. He clucked his tongue in disbelief and Trace chuckled. "Alright, that and I take some stuff from around the House. Stuff people don't mind, mostly, but I can barter it for some more of the drug when the headline's bad."

"Oh. Is that why you kept trying to steal my chain, Flannery?" Rip asked, finally understanding why he had woken up those few times to see Trace hovering over him, trying to take the gold cross necklace.

His chuckle was a little hesitant. "Yeah," he said at last. "Sorry about that, Rip."

"No worries. I got a good hit off of you for that," Rip answered. Trace's nose had swelled after Rip hit him out of surprise the last time he caught Trace – Trace had stopped trying to steal the jewelry after that.

The boy was obviously eager to change the subject. He closed his fist around the blob of opium for a moment as he search over at the side of the day bed. Rip only had a few seconds to try to figure out just what Trace was doing before he lifted something up with his free hand. It looked almost like a bowl – a bowl with a pipe attached to it.

From the flickering flame of the oil lamp situated near their seat, Rip watched as Trace placed the opium inside the hole on the bowl. He placed the bowl on the bed between him and Rip before reaching for something else on the ground. He carried it whatever it was by the handle and when he lifted it so that Rip could see it, the younger boy saw that it was a burner with a red-hot charcoal placed inside.

Trace removed the bowl from the seat and, instead, set the burner between them both. He placed the opium bowl onto top of the burner before bringing the pipe to his lips. He blew on it delicately, the air he blew traveling through the pipe and out underneath the bowl so that it was encouraging the bit of coal to burn even hotter.

Rip watched with an interest in his icy blue eyes as Trace continued to blow on the pipe. It was not before long that the opium began to vaporize, sending a cloud of smoke directly above their bowl.

Once he saw the smoke that was being given off, Trace removed his mouth from the pipe. He began to inhale the smoke. "Come on, Rip," he said in between breaths. "Give it a try."

Rip could not really see what the interest was in breathing in smoke but he did so. Like he had before, he coughed before remembering Trace's words of advice. His second breath was much easier than the first.

It was not long before the drug began to take effect. Trace seemed to be used to the drug and was passed out, like many of the other patrons of the den, almost at once. At first, Rip felt a bit nauseous and dizzy; the feelings reminded him vaguely of the first day after he drank nearly the entire bottle of Old Tom Gin. However, such sensations did not last long and, before he knew it, there was a wide grin stretching out his own face.

He was feeling good.

Rip continued to inhale the smoke given off from the opium. It was only after much of the drug had melted off into the air that he grew drowsy. Using the relaxed body of the sleeping Trace as a support, Rip fell asleep.

--

Whether it was the aftereffects of the drugs or the freedom awarded by the drugs that let his unconscious state wander, Rip felt like he was floating. But he was not awake, he knew. Because people who are awake and conscious did not float and, as he looked down, he saw only air.

People who were awake, he knew, also did not see ghosts before them. And, as he floated through an eerie fog and stifling darkness, he could see them. He could see the ghosts.

The forms came first and, though he was too far away to make out any features, he knew who they were at once. Maybe it was because it was a dream or maybe it was because he had been waiting for this since the moment when Maria was found dead beneath the Washington Arch in Washington State Park… Either way, they had come for him. The phantoms of his misdeeds, the ghosts of his anger, the specter of his own self-loathing.

All of the feelings he had locked up and suppressed since that day, they came flooding back momentarily, as he seemed to float closer to the trio before him. As he moved slowly forward he was able to make out certain characteristics that only furthered their identification.

There were three of them, one definitely younger than the other two. The first was quite short and, he could see, had long hair, dark as night – a female, obviously. The second was as equally female; though the face was hidden from him, she too had long hair and a full bosom. The last was the tallest of the three and definitively male.

It was quiet. All he could hear was the frantic beat of his own heart. The happiness he had felt as an effect of the magical drug had all but ceased as fear, a fear beyond anything he had ever known, gripped at his chest. His throat all but closed up. He could not say a word.

But he could hear. The third of them was speaking – no, not speaking. He was mumbling. Rip strained his ears to hear and, as he did so, a sudden light illuminated the figure. Just as he had known, the male was Mack. But this was not Mack as he remembered him; this Mack was gaunt and unsmiling. Rip could see the dribble of blood that had spilt from his mouth upon expiring. Even worse, Rip could see Mack holding onto his side, blood staining his hands. His wound was still bleeding…

"My turn… my turn… my turn…"

The words, a mockery of the last words Mack Turner had said in life, made Rip's stomach turn. He moved his head to the side, gazing at the second specter instead. But, as he did so, the light moved.

The second figure was Daisy, the prostitute that first sullied his hands and showed him to what extent his anger could take him. To look upon her, almost two years dead, was much harder than to gaze upon Mack's ghost.

She was clad in the mauve robe that she had been wearing the night he met her. Her hair, which had fallen free during their intercourse, was hanging in folds past her shoulder. The rouge and powered had melted from her face but the powder was still clear on her neck – except for ten finger size bruises that dotted the length of her throat. The tell-tale signs of her strangulation death.

She, too, was moaning. Her voice, while low, was more nagging than Mack's and if he had been thinking sensibly – which, when in a dream, most people did not do – he would have covered his ears. But he was not thinking sensibly and all he could hear was: "Do you have a thing for dead girls, Luke? I'm dead now, Luke… Do you want to fuck me again?"

"No," Rip found himself saying. "Leave me alone…"

"Luke? Is that you, fratello maggiore?"

Maria?

"Sorella?" he askedturning to look at the first of the three specters. The light that illuminated the girl – his sister, Maria Divenize – did not seem to come from above; rather, it seemed to come from within the girl.

She looked just the same as the day she had died: the same white dress (the bloodstains notably absent), the same dark curls, the same blue eyes, the same innocent smile. The only difference was the gold cross that she had worn. Rip was wearing it now.

Unlike the other two ghosts, Maria was smiling. She looked genuinely happy to see him. "Luke. È così meraviglioso vederlo ancora." It seemed that her appearance was not the only difference. She was not referencing her regrets before death; she was having a conversation with her brother instead.

"Voi anche." It felt so nice to speak the old tongue again; he had spent too much time amongst the Irish. It felt even nicer to see Maria again. She was as lovely as ever. He just did not have the words – in either English or Italian – to express his feelings. Fear was replaced with joy and, with that joy, came awe.

Maria did not seem to mind that he could not speak. Her smile wavered slightly. "Sietecambiato."

"Sono spiacente."

"Do not be, Luke," Maria answered, switching back to English. "You did what you felt was right. But, I am here to warn you. You must leave Harlem as soon as you can. It's not safe."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Rip saw the light begin to shine on Mack. The dead boy was making silent screams, his body convulsing as blood dripped out of his stab wound at an unnatural pace. Rip shut his eyes.

"Where do I go, Maria?"

The light doubled so that it was reaching Daisy as well. She was not moving like Mack was. Her body was still, her breathing nonexistent. Her wide eyes were open staring accusingly but she did not move. She was the very image of her brutal death.

Maria's voice brought Rip's attention back to her. "Harlem holds too much pain for you, fratello. Manhattan, though you were not there long, is not the place to be. And, as much as it hurts me to say, you can not return home. My death had been avenged, Luke. You put me to rest. But it is no longer home. Non per me o voi."

He knew that. But that did not help him with his question. He had nowhere to go.

"Non si preoccupy, Luke. You will find a home for you. And, when you do, you will find salvation. I will be there waiting for you."

"Maria…"

The light was beginning to dim. The sensation that he was floating on air was fading.

Rip struggled to hold onto the dream, the vision. "Maria!"

He could hardly make her out in the dark; Mack and Daisy had already disappeared. "Seloricordi di, Luke. Ti amo."

"Ti amo, anche. Siete il mio cuore. Maria..."

There was a sad, strange sound – almost like a choir of angels calling back to one of their own. It went straight to the core of Rip's heart and he screwed up his face in pain. And then… then there was nothing.

--

He awoke on the plush day bed, leaning up against a snoring Trace. The boy was grinning stupidly in his sleep, his chest rising and falling with every breath. The opium they had been inhaling had faded, the flame underneath had died while they rested. But the euphoric feeling was still there, restored after the nightmare he had just had. With the understanding that he was awake and what had just passed was, in fact, a dream, he was no longer afraid. The opium kept the fear from returning.

Maybe it was because he still felt so pleasant – it was the first time in years he had felt so good – but he was not afraid of the message from his dreams. Rather, he took it to heart. The phantoms plaguing him, watching his every step, listening over his prayers… They had appeared to him and gave him a message. He was listening to it.

I have to get out of Harlem. I have to go as soon as possible… possible… possible…

The last word rang in his head as he stood from the bed. Trace, without Rip's body to lean up again, fell to his side and remained asleep. Rip snorted before leaving the room. He could just imagine Trace's face when he awoke to find his buddy gone. But, if Trace woke up feeling as good as Rip did just then, happy and carefree, Rip did not think he would mind too much.

As he left the den, he could understand the smiles that graced the faces of the intoxicated patrons. The intense smell of the room even seemed sweeter to him as he left. The cool air that met him as he left the building was almost like a slap in the face. It woke him up a bit; he was slowly becoming re-accustomed to his surroundings as he stumbled back down the steps. It was easier this time as the sleeper from the afternoon was gone and none had taken his place on the stairs.

If I have to get out of Harlem, where do I go?

Rip made a decision just then, smiling widely as he made his way back to the Harlem House. It was late – too late to get inside as the door had already been locked for the night when Mister Smith left; it suddenly made sense to Rip why, some nights, Trace never returned to the House – he did not mind. He was still on a high from the opium; nothing could bother him at that moment. To make matters better, he had seen his Maria, his sweet Maria. And Maria promised him that he would be saved if he left his ghosts behind him in Harlem.

All he had to do was pick up and leave Harlem and he would be freer than he had been. The blood from Mack's murder stained his every movement; he would not be saved if he remained in such a haunted location. For the same reason, he could not return to Little Italy or Manhattan. The presence of Maria's ghost and his broken family made it impossible for him to return; Manhattan was slick with the spilt blood of Daisy.

But, he grinned to himself, it was all right. He did not need to stay in Harlem, nor return to either Little Italy or the area of the Tenderloin. There was another option. After all, how long has Spindle been trying to convince him to accompany her to Queens? Maria promised him salvation. He would find it there.

Rockaway, here I come. I guess I'm going to fucking Queens with Spindle – with Caity. Prego al Dio I just hope it treats me better than Harlem did.

He hands were already too blood-stained as it was.

--

Translations:

fratello maggiore – big brother
sorella – sister
è così meraviglioso vederlo ancora - it is so wonderful to see you again
voi anche – you too
siete cambiato – you've changed
sono spiacente - I am sorry
non per me o voi – not for me or you
selo ricordi di – remember me
ti amo - I love you
ti amo, anche – I love you, too
siete il mio cuore – you are my heart
prego al Dio – I pray to God