Several weeks later:

Mac didn't see or hear from Artie for several weeks after she vanished from his apartment. He kept his ears open but nothing filtered in from the streets except rumors of a big, nasty battle coming down. Who with was unknown, along with where and when and why. Most of the cops shrugged off the rumors as gangland wars that may or may not happen. Mac wasn't so sure, not after Artie.

He was heading to the morgue to answer Sid's page on his latest victim when he saw something that made him freeze. In one of the labs, carefully hung up for examination, was a familiar blue-striped men's dress shirt. It looked identical to the one Artie had swiped except this shirt was heavily stained with blood and slashed in several places.

He entered the lab and approached the shirt as Sheldon joined him.

"Where did this come from?" he asked.

"It was found in a dumpster in the Bronx in a section known for gang activity," Sheldon said. He glanced at a file in his hand. "Blood came back as type AB negative, unknown female. Shirt's pretty common and the manufacture's sold over a hundred of these at various retail locations this month alone."

"Any idea what caused the slashes?"

"Something sharp, that's for sure. I'm looking at a few possibilities."

Mac was studying the slashes and the blood. "Left shoulder, across the chest to the stomach region, deep cuts. Slash across the stomach region in an upward direction. Similar slashes on the right arm and back. Shirt was probably tucked in with the sleeves rolled up."

"Would make sense if it was a female wearing it. Also explains the fibers I found on the inside of the shirt and lack of epidurals," Sheldon said. "I've seen some girls layer shirts like that. Swiping a guy's shirt is the one thing that never goes out of fashion." He grinned and Mac smiled back before Sheldon turned serious again. "I'll tell ya, Mac, whoever was wearing this, we're looking for a body. The slashes alone at the neck region alone would have caused the victim to bleed out. She would have been dead within minutes without serious medical attention."

Mac was asleep on the couch in his office, tossing restlessly. He'd worked late and had been way too tired to go home.

He'd also been constantly plagued by the nagging feeling that something wasn't right, especially after he'd seen that shirt. It had been bugging him for the rest of the day and he couldn't seem to quite put his finger on what the problem was, despite his best attempts. Surely it was a coincidence that that particular blue shirt just happened to be identical to the shirt Artie had swiped from him. Still the fact that the DNA was an unknown female…

Later he would not recall what had woken him, only that something had. He would also later wonder if the whole thing had been real or merely a dream.

He sat up, blinking in confusion. Moonlight poured through the huge glass walls, illuminating the person sitting at his desk, one who had her booted feet on his desk, someone he had not seen in some time.

"Get your feet off my desk," he said automatically.

She grinned at him. "Wondering when you'd wake up, Stubby."

"Haven't seen you in a while," he said, eyeing her get-up as she stood up from his desk. She wore black riding boots, Anarchic Greek greeves, vambraces, Greek-style female muscle cuirass, epaulettes, circlet, and studded leather skirt, all beautifully engraved and formed. Her underskirt appeared to be a red material and the leather on her armor was brown. He noticed an oval cabochon moonstone perched in the center of her circlet and how it seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, as if it had a fire of its own inside.

She moved to stand in the moonlight and looked up at the moon, studying it. "Been busy lately." She sighed heavily. "Got involved in a nasty fight recently."

"Did you win?" he asked, joining her.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," she said, flashing him a mischievous grin. "Problem is, price-tag was a bit too high for my liking. I tell ya, I did not go gentle into that good night, just like the poem said." She snorted softly. "I always did like that poem."

"I figured you'd been in a fight recently; we found the shirt," he said.

She smiled sadly and said, "But you won't find me."

"Somehow I figured that too."

She gave him a mischievous grin and said, "Well, good news is you got your shirt back."

He grunted and said, "Yeah, it's in the lab and decorated with an evidence seal. Thanks a bunch; that was my favorite shirt."

"You got good taste in clothes; can't help it if I happened to agree with you." He glared at her and she grinned even wider before shrugging her shoulders absently. "Oh well; you win some, you lose some. All that matters is how many you take with you in the process." He smiled. She continued. "The Goddess is good to her followers, though, especially us sisters. She granted me one last request."

"What was that?"

"That I be able to give you the protection of my sisters. It's a protection I pray you never need. I also ask one thing of you."

"Name it," he said automatically.

"One of the curses of the sisters is that we will die forgotten. We will not be remembered. Stubby, please don't let that happen to me. Please don't forget me." There was an earnest, desperate look on her face, one he found he could not ignore.

"I won't forget you," he found himself saying, realizing he meant it. "I give you my word that I won't forget you."

She smiled, looking relieved.

Then, very faintly, as if coming from a distance of several yards, Mac heard what sounded like laughing and giggling teenage girls. Artie heard the sound too, and she cocked her head, listening, curious.

"Hey, girl, where ya been?" someone called.

Artie spun around towards Mac's office door, a door that was glowing faintly, her face lighting up in recognition. As she spun, a glow surrounded her. When the glow faded, the warrior-look was gone, replaced with a typical teenage-girl look. Her hair, once boyishly short, was now long and streaked with blonde. She wore low-rise jeans, a bright pink t-shirt with the gold Baby Phat cat and logo on it, a large studded black leather motorcycle jacket, and white spike-heeled boots. Large, colorful earrings dangled from her ears and she was actually wearing make-up. She even had a jewel-covered cellphone on one side of her hip and a pink iPod on the other side, its white wires snaking up and around her neck, ending in white earbuds. Mac couldn't help but stare in wonder, even as he understood the transformation. Spiritually, Artie was no longer a warrior but an ordinary teenage girl.

"Is that really you?" she called, obviously seeing something Mac couldn't.

"Well, duh! What'd you expect? A monster?" the voice shot back.

Artie grinned even broader and moved towards the door.

"Wait!" Mac called, realizing he still needed to know one thing. She looked back. "What's your name?"

"You comin' or not?" another voice called.

She blinked and then smiled. "Be right there!" she called back. Then she turned to Mac and said, "Before I was called, my grandfather named me Diana. He was an Irish boy and I was the apple of his eye."

"Diana. It's a beautiful name, just like you."

She smiled even wider.

"Hey, Diana, you don't get a move on, you're gonna miss the latest Hugh Jackman movie, and I'll tell ya, that boy has got one hot bod!" another girl called.

"Whoo-hoo!" the first girl yelped excitedly.

Nodding once at Mac, Artie turned and entered the door, the glow surrounding her completely. Then she stopped and a funny look came across her face. Then she smiled but it was a smile tinged with sadness. She looked back at him and said, "Y'know, if I had the time and, I thought I had a chance with you, Mac, you wouldn't have stood a chance." Her smile turned sassy and she gave him a teasing wink before sashaying further in to the glow.

He blinked a few times, processing her remark. Then he started grinning, not sure if he should laugh or blush.

As the glow began to fade, faintly, very faintly, Mac swore he heard her laugh. It was a real, happy, carefree laugh, unlike anything he'd heard from her before and he found himself smiling in response.

Suddenly Mac snapped up from his couch. Confusion entered him as he rapidly tried to orient himself. He looked around the office, half expecting to see a grinning Artie, but there was only silence, darkness, and the moonlight. As reality returned to him, so did a wave of sadness. Something was wrong, horribly, horribly wrong.

Mac found himself standing up and going to the window where the moonlight poured through. He looked up at the moon, full, beautiful, and knew Artie, wherever she had gone, had seen that moon and knew she never would again. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the glass, his shoulders slumping in sadness. That Artie no longer walked this earth was in no doubt. A wave of regret hit him hard; regret for the woman she would never be allowed to become, and, oddly, for himself. He would miss the verbal sparing matches. A part of him held a genuine affection for her, and a deep respect.

A few days later, Mac was downtown, having just attended a court-session and was walking back towards the lab. It was a crowded area and he was a bit tired, so he sat down on a bench next to one of the many huge statues to grab a quick breather. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't recognize the elderly gentleman sitting beside him, feeding the pigeons, until he was spoken to.

"My son," the man said. It was a quiet, familiar voice and Mac's head snapped around.

"Father Thomas," he said, instantly recognizing the elderly man. Unlike last time, Father Thomas was dressed in a plain brown tweed suit and a matching, well-worn brown fedora. To Mac's eye, though, the elderly man seemed to have aged even more and he looked tired and carried an air of sadness about him, something he swore hadn't been there the last time they had met. "It's a pleasure to see you again"

"And you my son, though I wish the circumstances were better." Father Thomas sighed heavily and reached into his suit jacket. He pulled out a cloth-wrapped object, took Mac's hand, and gently placed the object into his hand and closed his fingers over it. "I was asked by one of the Children to give this to you. She said you would understand."

Curious, Mac carefully unwrapped the cloth-covered object.

His face went pale even as his blood went cold.

When Mac saw the silver medallion, he recognized it instantly; not that long ago, Artie had worn one identical to the one he held now. This medallion had two very nasty gouges across and in it, the clasp on the chain was broken, and there was blood covering a large part of the medallion. His trained eye spotted several black hairs in the chain, hairs that had what looked like roots on them. His CSI mind going in to high gear, he quickly calculated the angle of the gouges and the position of the medallion and realized that whatever had made the gouges in the metal would have been deadly to a human, slashing from the left neck or shoulder and ending at the right hip or stomach, crossing over the region of the heart. The wearer would have died within minutes.

Just like the shirt.

He was cold before and now he felt himself grow even colder. He looked up into the old man's grief-filled eyes. "My people found the shirt she swiped from me the last time I saw her. Do you know what happened, Father?"

Father Thomas shook his head. "For my safety, the Children tell me little. Just as her namesake once lead the hunt, so she led the Children and they, in turn, rallied behind her. Her courage was the turning point. Many were hurt but she was the only casualty." He sighed heavily. "It has been my honor to serve many Children, but she was the child of my heart. I know, though, my work is almost done and I rejoice in the knowledge that I will be joining her soon. I take comfort in the knowledge that another will soon take my place and care for the Children as I did for so many years." He smiled softly at Mac, patted him gently on the shoulder and said, "Be well, my son." The kindly Father then stood and slowly walked away, leaving Mac with his jumbled thoughts.

Then the hairs of the back of his neck started tingling as he felt someone watching him. He quickly scanned the bustling crowd, looking for his watcher. As he did, for some reason, a blonde teenage girl caught his eye. There was nothing special about her but she seemed to have the same air about her as Artie once had.

She looked at him, he looked at her, and she nodded once. Then the crowd moved around her and she was gone.

Artie's promise of protection, he realized. She meant it and her sisters are keeping that promise.

"Artie, I'm so sorry," he whispered. He looked at the medallion again, watching as the sunlight caught the silver, causing it to gleam. A soft breeze blew around him and as it did, he swore he heard a familiar whisper.

Don't forget me, Stubby, her voice whispered.

"I promise, I won't forget you," he said determinedly, his fingers closing over the medallion tightly.

True to his word, he had the medallion placed in a shadow box and hung in his office as a silent tribute to the young woman whom he knew, somewhere, was at peace now, were ever she was. He knew, deep in his heart, somehow, somewhere, she had fought the good fight and now fought no more. He sincerely hoped she was at peace, wherever she was now.

Years later, people would still comment on the blood-stained silver medallion in the cherry wood shadow box that hung in Mac's office. The box bore no name, merely a neatly penned copy of the poem, Do Not Go Gentle Into The Good Night by Dylan Thomas next to the carefully displayed medallion Whenever any one asked about the box, he would simply smile sadly and he always gave the same answer.

"It's a tribute to a friend."