A/N: I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected writers. I am merely a dreamer with a wide vocabulary and enough time on their hands to throw this together. Note: Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction - he is also a serial killer. Hence why this is an AU we're being thrust into. Enjoy.

Chapter 8 – Battle

Moira scrubbed at the tile floor in the kitchen. Lisbeth was out doing god only knew what, probably more research, and it gave Moira time to clean the house without her knowing. Of course, Lisbeth was starting to catch on that her wrappers and pizza boxes were disappearing, but all she did was set up security monitors around the house. They didn't quite catch the paranormal activity going on inside, much to Moira and the other spirit's delight.

Small beads of sweat formed on the young maid's forehead as her hands beat down on the tile, the brush giving way to the dirt and grime that formed in the crevices. They were even dirtier with her around, her boots tracking in mud. She scowled as she thought about her and her bony body and choppy hair. What was so special about her?

Moira was beautiful; she had curves and red lips and long hair and glittering eyes – she was everything a man wanted and more. And her? She had a flat chest with equally flat hair with pale skin and gaunt features. Why would he want Lisbeth when he had her?

"Hello," he said, and the maid jumped, electric waves running through her veins. She turned to see Tate leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen, his brown eyes watching her intently as she was hunched over the floor. "Hi," she whispered, throwing the brush into the dirty, soapy water and standing up. She patted down the wrinkles in her uniform and brushed a piece of hair out of her face. Moira gave him a weak smile and he returned it, watching her body intently. She swallowed.

"Been keeping busy?" he questioned, as Moira moved over to the sink and dumped the water down the stainless steel drain. The water rushing down the pipes echoed in the kitchen. She shrugged. "Usual stuff," she said. "Why do you ask?" He mimicked her, shrugging his broad shoulders, the thick black sweater clinging to his chest. "Curious," he breathed. Tate watched her as she cleaned out the bucket and the bristles on the brush before returning it to the cabinet underneath the sink. She turned to him.

"Is there something I can help you with, Tate?" she asked, her heart beating. He was just starring at her, his expression blank but his eyes filled with hunger. He looked down to the floor, his lips curling up in a smile, his straight white teeth flashing and the dimples in his cheeks digging in and expanding. Moira almost fainted from his beauty.

"There's always something, Moira," he said, smirking at her. She stood there and he approached her, reaching out a hand to stroke her face. Her breath hitched in her throat and he chuckled lowly. "Are you afraid of me?" he whispered. She didn't move. "I would be afraid of me too." His eyes fell deeply into hers and for a second, Moira believed that he was going to take her there on the clean kitchen floor. But his hand fell from her face and he turned his back to her, moving back towards the corner of the island. He leaned against the marble corner and started tracing patterns on top.

"I wanted to ask a favor of you, actually," Tate said, his eyes keeping time with the circle he traced. Moira licked her lips. "What kind of favor?" she asked, watching him. He was drawing figure eights across the gray stone, the pupils in his eyes growing as his concentration increased.

"I want you to fuck the new girl," he said, not even bothering to look up at her. Moira felt like melting into the floor, and it took all of her will power not too. "Wh-what?" she stuttered, as she looked at him, his face blank. He stopped his patterns and looked up at the redhead.

"I said I want you to fuck the new girl," he said, standing up straight. He began to make his way towards her, and suddenly she realized just how big and tall he was. His shadow fell over her and she felt smaller than she had ever felt before. "Why?" she whispered, her eyes struggling to keep tears from falling, her body shaking.

"You're the test drive," he explained. "I want to know what she's like. I want you to tell me exactly how she feels." Moira felt her stomach turn sour at his words; he was sick. "Besides," he continued, his hand resting on the curve in her side. "I want to see a show."

-x-

Lisbeth fell backwards onto the bed, her back cracking as it broke the mattress underneath her. She was exhausted and her leads were getting her nowhere. The story about Tate Langdon shooting up Westfield High School was old news and there was no one who was looking into it; it was an open and shut investigation with a dead murderer. But the case on the girls that showed up along the highway with their bodies violated and their throats burned out was a case they locked away.

No policeman or detective dared take on the cold case on the girls because the trail was dried up; there were no leads, no evidence, nothing to nail the killer. And the prime suspect was dead. Trying to figure it out eighteen years later was ridiculous and hopeless. Lisbeth was unsure of why she was even on the case at all. What was Armansky playing at?

She rolled over onto her stomach, wiggling up on the mattress and grabbing a pack of cigarettes on her nightstand. She pulled out a smoke, lighting it and inhaling. Her head was throbbing, and she felt like she was going nowhere with the investigation. There was no lead to say that Tate Langdon was the murderer back in the early 90's. No interview with his past psychiatrist or looking through a picture book was going to prove that.

Puffing on her cigarette, Lisbeth reached over for her backpack where she had kept Westfield High's copy of The Animal Kingdom: Birds, the last book that Tate Langdon was noted to check out. She pulled out the notecard taped to the front, looking at the loopy scrawl of the killer. She frowned down at it.

Flipping through the pages, she noticed that the once glossy pages were now dull and gray. And they were extremely brittle, and she felt as if the pages might just rip underneath her touch. Slamming the book shut, Lisbeth tossed it in the corner of her bed, rubbing her temples, the smoke tendrils surrounding her. "Fucking bastard," she whispered, closing her eyes.

Moira O'Hara watched in the doorway as Lisbeth looked over the book she pulled out of her bag. Moira remembered Tate reading it once, and then Violet; now she was in possession of it as well. She swallowed, wrinkling her nose as she looked at the young woman sucking the smoke into her lungs. Tate wanted Moira to seduce her, but she felt her stomach flip upside down just thinking about doing it. She took a deep breath; just do it, she thought. Just go with it.

"Ashes are hard to get off those sheets," Moira said, leaning in the doorway. Lisbeth jumped, dropping her cigarette on the bed. "Shit!" she exclaimed, picking it up quickly, the cherry just about to break off the tip. Moira lifted her lips up into a smirk, walking into the room, her hips swaying behind her.

"That was close," she said, getting closer to the bed. She stretched herself over the bed like a cat, her crystal colored eyes boring into Lisbeth's face. The Swede stared at the redheaded woman in front of her, her eyes wide with anger and curiosity. "Who are you?" she grumbled, staring the woman down. There was no use in backing down. Moira smiled.

"Oh, how rude of me," she said, standing up and straightening out her uniform. "I'm Moira O'Hara. I've been cleaning your house for you." She gave Lisbeth a dazzling smile, her red lips vibrant against her porcelain skin. Lisbeth furrowed her eyebrows at the maid.

"I didn't hire a maid," she said. "I don't have money to pay you. Please leave." Moira laughed, moving her way to the side of the bed, climbing on top of it and crawling towards Lisbeth. The cigarette in her hand had now stubbed itself out, and Moira plucked it from her fingers. "Nasty habit," she said, leaning in close to Lisbeth's face. She reached over and dropped it in the glass ashtray on the nightstand.

"Get out of here," Lisbeth growled her hands reaching forward to push Moira away from her. But the redhead grabbed onto Lisbeth's hand and held them in her own, pushing them into her chest and crashing her lips against hers. Lisbeth gasped as the strange young woman advanced on her, letting her lips be assaulted by the other woman.

Lisbeth was not shy to a woman's touch; she had no preference when it came to genders sexually – she merely decided who she wanted to fuck when she wanted to fuck. Moira O'Hara was a seriously gorgeous woman, one that many a man, even woman, have most likely lusted over. Lisbeth was not shy to this desire. She closed her eyes, letting Moira slip her tongue into her mouth.

Moira smiled against Lisbeth's lips, breaking apart for air. She released Lisbeth's hands, letting her own roam against the fabric of her shirt, squeezing her breasts in her hands. Moira noted the size of them in her palm, and she wanted to laugh. Tate will never enjoy you, she thought, as she leaned over to kiss Lisbeth again. The woman moaned into her mouth, letting her hands run over the curves of Moira's body, feeling her cotton uniform beneath her fingertips.

Tate Langdon stood in the doorway, watching as the two women explored each other. His mouth was in a tight line, his dark brown eyes glaring at them as Moira slipped her hand underneath Lisbeth's shirt. Good, Tate thought. Just like that.

Moira felt the smooth skin on Lisbeth's abdomen, letting herself be touched in return. Her touch was entirely different than Tate's; delicate, gentle with just a touch of a push against her skin. Moira slowly undid the buttons of her blouse, smiling down at Lisbeth, who looked up at her and swallowed.

"I don't think this is a good idea," Lisbeth said, although her body was ready for whatever Moira O'Hara wanted to do with her. Moira laughed, slipping the top of her uniform over her shoulders, exposing a silk, pink bra against her chest. "Oh don't be silly," she teased, leaning over to kiss Lisbeth. But she pushed her away, letting Moira scramble off the bed.

"No," Lisbeth said, composing herself. Moira scowled at her. "Don't you want me?" she hissed, her top gaping open. Lisbeth stared her down, her nostrils flaring. "Get out of this house," she said, getting up from the bed, beginning to stalk over to the red-haired woman. Moira sneered at her, turning on her heel, leaving the room. Lisbeth followed her down the stairs, watching her open and shut the front door. She fell against the banister, groaning.

Appearing in the basement, Moira balled her hands into fists, biting her lip to keep from screaming. Her body was shaking with rage at the rejection Lisbeth had shown her. How dare she? How dare she turn down Moira O'Hara? Her eyes glued themselves to the basement walls, and she wanted to punch a hole right through it. But she knew nothing would happen; nothing ever did.

"I expected better from you." Moira turned, her breathing heavy, to see Tate sitting on the bottom stair of the basement. His hands were clasped, forearms resting on his knees, as he stared at his thumbs. "I thought you knew what the fuck you were doing." His voice was laced with malice, and suddenly the anger turned to fear. Moira swallowed.

"You saw what happened," she said. "I know you were there." Tate turned his head to her, his eyes shining. "Of course I was there," he said, getting up from the step. "I saw you letting her push you the fuck away." He stomped over to her, stopping just inches from her face. Moira's breath hitched in her throat, looking at the anger sparkling in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "But I really couldn't do anything about it." Tate sneered at her, turning on his heel, his back towards her. "Yeah, sure you couldn't," he said sarcastically. He turned back to her. "You can always do something," he said, slowly making his way towards her. She stood there, frozen.

Tate got close to her, putting his hand on her side. The fabric of her uniform felt warm on the palm of his hand. He examined her face, looking at the fear that etched itself across her smooth skin. "How did she feel?" he whispered, his lips closing over hers. Moira squeezed her eyes shut, letting him slip his tongue into her mouth. He roughly assaulted her, both his hands on her hips and grasping them, pushing her up against the wall.

"What did she taste like?" he grunted, his hand running up her thigh and over her stockings. "You didn't even get to lick her fucking pussy," he sneered, pushing her against the wall and walking away. Tears started to glitter in Moira's eyes, her heart racing. "I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I tried, I-I really did."

"Well it wasn't good enough!" Tate shouted, raising his hands to the air. "Jesus Christ, Moira. I ask you to do one simple fucking thing and you manage to fuck it up!" Moira ran her hands through her hair, trying to steady her breathing. Tate's nostrils flared as he gripped the banister on the stairs.

"I guess I just have to do it myself, don't I?" he said, his eyes boring into the wood. He turned to Moira, slouched against the basement wall. His lips curled up in a snarl. "Get up," he commanded. "You're pathetic." He melted into the foundations of the house, leaving Moira alone to cry, shuddering and holding herself until she slipped away into nothingness.