Author's Note: This is so much fun to write...y'all have no idea. Keep the support and the reviews coming!

Richard Castle supposed it was only fair that he wound up not sleeping the previous night, after so rudely awakening Rupert Giles at whatever ungodly hour it had been in jolly old London. But between his near-death experience, the realization that monsters were very real, and Rupert's little spin at storytelling, there was no way the writer was dozing off.

Which was why Castle had chugged down two cups of coffee while Alexis had eaten her breakfast. She thought he was hung over again, despite the fact that she had seen him come home the previous night, unfortunately sober – and there wasn't enough booze in the loft to get him drunk to the point of hangover.

No sooner did Alexis leave for school, Castle had sank back into the swivel chair in his office, the screensaver on his laptop taunting him: You should be writing. Setting aside his mug – working on cup number three – Castle queued up his word processor, his fingers starting to fly over the keyboard.

Into every generation…

One girl in all the world…

She is the Slayer.

The mantra had been playing in Castle's head on repeat throughout the night and early morning, like the latest pop hit Alexis had discovered and downloaded onto her iPod. And yet, somewhere along the way, the rules had changed.

Castle's fingers were a blur tapping over the keys, his tongue poking slightly out of his mouth. As he wrote, Castle thought of the battle of Sunnydale – some tiny little west coast town he had never heard of – and how the Slayer of the time (named Buffy, of all things) had devised a way to share her power.

One Slayer became many Slayers.

Apparently, he had encountered one such Slayer last night.

For some reason, the idea of a homicide detective who also fought back the forces of darkness intrigued Castle – to the point where he was in the beginning stages of creating what he hoped would be Derrick Storm's replacement.

Then again, he'd tried something similar not long after finishing Storm Fall. He'd created a homicide detective based in Baltimore who had undergone a secretive government experiment during her military days, and now spent her nights doubling as a costumed vigilante. Castle thought the idea had potential, and it was definitely a departure from his spy thriller days, but Gina laughed it off and told him to try again.

He was half-tempted to do just that – with another publisher.

The stake Castle picked up from the alley last night was on the desk to his left, and he caught it out of the corner of his eye. The rhythmic tapping of the keys stopped, and he sat back in his chair while grabbing the weapon and taking a closer look at it. The wood was chipped around the edges, and the point was dulled. If Castle leaned in for a closer look, he'd find specks of dried blood from the occasional off-the-mark staking.

He wanted to give it back to Kate – somehow, he figured she would want it back – but aside from the fact that she was a detective, he wouldn't know how to get a hold of her. Given the sheer number of detectives in the city, let alone the number of precincts, he wasn't sure how he'd find her.

The proverbial needle in a haystack.

Unless…

Grabbing his phone with a sly grin, Castle leaned back in his chair and pressed the device to his ear. The smile broadened when the line connected. "Gwen! Good morning!" He nodded with a smirk. "My pleasure…hey, is the mayor in? Tell him Ricky's got a copy of Storm Fall with his wife's name on it."

LaGuardia…

If there was one thing Faith Lehane hated, it was transatlantic flights – particularly those that took off before the sun rose. The fact that this flight took her to one of America's busiest airports, in one of its most rambunctious cities, was even more annoying. No amount of caffeine in the world could shake off the fatigue as she waited for her bag.

Hell, even the crawl of the conveyer belt threatened to lull Faith to sleep. She stood, waiting for her bag, decked out in a black leather coat slung over a red tank top and navy blue skinny jeans. Her black combat boots were loosely tied, and Faith's dark hair framed her pale face.

The sun had never been her friend. Faith had two settings: ghost white and burnt to a crisp.

As much as Faith didn't want to come to New York, she had to admit it was better than Cleveland. Then again, resurrecting Sunnydale would've been better than Cleveland. Still, Faith wasn't sure what she was going to accomplish in the Big Apple, mostly because she figured a city of this size and importance would already be crawling with Slayers.

But if the Council needed her in New York, New York was where she went.

Grabbing her bag – a standard-issue military sack – Faith hoisted it over her shoulder. If nothing else, Faith was only a few hours from home. She hadn't been back in Boston since her teenage years, before things went so horribly awry in her life, and Faith would be lying if she said she didn't hope for the occasional trip back to the land of the Red Sox and chowdah.

First thing's first, though: Faith had to get to her hotel – she loved that the Council spared no expense – check in, maybe squeeze in a nap or several, and contact Giles. He'd promised more in-depth instructions once Faith got stateside, and she was anxious to know what they were.

Faith glanced at a large billboard as she wandered toward the taxi loading area. It was red and black, promoting a new book that had just been released: Storm Fall written by a man named Richard Castle. The brunette smirked and shook her head; she had sat next to a woman on the plane reading that book, and her weeping over it had been annoying.

Tossing her bag into the trunk of a waiting taxi, Faith climbed into the backseat and gave the driver the address to the hotel. Glancing out the window on the driver's side, she watched the city pass them by. Curiosity was threatening to get the better of Faith, so she fished the phone out of her pocket.

She couldn't call Giles – not with the taxi driver within earshot – but she knew she had another avenue. She opened the Skype app on her phone and her thumbs whisked easily over the touchscreen.

Made it to NY – what's the sitch?

The response was almost immediate.

New Slayer – info has been emailed to you.

Faith was just about to check her email when another text message pinged.

Glad you made it. Be safe, Faith.

The Twelfth…

Truth be told, the coffee in the break room was horrendous. It was like a monkey peed in battery acid. Yet, given the long hours and hectic nature of working homicide, there were days where that was all the caffeine Kate Beckett could get. It wasn't a grande skim latte, two pumps sugar free vanilla, but it would have to do.

Returning to her desk with two paper cups, she handed one to the well-dressed man sitting in the raggedy chair beside the desk before sinking herself into her own seat. Kate took her first sip, trying not to cringe too much before setting her cup aside and folding her arms over her chest.

"Mr. McDonald," Kate was trying to keep her tone even, but failed. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Couple things, actually." Lindsey McDonald hoisted a black briefcase onto his lap, opening it and pulling out an overstuffed manila folder, making a point to ignore the steaming cup in front of him. "First of all, I sincerely hope Detectives Ryan and Esposito have a warrant to search my client's office, because I'd hate to see all that hard work go for naught."

Kate's eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward until her elbows rested on her desk. This wasn't her first rodeo with the clowns from Wolfram & Hart, and though they liked to strut around, acting more important and intimidating than they really were, she knew better.

This one in particular was ripe for the picking.

"Really." Kate shook her head. "You're gonna come in here and lecture me on how we should do our jobs. You do know who I am, right? You do realize we have the highest closure rate in the city."

Lindsey shrugged. "Hey, you do your job, I do mine."

"Anything else, Mr. McDonald? Because I'm trying to solve this case, and any second now my detectives are going to walk through that door with your client in handcuffs, and I'd appreciate some privacy when I go to interrogate him."

"No, you won't." The smile on Lindsey's face lacked humor but was full on smug. "If my client was being brought in for questioning, I'd have heard about it."

"Don't you have an office, Mr. McDonald?"

"I do." Lindsey handed the folder to Kate, the smug grin on his face disappearing as something the detective couldn't quite place formed in his blue eyes. "I also have information on a new player in town you might be interested in."

Kate opened the file with a furrowed brow, studying the mugshot of a woman in her early thirties with pale skin and dark brown hair. Her hazel eyes scanned the particulars, her teeth raking over her bottom lip. "Faith Lehane."

"Escaped convict. Known murderer."

Kate's eyebrows arched, and she leveled a surprised gaze at Lindsey once she flipped to the second page of the file. "And yet it says here that she's been cleared of all charges – thanks in large part to your firm."

Lindsey shrugged, and whatever was in his eyes before darkened even more. His hands clasped together across his stomach, and Kate thought she noticed ink of some sort on his wrist. "Our L.A. branch has made some…questionable decisions over the years. I just thought you might want a heads-up about who might be causing trouble out there."

"Right." Kate rolled her eyes. "Because you're such a good Samaritan."

Closing his briefcase, Lindsey shrugged and stood. "Mock all you want, detective. But when it comes to Ms. Lehane, you and I are on the same side." He stopped before heading toward the elevators, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. "Nice elephants."

Annoyed, Kate's eyes flickered to the ceramic elephant statues on her desk – primarily, the group of four aligned from largest all the way back to smallest. They had been her mother's, on her desk for years. But they were Kate's now, and they were little more than a reminder of what she lost that cold January night after her freshman year at Stanford.

They were as much a reminder as the ring Kate wore around her neck.

She watched Lindsey disappear into the elevator before rising from her chair and approaching the white dry-erase board next to her desk. The murderboard was a collection of photographs, dates, and notes throughout the case they had been working on, and to the untrained eye, it was nothing but a random hodge-podge of information. No substance, just…randomness.

But to Kate, it told a story. Every murder was a story, a mystery that begged to be pieced together for the sake of those the victim left behind. She chewed on her lower lip again, giving all of the information another once-over, content that there was nothing to add until Ryan and Esposito got back with their latest suspect.

Flipping the white board over to the other side, Kate attached Faith Lehane's headshot to the surface, grabbing a red marker and jotting down a few of the particulars. Taking a step back, Kate capped the pen, chewing on her lip to the point where it almost split, shaking her head.

Something about this woman tugged at Kate's subconscious, and for some reason, she felt like she knew the woman. Kate was sure they'd never met, but when she looked into the dark, hollow eyes staring back at her in the photograph, Kate could swear there was something familiar about her.

The sound of the elevator arriving startled Kate, and she turned the murderboard back over to show the particulars of their case. Kate tossed the folder onto her desk, a knowing smile on her face as she watched her two lead detectives pressing through the bullpen, accompanied by a disheveled man in an ill-fitting suit with his arms trapped behind his back.

Esposito gave Kate a smug grin, and the man in cuffs growled to himself as he stared at the ceiling.

"Good job, boys." Kate grabbed her notepad. "Put him in Interrogation 1."