To be honest—
Helen was still dazed, unsure whether what she'd gone through was real or an illusion.
But the feeling of being shot had been all too real.
Even now, when she recalled it, her heart seemed to flinch on its own.
And the bullet hole in her clothes, plus the bullet that had fallen from inside them, both seemed to point to one thing:
What she experienced was real.
She died.
But she didn't stay dead.
After reviving via Phoenix Rebirth, she'd first panicked about George, then, realizing George had things to say, went out to the OR wing to wait on Mahoney's surgery. Only on returning did Helen finally have a moment to breathe and think about what had happened to her.
She remembered the place she reached after the bullet hit.
A dome unlike the mortal world. Meadows unlike the mortal world, blooming with countless strange flowers. And that towering temple.
Most of all—
That little girl who, in the lines of her brow, faintly resembled her future son-in-law.
Right.
That girl also said something about an "older brother," didn't she?
Helen pictured Anya's face, then looked straight at Hawk.
Hawk caught her look and turned to her as well.
Helen frowned. "I… think I saw your sister Anya, Hawk."
"What?" George blinked.
Gwen's pupils tightened. "Mom, you said you saw Anya?"
Hawk stayed calm.
The Underworld lay within his microcosmos; he felt every ripple in it. He already knew Anya had met Helen.
Though Helen hadn't had time to chat—she'd gone straight into the Phoenix Rebirth process.
"Yes," Helen said. "I'm pretty sure it was your sister Anya.
"That place should be Heaven.
"I think I paid a visit to Heaven and saw your sister. She and you look so alike around the eyes. I don't think I was mistaken."
Her brows eased the more she spoke. Then she looked to George. "I died, but I'm alive again, George."
Their eyes met.
George didn't hesitate. He held her—thrilled but careful not to squeeze with his new strength—and blurted:
"Thank God!"
…
Inside, George's gratitude put it all down to God.
But God—Hawk—was not amused.
Hawk arched a brow at George handing his credit to that old codger upstairs.
"That was—"
"Great news, Hawk!"
Gwen, who'd been watching Hawk like a hawk, saw him about to reclaim his credit and cut him off with a happy squeal, wrapping him up before whispering in his ear: "Lab coat."
Hawk, about to claim what was his, met Gwen's eyes as she tilted her face up in his arms.
In a flash he made a decision.
"Deal."
"You—"
Gwen's brows bounced. She was about to complain at the opportunist when she saw him about to add more terms, clenched her teeth, and nodded.
"Fine!"
"Deal."
Hawk beamed.
Whatever. Let George thank "God." He hadn't specified which one.
Yahweh is God.
Hawk is also God.
Close enough.
And honestly—
Titles are fluff. Watching Gwen in a lab coat? That's substance.
He was very pleased with himself.
Having settled Hawk, Gwen exhaled—then remembered there was one more thing. Slipping from Hawk's arms, she turned to her parents, who were now being lovey-dovey again, and blurted, "Dad, Mom died!"
Helen's face darkened at once.
She looked at her very-much-alive self being jinxed by her own daughter and opened her mouth—
But George got there first, already thinking ahead. He nodded, gaze turning solemn toward Helen.
"Yes. You are dead, Helen."
"…I'm dead?"
When? Wait—did I really die, and everything now is just a dream after death?
Helen went blank.
George explained quickly.
He omitted one detail: that he himself had become a vampire.
His head was a mess, and he hadn't figured out how to tell her yet.
One thing was certain, though:
If those vampires learned Helen had survived, they'd realize something was off. Even if they went to ground, they would try again.
So—
Until they caught them, Helen had to remain "dead."
Helen understood.
She could accept it.
Still—
She looked at George, then at Gwen, making a face. "So I'm… dead-dead?"
George and Gwen exchanged a glance.
"Helen."
"Mom."
…
Hawk stood by, silent. He quietly dialed down his presence with the Reality Stone, turned, and slipped out the door.
He wanted no part of this domestic theater.
If Gwen had let him act, this would be simple. With one word from her, every vampire in New York would have already delivered the Crimson Apocalypse and their puppet masters trussed up at his feet.
He didn't know exactly who the Crimson Apocalypse were.
But vampires were a given.
So rather than chew on himself, he'd rather bite someone else. Who cared who they were—grab vampires and kill them. If he was right, everyone cheered. If he was wrong, the "innocent" vampires would be far more motivated than him to find the real Crimson Apocalypse.
So—
Why bother with a fake death? Was it necessary?
He didn't get it, but he respected it. If Gwen didn't want him to move, he wouldn't.
And truthfully, he preferred not to.
He had one publicly known soft spot, one loved person: Gwen.
If he flexed here, some shadowy schemer might get the bright idea to target him through Helen and George, or Howard and Simon.
He had no intention of planting that idea.
So—
Unless Gwen called, he wouldn't act.
And again—dead is just dead. Dead folks go to the Pure Land. How's that not home?
Like he'd told Gwen earlier: even if Helen and George died, he wouldn't toss them into the Hell-Prison.
No way.
Just then—
Detective Hale stepped from the elevator.
Hawk greeted her. "Detective Mahoney—"
"Stabilized in time. The bullet didn't pierce his heart."
"Good."
"Is the captain awake?"
"Yeah."
"I'll go in."
"Go ahead."
Hale pushed through the door—and froze.
Just this morning the captain had been shot three times, brought in at death's door. Now, though pale, he was upright and alert.
Especially that arm the doctors had called a comminuted fracture—now moving easily.
Hale gaped. "Captain, you—"
"Hale, in. Close the door."
…
An hour later—
Hale and a uniformed policewoman hurried out of the hospital, got into a squad car, and wailed away.
Hawk and Gwen went back to the Stacy apartment.
Gwen fell face-first on the bed, stretched. "God, I'm tired."
Hawk smiled. "Forget God. He's the enemy now. Call him again after I storm Heaven."
Gwen blinked, then shot upright, staring at him. "When Mom went to the safehouse with Hale… no vampires, right?"
"None."
"Good."
She sagged with relief.
Hawk sighed. He hadn't wanted to ask, but couldn't help it. "Why make it so complicated? One word from you and I can make New York vampire-free."
Gwen shook her head instantly. "No!"
"Why?"
"This is Dad's war. And…"
She looked at him. "You not stepping in is also protecting Dad, Mom, Howard, and Simon."
It had been their idea in the first place—never ask Hawk to intervene for the Stacy family.
Because one soft spot is enough.
More than one isn't a soft spot.
It's a liability.
Most of all—
She smiled. "If I call, you'll help. Right?"
Hawk smiled back. "Of course."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"Oh, and…"
Her grin brightened as he sat beside her and pulled her in, his hands already roaming. "About what you said—that if Dad died, you wouldn't marry me. Was that true?"
Hawk stiffened, meeting her not-quite-smiling eyes.
"That was a goad. You didn't notice?"
"Really?"
She held his gaze. Her hand slid lower, her smile wider. Then she squeezed. "Like this?"
Hawk hissed, twitching a smile. "Careful. If you break it, I won't be the one who's sad."
"Who will be?"
"Whoever uses it."
Feeling the grip and the… strengthening response, he smirked.
Gwen watched his grin—and the growing proof in her palm—took a steadying breath, and let go decisively. "Sleep. We have a show to put on tomorrow."
…
Yes.
A show.
For the vampires.
After all, Helen was "dead."
She wasn't, but she was—at least as far as the vampires were concerned. Until George could flip the table like Hawk, he had to play along to draw them out.
George and Gwen knew it was theater.
Howard and Simon didn't.
So—
The kids cried for real.
Ragged, heart-broken sobs.
In the morgue, Hawk watched the boys wail and lunge for "Mom" while George and Gwen held them back, and he lowered his gaze to keep from laughing.
A week later, at the funeral—
Hawk bought himself dark shades to hide his eyes and sank his feelings into the microcosmos, keeping his face as blank as a stone while he stared at the new headstone.
The name was clear:
Helen Stacy.
Behind the stone, the grave yawned. The coffin that "held" Helen sank slowly.
George, arm around a sobbing Howard, looked stricken.
Gwen, holding back a surging Simon, looked the same.
George's acting was flawless—occupational hazard of scaring suspects.
Gwen was beautiful.
And as Zhang Wuji's mother once said— the prettier the woman, the better the liar.
So—
Gwen's acting was flawless too.
Howard and Simon were wholly in the dark; their grief was raw. Their voices were nearly gone after days of crying.
Would George's play hook the vampires? Hawk didn't know.
But he did know one thing:
When it was over, George and Gwen were going to be in trouble at home.
Gwen could still dodge it—she could skip the apartment and lie low at 521A Palm Street until it blew over.
George? Not so lucky. He'd be on the couch for a month, maybe three.
Hawk watched the dirt shoveled into the grave and the father-daughter duo's performance, unable to help a touch of schadenfreude as he glanced at George—shades on, grief poorly hidden, a ring on his finger.
Not the daylight ring Katherine had brought.
But still a daylight ring.
It had appeared on George's nightstand when they'd come back from the morgue—along with a burner phone and a note.
The note listed what the ring could do, and what the phone was for.
It hadn't rung all week.
Until now.
As "Helen's" coffin settled, George felt the phone buzz in his pocket. For an instant anger flashed across his face. He handed Howard to Gwen and walked aside to answer.
Katherine stepped up beside Hawk as a guest at the funeral. "Sir, want me to grab that vampire?"
"No."
Hawk shook his head. "They like theater. Let them act. We'll watch."
Katherine nodded.
Behind his shades, Hawk's eyes turned toward the edge of the cemetery—to a rooftop where a figure in black stood, phone in hand, looking down.
He opened his sixth sense and heard the black-clad man's voice and George's, clear as day.
"Captain Stacy, my condolences."
"The killer!"
"Soon, Captain. The killer will come in to confess. Tell me—now that you're one of us, do you feel the power?"
…
George didn't answer.
But—
He did feel it.
Strength. Speed. Endurance. All of it climbing by the day.
With one catch.
He had to drink blood.
On the rooftop, the vampire's smile twisted. "You've got quite the appetite. Most newborns need a bag a day. You've bought a lot this week."
This is the Federation; everything's for sale.
Blood too—at a posted price. If you've got the cash, you can buy a truckload and water your lawn with it.
George was impassive. "Isn't that exactly what you wanted?"
"Yes." The vampire didn't deny it, then shifted his tone. "But bags aren't ideal. That's all cold stock. You should try fresh, Captain. You'll love it."
He pulled the phone away, typed, and sent a text.
George glanced at the incoming message.
Opened it.
He frowned. "Hudson Meatpacking…"
"Yes," the rooftop vampire said brightly. "Eleven tonight. Tell the doorman you're invited by Cole. I've arranged a gift. Accept it, and I think we can finally meet."
George's frown deepened. "What gift? What are you trying to do?"
"A little present," the vampire said, smiling. "You'll like it. I promise. If you don't… well, then our meeting may be postponed indefinitely. And your friend Ben might not make it back. Eleven, Captain."
He hung up, turned, and vaulted off the roof—gone in a blur.
Not far away, George lowered his phone, brows knotted.
Hudson Meatpacking.
Hawk lifted a brow and glanced at Katherine.
She understood. "A vampire party spot in New York. New-generation types go to enjoy music and fresh blood."
"Like the Crimson Apocalypse—Deacon Frost's crowd?"
"Yes."
…
(End of Chapter)
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