Author's Note: So this story has been finished for a while. I've always liked the idea of it, and so I decided to read over it again one night. Within five minutes, I was exporting chapters and fixing errors: spelling, purple prose, spacing, etc. I also expanded on a few areas of dialogue, which I think helps the story along considerably. Now that I've read through it, I feel that the ending is definitely good-it just leaves a few loose ends. So, just to be fair to all of you guys, I've finally decided to write an epilogue. You might as well know what happens with Spot, Jack, and David, right? So here it is.

EPILOGUE

Spot Conlon's Apartment, Brooklyn Territory, 1900

"Put me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm..."

The steady, quiet voice seemed to be coming from somewhere outside of Spot Conlon's sleeping mind. His body stirred, and his ears reached to find the source of the voice. His eyelids fluttered, but he groaned and turned on his side again. The voice grew louder:

"For love is as strong as death, jealousy is as severe as Sheol..."

Spot's brow furrowed and he slowly opened his eyes to the dim, gray morning. It was much too early to be awake, but the voice continued-by his side, now. He jerked his head around to see where it was coming from, and his gaze collided with a familiar form sitting at his bedside.

"Its flashes are flashes of fire, the very flame of the Lord. Many waters cannot quench love, nor will rivers overflow it; if a man were to give all the riches of his house for love, it would be utterly despised."

Spot sat up quickly, reaching beneath his pillow. The boy sitting by his bed held up a long knife, twisting the blade in the early light.

"Looking for this?"

The king of Brooklyn let out a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. He cocked his head to the side and gave his visitor a snide little nod. "'Mornin', Dave."

David Jacobs might have laughed. "Do you know what I just recited for you?"

Spot glanced at the ceiling, and then back at the weapon in David's hand. "If you's gonna embarrass yourself tryin' to kill me, how's about you just get it over with? I don't got time for your stupid games."

"It's from Song of Solomon," David went on easily. "Do you know who Solomon was, Spot?"

"Do I look like I give a fuck?"

David was unabashed. "He was a king of Israel. God said he'd give him whatever he wanted, and he asked for wisdom. I just thought you'd like some advice from the wisest guy that ever lived."

Spot smirked. "Yeah. I'll be sure to take that to heart."

"I loved her, Spot."

Brooklyn shifted his weight nonchalantly, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. "So?"

David lunged at the other boy, pinning him to the bed with a sudden and surprising force. Before Spot Conlon had a moment to think, he had a knife at his throat. He smiled grimly, staring up at David with defiant eyes.

"This is some class, Dave, killin' a guy with his own knife."

David's teeth clenched. Spot saw the tears welling his his eyes, and grinned.

"Or do you got the guts to do it? Huh, Dave? Mr. 'Don't-soak-the-scabs'? Ah...can'tcha do it?"

David took a deep breath, blinking hard a few times. He pressed the knife harder against Spot's throat.

"Or are ya considerin' the consequences? I bet you are, you brainy fuck. I bet you's thinkin' about what could happen to you if you killed Spot Conlon."

David shook his head slowly. He glanced at the window, a sad smile on his face.

"You know I got friends," Spot told him conversationally. "I got friends who could put your insides on your outsides if you's wantin' to get rid of me."

Their eyes met again, and Spot noticed something strange in David's gaze. Something was cool, and triumphant, and maybe a bit sympathetic in those blue depths that made him curious...and caused his stomach a twinge of uneasiness. David ran his tongue over his lips, tilting the knife so that only the tip was touching Spot's neck.

"Nobody's coming after me," he said quietly.

Spot laughed, and the small movement of his throat against the blade caused a thin trickle of blood to ebb down his skin. "Oh, yeah? How do you figure?"

David smiled, but only for a moment. His fingers tightened on the handle. "Because nobody loves you, Spot."

Brooklyn opened his mouth to say something, but David jammed the knife into his throat. Spot gasped for his breath, laboring loudly for air with horrible, gurgling noises. David's face paled, and he held back the sickness swimming in his mind. His body shook as he got off of the bed. He crossed the small room with quivering steps, the room twisting and tilting before his dizzy eyes. He grasped the doorknob desperately, grimacing at the blood staining his hand. He flung the door open wildly, stumbling out into the hallway. His heart clattered in his chest, and he gripped the wall for strength.

Swallowing hard, he looked up to meet Jack's worried, curious eyes. Cowboy was leaning stiffly against the wall beside him, his hand clenched around something in his coat. David stared at him in confusion.

"Jack, what's-"

He realized too late. Jack watched David Jacobs' body collapse on the floor, his expression still puzzled and sickly. Jack Kelly glanced at the gun in his hand and tossed it on the floor beside his friend. With a ruthless sigh, he walked to the end of the hallway and started up the stairs.

They didn't get it, neither of them.

Stuff like this-it never ends. Spot thought he could win if he just got rid of enough people...but he didn't get rid of the right ones. And David-David thought he had nothing left to lose. He thought he could finish it if he just killed Spot. But Jack knew, Jack got it.

He stepped out onto the roof of the building. The sun was starting to rise. It was already so humid-it was going to be another hot day. Gray mists were rising off of the streets, and he was reminded of a bathtub and a beautiful, terrible girl and his own insanity.

Maybe David was right. Maybe nobody loved Spot. But that didn't mean that nobody loved Brooklyn-that nobody loved the idea of being tough and powerful and on top. Maybe nobody gave a lick about Spot Conlon, but a whole lot of people liked what he stood for. David didn't think he would face any repercussions if he killed Spot, but Jack knew...Jack knew Spot wasn't kidding when he said he had dangerous friends, friends who would have tortured David into a much more painful death.

Jack walked to the edge of the building. He stared down at the alleyway so far below.

Why must the guilty survive?

The guilty were dead now. Justice was done. Everything was settled. There was no one left to get rid of, no one left to care. By tomorrow, by next month, next year-New York will have forgotten that David Jacobs fell in love with Spot Conlon's girl, that two friends became grim enemies in a gang war, that Brooklyn massacred Manhattan boys in a bar. No one will remember that such people were ever around. There will be other David Jacobs, other Spot Conlons, other Hellie Cadens.

Jack closed his eyes and leaned forward, the air whipping past his face as he fell faster and faster towards the ground.

There will be other Jack Kellys, too.