The fireworks of pleasure faded and Mila’s blindness lifted.

“You took too much,” one of the women complained. The other, a honey-haired girl with a pleasant face, knelt next to Danika and offered her neck.

“Danika, it’s Hannah,” the girl said, slapping Danika gently on the cheeks, trying to rouse her. “Drink from me,” Hannah demanded, but Danika didn’t answer. Her eyes had rolled back in her head. The other woman, Sarah, bent down to help Hannah, and as her awareness returned, Mila massaged her arms a minute … and then spotted the gun. They’d left it on a coffee table near one of the couches. She picked it up and trained it on Sarah.

“Sorry,” she said to herself. “I know you didn’t ask for this.”

Then she pulled the trigger. At the sound of the shot, Hannah pulled back from pressing her neck to Danika’s mouth, but Mila didn’t pause. She fired the gun again and Hannah’s forehead exploded with a spray of blood that rained over Danika’s still form. Hannah’s body collapsed to the ground next to her.

“What are you doing?” Pete asked, staggering towards her. “Stop it! Leave them a …”

The bullet caught him in the neck and the word “alone” turned into a gurgle of death. The two other men in the room barely stirred and Mila put bullets through their brains without protest. She wasn’t going to risk them turning.

She walked quickly through the house until she found them all. Shot after shot rang out, and she had to reload the gun before the execution was over.

Mila stood in the kitchen of the house. Tears slipped down her cheeks. Her lips and chin felt sticky with blood. It had warmed her a few minutes ago; she felt sick to her stomach now.

She looked at the spots of blood that streaked her arm and the grey metal of the gun. Mila hadn’t asked to be made a vigilante. She looked at the stove and thought of her grandma’s soup. There should be a kettle of it cooking here. That’s what she wanted to offer. All she’d ever wanted to do was take care of people. Like her nana had taught her.

But soup wouldn’t cure this cold. The only cure was in her hand. Mila knew that she was doing the right thing. The world did not need any more wurdulacs.

She walked once more through the quiet house, clicking the TV and lights off as left the rooms where bodies now lay still. She knew that she would need to stay here for the night, to wait for the rest of the Wurdulacs to come home. From what Danika had said, she thought that Mack lived here, and Craig apparently spent a lot of time here, if he didn’t sleep here full-time. Mila didn’t want to hurt them. She really didn’t. But she would be ready.

Finally, she returned to where she had left Danika. Her sister remained on the floor, surrounded by her friends. The blood had clotted at her neck, and Danika’s eyelids fluttered. She was conscious, just barely.

Mila bent down and kissed her sister on the forehead. “I know you didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she whispered. “But I can’t let you do it to anyone else.”

She aimed the gun and her Danika’s eyes widened in fear. One of her arms trembled as she tried to move away.

“I’m sorry, Sis,” Mila said pulling back the trigger. “But you’re not going to New York.”

"THE BALLAD OF BIG CHARLIE" PT.1

Keith R.A. DeCandido

— 1 —

Walking into Bronx District Attorney Hugues Charles’s office, it was easy for New York Daily News reporter Mia Fitzsimons to understand how he got the nickname “Big Charlie.”

The office, located in the rectangular edifice of the Bronx County Courthouse on E. 161st Street, was surprisingly cramped for the biggest prosecutor in the borough — and “biggest” took on a whole new meaning as his six-foot-eight frame unfolded itself into an upright position. The window behind him had a view of Joyce Kilmer Park alongside the Grand Concourse. On this sunny spring day, people sat out in the park, and cars zoomed past giant apartment buildings on the Concourse.

Big Charlie’s shoulders were wide enough to land a plane on, and he loomed over the five-foot-three Mia. She approached his metal desk, which was covered in papers, a small Droid tablet, an iPhone, and two computers — a laptop and a desktop. His head was long and widened as you went down, with no obvious neck — it was as if his cheeks went straight into those gigantic shoulders. He held out a huge hand to shake that Mia almost didn’t return for fear that her own tiny hand would be lost.

No wonder he’s such a good prosecutor. If I had to face that in the courtroom, I’d plea for fear of being eaten alive.

Then he smiled, showing wide teeth, and suddenly Mia felt at ease. He spoke with a light Haitian accent. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fitzsimmons.”

She put out her own hand. “Thank you, Mr. District Attorney.” His hands were warm and all-encompassing, but the handshake was gentle.

His face turned quizzical. “Or have we met before?”

Mia nodded, impressed at his memory. “At the opening for the Homeless Voices exhibit at the Bronx Museum of the Arts.” It was one of Mia’s first pieces for the News years ago before she got moved to local politics.

“Of course, I should have recalled,” he said, though there was no reason why he should have remembered her. Indicating the guest chair with one enormous hand, he said, “Please, take a seat.”

She sat in the guest chair opposite him, and fished her digital recorder out of her purse. “May I record this?”

“By all means.”

After hitting record, Mia said, “Yesterday, you announced that you’re running for a fourth term for Bronx D.A. First off, why’d you do it on Mother’s Day with your mom by your side?”

That prompted another smile from Big Charlie. Mia had missed the press conference, as she was having dinner with her own mother in Woodlawn. She was hardly the only one to miss the Sunday holiday presser, but she did see the footage on both New York 1 and Channel 12.

“Maman, she was seven months pregnant with me when she came here from Haiti,” he said. “My father, he was killed by Papa Doc’s Tontons Macoutes, and that was when maman decided to depart. She wanted what was best for her unborn child, so she boarded a boat and travelled to New York. She worked very hard to make sure that I had nothing but the best education, nothing but the best opportunities. It is due to her that I am here, and it is due to her that I am running again.”

Mia nodded. “Is she also why you announced so late?” The primary was in September, after all, and while there was technically a general election, all local elections in at least four of the five boroughs were decided on Primary Day. Aside from Staten Island, this was pretty much a Democrat town.

Big Charlie got up and walked to the window, looking down at the park and the double-parked cars on 161st. “I was a boy in 1977. I recall watching the Yankees in the World Series on the television. The South Bronx — the neighborhood outside this window — was on fire. Howard Cosell was the announcer, and he said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Bronx is burning.’ ”

Mia couldn’t help but chuckle at hearing the late sports announcer’s trademark staccato monotone with Big Charlie’s Haitian accent.

He continued: “I thought then that it was wrong that the place where law was made should be on fire like that. I wanted to protect this neighborhood so the law would still be made.” Turning around, he hit Mia with the smile again. “I was a child, thinking childish thoughts, but they remained with me all my days. But once I had completed three terms, I was not sure of my ability to continue to fulfill that promise. It was maman who took me aside and said, ‘Hugues, you’re just being a fool, and I did not travel 3000 miles to raise a fool.’ ”

Frowning, Mia said, “Uhm, Haiti’s less than 2000 miles from New York.”

Big Charlie’s laugh was deep and hearty. “Yes, I know. Maman, she has always been poor at judging distances.”

“So she got you here and made it clear you wouldn’t be a fool.”

“Yes.” Big Charlie squeezed himself back into the leather chair behind his desk, the view of Kilmer Park framing his long face. “I grew up in the public schools, but then I received academic scholarships to the Bronx High School of Science, to Columbia, and to Fordham’s law school.”

“You spent all of three years in corporate law before becoming a Brooklyn A.D.A. Why’d you make the switch?”

“I recall my first case when I began working for the District Attorney’s office in Brooklyn. I inherited a case that was going to trial — a drug case. It had been almost two years since the arrest. All the police officers on my witness list had been promoted — and this arrest was not a significant contributor to those promotions, as it was a standard buy-and-bust. It is the sort of crime that often leads to a plea-bargain so that a greater crime can be prosecuted.

“But that did not happen here. Instead, this minor purchase of heroin was allowed to tie up the court system for two years. It was a colossal waste of resources, and one I swore would never happen were I to ascend to the position of District Attorney.”

“Uhm, okay.” Mia smiled wryly. “That doesn’t actually answer my question.”

He chuckled. “I suppose that I simply did not feel that my childhood dream of keeping the place of law safe could be accomplished behind a mahogany desk in an office with a view of downtown. I prefer the metal desk in front of me and the double-parked cars out my window. I feel more as if I am part of something rather than attempting to remain above it.”

That came closer to answering the question, and Mia figured that was the best she was going to get. “We first met at an art exhibit opening, and that’s hardly the only one you’ve been to. Every time there’s an event at the Bronx Zoo or at a park or museum, there you are. That’s a lot more dedication to the community than you see from your average D.A.”

“I did not wish my legacy to be that of someone who was ‘tough on crime,’ because crime-fighting is the job description. Being a District Attorney who is hard on crime is merely someone who has shown up for work each morning. I wish to be remembered as one who went above and beyond such.”