*I have no rights to the Boondock Saints or any character within that crazy realm hehe. Rated M for seriously explicit language, but if you've seen the movies this should come as no surprise. Other adult content as well. Now, in the words of our dear Murphy McManus, "let's do some gratuitous violence…"

Sanctuary

Chapter 1: All Hallow's Eve

"Boo! I'm the Boogeyman; the terrible horrible Boogeyman. I come in the middle of the night and frighten bad little girls like you. Beware; better have a care. I'm going to follow you everywhere. I'll torture you and hunt you; I've got you where I want you. You're the victim of my dark and dirty plot…" The Boogeyman by Todd Rollins and His Orchestra

Boston

The night didn't frighten her. Especially amongst the ghosts and goblins roaming the streets. They ran around her; their plastic pumpkin pails swinging from their arms and the laughter spewing from their smiling mouths. She smiled and laughed carelessly, too for one of the few times in years since her death.

It felt good. Deserved. Earned after being forced to hold herself inside for so many years.

The cold fog followed her. As she rounded another corner, it snuck up behind her, closing in on her, and she welcomed it. She pulled it tighter around her until she blended so perfectly with it; a black cloaked specter pounding the damp pavement in heavy black shoes.

The costumed children had continued on past her, being hustled by their mothers who'd tired of trekking to "just one more door" of the familiar neighborhood. She was tired, too. It was getting late. Another Halloween was slowly dying, and she'd spent it at the shelter passing out blankets to keep homeless men alive through this freezing night. A record drop in temperature had the shelter bursting at the seams. She'd stayed late to assist. As if home was an option. She hadn't seen home in eight years. Home was now four drab walls sealing her in a tiny room at the convent.

Captivity at its most boring. She missed her true crime novels. She missed her old movie collection, mainly Jimmy Stewart. She missed her vintage cookie jar she'd have filled with peanut butter cookies right now thanks to her also missed 50's light blue stand mixer. But mostly she missed her comics. Especially her coveted XMen #4. The one where Rogue and Gambit finally fell in love. She wistfully wondered if Aunt Nora was caring for her treasures properly.

Her only joy was the work she did at the shelter from morning until dark. It kept her mind busy and her hands useful. My heart beating. At least I'm doing what I love. Helping people still…but around every corner fear lurked. Someday they're going to find me. Just like they found Emelia. And then the war will be at my door step. The general never forget his mission, and the soldiers never leave their posts.

The civil war that erupted in her family after the shooting of Uncle Joe, pitting kin against kin. I didn't have a thing to do with it, but here I am paying for the sins of my father yet again. Eight years and counting…way too long to be holding a grudge.

She shook her head. Apprehension and bitterness would not spoil this peaceful walk. She wanted to savor her last sliver of independence for the evening as it tasted so rich and decadent. Breathe in the chill and push out every worry. Concentrate on the lives that now meant more than her own; focus on staying unseen and insignificant until she was born again.

Whenever that will be. Sometimes time seemed so tight like a straight jacket restricting her from ever reaching out; obtaining her future; living the life God intended her to live.

I'm alive for now. She ruefully congratulated herself.

In response, the church stood only five paces ahead. Of course. St. Mary Magdalene, the neighborhood Catholic church; a massive stone structure with its hard wood doors outstretched, inviting her inside.

Again, she smiled. Lord, you always have a way of setting me straight. I'm only alive because of your grace and mercy. But Emelia…Lord?

He bade her inside, but He wasn't up for answering her redundant questions tonight. He rendered her silent with the beautiful candlelight illuminating the kaleidoscope of color from each painted window. He comforted her with glowing amber warmth, and reminded her that He was ultimately in control by showing Himself on the cross, hanging high above the alter.

The path to the alter was clothed in lush red carpet, lined obediently on both sides by cherry oak wood pews. She touched each one as she stepped slowly by even though nobody occupied a single one. She noticed the large statues carved from ivory stone of the many saints holding vigils under the beautiful windows. In their hands burned candles, the flaming shadows licking across the walls. Her eyes followed the floor, but she wasn't ashamed to not remember their names. She hadn't been Catholic for years. Even though she was perfect at pretending.

The church was immense, just empty. It was nothing like her small Bible-based church on the other side of Massachusetts; the small church she was forced to abandon after getting word that her being alive was suddenly forbidden by the patriarch of the Yakavetta clan.

Pastor Ron and his sweet, soft-spoken wife, Clara, that had trusted her with their children on several Saturday date nights; the songs she lead during Sunday morning praise, the ministries and work the Lord had put upon her heart, and all the wonderful people she called family after leaving her own. All gone.

And I couldn't even say goodbye.

Ironically, she had been hidden closer to them; the ones that wanted her head. But even within an arm's grasp, she was still so far out of reach.

She felt the priest's gentle grasp around her arm. Slightly startled, she looked up into his wizened face, wondering why his kindly eyes were upon her so carefully. Then she remembered. The black veil on her head.

"Come, Sister. Let us pray for you," he said, soft and stern, like a grandfather. It wasn't until he spoke did she notice the tears dripping off her jaw. She made a move to swipe them away, but the old father held her hands together. He wrapped his own around her trembling fingers, and led her to kneel on the carpet-lined steps before the massive alter.

"For this devil's night is surely a time for mourning as the demons dance without a care outside this very door," he told her. "But you are not alone in your troubles. What saddens you, Sister?"

"I, I don't know," she was whispering her lie, closing her eyes against the truth. "I can't tell you. I, I'm dangerous."

"Dangerous? You?" He scoffed in a maddening, condescending tone. "I don't think so."

"Yes, I am. I feel like something is going to happen. I, I can't talk about it," she stammered.

His smile was sympathetic; a great piece for show, but not genuine. She knew the difference growing up in a mafia family.

"Surely you can, my Sister," he prodded. "I am your Father. Your Priest."

"My Father died on a cross," she spouted belligerently.

The old man grimaced softly. "Of course. Let us start with the Lord's Prayer."

Her mouth carried on, speaking the rote prayer dutifully, but without a purposeful voice. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…"

Her heart and mind wandered. Jesus. Jesus, have I not been patient? Have I not been obedient? Or did they hide me too well. Am I hidden from you, too? Can you see me through all this religion? I'm still seeking you out, Lord. Find me…please, find me again. Tell me what it is I'm feeling. Tell me what is coming…

The meaningless prayer the priest muttered was still echoing around her, and she wondered if the words would escape out the door as another entered behind them. She felt the subtle wind tapping at her back, heard the doors squeezing shut quietly, but she kept her head bowed, uttering along. Inside, she wept, and her soul continued to cry out to be informed.

"Sister, your name?" The priest asked, breaking form.

"Elizabeth. Sister Elizabeth," she breathed.

She felt her tears splashing onto her hands. The priest beside her gasped. Then, he coughed. But it was warbled and grotesque, like a person choking on water.

Or drowning. And she wondered how she could still be weeping so much.

Her eyes flashed open before she realized they were dry. The tears she thought were pouring down her cheeks and onto her hands were red, splattered across her wrists and palms. The red stuff pooled on the carpet in front of her. Her habit was soaked eerily crimson.

What? What is this? Her mind reacted so sluggishly to the macabre fluid she was sitting in.

The priest's rumpled body leaned inappropriately against her. She pushed him, and he rolled backward. A nasty scarlet gash smiled up at her from his throat. The grinning wound sputtered, drooling blood.

She felt her own mouth gape as wide as the now-dead priest's, but no sound found its way out.

"Elise." The heavy voice accused above her.

At the mention of her true birth name, she snapped awake, looking up into the familiar face of her second cousin, Dom Yakavetta.

The Boogeyman.

"Boo!" He boomed. A maniacal burst of laughter assaulted her. It smelled of salami and peperoncini.

"Dom," she croaked.

I've been found. I've felt watched for days. I should've known the feeling was leading to this.

"Surprised to see me?" He was smiling, but his pink lips were swallowed up by the flabby cheeks of his fat face.

"Yes." What else could she say? The soldiers never leave their posts.

"'Figured you would be. It's been eight years," he reminded her. She watched him absently wipe the blade through the priest's graying hair as he spoke. "You've made my job pretty fuckin' challenging, I'll give ya that."

She stuttered, spitting out, "Uh, I'm sorry?"

He chuckled and every chin jiggled. "Aw now that's just sweet. Big Daddy Cosimo will appreciate hearin' that." His face took on a seriously sinister blank look. "But I'll have to tell him for you because when I'm done witchya, you won't be able to talk no more."

"How, how did you find me?" She wondered aloud.

"Never mind that." He squatted down, his whole ton body, squished against her as he examined the blade he'd just cleaned for any stray strands of blood or hair. "Nice costume by the way. We all got a good laugh about you dressin' up as a nun. But we all knows you ain't no saint. Runnin' away from your family obligations like that."

My only crime was being born into this wretched family, she mourned. Out of all the good, honest Irish men filling up the Boston working class, my mother had to surrender to greed and marry into a wealthy Italian mafia family. And now everything she created is dying…

"You been livin' like a nun, too?" Elise didn't like the way he licked his lips after asking that.

His bushy brows wiggled against the stark head he'd obviously been forced to shave after premature baldness had set in. "Cuz ya know, I was thinkin' how much I was gonna enjoy finally killin' you, but I might enjoy getting me a piece first."

Dread consumed her, but it did not immobilize her. She put her palms into the blood, mindless of how it smothered her hands and left prints behind as she scrambled on all fours to escape his foulness. The only thing slowing her down was the darned sticky-bloody dress clinging to her legs.

He stomped around the podium, gathering her under the arms. It didn't matter how she thrashed against him. He overpowered her completely.

"Come on now, Elise. Is this any way to treat a distant relative?"

She cringed up at him. "Dom, we're blood. If you," she gulped, "if you do that to me, it's incest."

He just shrugged, barely mulling it over. "Eh, we're second cousins. And you've been disowned. Big Daddy'll never know. So, that makes it okay in my book."

"You disgusting fat pig," she spat. "Rape is a…it's a mortal sin!"

This revelation didn't concern him. His smug smile just could not be erased. "Honey, I just offed a fucking priest. Fuckin' you isn't going to matter much, now is it? It's like the custard in the cannoli."

What a tragically stereotypical analogy. The thought grazed her mind before the real horror set in.

Dom hauled her up to her feet. He positioned the knife; its long, mean blade cold against her quivering neck. He had the nerve to chuckle as he unzipped his pants with one swift stroke.

He's done this before, she assured herself. It sickened her to know it. She wondered how many of her other cousins had suffered at the mitts of this beast before serving the most severe sentence.

She wretched at the sight of his ugly penis, so swollen and red. Like his big bald head, she quipped.

And the way he groped her pushed her closer to the black chasm she felt widening within her. His was a torturous touch, but fighting was futile. He picked her up and set her down like a floppy cloth doll as he pleased and all she could do was go limp and sob.

As he dragged her down the long aisle between the pews where he intended to take her, he spoke to her. Calm, controlled, unconcerned that his genitals were exposed and bouncing grossly as he walked.

"I've never fucked a half-breed before. I'm used to loud Italian bitches that like to scream. Are gingers screamers?" He glanced down at her. "I've heard gingers are wild in the sack. Any comments 'bout that?"

She wondered what part of her he'd take back with him to prove her dead. Boogeyman Dom typically favored eyeballs and tongues, but since she'd pitched him such a fit maybe he'd take a more gruesome souvenir like a limb or an organ. She shuddered at the thought of him handling her heart even if it was done beating.

She felt insane. Everything he said just bounced off her rubber walls and echoed up to the messiah staring hopefully down upon them. She reached a hand to Him, whispering, "Jesus. Save me."

Dom gave her one huge tug, putting her legs under him. He stood over her, and she knew it would be a labor to get down to her with all that blubber slowing him down. She felt her chunky heel crash into his sickening crotch before she fully decided to do it.

Her cousin howled. He fell to one knee, clutching his hurts, but not releasing the knife. She flipped around, her knees digging sorely into the ground as she tried to regain her legs.

Dom was quick, too quick for a fat guy who'd just been damaged by a big shoe. He growled, throwing all his weight at her. She felt the vampiric blade bite into her throat.

"You dirty half-breed!" He raged.

Her scream was the last thing she heard before the candles in the hands of the saints blew out, and she was dropped into darkness.

And so they returned in the name of truth and justice. An enigmatic duo stomping the streets of their Boondocks once again.

How appropriate they'd land on familiar soil on All Hallow's Eve; when the evil comes out to revel in its badness. Thank goodness for sheep in wolves' clothing. For saints among sinners that fear no evil and harm no good…

It was Doc's place they thought of first. Their only safe haven from the law in these parts. Murphy couldn't wait; meeting back up with the usual lads for his first shot of hard homecoming liquor. He'd only be happy when things got out of hand.

"Do ya think Doc knows we're coming tonight?" Murphy asked around the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

"How the hell would I know?" Connor barked back. "I didn't call to make a reservation with the old man."

Murphy tossed him an irritated glance. "What the fuck crawled up your ass and died? You've been a royal dick ever since we got here."

The neon flashed, indicating the street was safe to walk. It was just coincidence they chose to cross at that particular moment.

Connor winced, shrugging from the ridiculous-for-October cold. He rubbed his hands quickly over his arms, but the persistent night air penetrated every bone in his body.

"It's colder than a witch's titty in a brass bra tonight," he whistled.

And something's goin' down tonight. I can feel it comin'. He felt like busting out into a loud rendition of Phil Collin's flawless tune about feelin' it in the air tonight, but contained himself. He'd just slap some coins in Doc's vintage jukebox and let Phil do all the work.

Murphy grinned. "You know, you've got a way with words, dear brother."

His brother smiled back. "Yeah, I'm the new poet fucking laureate of,"

He was cut off by a ravaged scream more chilling than the night. It snuck up behind them, but they were ready for it. Both brothers stopped in their tracks, careening around to find the screamer.

"Did ya hear that?" Murphy asked.

Connor nodded slightly toward the huge church at their backs, his brow creasing. "It came from St. Mary Maggie's." He flicked his dwindling cigarette to the wind.

His twin's face lit with playful curiosity. "Let's go see what there is to scream about inside a church," he suggested.

He felt the gun that tickled and twitched inside his dark coat. It sang to him a sweet song of release, and he stroked it momentarily, calming its urge.

In time, he chuckled to himself. The bad guys knew we were comin, and the party has already gotten started.

They started back across the street from the exact place they had begun. Their black boots clicked in unison, stepping in purpose and righteousness.

Connor was first, climatically bursting through the door like Charlie Fucking Bronson in a Death Wish scene. The wind whipped around him, and a few leaves bustled aside as Murphy took up the back.

The fat man kneeling a few feet away over the black cloaked figure jerked upright. As he shifted to haul up all his girth from the floor, the boys immediately recognized the mandatory habit and chunky black shoes worn by sacred women of the Lord.

"You! You Paddy bastards!" The fat man bellowed. Because he knew. He recognized them from the court room eight years ago during the execution of Papa Joe. Their faces were permanently seared into his memory like the bullet holes they put in the back of Papa's head. The knife wobbled in his suddenly jiggly hand. Maybe from excitement, but mostly from fear.

"Well, what the fuck do ya know about this?" Murphy yelled over his brother's shoulder.

"What sick son of a bitch rapes a woman of the Lord in His own house?" Connor questioned, sounding sickened and amused at the same time.

Their guns were pulled and leading them the long trail up the red carpet toward the stumbling assailant. He couldn't move fast enough, and in his clumsy haste, he tripped over the unconscious woman sprawled behind him. He fell onto his lumpy ass, the knife dropping somewhere at his side.

"Get the fuck lost," he tried saying. "This, this is family business. It ain't got nuttin' to do with you."

"You picked the wrong place to do business tonight," Connor coolly assured him.

Murphy was less calm. He hopped from one foot to the other, licking at his thin lips. "And what family is that?"

"Yakavetta, you dumb asses," Dom revealed.

He heard the click as the guns were cocked and facing him. The more agitated Irishman stepped forward. "Yeah, well, we've got a bit of family business to attend to with you, too."

Dom gestured to the limp body next to him. "And she ain't no real nun."

Connor squinted, contemplating the woman. "She looks pretty fucking real to me, asshole." He then noticed the body of the priest, slumped and ruined, laid at the alter. "And I suppose he's not a real priest, neither?"

At the sight of the dead Father, Murphy was done with exchanging lines. He snatched the fat man's collar, twisting until his shirt was nearly choking him. "Get on your knees, you blasphemous piece of filth."

Connor moved carefully around the woman. For one second he wondered if she had a pulse, but for now he had a monster to slay. He took his position beside his brother, nodding affirmation.

This is right. This is just.

"Aw, no, no, you motherfuckers," the fat man lamented and seethed between sobs and clenched teeth.

Murphy reveled in his pathetic pleas, but his face remained stoic; hardened by years of too much corruption slipping through his gloved fingers.

"And shepherds we shall be, for thee, my Lord, for thee," they began quietly. It spilled out both mouths so fluid and rich; so heartfelt that even the solid man on his knees blubbered. "Power has descended forth from Thy hand. Our feet may swiftly carry out Thy commands. So we shall flow a river forth to Thee,"

"Aahh!" The anguished cry from the nun, so unsuspecting, had both boys dancing backward, barrels suddenly pointed to the ceiling.

She flew upright, knife in hand. In a fury, she plunged the blade deep into The Boogeyman's belly, twisting and turning it until it was buried up to the handle.

She watched the surprise of what just happened sink in and distort his disgusting face. She put her lips to his ear as she eased the weapon from the hole she'd dug. "Take that back to Big Daddy," she whispered fitfully.

He was clutching her wrists, but his grip weakened. "You…fucking…bi…" he mouthed. Even in the throes of death he was unable to stifle his hatred for her. She didn't care. She wanted her life back and killing him was the first step down the path leading her there.

Dom landed backward with a heavy thud, his meaty hands holding the wound like he could stop its gushing. She was doubled over, panting, heaving at the stench of his death.

"Holy shit! What the fuck just happened?" Connor hooted.

Murphy pointed at the homicidal nun with the barrel of his sleek weapon. "She beat us to 'im, dear brother."

"Beat by a woman?" Connor winced, almost laughing in disbelief. "I can't say that's ever happened before."

Clearly in shock, the nun took a deep breath, gasping for as much air as she could pull in. Wide, teary eyes as green as the rolling hills of his home land found Murphy. She snatched the veil from her head and out tumbled a mass of wild flaming hair. She tossed the confining hat aside, unaffected by the pond of blood it floated in.

He couldn't believe it. Every ginger freckle still in place, yet splashed in some random God-given pattern across her cheeks brought back vivid memories.

Murphy choked. "El, Elise?"

Connor twisted toward his brother, brows furrowed curiously. "And the plot thickens."

His recognition of her didn't register. She was completely overcome with panic. "Is he dead? Did I kill him?"

Murphy kicked at the fat man's body. Nothing. "I believe ya did, lass," he said softly. Connor flung a hard fist against his rib cage, correcting him sharply. "I mean, Sister."

She exhaled. A grim smile lifted the corners of her delicate coral mouth. "Oh, thank you, Jesus. Thank you," she breathed.

She lifted her soft chin to the ceiling, drinking in all the air God could pour into her lungs. Her hands were clasped in prayer until she felt the cut in her neck reminding her. Her fingers groped at the gash, coming up bloody. And then the pain hit her. Hard.

Her wounded animal whimpers had both brothers hopping over the fat corpse to her side. Connor carefully held her neck, examining the cut with deliberate eyes.

"It's not deep. Just need a few stitches," Connor said in his coolest tone.

"What'll we do with her?" Murphy questioned him.

He asked because Connor was always the most sensible in the most insane situations. And right now he was feeling pretty crazy. Elise, the sweet chubby redhead he sat behind in catechism as a boy, was all grown up into a beautiful, soft, curvy…nun. She'd stolen his heart, softened it right in front of him in that hard chair, and he'd spent many rainy Boston nights scribbling stupid poems and lovesick limericks onto scraps of paper about her.

Until Connor got a hold of one and slipped it into Ma's favorite cookbook as a humiliating prank. She'd welted his ass with a wooden spoon and had him moved to another catechism class the very next Sunday. She made it clear with that beating that he was to concentrate on his prayers rather than thinkin' of disrespecting some little girl. He hadn't laid eyes on Elise Whateverherfamilynamewas since then. And he'd hadn't given her one fucking thought til now.

"Leave her," he heard Connor answer. "We'll call an ambulance from the Wash-O-Matic."

"No!" She cried out desperately. She grasped Connor's heartless hands, holding them to her face. "Don't leave me! Please! They'll come for me,"

"Who?" Murphy blurted, defensive and ready.

"The rest of them," she wept. More soldiers.

"More Wacky Yakies to bring to justice," he whooped, wiggling his brow.

His twin nodded surely. "Looks like we found our priest killer."

Her head was wagging loosely, moving her hair all around her round, blood-splattered face. "No, he was here for me. The priest was just…in the way."

"On to nuns now…" Connor started before his brother chimed in.

"Those heinous bastards," he seethed. "Do they have no limits to their bullshit?"

"No, they don't," she answered him. She nodded to the dead body. "That was my cousin. My second cousin, Dom Yakavetta. They call him The Boogeyman. Called him…"

Both men wielded their bewildered faces at her. She almost laughed at the unrehearsed choreography of it.

"You're related to this bloated dago?" Murphy blurted.

She nodded, unashamed, but still heart sick. "Yes, unfortunately. He's one of my paternal grandfather's grunts sent to kill me."

Murphy's always suspicious blue eyes narrowed on her. Elise Yakavetta. How did that not stick?

"And more will be on the way when Dom doesn't return with some part of me. And you, you saints-"

She didn't need to see the legendary Latin tattoos inscribed on their hands to know them. "They'll be coming for you, too."

"Good. Let them," Murphy spat his rebellion. "And we'll be happy to greet them."

A new kindled fire raged in her eyes as the blatant truth rang out. "It's you. You both caused this in the first place!"

Connor, finally holstering his gun, finally stepped in. "How is this about us, Sister?"

"You killed my uncle, Papa Joe, putting a price tag on every Yakavetta family member who sat in the courtroom and watched helplessly that day. Tore our family apart straight down the middle. We've been in a shambles for years. Since that day. They killed my mother, my father, my sister and her kids, countless other family," a sob erupted from her clogged throat. "My brother turned against us and joined forces with my grandfather. I'm all that's really left of us. And I'm pretty sure because of that I'm the Holy Grail."

The guys exchanged contemplative glances, weighing the words that hung heavily between the three of them.

"The Holy Grail, you say?" Connor chuckled.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a treasure," Murphy confirmed, eyeing his brother.

But Connor was looking at her. Watching as the color quickly drained from her pleasant face. Her eyelids were drooping, the strawberry blond lashes fluttering like fans as they descended.

Connor pointed at her, addressing his brother. "She looks a wee bit woozy."

"I feewl a wee bit woozy," she slurrily laughed.

"We'll call you an ambulance, Sister Elise," Murphy said.

Her tongue, all numb and squishy, swayed in her mouth as she corrected him. "El…izth..beth.."

She slumped backward right into his waiting arms.

"Good catch, Murph," Connor grinned. "Gonna give her a good night's kiss while you're holdin' er?"

"Fuck you," he sneered.

Author's Note: Hiya! And thanks for reading this first dip into Boondock territory. I'd really appreciate some reviews-good or bad. I can take it! I'd love to know if readers are interested in seeing where this tales leads to…