The small room in Shadowcrest had no windows. Quiet grieving shadows haunted its corners, slowly spilling their darkness down the silent blank walls onto the time worn floors like blood.
A single emerald green wool felt topped table stood in the very center of the still room, triangular and engraved with a grimly beautiful battle scene between Heaven's Guard and Hell's Army. The grotesque snarls of demonic hatred Yeats mirroring the almost fierce serene concentration of smooth faced angels. It was a very old table, its wood near black with age and generations of almost reverent oiled waxing, its once perfect felt showing wear here and here. Power wove its way through it, thick and brooding, waiting with all the infinite patience of a thing for which time itself no longer had meaning. The table had been in Shadowcrest for generations, given to the Zatara line in equal parts gift and curse. Her father had used it only once, that she knew of, that day his wife disappeared suddenly with warning or understanding, leaving him to raise an infant daughter alone in love's shattering utter black heartbreak.
The Power in the table was the bitter dangerous tangle of absolute justice and unrelenting vengeance.
Zatanna lit the last of the thick dove white candles marking the circle, watching their golden flames burn against the shadows and scent the gathering stillness with the sweet smell of honey that gently slid over the heavier incense that still shrouded her statuesque frame from her earlier meditations.
She was dressed in her most regally formal illusionist attire.
Woven by magic itself, the crisp lines of her black wool and silk long tailed traditional jacket bore elegant swirling black embroidered incantations within them. Arcane labyrinthine symbols in purest white were carved ornately into the sleek soft leather of her fitted vest, the silver buttons worked exquisitely in Eternal Knot pattern. The French cuff night ebony silk of the feminine throat cravat ruffled shirt she wore beneath it bore courtly encircling wards within its rich threads; the deep master cut blood rubies of her cufflinks glowing with rippling eternal magical fire. Her tall black leather high heeled boots reached up to her exotic silver and black netted thighs, protective enchantments coiling luxuriously up their smooth sides. And Byzantine silver cast Ouroboros dangled from her ears, glinting obscurely in the candlelight within the rich deep velvet blackness of her handsome unbound hair.
Zatanna turned from the last candle, her naturally alluring raven-lashed winter eyes silvering dangerously.
Her graceful signature black silk top hat, the one that had once been her father's, lay respectfully on the table top on its side in silent display of emptiness.
An old magician friend had been found dead.
Zatanna remembered the first time they had met.
It had been at The Magic Castle.
The original Chateauesque residence with its elaborately ornamented asymmetrical visual trickery was over a century old and slowly expanding. Renowned as an exclusive nightclub for magicians, it was the headquarters of the Academy of Magical Arts. And in an entirely fitting merry mischief of Fate, it was actually becoming one of the modern era's developing Places of Power. Magic delighted in being invoked, even in trickery, and if it was invoked long enough to the same area the place became first saturated, then dedicated, then ascended, then Aware. Illusion became reality, parlor tricks became true Power. Of course, it helped speed the process when you had actual Magi among your members. And youth who still believed.
Magicians by the very nature of their trade tended to travel and it had long become a tradition to establish permanent sites to gather, perform, and teach. The art they practiced took every bit as much dedication and labor as any other highly skilled profession amongst humanity, though it often held a stronger motivating drive. Magicians had to constantly evolve their skills or their performances failed, especially with modern tech special effects racing them for capturing the wonder of audiences. There was a fierce competition amongst them that could occasionally become explosive but there was also a fierce sense of family between those that became friends.
There were, after all, few magicians in the world.
Zatanna felt piercing black grief beneath the terrible cold anger.
She had begun taking her place in her father's show when she was tiny.
Audiences adored the little dark curled beautiful three year old that had porcelain soft baby cheeks and huge pale blue eyes with long lashes. Being a natural born Magi, she learned stage craft as fast as she learned magic and her small fingers and sweet voice completely enchanted people.
Her father teased later that he knew then that he simply had to make her a full partner in the act or else be forced to suffer a magician's unbearable shame of being upstaged by his lovely assistant.
By the time their immensely successful show had worked its way across the country back to California, she had her own complete repertoire of tricks cleverly designed by her father for her child self and her just awakening Magi Power-and her own stage name as Zatanna, Mistress of Magic to match her father's Maestro.
And in her child's mind, that meant it was time to go for the testing and take her rightfully earned place in the magician community.
Her father had warned her that the Junior Group opened membership at thirteen and what she wanted was an unprecedented exception to the rules.
But she had inherited her father's sense of unshakable resolve and combined with her innocent utter faith in herself and in the universe's sense of rightness, she had insisted.
She had been beside herself with excitement that day as only little girls can manage.
The Magic Castle held to the firm tradition of formal attire. Her father had worn his sleek black tailed stage suit with crimson under vest and white silk French cuff shirt, complete with a matching crimson cravat, pristine white gloves, and his signature black top hat-the one Zatanna now kept for her own. She had worn a tiny black tailed jacket over a crimson dress with enough white ruffles, lace and tulle petticoats beneath it to make a three year old girl happy. Her little shoes were black and there were crimson bows in her dark curls.
Her father carried a leather bag with some of their stage tools and he had held her hand with some dry amusement at her skipping eager bounce, but looked down at her with worried blue eyes at what he feared was heading for his beloved little girl.
Her father whispered to the owl and they passed through the hidden door entrance.
She had been utterly mesmerized in delight.
And then, later, in devastated tears.
Though her performance went flawless and she had utterly shocked them in amazement with the marvelous skill her small fingers had and the captivating sweetness of her stage craft, the Board of Directors was deadlocked split in hot disagreement over her age.
And the longer and longer they argued, the sadder and sadder the little girl waiting at first so excitedly outside at a card trick table had become. Until the newly innocence broken realization of the actual absolute unfairness of the universe had become too great for her tiny three year old heart to bear and she had begun to cry.
Her father had stayed back in the room to answer questions, so she had not even had his warm loving arms to comfort her.
That was when a red haired sharp nosed graceful woman had slipped quietly into the chair opposite her, pulled a fresh red backed Bicycle card deck from the interior pocket of her custom tailored white silk dress suit and began to shuffle.
The comfortingly familiar rushing paper sound had gotten Zatanna's teary faced attention.
The woman had looked at the little girl kindly, set her cards down a moment, and pulled a red silk handkerchief from her sleeve with a gentle flourish to dry Zatanna's face and wipe her little nose. Then she had made it vanish with a more dramatic snapping flourish which made a little light come back into still watery blue eyes and took back up her cards.
"Magic," she had said softly as she worked the cards in her finely manicured hands, "doesn't care what age you are. My name is Marta."
And Marta began running card tricks for Zatanna, pulling out of her pockets her special decks and accompanying props.
Cards That Know Their Names, Hot Shot Cut, Four Burglars, Ultimate Ambition, Triumph, Presto Printo, Wave the Aces, Cardboard Chameleons, Out of This World, and more.
Gradually the woman's calm but pleasantly personal manner soothed the little girl and Marta's constant small jokes made Zatanna at last giggle and her chuckle and they became instant lifetime friends.
The Circus Card Trick, ironically fitting however now that she looked back at it, had been Zatanna's favorite.
Marta had her choose a card-she pulled a red five of diamonds-made sure she remembered it, and then vanished it back into the deck with shuffles. She then began to lay out each card face up, telling Zatanna in her best Elvis impersonator voice that when she got close to the card the 'psychic vibrations' would reveal it. Zatanna had stood up in her chair and was now mostly on the table, completely focused on the other's movements, and saw the woman lay down her chosen card.
And keep going.
Zatanna had covered her mouth to keep back the mischievous giggles. The woman had paused a few cards down, about to pull another card from the deck in her hand and suddenly inhaled dramatically. "Oh, I'm feeling it! I just know the next card I flip over is going to be your card. In fact, I'm so sure that the next card I flip over will be your card that I'm willing to make a bet. If I'm right, you have to promise me a favor one day. But if I'm wrong, I have to promise you a favor one day. Deal?"
And Zatanna's pale blue eyes had sparkled because she absolutely knew that the card in the woman's hand wasn't hers. "Deal!"
And then the red haired woman's eyes glinted teasingly and she reached back down the card line and flipped over the red five of diamonds.
Zatanna had laughed outrageously, the magician in her completely delighted in having been so cleverly tricked. "I was sure I would win!"
Marta's red lipsticked smile held a touch of rueful sorrow then and she looked past her to the room where the committee had at last come to their decision. "Remember, little one, what you have learned today. What seems is usually not what is. Never bet on a sure thing." Then she brushed Zatanna's card teasingly across the little girl's nose. "Now you owe me a favor, Mistress of Magic! One of these days I might need a little help with a trick. So, if I call for you, you'll answer, okay?"
Zatanna had crossed her heart and pinkie swore with all the solemnity of three.
Their instant friendship begun that day had somehow survived the years of magicians' natural wandering and her growing up. They met up frequently, tricking each other with gleeful slyness while they joked and laughed. And when her father had been lost and she had wept heart shattered alone, her red headed friend, now with white threading heavily through the sides of her upswept hair, had tracked her down and comforted her once more with the familiar sounds of shuffling cards.
Zatanna's work with the Justice League had taken her off the magician show circuit for a time. Her struggle to recover her Power had added to that time. But when she had returned, Marta had been there in the front row on opening night, sharp eyes bright for her younger friend's obvious happiness at returning to the stage.
Marta had not made her own performance Friday night.
Zatanna now summoned three rather different candles from the ether, their specifically chosen colors and shapes warning of their coming unified purpose. She set them carefully on the table about the last picture she had of the older woman.
They had declared her death an accident. A mismanaged illusion trick caused by aging weak hands.
And a media loved ironic tragic death for a magician.
But Zatanna knew her old friend.
She knew that the red head specialized in card tricks, parlor magic, and close-up work.
Not illusions.
Not illusions.
And she knew that after all the years of sophisticated sleight of hand and intricate card work; there had been nothing weak about those finely manicured hands.
Marta's death could not be what it seemed.
And Zatanna had never forgotten that day.
What seems is usually not what is. Never bet on a sure thing.
Someone had done an evil clever sleight of hand trick.
And gotten away with it.
Batman had taken one look at Zatanna's eyes and told her to let him deal with the investigation. If there was proof to be found, he would find it.
Her eyes flared electric with Power. The bitter grief of losing an old friend had given way to a burning righteous anger that had now grown, back-building into a terrible columned black wrath.
Batman apparently did not understand her still.
Now you owe me a favor, Mistress of Magic!
"Seldnac thgil!"
Suddenly, like a great infinite dimensional vortex opening its massive starving maw, Zatanna drew Power, her voice cold as death and as unyielding as some primal god's damnation in the great elemental roaring that filled her pained soul. She birthed the incantation hard but precisely, breathed it searing hot full of arcane life, sharp toothed and bloody clawed, eternally inescapable and insatiably hungry.
Absolute justice.
Unrelenting vengeance.
A two headed monster.
The old magic in the table responded to the hex. The candles flared like stars going supernovas, as the carved images exploded into whirling raging life, and about them Shadowcrest shook to its very magical foundations.
Power reached absolute agonizing crescendo and with a single back spoke word she sent the blood hunt howling hex rushing out into the world like a destroying sentient tsunami.
Then it was done.
She did not need to wait for proof to act. The hex would find the guilty. And consume. Anyone else would be passed over automatically.
One of these days I might need a little help with a trick.
The small room fell back into silence and barely lit shadows and Zatanna stood there a long time, shaking.
So, if I call for you, you'll answer, okay?
Her blood had.
And remembering the crossed heart and pinkie swear of an innocent three year old, she'd answered with all the Power of an avenging adult Magi.
Zatanna carefully wiped her face and wearily sat down at the now quietly brooding again ancient table. She murmured a few words and what she wanted appeared before her on the emerald green wool felt. She took a deep breath and cracked the seal on the red backed Bicycle deck first.
Slowly at first and then faster and faster she began to shuffle the cards, letting the soothing sound of their paper movements fill the silence of the shadowed room. The sweet scent of honey, the smoke of candle flame, and the heavy enshrouding incense of her earlier meditations were entwined darkly with the new metallic acrid burn of hex.
She set the cards for the beginning of The Circus Card Trick.
When a magician died you did not pour yourself a drink.
You ran her tricks.
"Choose a card," Zatanna said softly in grief into the stillness of the small darkened room, "any card."