Sequel to Daughter of the Bat: Don't Tell
He told me he was proud of me once. Once. I would've given anything just to know he cared that I even existed. Too late now. If he could see me now—God, I don't care. I can't think about that right now. Why does it matter? He's gone. And the little girl who would've followed him to Hell and back? She's gone too.
Right now, I've got Special Agent Scott up against the penthouse door, breathless, and half undone, the second his shirt buttons scatter on the floor, I know, I've got him right where I want him. He tastes like champagne and menthols and honestly? He's a terrible kisser.
I know what they say about me. Apples falling from the tree and the like. The second I peel the champagne flute from his fingers, it's clear he knows too. He doesn't need a trail of clothing or a silhouette against a brightly burning city to know what comes next.
"Jesus." Scott murmurs. His hands aren't unkind, but the feel of someone else's touch still makes me hesitate. There's a flicker of acknowledgment in his glossy black eyes, but before he can utter a sound, I push him into the bed, the little secret he thought he caught? It's long gone. It's a shame he's such an unfortunate kisser because that smile could definitely melt a few hearts.
"Jesus?" I say, easing my weight against him. "Oh, you don't want to ask for him just yet."
"Is this the part where you ask if my soul is for sale? Because you, Delilah Wayne could be the Devil. His words feel like nothing more than a rumble. But he's still lucid enough to reach for the buttons of the lacey top I've kept on.
Very few people have ever seen my scars. And it's going to stay that way. "Is it for sale?" Yeah, he's still a bad kisser.
"I didn't think you were in that kind of business."
"Gotham's my city. It's all my business." I murmur, but he doesn't respond. Sitting still, I can feel his breath whispering against my face. His eyes are closed. Wait for it—a snore. "Finally."
The second my feet touch the marble floor, I can't help but shudder, but when I catch movement, I pull my foot up from the floor. Watching the coppery cobra slither out from under the bed, I can feel my lungs going still. It's not really there, remember? With a hiss, I can see everything sharp and dangerous.
My fingers make a quick grab for one of my shoes. "Piss off." I hiss back, watching it disappear as my shoe clatters to the floor. Gone. It's been five years since Damian put me in the Lazarus pit and I'm still…"Keep a lid on your pets, Mom." I snap, barely glancing at the woman who's standing on the balcony. She's not there either. It's all in my head. I think.
I can hear the soft stick of my feet as I weave my way back to the front door of the penthouse and the satchel that Agent Scott has left there. Peeking inside, my muscles loosen. It's all here. I'll see the end of the Black Glove even if it kills me.
"Who is that piece of eye candy you've got in your bed?"
Sam. "Special Agent Christian Scott." The second the redhead slides a Grande sized latte beside me, I can't help but melt. Taking an appreciative sip, I glance at her. She and Barbra are looking more and more alike. "What time is it?
"Yeah, he's special alright. Especially yummy." I said the sisters looked alike. Unlike her older sister, Samantha Cleary has no filter. "Quarter after Seven."
"Shit." I'm up and out of my chair. Scott should be waking up soon. Without missing a beat, Sam plucks up the glasses that've been left out while I take the half-empty champagne bottle to the sink.
"What a waste of Don Perignon." She laments, hoisting herself onto the counter as we both watch the laced substance spin down the drain. "Your dad didn't sleep with half the women Gotham thinks he did."
And now you're doing the same things. The bottle slips and spills across the counter, forcing Sam to abandon her post. I reach for the first thing I can to clean the mess. "How's your mom?"
"Del, that's the electric bill for the manor."
And now it's sopping. I can only sigh when I hear the slow shuffling of feet. Oh, now the awkward part.
"Still a jailbird," Sam grumbles taking a sip of her coffee. She quickly turns around, catching Agent Scott as he's oh, so quietly sliding back into his coat. "Good morning."
"Morning…"
"I'm Sam. The roommate and friend. I guess I missed the party."
Before the man can say anything, I slide an aspirin across the counter and rip a bottle of water out of the fridge. "You weren't invited."
"You're no fun."
"That's a matter of debate." Scott utters. "How are you even functioning?"
"Carefully," I say, tucking my robe just a smidge tighter when I hear the whirr of the elevator. I can see Scott pulling a pen from his satchel, in the instant I hear shoes tapping on the floor, he writes a number across my hand.
He slips right by Alfred and Damian and goes right in the elevator without another word.
"You're not even ready," Damian notes, when I see the flowers in his hand, my stomach drops to my feet. "You forgot didn't you?"
"Alfred, just leave that. I'll take care of it." The elevator's opening again. "I didn't forget. But I had to finish up what I was doing." I can smell him. I know that's stupid. But I can, and for a second I know it's too late, I can't run to the bedroom without him seeing me. Tim. His eyes are still so green. I need to say a lot of things but he only moves out the way. He's not here for me. Break ups are weird.
"She forgot," Dick announces from behind Barbra's wheelchair.
"OKAY! I forgot!"
"Madame!"
"I hope he was worth it."
"Yeah, actually he was," I say, not able to keep the snap from my voice. "I got intel on Jet. I know where the bitch is.". As of today, Bruce Wayne's been dead for a year. None of us are the same. "Just give me ten minutes," I whisper, unable to take the weight of the silence.
But as I make a mad dash for the bedroom, I realize that my lanky little brother is following. "Anything new on Sissy?"
"I've got a few leads." He says keeping himself to the reading chair as I pop behind my dressing screen. "I will find her."
He's been looking for Sissy Collins since the day she was ripped out of her bed at school. It's been two years. Too damn long. But I can't bring myself to say it. And Damian's just too stubborn. We can't stop looking, we just can't.
He's being so quiet. "What's wrong?"
"Why won't you come back to the manor?"
"It's just easier if I'm here." I was responsible for an empire after all.
"It's because Tim's there isn't it?"
"No. Damian, we've talked about this."
I don't want to find him there. I don't want to see my father in all the places I keep expecting him to be. I have enough ghosts following me. I don't want Batman to be one of them.
Reaching for a shirt, I can't help but pause as diamond printed snake slithers down from the shelf. Close your eyes. The second I'm back in my closet, there's nothing at my feet but shoes and fallen hangers. I can't chance seeing Dad at every turn. I'm already losing my mind.
"You want to follow up on those leads tonight?"
"I'm going to assume that's a rhetorical question and not just a stupid one."
The container reeked of sweat and urine. Back pressed against the metal of the container, Anabel "Sissy" Collins kept herself as small as she could, taking one deep sour breath at a time. Before her there was nothing but darkness, and yet, the girl knew she wasn't alone. The heat of other bodies had all but made the sweat drip down her back, but she refused to remove her hoodie- her brother's hoodie.
Had it been hours? Days? Weeks? She couldn't tell. She only knew the soft ebb and fall of sobbing. But now? Now the container was silent. Maybe the crying ones were far too exhausted or like her, too dehydrated.
Her hands ached, some fingers refused to bend. Broken perhaps. She wasn't sure. Anabel only knew one thing. The second those doors opened and light filled the container nothing was good was going to come of it.
"I want them separated by gender and age." One by one the pressure inside the container gave, letting the light reach the corners. "You. Get up." Oh. He meant her. When the girl couldn't unfold her stiff legs fast enough, the beast with tattoos reached down and yanked her to her feet.
"How old are you?" He expected her to speak? Was he kidding? She hadn't spoken in years! Anabel just lifted her head, catching the man's bottomless eyes. "AGE?!" Head hitting the wall, Anabel could only wince, feeling her stomach roll when she realized her feet weren't touching the floor.
"What's this?" The book! Seeing it there in his giant hand, the child reached for it, only for the man to hold it out of her reach. "You think you're being cute, don't you?"
Nope. And he was going to be sure of it. The second her pointy little elbow hit his eye, she hit the floor, snatching the book when it fell to that filthy floor. "You little bitch!" The book flew from her fingers the second she hit the wall, the only audible noise to come out of her was a gasp.
"What's the problem, Ubu?"
"Mistress Talia."
She hadn't seen the woman either, her hair all but glowing in the light as she carefully picked up the book, lips pursing as if it somehow surprised her. She didn't expect this Talia to open it either but she did. Her fingers frozen on the inside of the cover. Her head snapped up. "This is your book?"
"I pulled it from her pocket," Ubu reported, letting Anabel slide to the floor.
The second the woman crouched in front of her, the girl snatched the book out of her hands, clutching it for all she was worth. It only made Talia's deep dark eyes widen. But then there was something crawling across her face that she couldn't decipher. Soft and mischievous. "Can you walk on those taped feet of yours?"
Anabel nodded.
"Good." She whispered. "Let's see what Damian sees in you." With that, the woman rose to her feet. "I'll take this one."
"I don't think she speaks."
"Perfect. Find Cassandra and send her to me. Luck just smiled on us."