Robin snuck outside first, feeling bulky with his apprentice uniform and Slade's armour layered under his hoodie. The warm evening air pressed in close, and his mouth went dry. This time of year in Gotham, layers would be cosy. In Jump they were torture.

He flicked his hood up and kept his head down. After a few minutes, a figure stepped up beside him.

Robin glanced up. Slade had a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, and a dark coat with the collar pulled up, a scarf spilling out—

'Eyes forward, Robin,' Slade said. 'You wouldn't want to see something you shouldn't.'

Swallowing, Robin forced his eyes down. He fell back a pace, allowing Slade to lead—and giving him a chance to steal glances. Slade had covered up pretty well. The scarf was loose, hiding everything up to the tip of his nose, and a black hat covered his head down to his eyebrows. But Robin could see a patch of skin by his temple, and pale hair at the back of his neck, a thin black band of elastic going behind his ear, as if he were wearing one of those costume masks Thomas Newton and Jack Harvey were killed in.

Robin shuddered, and lowered his gaze.

It would be so easy to look. To really look. He could just grab Slade's elbow and pull him around. He could step closer and look up. And he'd finally see it. Slade's face. Or at least part of it. More than he'd ever seen before.

It was an ache, so deep in his chest he almost couldn't breathe. And the longer he didn't look, the deeper the ache burrowed, digging in with claws of guilt. He was a Teen Titan. He was Robin. He wanted to know.

But—

He stayed back, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, head down.

Because if he betrayed Slade now, where did that leave him? Alone, trying to find this killer. The Titans would fuss and Bruce would worry, and Robin would wind up on the floor in another alley somewhere, thinking I'm not going to die like Jason until he had his hands around somebody's throat …

Slade turned suddenly, slipping down a thin alley between two apartment blocks. Robin followed, but turned his back when Slade swung down the duffle bag and pulled out his mask.

Last chance to look.

Robin bit his tongue. Finding the killer was more important. For now.

'You can look,' Slade said, and Robin turned, already unzipping his hoodie. The plain clothes went in the duffle bag, and the duffle bag went behind a dumpster.

They walked out the alley, Robin feeling at least semi-normal without the hoodie. He followed Slade up to one of the apartment buildings, where in the window beside the door, glaring bright neon lit the street purple.

MADAME ZARA – PSYCHIC READER

Robin eyed the sign warily, folding his arms as Slade pressed the buzzer. A muffled voice rang through the intercom.

'Who is here to see Madame Zara?' The woman on the intercom had a thick accent. It sounded vaguely Eastern-European; Russian, or Romanian, or some weird mix of the two.

'Let us in, Zara.' Slade's words were clipped, like he was losing patience already.

Madame Zara's sigh crackled over the intercom. 'Slade. Fine, come in. Make it quick.'

The front door opened with a click and Slade pushed through, Robin following quietly. Inside, the hallway was smart and clean. The first door on the right was open, with a scowling woman leaning out.

She looked like she'd bought her dress at a renaissance fair, and then buried it under mountains of scarves wound around her hips, the layers giving her roughly the silhouette of an upturned wine glass. As she waved them in, she jangled with too many beads and bangles. 'Hurry, hurry, Madame Zara does not have all night.'

Her stencilled eyebrows rose as she spotted Robin, but she didn't stop him—just ushered him inside and closed the door.

Her apartment was lit only by the neon sign in the window, purple light throwing shadows across the walls. A crystal ball glinted in the middle of a round table, surrounded by patterned clothes and dog-eared astrological chats. Robin gagged at the cloying smell of incense. Raven occasionally burned it at the Tower, but she had the decency to keep the fumes confined to her own bedroom.

'So—' Madame Zara swept past them, apparently unintimidated by Slade's terrifying height and scornful glare, '—what can Madame Zara do for you?'

'Information,' Slade said.

Madame Zara sagged. 'Madame Zara is not a villain anymore. I make an honest living from my powers.'

Slade rolled his eye, and Robin frowned. He'd known Slade to be mocking before, or dismissive, or even angry when Robin disappointed or disobeyed him. But he'd never seen Slade show an active dislike for someone before.

And Slade definitely disliked Madame Zara. Everything from the way he glared to the way he angled his body back, as if trying to avoid touching her, screamed to Robin that he found the woman about as appealing as a cockroach in the shower. I wonder if she's an ex-girlfriend. But Robin shook the thought away, because the concept of Slade having ex-girlfriends seemed frankly more insane than the idea that this woman really was a cockroach in disguise.

Withering under Slade's glare, Madame Zara turned instead to Robin. 'And who is this, a new boy wearing your uniform?' She grinned, revealing lip-stick stained teeth. 'I know your face. You're a Teen Titan.' She glanced briefly at Slade. 'How the mighty have fallen.'

Robin's stomach lurched, but he fought to keep a neutral expression. He was meant to be Slade's apprentice, after all. 'You mean me, or Slade?'

Madame Zara laughed, an explosive cackle that made him jump, and Slade huff. 'I like this one!' She folded her hands on the table, leaning towards Robin. 'I sense dark energy around you, child. I sense death.'

'Since we've come investigating a murder, that's not an impressive reading,' Slade said.

Madame Zara ignored him. 'You have lost someone close to you, no?' At Robin's wide eyes, she sat back, nodding. 'Yes, Madame Zara sees. Was he older? A grandfather? Madame Zara speaks to a lot of grandfathers … but no. No, I think he was younger than you, wasn't he? Younger, but close to your heart. Like a brother.'

Chills swept down Robin's spine, but Slade stepped in, close enough that his arm pressed against Robin's. 'Everybody knows the Robin in Gotham City died. Stop your cold reading and do some real work.'

This time, Madame Zara didn't scowl. Her eyes flicked from Slade to Robin, back and forth, and a thin smile touched her lips. Robin's stomach jolted. She knows. He lurched away from Slade. She knows about—

But Madame Zara only said, 'You know Madame Zara does not do that anymore, Deathstroke.'

Robin raised his eyebrows. Deathstroke—that was the name in Bruce's file. But Madame Zara used it mockingly, like it was an insult.

'I say you do.' Slade set a fist on the table, leaning forward. 'You still have a lot of enemies, Zara. I hope you're protected. I'd hate for something terrible to happen to you and your … honest business.'

Madame Zara narrowed her eyes. For a moment, she was silent, but she seemed to take Slade's veiled threat seriously. 'I need something of the person.'

Digging in his belt, Slade drew out a tiny folded packet of brown paper. Madame Zara took it, and sat at her table to unfold it, pushing the crystal ball aside. She smoothed the brown paper out and raised her eyebrows.

'This is good … this will work.'

Robin stepped in closer, peering at the packet through the dim light. Sat in the middle of the packet were a few strands of black hair.

'Thomas Newton's,' Slade said, and Robin gawped at him.

How the hell did he get hold of Thomas Newston's hair?

Shuddering, Robin turned back to Madame Zara. I don't want to know.

Madame Zara picked up the hair, setting it in her upturned palm. She glanced up at Slade. 'After this, you do not come to Madame Zara again. Not for anything.'

Slade tilted his head in acknowledgement.

Taking a deep breath, Madame Zara sat back, and closed her eyes. For a while, she was still, breathing slowly, her hand hovering in front of her. Robin shifted, glancing up at Slade, but Slade's eye was fixed on Madame Zara. As Robin turned back, Thomas Newton's hair twitched in her palm, disturbed by some tiny air current.

'Yeah, practise was good,' Madame Zara said suddenly.

Robin jumped. Her voice was loud, and her accent was completely gone. She now spoke in a familiar Jump City accent—relaxed, more open than the nasal twang he'd grown up around in Gotham City. Slade straightened, his eye gleaming.

Robin stared up at him, brow knitted. 'What—'

Slade raised a hand to silence him.

'Aw crap!' Madame Zara cried. 'It's so late. My folks are gonna kill me!' A brief pause. 'Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow!' This last line she called out, as if shouting to someone walking away.

Robin's stomach filled with lead. He had an awful, creeping idea of what Madame Zara was doing. He glanced up at Slade and then back at her, over and over.

But Slade acted like she was a fraud. Like she'd made all this psychic stuff up.

Obviously not all of it. Madame Zara spoke again, in what Robin realised with a growing cold feeling in his bones was Thomas Newton's voice.

'H-hey man, you OK? You, uh, you look kinda sick there.' She quiet for a moment, and then cried out, loud enough to make Robin skitter back a step. 'Holy crap, your face! I'm—I'm gonna call an ambulance, OK man? Just hang tight. No—no just stay there. Stay there.' Her voice leapt up an octave. 'Stay back!'

Chills stampeded down Robin's arms, and he had to fight the urge to turn and glance behind him as the back of his neck prickled. This was Thomas Newton, facing his murderer. A lump rose in Robin's throat as Madame Zara made a few loud, gulping yelps, and suddenly went silent.

Trembling, Robin let out a slow breath. He forced his tense shoulders to release. That was how Thomas Newton died His stomach flipped over and he tensed again, trying to hold down bile. At least it was over—

But Madame Zara made another sound, a sleepy, almost drunken mumbling. Robin couldn't make out clear sentences, but the odd murmur almost sounded like a word. Like Thomas Newton was trying to force something out of clenched teeth. 'Let … go … no …'

Robin's heart was already pounding when Madame Zara opened her mouth and screamed, an elongated, agonised wail. Not like a woman in pain, but like a child, full of tears and half-sobs and why, why does it hurt?

Thomas Newton was awake—he was alive—when the killer branded him.

The scream grew ragged, and Madame Zara sagged as it cut off entirely. She blinked, and stared at Thomas Newton's hairs on her palm before gently tipping them onto the table. Then, without so much as a glance at either Robin or Slade, she stood, and walked out the room through a door on the left. Robin heard the echoing, wet rasp of her vomiting into the kitchen sink.

She was psychic. She was really, actually psychic, and she'd just channelled a ghost. And all she'd needed was a few hairs.

Robin's heart pounded. The chalk circle flashed into his mind, and the black candles, and the words he'd chanted. The spectre that appeared in the circle, looking so much like Jason—

Madame Zara staggered back into the room, pale. She glared at Slade. 'I hope you got what you wanted, you sick bastard,' she spat. Her accent was gone. It wasn't Thomas Newton's Jump City accent, either. She voice was plain, and completely at odds with all her scarves and bangles.

'You can contact the dead,' Robin breathed. Jason, she could contact Jason—

'Fuck the dead,' Madame Zara snapped. 'They've done nothing but scream in my ear, all my life.'

Robin's blood turned hot as molten iron. 'You have no idea what I'd give to talk to the dead.'

Madame Zara let out a hoarse bark of laughter. 'Why, so psychos like your friend here can get a kick out of hearing their last words? Hearing them die, again and again?' She sneered, glancing between them. 'Or is "friend" not the right word? What is this kid to you, anyway Slade? Your apprentice? Your fucktoy?'

Robin launched himself over the table. All he could hear was the ringing in his ears, so loud it was almost screaming, and the blood pounding through him like drums. His fist crunched into Madame Zara's nose. As she fell back, his second punch went into her ribs. His vision clouded, red as the S branded into Thomas Newton's chest. She slammed into the wall and he lunged, reaching for her throat—

He was on the floor, choking on blood, the concrete pressing into his face. Each fresh kick sent a new explosion through his body, and he didn't know how much longer he could keep breathing when every breath felt like taking a knife between the ribs. He didn't even remember how he got here—a misstep or an overreach and suddenly these clowns had him on the floor, taking hit after hit and unable to get up. Not supervillains, not even gangsters. Just a group of lame crooks.

Lame crooks with tough boots.

And a crowbar.

The man with the crowbar advanced, and Robin went cold as stone. He couldn't get up.

They were going to kill him.

A dark figure dropped from above, and with a roar slammed into the guy with the crowbar.

The other crooks spun around, shouting at the newcomer. Forgetting Robin. Just for a second.

And next thing Robin was on his feet, moving through blinding pain, screaming and not caring who heard. He swung a punch, and another, but god, he hurt so bad. If he went down again he wouldn't get back up.

The crook with the crowbar raised it overhead.

Robin kicked out, and knocked him flat. He leaped forward before Crowbar could recover, kicked the weapon away and wrapped a hand around Crowbar's throat. And then the other hand. Crowbar choked and spluttered and struggled, hard at first, then growing feeble, but Robin gritted his teeth and clenched harder.

'Robin.' A hand landed on his shoulder. 'Robin, let him go.'

'—Robin, let her go. I said let go, Robin.'

With a jolt, Robin was back in Madame Zara's parlour, his hand around her throat as she clawed at his fingers, her pale face going steadily blue.

He ripped his hand away, stumbling back.

Slade caught him, and drew him away. 'Deep breaths, Robin,' he murmured, his voice barely audible over the squealing in Robin's ears and Madame Zara's ragged gasping. Slade set his hand on the small of Robin's back, and Robin shuddered as something like static shot up his spine. 'That's my boy.'

Madame Zara slumped in her chair by the table, retching on every other breath. Finally, slowly, she looked up at them both. Robin tried to say, 'I'm sorry,' but he couldn't speak.

'What have you brought into my house?' Madame Zara growled. There was an instant's silence, and then she shot to her feet, eyes fixed on Slade. 'How dare you! His touch—what have you done?'

'Robin lost his temper,' Slade said. 'Don't be dramatic.'

'His temper!' Madame Zara screeched. 'I don't care about his temper! I felt it when he touched me. He's played with black magic! And you brought him into my house, you invited him in!' She shuddered. Her eyes snapped down to Robin. 'Worse things than the dead can come through a gateway like that.'

And Robin recognised that low, soft croak. That tone. The exact way she'd said it. He went utterly cold, a cold that ached deep inside his bones.

'Get out of my house,' Madame Zara hissed. 'Get out, and don't come back.'

Slade set his hand on Robin's shoulder, and Robin didn't resist—he let Slade draw him away, out of the apartment, out of the building, and down the street. It wasn't until Slade let go of his shoulder to reach for the duffle bag behind the dumpster that Robin's stomach finally rolled, and he turned and vomited against the wall.

Or, at least, he tried to vomit. He hadn't eaten in—god, since Slade gave him that nutrition bar—so instead he retched, and spat half a mouthful of burning bile. Bracing his hands against the wall, he shivered. He'd just heard a kid die. An innocent kid. And then—

Slade set his hand on Robin's shoulder. 'You're all right.'

And Robin didn't know why, but it was somehow better than, 'Are you all right?'

He took a shaky breath, and nodded, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth. 'I almost killed her.'

'Don't worry. She deserved it.'

Robin shot him a filthy look, and Slade laughed softly.

'She likes to play the victim now, but thirty years ago, Zara was infamous. You've never known a woman so enamoured with murder. She stalked Jump City searching for people to kill, stringing out their deaths as long and painful as she could—and then repeating them, word-perfect, for her "psycho" clientele. For as astronomical price, of course.'

'She didn't seem that enamoured to me,' Robin muttered.

'Yes, well.' Slade tilted his head. 'Her enemies caught up with her. They killed her son and made her replay it, the way she replayed all those other deaths. She lost her taste for death after that.'

Robin's skin prickled, his stomach turning again. He swallowed. 'So that's why you don't like her.'

'I don't like her because she's a fraud,' Slade said. 'She simpers and hides and plays the victim, when in reality she is a killer.'

Robin snorted. 'Right. My mistake. For a moment there I almost thought you had a moral compass.' He hesitated. 'But you didn't let me kill her.' He glanced up at Slade. 'Why?'

Slade ran his hand down Robin's arm, a slow, gentle touch that sent shivers running all through his body. 'Do you want to be a killer, Robin?'

'No.'

Slade squeezed his arm. 'That's why I didn't let you kill her.'

The cold and the shivers and the sickness melted away, and as Robin swallowed, a tiny bubble of warmth rose in his chest. He smiled faintly, and could see Slade smile back from the way his eye crinkled.

Right before the gunshot burst through the alley, and cracked Slade's mask in two.