Chapter 26

It was the rage that did it.

When Cassandra saw that beefy man hold the broken champagne bottle to Oswald's throat, she felt the tingle. It started in her eyes before it spread to her brain and then the rest of her body. It only took a matter of seconds. She understood the phrase "seeing red" because that was what she would look through—a red haze. It happened occasionally, even as a child.

No rose-colored glasses for her, my dears, so just put those back on the shelf.

When she had seen Oswald in distress, she had acted on pure hate for his assailant, empathy shutting off, running on an autopilot fueled by adrenaline—there was no flight mode, only fight.

When this occurred, the wildness that clawed at her brain demanded an immediate attack—for the sake of survival. Otherwise she enjoyed basking in more subtle forms of aversion—which until recently had only consisted of setting things on fire. Now she could add the immense enjoyment of blowing things up to her list.

With each pyro-sode, she had become braver, lingering longer, closer, a partner with the flame. How near can I get without getting burned? Sometimes it seemed she even controlled the fire itself—not mere partner, but master.

Dance for me.

The flames would jump and bow as if telling her "thank you for letting us live".

Which was why Maroni should consider himself lucky, she thought. If there had been a flamethrower in that umbrella, he would have come out crispy. And here's the thing—the thing that ought to bother her the most but did not—was in fact, that none of it bothered her at all. She was nonplussed by her thoughts and feelings, and by her actions. Was it not normal, after all, to defend a loved one, to come to the aid of someone needing help? Did the means actually matter?

Because, let's face it, it felt really good to smack the snot out of him. Thinking about it was making her agitated. She wanted to do it again, but there was just that tee tiny little problem of not knowing where he was.

"I have a bad feeling about that," she told Oswald on their way back to the club. There was a slight drizzle and he held his umbrella over the two of them while she supported him on the slippery pavement.

Ohmygosh, he smells good.

Gabe pulled the car around, while Fara stood guard with her own umbrella, near the couple. The leather squeaked when they got in the car, and all Cassandra could think was that the leather would be ruined by the rain spatter. Oswald scooted himself close to her.

"Did you really follow me to Gotham?" Oswald asked Cassandra.

Didn't he hear what I just said?

Fara was settled in the front seat, and Gabe took his cue and rolled up the window that separated the front of the vehicle from the back to allow Oswald and Cassandra some privacy.

"I believe my heart did, even if my mind did not know where you were." She ran her fingers through his hair and he leaned his head back sideways, watching her.

Oh, what the heck. I'm going to take advantage of this closeness to explore him.

Chastely.

-Ish.

A-hem.

He had one arm wrapped around her waist, the other rested on her thigh, of which she was acutely aware. His bad leg was stretched out, but the rest of him was positioned toward her as much as possible.

"I'm glad you listened to your heart," he said.

"Me too."

"I'm worried that we don't know what happened to Maroni," she repeated, then "Did everything go all right with Detective Gordon?" he asked. She continued to play with his hair and then her fingers trailed across his face. She saw his eyes glaze over as she did this.

"Yes. Just took my statement. There was no indication of any red flags." She planted a kiss on his forehead. "How did things go with Detective Bullock?" He rested his head on her shoulder and she embraced him running her hand up and down his arm.

"Seemed to go well." He yawned. "I'm worried about Maroni as well, but if he comes gunning for us, I have pictures of him with a deceased waitress, which I will be more than delighted to show him and will take particular glee in suggesting that it may be something the cops might be interested in viewing." He tilted his head back to look at her and she could not resist nuzzling his neck. It was odd to hear someone chuckle from that close a range. She could feel the vibrations from his body against her cheek and chest, and his warm breath tickled her ear.

"I believe I neglected to thank you for defending me," he whispered. "Not many people do that for me. You were a wonder to behold indeed." Cassandra drew back to look down at him.

What would I have done if I had lost him a second time?

"I couldn't lose you again," she whispered back while brushing her thumb back and forth across his cheekbone.

"You won't. I told you I would tell you everything," he said. "And I intend to—." He was cut short by a loud screech and a violent jolt that sent both him and Cassandra spiraling across the seat and onto the floor. Oswald yelled from the sudden agony in his leg, and tears sprang to his eyes.

Cassandra pulled him back up and he grabbed her upper arms, his hands tight as claws—goodness, he is strong—burying his face against her and crying out again, before he drew in a sob. She leaned him back against the upholstery and stroked his face and hair, telling him to breathe in slow and deep. He did as she said and kept his eyes focused on hers, his pupils constricted. All the color had drained from his face and tears were rolling down his cheeks.

"What the hell was that?" she yelled to the duo up front. Fara was now peering at them through the now open partition.

"Is everyone all right?" Fara asked, frantically.

"His leg . . ." Cassandra had started to pull up the leg of his pants, but he grasped her hand and started to say something. All he managed was a moan, and then, "We should have worn our seatbelts." Cassandra offered a surprised, yet slowly mushroomed half-grin, like the Cheshire cat after an afternoon of sharing the caterpillar's pipe. She wiped away the tears that had escaped from his eyes, and he loosened his grip on her arms somewhat. It was clear that no time soon would the pain subside back to the standard ache to which Oswald had grown accustom.

Through the rain-spattered window, Cassandra could see that a sedan had slammed into the front corner of their vehicle. It was still dark outside—the sun had not yet begun to rise and the storm clouds obstructed the moon and stars. Not enough light to make out the color of the car that had hit them. The streetlamps were too dim to reveal even a small hint, and the light that reflected off the rainwater did nothing to help.

The windows of the other car were tinted. Even on a clear, bright day, it would have been impossible to see the driver. Gabe removed a gun from underneath the seat and waited.

After a few beats, a man got out of the passenger's side and approached their vehicle. He was fishing something out of the pocket of his jacket. Fara had moved quickly and was already out of the car. She was always looking for sport and was ready to fight. She held the tip of a spear on the man's neck.

Where did that come from?

Gabe's window was halfway down, so they could hear what was being said. Cassandra felt cool little splashes of rain as it lightly pelted the left side of her face. The wetness irritated her cheek, like when someone is holding his finger in front of your nose but not touching you, and she wiped the moisture off with the back of her hand. Fara was pressing the metal tip further into the stranger's flesh. Cassandra heard Oswald groan beside her; she hoped Fara drew blood.

Lots of it.

"I take it, this is no accident," the Amazon growled to the man.

"I am only here to deliver a message," he said. "I have a packet for The Penguin." Fara gestured for him to remove it slowly and hand it to her; Gabe kept his gun trained on him. Fara held the man at spear's length not taking her glare off him while she reached behind to hand it to Gabe, who had stepped out of the car. He unwrapped it with caution and frowned, shaking his head.

Cassandra was closest to Gabe so she rolled down the backseat window, inviting in the chilly precipitation. The air smelled heavy, like wet oil and tar.

"It's a ring," he said to Oswald. Oswald gritted his teeth, his face contorting from the pain in his knee as he leaned over Cassandra and snatched it out of Gabe's hand.

"It's my mother's ring," he stated.