Chapter 48

I should have listened to Cassandra, Oswald thought as he watched the last of the Russian mafia that had been prepared to kill him disintegrate in front of his eyes. No crematorium needed for that red. And he was red. Literally.

It had not been hard to convince this upstart of a mob, the same ones who wanted control of Falcone's enterprises, to join forces with him in defeating Maroni. All he had to do was convince them that they would be one-step closer to becoming powerful under Falcone's leadership once the threat of Maroni was gone, even went as far as insinuating they would be in control of Maroni's businesses after the big guy was six feet under.

Besides, who needed another Italian eatery when everyone in Gotham knew that Russian cuisine was the way to go? Actually, Oswald liked this idea. He may even open a restaurant himself. Smoked fish, caviar, and nesting dolls.

They had a laugh and shared a shot of vodka—well, he pretended to, anyway, throwing it over his shoulder.

Fun part was—the upper Russian lieutenants did not know Oswald was making a deal with their lower minions. Would not even miss them if they were gone.

Money and an earful of beautiful lies could get a man anything he wanted. Right now, Oswald wanted guns. He had intended to take these men out as soon as he had the weapons; he had not realized he would need to dispose of them sooner—the traitorous bastards. They had brought the gunrunners with them—the actual Russian dealers—and they were looking for a cut as well.

They had reneged on their end of the bargain, and Oswald did not look kindly on people who were dishonest. What was the problem with people today?

They had pulled into the warehouse, Butch in the SUV behind them, to be greeted by eight men, five of whom were not on the guest list. Once the uncomfortable introductions and unpleasantries were out of the way, the rebargaining began—at least, that is what the Russians thought was happening.

Oswald was restrategizing all right, but it would only benefit himself. This little hiccup had annoyed him. It did not behoove Oswald when his plans went awry, but it was especially bad for others. Butch had already unlatched the back of the SUV, removing a case full of dough, and was ready to load the back with arms.

Looks like I will be loading it with legs and heads too, Oswald pondered with a malevolent grin.

They had ordered only a few specific guns, but the runners had been efficient enough to include others for purchasing.

How resourceful of them.

Oswald decided he wanted it all. Right now. At no cost to him.

Gabe and Butch had managed to put slugs into the original three hooligans that had been foolish enough to make a bargain with Oswald—ugh, this was supposed to go smoothly—but the five new players were not so easily convinced. They apparently did not like the idea of being riddled with bullets. So Oswald settled on taking one out with his knife.

He could never get over the initial joy that dripped over him from the feel of the knife plunging into flesh—that little restraint and then the final give. The warmth of the blood and its coppery smell. The look of surprise and fear in the eyes of his victim.

You, Oswald would think to himself as he watched the life being sucked out of his prey, are something I will never be again.

Each time he killed was another step away from who he used to be—frail, weak, useless. Each life he snuffed out was a bizzaro suicide. He killed off a part of himself that he hated. How many did he have to kill before he was completely dead? It was something Oswald never stopped to consider. The more lives he took, the closer he became to morphing inwardly into a rotted corpse himself, not escaping into the form of a reborn man as he believed he would become.

Oswald was treading the path of altering into animated flesh, completely hollow, with only a scrap of conscience clinging to an almost dead soul. But he continued out of blind, perverted hope.

And survival.

He had survived. They had the goods. The SUV was piled with guns, ammo, and his money. The flamethrower had saved his life.

The man he had knifed had trapped Oswald at the car, its backdoor flung open. Butch and Gabe had been preoccupied with their own dilemmas and the Russian had held a gun on Oswald, laughing and clutching his bloodied side. Oswald had kept his convincing look of fear upon his face and pleaded with the man not to kill him, all the while, his hand on the wand of the flamethrower, hidden from sight.

Cassandra would have loved to see the fire marionette—well, a paper one perhaps, not one so . . . lively, Oswald had mused, as the look of terror crossed the man's face before he was covered in liquid fire. A lovely ballet, graceful—a pirouette, a bow, a reach for the heavens and then down—a fiery dead swan.

If only that that man had stayed in Russia. It was his fault. Greedy rat.

Now as Oswald stood in the partially lit room looking down at Cassandra, he convinced himself he would not tell her she had been right. Her prediction had been true, even though he had not heeded it. He was grateful the flamethrower had been in the car, otherwise . . . no, he would not consider it. He always had a way of surviving.

Oswald stank of smoke and burnt flesh. He shut the bathroom door, only a little so that the sound of the shower would not wake her, making sure there was a panel of light still spilling into the darkened bedroom. He peeled the reeking clothes off his body and slid under the cool stream.

After a moment, he thought he heard something.

What is that?

He shut off the valve and heard Cassandra screaming and for a moment, his heart stopped.

Grabbing his robe he slid it on while simultaneously slinging the bathroom door open wide, demanding that its light glare into the room. The force of which he had opened it caused it to hit the wall and leave a hole, but still Cassandra screamed and even Oswald embracing her did not quench it. Her body was rigid and he jumped from the bed turning on the overhead light and every lamp in the room. Oswald even turned on the television and clamored back in the bed to nestle her against his chest, rocking her and speaking in soothing tones. He ignored the shrieking pain of his leg.

She was not awake, yet she cried out. She did not hear her own screams and Oswald marveled at that. He whispered to her, his arms encasing her like armor. Cassandra hushed and her body went limp as he murmured to her, encouraging her to kill it—that he would help her.

Make it bleed, he told her.

His own body was tense and his heart was pounding. His eyes were wide and he did not notice that he was shaking. It had been different on the farm, coming in as "second in command" to her uncle to care for her. This time, there was no one but himself. Only him. He would have to have Fara or someone with her when she slept whenever he was not around.

Usually the amount of light that had illuminated her room would have been enough, but with the events of the day—being trapped in a dark elevator and perhaps even the pigeons landing on her—Oswald chastised himself for that, he had innocently thought it would amuse her—must have haunted her psyche instead. He felt like dying because, apparently, his actions had attributed to her fright. He had let the champagne go to his head and wanted to show off; he would need to be more sensitive until this evil thing that plagued her mind was gone for good.

He stopped rocking her.

What if this evil thing is not just a nightmare? What if it is a real thing and is pursuing her?

He went over a list in his head. She had experienced a bad feeling the first time they could not find Maroni. He had shrugged it off, but she had been right. She had wanted to go with him tonight, feeling uneasy, and she had been right.

Somehow Cassandra had known he was in Gotham. Another feeling? She had come to his rescue when Maroni was holding a shard to his neck. Coincidence?

She is convinced something is after her, watching and waiting. Is she right?

He glanced at the window, thankful that the curtains were drawn.

And what will I do if she is?

Once he began to relax he ran his hands alongside her face and listened to make sure she was still breathing—illogical, he knew—but he had to do it to settle his own mind, and tucked the covers around Cassandra haphazardly before burrowing her and himself further into the pillows. He lay there holding her and falling into a fitful sleep, made more difficult because of the residual adrenaline and the brightness of the room. Oswald rested one of his arms over his eyes, hiding them inside the bend of his elbow.

She is mine, evil lurking dark thing, and you cannot have her.