Chapter 49

C.C. Haly and Norton Bros. Circus sat on the outskirts of Metropolis. They had left Gotham a couple of months earlier before traveling through Bludhaven to reach Gotham's sister city—her presence a reminder of the death they had recently left behind.

It had been one of their own. Lila. One of the better attractions and a source of entertainment for some of the men. She was a snake charmer in every sense of the word.

It had also been one of their own that had killed her—her own son—who now sat rotting away in Arkham Asylum.

They missed her, but were glad he was gone.

Jerome had given everyone the creeps. They especially did not like his laugh. It was always at macabre things or at inappropriate times.

They were glad to be rid of him, content in the knowledge that he would not see the outside of those concrete walls for as long as he lived. Secure in the belief he would never walk free.

What a joke it would be if he did.

Haly's Circus was behind tour schedule due to that unfortunate incident and the subsequent police investigation that had followed. A brief period of mourning to grieve for their friend and family member also claimed a few days out of their agenda.

Nathaniel Haly distributed Lila's belongings to the other circus performers, and what was not needed or wanted was given to charity. Her wagon was being used for storage.

They kept the snake.

It was mid-March now and the weather was bi-polar or being controlled by some emo kid. Most days the atmosphere could not decide if it wanted to be pleasantly warm or tease the inhabitants of Metropolis with chilled air, enough to create a cloud-cicle if one could get a stick up that high. There were rumors that someone actually could.

Tonight was warm. If a person or creature was inside the city limits, the thin veil of pollution that reflected the lights from the streetlamps and neon signs back into the city would prevent a citizen from seeing the stars and the moon. Haly's caravan was on the outskirts, its red-and-white striped tents set up in a grassy, green field. The circus family could see the celestial bodies without encumbrance.

It was pleasing.

It was soothing.

It calmed their frayed nerves and the performers where just beginning to get their balance back.

Haly was so relaxed that he did not notice the stealth visitor that crept through his canvas town up to the steps of his wagon.

"It's a pity that death tends to follow your caravan," it hissed. "There will be more to come—but by our hands . . ." The creature giggled and corrected itself. "Or claws to be more specific."

Haly's breath caught in his throat and he nearly toppled over backwards in his rocking chair, grabbing the step to his right, the ones that led into his dwelling, to steady himself.

"Why are you here?" he questioned after a quick recovery. He was not as afraid of this visitor—or who sent it—as he should have been.

"We just wanted to let you know that we found her," it said. "Foolish fools—tried to hide her—as if we could not see. Hide her in plain sight—in Gotham. At first, we watched, not sure it was her—not until the recent explosion."

"Why are you telling me this? I had nothing to do with the breach of contract, and The Court knows that. That was her parent's doing . . . and then the circus fire. Which I also had nothing to do with, nor her disappearance after."

"We wanted to let you know, as a reminder—we always find them—just in case you ever slip and want to spirit the children away. As if you could ever save them from their destiny."

Haly shrugged. "It's no concern of mine," he stated. "But out of curiosity, why would you want her now. Isn't she a little too old? She needs training . . ."

"We have a specific purpose for her. Something that absolutely none of the others can accomplish." It giggled again, high-pitched and gleeful. Haly felt the hairs on his body stand up.

Go away night bird, he thought. What manner of nightmare have these shadows dreamt up for her? Where is she? Can I reach her first?

Sadly, he did not think so. Another one sacrificed in the name of the city. For the greater good.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Nate.

"So, what's next?" he asked to thin air. His visitor had already slipped away, heading for the Powers building in Gotham. The Court was eager for a report, so it moved swiftly across the ground and through the air, alternately using trees and electrical towers as jump-off bases for gliding.

On the rooftop of the Powers building, an airship was docked, ready to transport the creature and members of The Court above various landmarks within Gotham City. A meal had been prepared and was waiting for them in the dining room of the craft. Roast bird—one of their favorites.

It was, after all, a bird-eat-bird world.

The members gathered, taking their assigned seats and questioned the creature that stood before them, its eyes golden, its form dark brown—like the mahogany chairs in which they reclined. The scent of red wine, exotic spices, and prepared meat permeated the room.

"Well?" asked one of the members, her voice slightly muffled behind the mask she wore. "Tell us." She lifted the bottom of her mask in order to sip the merlot.

"Yes, tell us," they all agreed.

"He had no knowledge," it said. "Not by what I witnessed. He neither confirmed nor denied hiding the children."

"We have a good crop this year?" inquired another member. His hair was grey and he drummed his fingers on the table, keeping his other hand firmly around the handle of a cane.

"So it seems," it responded.

"Good. Good," he said. "We thank you for your service. A tray will be brought to your room before your slumber."

The creature was led from their sight, and for a moment all that was heard in the dining area was the clicking of silver utensils upon delicate china and the low hum of the airship's motor.

The youngest member was more interested in the dessert. Ignoring the buttered carrots and seasoned squash, she pushed them aside and reached across the table for the apple and apricot frittata. She had tried to take a sip of wine earlier, but was denied.

No one was going to keep her from the pastry.

She scooped up a piece using her hand and jumped down from her perch in the chair. She was really too short to sit at the table properly anyway, and she knew that sometimes she was not privy to every conversation. It was not because of the topic; it was because she asked too many questions. If she made herself scarce now, she would be overlooked and eavesdropping would be made easier. Of course, she would not be able to respond to what they were saying.

The promenade was adjacent to the dining room and she looked back over her shoulder, through the glass barrier towards her mother who was tearing a ribbon of meat off a bone that apparently had been overlooked during prep. Usually the chef tried to make sure the animal had been completely deboned. Choking hazard and not good for the tummy if swallowed, resulting in vomiting. But, honestly, sometimes the craving to rip the tendons from the bone with one's teeth was intoxicating.

The chef would not get into trouble this time. Her mother was having too much fun.

There were no doors between the dining area and the promenade. Might as well have been in the same room.

Only a few wooden panels separated her from the others, about three-feet high and decorated with carvings of predatory birds attacking its prey, courtesy of The Court in Italy. The crystal windows that were bolted to the wood partitions were a gift of The Court in Scandinavia. She sat on one of the cushioned booth seats—tapestries documenting their history (loomed by hand from the English Court) and pushed open the promenade window to feel a breeze. The soft hum of the airship's motor mixed with the twinkling lights of the city below was a tempting invitation to nap, which she resisted.

She lifted her mask to take a bite of the gooey frittata and considered removing the porcelain constraint all together, but she knew she would get fussed at if she did. For some reason, unbeknownst to her, that was a no-no. No one would tell her why.

I mean, we all know each other—don't we? She glanced back to the dining table. Do we?

She sighed heavily. It was frustrating being a kid.

She leaned too far out the window to watch the city moving slowly passed her. The airship seemed dangerously close to some of the buildings and she was sure if she reached out her hand, it would scrape the smooth steel of the shiny dwellings or perhaps grasp the horns of one of its guardian gargoyles.

She leaned back in, grinning and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Doing so caused her to lose hold of the pastry, sending it spiraling downwards to the rooftop below. A flock of pigeons that had made their home upon that roof quickly consumed it.

She pouted and closed the window, considered sneaking back in to grab another handful, and then dismissed the thought, knowing if they saw her—she might be banished from the room entirely. Instead she settled down on the floor leaning against the wood panel, inspecting the cut and curves of the hunt scene with her fingers.

"Here is her file," she heard her mother say. Her mother was the administrative assistant. She knew everything.

"Her parents died in the circus fire the night we were to take her. At the time, it was considered a loss for us that we were unable to acquire her then. However, because we did not, plans have actually worked out to our advantage. She will fulfill her family's obligation in more ways than one. Fate still knows what she is doing and Destiny is an astute sage."

The members murmured in agreement. The old man with the cane nodded.

"Yes," he said, "To refresh everyone's memory—the woman who is owed to us is from the Anders line. Anders and his brother, surname Gate, had been hired by the Wayne family to redesign parts of Gotham including erecting select bridges. Anders should have built one of the bridges into Kane County, but refused, siding with Wayne and Cobblepot, who you will remember was the steel magnate. This was detrimental to Gotham's growth. The bridge had to go and it was destroyed, killing Gate. Anders took his revenge by strangling Kane's adult son."

The members violently tapped the blunt end of their knives upon the table.

Now she knew what had caused those grooves.

"Kane, although not a moralistic man, had the means to make Gotham great. Kane and the Owls have always been on the same side since the beginning. That cannot be said of the Waynes or the Cobblepots. It is why one is parentless and one is penniless. Their lives are woven together, unwitting allies. It is time to cut that bond or take them out."

What does that have to do with the woman? thought the owlet. She was grateful someone asked that question.

"Her family had made a pact with The Court." This time the girl's mother spoke again. "In exchange for not wiping out Anders' line after his betrayal, The Court would choose one of the Anders' offspring, at any given time, and train them as an assassin. When Cassandra's mother learned what all that entailed, she reneged, and so did Cassandra's father—who had no clue of the contract. Cassandra's mom had neglected to mention that little caveat. Probably because she thought she would never be found. Cassandra's ancestors had tried to hide the Anders name by changing it to Anderson, and then through the years with the marriages and the subsequent changes to the wives' last names . . . None of their offspring seemed promising until we observed Cassandra."

"Excellent!" exclaimed a masked man. "So she will be the one to carry out the deed. How poetic. How apropos. It is like a Shakespearean tragedy. When do we get to see it play out?"

The old man spoke again.

"Not until I believe that Cobblepot is truly happy. Once he reaches that contentment, lets down his guard, believes that everything he ever wanted is safely his—then we will strike and rip it all away, and it does not end just there." He wheezed as he laughed and was sent into a coughing fit.

"It is quite cruel, what you have planned," said someone else. She was not lamenting the fact, only making a statement. One could hear the smile in her voice.

"Yes," replied the wise old owl, after recuperating from his fit, wiping spittle from his mouth with a silk handkerchief. "That is what will make it so enjoyable."

The sound started as a chortle, then built to a chuckle, and then to shrieking laughter as it rippled down and back and across the table of the self-appointed puppet masters.

The little owl was glad she was here. Glad she was in the airship and not the streets of Gotham. Glad she was one of the one's in charge—the power group—and not one of the mangy pheasants below—stuck to the streets—bred to be hunted—never allowed to fly and prey.

The family that preys together . . .

Soon after, the shoes of her mother appeared in her line of sight as well as another pastry piece. She looked up as her mother bent to her level and offered her the dessert.

"It's such a pretty night, mama. Did you see the lights of Gotham?"

"I did. Did you hear the conversation?"

"I did," she said, yawning. Her mother stood and patted the top of her daughter's head.

"Be sure to brush your fangs and wash your claws before you to bed, dear."

"I will mother," she said. Tonight she would dream of the hidden alleyways of Gotham. Of a woman named Cassandra and a man named Cobblepot.

She almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

She took another bite of pastry.

Some things are just too yummy not to eat.