12.
The men escorted her upstairs. She wasn't fit to go home yet. She wasn't fit to do many things.
Prue didn't put up a fight.
She thought she wouldn't be able to sleep. Murderers are supposed to lie awake all night, thinking about the terrible thing they did. But she was so exhausted and disgusted with herself that she sank into a debilitating torpor the moment she hit the bed.
She woke up hours later, fully rested. Her knuckles were caked in dry blood and her shirt and pants were sprayed lightly, as if she had walked into a red mist.
How could she have fallen asleep like that?
She was still in Miranda's house.
Prue shuffled wearily into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She took off the borrowed clothes and stepped on them, squelching her toes against the fabric. She got into the shower and immediately threw up. It was such an instantaneous reaction, as if the bile inside her couldn't wait any longer. She knelt down and let the hot water scald her skin as she continued to dry heave. Prue stuck a finger in her throat. Better to vomit everything.
Oddly enough, she didn't want to kill herself. She didn't have enough energy for that. Just enough for throwing up.
No, if she died right now, she'd be no better than her junkie father. Her real father.
Prue held her knees to her chest under the spray. She opened her mouth for release, but no sound came out.
She couldn't bring herself to scream. In movies, people screamed all the time when they watched someone get killed. But murderers didn't scream. Even the remorseful ones. They usually backed away, or dropped the weapon, or swayed on their feet. Screaming was for the innocent.
She realized that a part of her had vanished along with Mrs. Morris and she'd never get it back and that was what being a murderer felt like. You had to lose a bit of life too.
In the morning, she was given back her old clothes, freshly laundered.
She had a difficult time putting them on. She tugged at the sleeves as if they were handcuffs.
The house was quiet. The kind of stolid quiet of antiquarians or bookshops. As she walked down the stairs escorted by two Shadows, she saw that all trace of the evening's events had been wiped clean. The parlor looked quaint, undisturbed except for the new carpet. There was no musty tome of names lying around, no mosaic box, certainly no dagger. There was nothing even vaguely threatening about the room. If she had not felt the blade going in, Prue would almost think she had dreamt it all.
She wondered placidly what they had done with the body. They must know many ways to dispose of it. Who would miss Mrs. Morris? She had no living relatives left. Her neighbors were old people, as old and enfeebled as her. They would just think she'd collapsed on the street.
Prue pondered all of this coolly. She felt like a third-party observer, a presence divorced from her body, floating above the scene. She wanted to be that distant ghost, to be immaterial.
She did not see Bane or Miranda as the henchmen walked with her to the foyer. They opened the front door for her. The rectangle of light nearly blinded her.
The Old Gotham District looked much the same. Quiet, affluent. The same old man she had seen a few days ago was walking the same greyhound. No one guessed what had taken place in the brownstone and they never would.
Her delivery car – a relic from another era – was still parked in the same spot.
Miranda's men nodded at her as she stood in the doorway. It was her signal to leave. Prue looked into their eyes. They met her gaze without a hint of shame. Why would they? She was one of them now, in a sense. And they knew she'd be back. She was not going anywhere.
Prue crossed the street without bothering to look for oncoming cars.
She didn't know if she was in any state to drive, which made her want to get behind the wheel all the more. They'd given her back her belongings, including her delivery bag and her phone.
There was a missed call from her dad.
Someone had sent a message to him, telling him she was lying low with the flu. The same message was sent to her boss at Al Fresco.
How thoughtful, she thought, choking on a ribbon of laughter lodged in her throat.
She backed out of the Old Gotham District without checking for oncoming cars. It was almost liberating, not to care very much about road safety. She left track marks behind her as she sped out of the quiet neighborhood, disturbing the peace.
There was no one at the apartment. She had expected to see Barsad. The man always knew how to spin his superior's actions into something resembling logic. But this time he must've known he couldn't save face. This time, his bracing presence would have been grotesque.
Prue was grateful. But a part of her hated him for not being there. He ought to answer for what his boss had done.
She did not know if she would have shouted at him or cried into his arms.
She got out of her clean clothes. She made a small pile and stuffed them in garbage bags. She took another shower and scrubbed her skin until it turned baby pink. She rummaged through her well-stocked fridge – courtesy of the Shadows – and she found no alcohol, but there was apple cider, of all things.
She sat down on the couch and drank the whole bottle, staring dispassionately at the windows across the road, the people inside them, going on with their lives without feeling the burden of having killed someone. She had been one of them until Bane had grabbed her elbow and pushed her hand forward. Just that one movement – like a swimmer parting water – and it had been over. One twinge of the muscles and she had lost her place among the redeemable.
He had done it, not her.
No, it was even worse this way. The man had conspired to ruin her life, but he would not ruin this. He would not take away her guilt. She would have it intact.
Minutes later, she couldn't stand the inaction anymore. She tried to read one of the books for her coursework, but the words on the page turned into Tibetan letters, ancient marks from The Book of the Dead. She could see her own name, written in a rough slant at the bottom of the page.
Prue closed the book and lay down on the couch. She hoped the room would stop spinning.
She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her messages.
She paused at Lisa's name. Their last conversation involved a pair of shoes that the girl had left at her place.
Prue remembered the unceremonious way Barsad had kicked her out. She felt even worse about it now. But Lisa wasn't one to hold grudges, was she? Prue had always been nice to her, except for that one time.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Hey, Leese, sorry I've been MIA. Broke up with Barsa –
She stopped, deleted, and typed again. Broke up with Ben. Need to get out of the house. Know any parties for tonight?
Lisa always knew about some party going on. She would not offer Prue a shoulder to cry on, not after everything, but she might give her a good tip.
It took an hour for Lisa to get back to her. Prue took another shower and ate a whole pack of sliced cheese. She was in the midst of throwing it up when she got the text from Lisa.
I knew that guy was a total shithead. There's a rave happening in the Diamond District, u in?
Prue smiled and wiped the vomit from her mouth. Thank God for oblivion.
Lisa had planned on being cold to Prue, but one look at her old friend and she couldn't keep up the frosty façade. She was too shocked.
"Jesus, you look like you got hit by a bus."
Prue knew her face was like a bruise. She had tried putting on concealer, but her fingers shook too badly. At least she'd managed to shrug a T-shirt and a pair of ratty jeans on. She wiped the corner of her eye. "Well, Ben did a number on me."
It was weird how much Ben sounded like Bane in her head.
"Ugh, that sucks. Although…I mean not to be a bitch, but after you kicked me out, it was bound to happen."
Prue nodded. "You're right. I shouldn't have done that."
Lisa was mollified. She smiled and put a hand on her arm. "Forget him. We're here to have fun." She could smell the apple cider on Prue's breath. "I guess you already got started."
Prue smiled emptily. "Just a tiny bit."
She was grateful for the dim lights and the blaring noise of trap music. It dulled the senses, made conversation harder. The party was taking place in a disaffected warehouse that smelled eerily of animal fur. The music reverberated from the eaves down into the cold cement like a dry shower.
Lisa soon disengaged. She was needed elsewhere, but she handed Prue a red plastic cup filled with vodka and orange juice.
She drank it slowly, staring at the writhing bodies around her. She should've worn something nicer, she reflected. And then she laughed, because what did it matter anymore?
She downed the rest of the vodka quickly and didn't reflect anymore.
She threw herself into the crowd, trying to find the center and be submerged. She jumped and danced chaotically, colliding against elbows and shoulders, losing herself in the cacophony. It was a subaqueous environment, slippery but sharp. She had turned into a blind fish, strung out on a hook. She kept her eyes closed and drowned in it, a pool of debauchery.
Prue couldn't remember the last time she'd been to a party or danced like this. But she remembered her mom talking about the old days when she'd been on the road with the band. They used to call Darla a 'firecracker'. She always partied the hardest and made everyone else have fun too. Sometimes she got stark naked and danced on top of the tour van and no one could say anything, because she was effervescent and beautiful. Prue had admired that quality in her mother, but Darla had warned her that this was no life for her, that she wanted better from her daughter. So Prue had been a straight-laced kid all throughout her teens, not slipping up once. Not affording to. She had always strived to match the ideal her mother wanted for her, even after she was gone and couldn't see her daughter growing up.
But now, that ideal was pointless. It could finally be discarded. Prue may have killed her mother and little brother without meaning to, but now she had killed in earnest. Perhaps she was always going to kill. All her life she must have been waiting for the inevitable, for the transformation. The moment she could become her father's daughter and assume his and Darla's life of self-loathing and indulgence. There was doomed beauty in it too.
She tipped her head back, watching shadows convulse against the rafters.
She felt a stranger's hands on her waist, squeezing tight.
She returned her gaze to earth. A man shrouded in cigarette smoke was smiling down at her. He wasn't bad looking, but something in his shifty, oily eyes made her shrink back.
"I'm not in the mood, sorry."
The man pulled her against him and shouted in her ear. "Then why are you here tonight?"
"Why are you?" she shouted over the music.
"Mindless fun," he replied, while his hand still played on the small of her back. "It doesn't have to mean anything."
Maybe he was right. Maybe all our actions, when cumulated and examined under a magnifying glass, didn't mean a damn thing.
Prue felt another wave of nausea. "Uh, thanks but…I wouldn't be much fun."
"Don't sell yourself short."
"I'm not. I said I'm not interested."
"Aw, come on, we're good dance partners –"
Prue gripped the front of his shirt. The strobe light shone a cadaveric white on his face.
"I know what it sounds like when you sink the knife in," she told him, hearing herself speak but not really registering the words. "I know the little sound it makes when it tears into the flesh, like folding an umbrella, or stepping on a small balloon. You don't expect it to sound like that. I can hear it even now."
The man let go of her and took a step back. She noticed he was a little older than her.
"What the fuck?"
Prue shrugged. "I told you I wasn't going to be much fun."
He shook his head. "Who the hell talks like that? Are you some kind of psycho bi–"
"Oh, that's nothing. You should hear my knife stories."
The husky voice took them both by surprise. It was deep and wry and sardonic.
The man turned and gaped. The young woman with smoky eyes and full crimson lips had stepped right into his comfort zone, her stilettos striking the cement with almost sadistic relish. She was comely and gorgeous, but there was a controlled, sleek air about her that warned you not to underestimate her. That and the pocket knife jutting rather cavalierly from her waistband.
"I've got plenty," the woman added, red fingernails tapping the hilt, "if you want to stick around."
The raver shook his head in alarm, muttering something about "crazy bitches", and was soon lost in the crowd.
A few moments passed in uneasy silence as the music blared around them.
Prue had seen her before. Of course she had seen her. It would be impossible not to notice her. But she had worn a mask and cat ears for Miranda's gala. Now she was looking at the woman without the visor.
"I had it under control," Prue said, more to fill in the gaps.
"I know you did." The woman nodded. "He was spooked. That's good."
Prue shook her head. "I didn't mean to say those things. It's been a rough day." Putting it mildly. But she did not want this woman thinking that she went around spilling her guts.
"Hey, I've said far worse things in my time. It happens to the best of us." She smiled indifferently. There was something oddly refreshing about her. She took everything in stride.
Did she even know what had happened –? Was she a Shadow herself?
Prue suddenly stiffened at the thought. "Did you follow me here?"
"Guilty as charged. But to be honest, I was in the mood for a party myself. Next time I'll take you to a really good spot I know downtown."
Prue ignored her invitation. "So you're the watchdog? Are they afraid I'm not going to be able to handle myself in public?"
The woman was not even a little frazzled. "Dog? Please. I stick to felines. And I don't know about 'they'. Bane just told me to look after you."
Bane. Prue snorted inelegantly. She was definitely not sober because she found the concept hilarious. "Look after me? The guy just keeps outdoing himself. What will he think of next?"
The woman surveyed her with some degree of sympathy. "How about you and I sit down for a chat? I'm Selina, by the way."
"I guess Bane felt you needed…a more feminine touch, let's say."
Selina pushed the water bottle in her direction. They had miraculously found a quieter corner near the back doors.
Prue took a sip of water. Feminine touch. She'd had enough of that with Miranda. But Selina seemed a different sort.
"Why would I need a feminine touch?"
The woman shrugged. "I don't know the details, but I can guess it wasn't pretty. It never is in his line of work."
"Why do you work for him then? It's obviously not a choice for me," Prue said, staring at the people dancing in the background. "But you look like someone who can handle herself."
"Looks can be deceiving. I may not be in your position exactly, but I can't afford to …misbehave." Selina's voice was still light, almost teasing, but underneath it, Prue sensed the tension.
"We were both working the night I saw you. You were there with Bruce Wayne."
The name seemed to cast a shadow over Selina's features. "Yeah, I was." The past tense was mournful, repentant.
"Do you know if he's still ali–"
"Don't," Selina warned. "Nothing good can come of it."
Prue blinked. "Good or not, you must wonder if he… I mean you know who he really was –"
"And people call me nosy," Selina drawled. "You really ought to take a hint."
"I'm not very good at hints," Prue muttered, rubbing her thumb against the water bottle. "It's what got me in this mess."
"Mistakes are opportunities for learning."
Prue felt like laughing again. There were some mistakes that taught you nothing. They were just black holes, sucking you in with no lesson to impart.
Prue wondered if Selina had ever killed anyone. It seemed possible. She wanted to ask her, but did not dare to. It was the most intimate thing in the world.
Instead, Prue decided to fall back on the only thing she knew, the only thing that made sense. History. Even made-up history.
"Selene, your namesake…She was the goddess of the moon, daughter of Hyperion, the brightest Titan. I read about her in Argonautica. She fell in love with a mortal by the name of Endymion. She used to cast her silver rays over him when he was asleep. He looked so beautiful unconscious that Selene asked Zeus to make him sleep forever. It was…pretty cruel of her, but I don't doubt she loved him, in her own way."
Selina watched her behind long, dark eyelashes. The memory of Bruce Wayne hovered between them like a ghost.
Finally, she spoke. "I can see why Bane keeps you around."
Prue took a long gulp of water and wiped her mouth. "Yeah, I'm his Oracle of Delphi."
Selina smiled. "There you go again. It's like you live in a different world."
"Sadly, I don't."
"Well, it's nice to imagine it. That other world." Selina's eyes glazed over for a moment. But her acerbic expression returned all too quickly. "We all crave escapism, even someone like him."
Prue did not know what to think. She remembered standing in that strange cubbyhole below the sewers with him, asking him if he was going to kill himself. Petronius and Hannibal. She shook her head. "I don't think that's what he craves."
Selina smiled. "You might be right. After all, he sent me here for you."
Prue frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, come on. You can't be that naïve."
"About?"
"His cravings."
Prue blanched.
The implication in Selina's remark was crass and ridiculous and preposterous and it made her want to laugh all the more hysterically. Bane was entirely Miranda's creature. He belonged to her. And even so, it was absurd –
"Let me tell you a secret. Just between us working girls," Selina continued, drawing closer. "Men often like being told what to do. They don't admit it, but…they yearn for it. Especially big alpha guys who think they're in control."
Prue was caught off-guard by the change in topic. Did she mean that Bane liked following Miranda's orders?
Selina read the confusion on her face. She shrugged. "I'm just saying. If you have a power, use it."
Prue almost flinched. Her? Had she heard Selina right?
The moon-goddess smirked. "It was the talk of town when you ordered Bane around during his own hostage mission."
Prue flushed. She remembered the day at the Stock Exchange all too well. "I didn't – I didn't order him around. I only asked him to help another woman."
"Well, let's just say not many people survive such an experience."
"It was a one-time thing."
Selina measured her. "Are you sure?"
Yes. No. Yes.
She remembered her strange covenant with Bane. The scattered 'thank you's. He would give her something, she would show gratitude.
She remembered also with strange clarity that during the bloody initiation of the previous night he had punished the man who had struck her. And she hadn't "thanked" him for it.
Prue felt cold, even if she was running a sweat. She wanted to leave.
She looked into Selina's eyes. "I think I'll call it a night, if you don't mind. Tell him thank you for your company."
It was tradition, after all.
Selina smiled like she understood.
The apartment was still empty. No henchmen. No Shadows.
Prue missed the crowd at the party.
She sat down on the edge of her bed. She thumbed her phone nervously.
She wanted to put it to the test.
Selina's words kept ringing in her head. I'm just saying. If you have a power, use it.
She texted Barsad. Ask your boss to –
No. She tapped backspace.
Tell Bane I need to –
Delete. She sucked in a breath.
Tell Bane I want to talk to him. Here.
She hit 'send' before she could change her mind.
A/N: I know I promised this chapter would be all Prue/Bane interactions in the aftermath, and that's actually next chapter, sorry, but this was necessary build-up. I initially wrote the P/B scenes first and then realized I had forgotten about an important Selina/Prue scene I had planned in advance. In any case, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Next time, we focus on our main two. Thank you so much for your reviews, I was really glad about your reactions to the previous chapter, even when they were negative, because emotions are a powerful thing. Special thanks to NinKen94, JessicaW, Cassie321 and many others. Apologies for any typos/errors, I'm always updating when I'm exhausted.