Chapter One
One Month Earlier
What ever happened to Siren West?
Amelia stared through the blacked out car window. The dogs had already sniffed out their next story. They waited patiently like soldiers waiting for their order to go over the top, their weapons loaded with film.
She sighed and pushed back a lock of blonde hair, pushing her sunglasses up her nose.
Ready to face the press, as always, Amelia West, stepped out of the car and a hundred flash lights went off in her face.
She avoided their cat calls, gripping her father's arm as they swiftly climbed the steps of the cathedral.
A film crew was stationed by the entrance of the holy building as they passed and she felt her father's grip around her waist tighten.
Safely inside they looked at each other and Amelia took off her glasses.
Abbott West took his daughter in his arms and held her tightly.
"It's alright my love," he whispered.
"Its not alright, it's a circus,"
He held her at arms length. "It's the media, honey; you knew it would be like this,"
Amelia rubbed her sore eyes. "Its more like a spectator sport, look at all these people here…"
Abbott smiled grimly, "Honey, some of these people are our friends, and they loved your mother as much as we did. We have to let them pay their respects,"
Amelia bit her tongue, not wanting to say the words he knew were dying to come out of her mouth.
Abbott West loved publicity and the media. The funeral of his once beautiful and famous ex wife was a huge opportunity for him and Amelia knew it.
Amelia had grown up with cameras forever in her face. And life now as an adult was no different, especially growing up into a living image of her beautiful Mother. Amelia could always guarantee that when she opened the front door on a Sunday morning, she would see herself on the front cover of whatever newspaper had landed on her mat that day. And usually the pictures were followed by unflattering headlines about the night she'd had, the amount she'd drank or the man who'd been with her. Amelia could come home stone cold sober some nights and the paparazzi could still manage to get a 'drunk' shot of her climbing out of a cab.
The classy, expensive funeral, fit for a monarch would make the headlines across the globe, drawing interest in West Enterprises, stocks would go through the roof.
Amelia walked arm in arm with him, inside the chapel and the heady fragrance of the lilies hit her, making her head spin.
She was burying her mother today. The thought made a huge lump clog in the throat and she covered her mouth with her hands.
The guests had already arrived and turned to look at them as they walked to the front. Keeping her eyes down, Abbott glided her into a pew and she sat awkwardly.
Her feet felt numb from the cold and her hands were like ice. On the alter the coffin was laid out, covered in beautiful, sweet avalanche roses, her mother's favourite.
Above the coffin, that was draped in white silk, was a beautifully shot photo, which had been taken about twenty years ago, when Siren West was a star, before the accident.
Amelia shivered at the memory, the distant thought of it never really surfacing, years of therapy responsible for keeping it locked, hidden away, like in a secluded cell at Arkham.
The last week had been a constant reminder of the accident for Amelia. It was her Mother's once perfect face; staring out at her from the various TVs she'd passed. The perfect, smile beaming at her, hope beaming in her blue eyes.
Siren West had not looked like that in a long time.
When Amelia was reminded of the accident, she didn't think of what happened to her Mother. She didn't think of the blood, or hear the screams. She just remembered the music. Soft music, a gentle guitar. It was a happy song, a famous song, but what it was, she couldn't say. Because that was the only time she ever heard it.
She remembered little of went on before the accident, except that she danced once, like a ballerina. She danced to that song.
A warm, gloved hand closing around hers broke her thoughts and her eyes snapped open.
She looked at the man sitting next to her and she smiled warmly.
"Bruce!" she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck, "You came,"
"You thought I wouldn't? I couldn't leave you to the wolves,"
She kissed his cold face. "I just want to disappear," she confessed.
He smiled grimly. "I know that feeling,"
She squeezed his hand tightly, her thoughts turning to Rachel. It had only been six months.
"Thank you for coming," she said, grateful for his presence. Bruce Wayne was one of her oldest friends, as Rachel Dawes had been. They had grown up together and she was reminded of endless summer nights at Bruce's home, when they had been teenagers, playing games as children. Although Rachel had been Bruce's childhood sweetheart, he and Amelia had shared a special bond; they both had grown up in the shadow of rich and famous parents.
Amelia looked upon Bruce as an older brother, never once thinking of him romantically, despite how he constantly insisted she had always been in love with him.
The funeral began and Amelia was in hell. She blocked out most of the priests sermon, her own thoughts plaguing her. Despite Bruce on one side and her father on the other and being buffeted by their warmth, she was frozen, shivering from head to toe.
When the pall bearers lifted the coffin, some of the roses fell softly to the ground and Amelia covered her eyes. She couldn't watch them take her Mother away to be put underground. It was like they were covering up a secret. Burying it deep to keep it quiet.
Finally the madness of Siren West would be silenced.
Abbot stood to follow the coffin and motioned that Amelia should stand with him, but she was locked tight.
Bruce met Abbott's eyes. "I'll stay with her," he said.
As the congregation followed the coffin out of the cathedral, Amelia finally let go, she began to sob, collapsing in Bruce's arms.
"I'm going to take you away," he whispered into her hair, "You can't stay here,"
She sat up and met his dark eyes.
"Where can I go?" she replied, "I need to work, to keep going,"
"What does your therapist say?"
Amelia laughed despite her tears. "How'd you know about my therapist?"
"You've been seeing one since you were thirteen,"
"Well, yes, on and off," she admitted, "But to be honest since mom died, I stopped going. I've spent thousands trying to forget what happened to us that night…what happened to her, but I never really had to live with it like she did. Everyday…when she looked at her face…"
Amelia swallowed and locked eyes with the woman in the photograph on the alter.
"That wasn't my mother. You know how I remember my mom? In a hospital gown, after yet another round of painful, useless cosmetic surgery. She had her whole life taken from her that night, everything that has led to this, was caused by those events. And no amount of therapy can suppress that. I guess she just couldn't live with her reflection anymore,"
They were silent for a while, holding hands tightly. If anyone knew how she felt, it was him. He was still a child when his parents were taken from him.
Taking her hand in his, they stood, the sound of Amelia's heels on the cold stone floor echoing around them.
"Think it'll be over now?" she whispered hugging her arms around her for comfort.
"I think so, why don't you come back to my place and I'll get Alfred to make you those awful syrup waffles that you practically begged for every time you came to my house?"
At that Amelia laughed. "I miss him, how is he?"
"Crotchety as ever, he sends his love,"
"I got the flowers, he sent; tell him I love him too,"
Bending, they gathered the roses that had fallen from the coffin; they were far too beautiful to be left to die on the church floor.
Taking them in his arms, Bruce looked at her closely. Her beautiful face was so drawn and tired that he could have cried for her.
"How's life over at the Gotham Tribune?" he jibed, "Got your own column yet?"
Amelia shook her head. "It's hard to work for a paper that you're nearly always on the cover of. It's been hell this last two weeks. I can see them looking at me, like I don't belong there…maybe I don't?"
"That's rubbish, you're a great writer!"
"But they all know that 'daddy' pulled in quite a few favours to get me in there. I haven't made any real friends. It can be a lonely place,"
"Then why don't you leave? Find something better?"
Amelia rolled her eyes. "Because then I'll have to add that to my list of careers to tick off my list. Law, tick. Medicine, tick. Journalism, tick. I have to make something work Bruce,"
They both stayed quiet but they could both guess what each other were thinking.
They were remembering a time when they played games in Bruce's family garden. He was always the hero. Rachel was always stuck in the role of the villain, the masked robber or the old witch and Amelia always had to be the princess in the tower, the typical damsel in distress. Then as they got older, it was Rachel and Bruce studying for exams, whilst Amelia distracted them with her singing and dancing, begging them to shut their books and come and dance with her.
Bruce watched her slender figure as she walked out of the church door, roses piled in her arms.
Out of the doorway, he could see cars pulling up in the snow. He watched her father, Abbott West, pulling on his gloves, motioning her over.
Amelia turned back to him and slipped her glasses over her dark ringed eyes. She smiled lovingly at him and she looked so much like her mother.
"We both know I was only ever meant to be a ballerina, Bruce," she said sadly, "Except, now I have forgotten how to dance,"