Chapter 2 – The Portrait

Behind the door

The poison door

We search the still hours

Looking

For a place to hide (For a place to hide)

Behind the door

Where dreams collide (Where dreams collide)

Behind the door

The poison door

We sit in silence waiting

For a deadly friend

Behind the door

Where dreams descend (Where dreams descend)

And the shadows smile

"Poison Door" The Sisters of Mercy (1984)

Bruce Wayne walked down the hallway of portraits.

He knew he was in the ancestral house of his family, Wayne Manor (for where else would he see these immense oil portraits of the patriarchs of his family)? They lined the walls of this rather long and dimly lit hallway. Bruce easily recognized some of the faces: Thomas Wayne, his own father, cut down in the prime of his life by a thief's pistol; William Wayne, his grandfather, a shrewd and ruthless business tycoon, one hand of his resting on a book of ledgers while in the background a smoky industrial landscape signified the source of his wealth.

Other portraits were less familiar to him: Wilbur Wayne, a robber baron at the turn of the 20th-century, white-whiskered and fat; Wallace Wayne, a slender and dashing young man dressed in Civil War uniform, although family legend hinted that he had paid generous sums to stay out of the actual fighting; George Walker Wayne, who had first began building the mansion that would become Wayne Manor. It was he who first discovered the caverns while sheltering fugitive slaves on the Underground Railroad.

As Bruce continued down the hallway, the faces became less familiar, and he was certain he'd never seen some of them before. Surely these people had never actually posed for a portrait: Manfred Wayne, clad in periwig and frock coat, who despite his foppish appearance had fought the British for independence from the Crown; Walther Wayne, a man of grim-visage clad all in forbidding black as background of his portrait showed lurid roasting fires. He was clutching a massive Bible in his hands. The men before him were heavily bearded and dressed in ragged furs: the first Waynes in the New World had been hunters and trappers, exploring – and often dying – in the uncharted wilderness.

Bruce paused to look at the very last portrait: it depicted a man in medieval plate armor, a bare sword gripped in his gauntleted hands as if in prayer. His helmet was molded in the shape of a fearsome predator. His eyes gleamed fearsome and hard from beneath his lifted visor. Violent and bloody battle scenes dominated his background. The nameplate read: "Wolfram de Wainwryght."

Beneath, an inscription had been added: "God grant him and his heirs peace in the lands beyond death."

Bruce stared at it for a long moment. He wondered that he had never seen this particular portrait before. Alfred must have taken it out of storage.

Yet strange to say, he also could not remember ever being in this particular hallway either. But Wayne Manor was a big place. There were many places he rarely visited, or avoided altogether. Here, the hallway ended in a door.

He opened it.

Bruce stepped into a large room: a studio. The floor was hardwood, polished so intensely it gleamed. Paintings of a surrealist style lined the walls. Half the studio was brightly lit, the other half in darkness; Bruce stood in the lighted space. There was no furniture, just a stool set in the center of the light. Of the darkened half he could see nothing except just at its edge he thought he could see the outlines of an easel.

For a moment Bruce just stood there, confused. He didn't recognize this room either. He wasn't sure what he was doing here.

"Ah, you've finally arrived. Please take a seat."

The voice, out of the darkness, was deep and cultured and vaguely familiar. Bruce did not know to whom it belonged, but he did as it instructed; a vague understand that he was now sitting for his own portrait. He could hear and sense movement just beyond the easel, but he still could not see the person.

"Sit as upright as you can. Turn your left shoulder slightly towards me. Thank you."

Bruce obeyed. Odd, that at some point he'd decided to have his portrait painted. Although his father had had one commissioned, and also one of the whole family (it now hung in his bedroom) he didn't think he'd ever get one done of himself. It seemed too old-fashioned, and what was the point anyway, as it wasn't likely there would be more Waynes to leave it to for posterity…

He must have said some of that aloud, for the voice answered: "It's a venerable tradition, the portraiture. More intimate than a photograph, and so much more revealing of the individual and his context. Perhaps you noticed the backgrounds in the portraits of your ancestors? There are subtle hints, placed there by the artist: for example, your ancestor Walther Wayne. Such attention to detail…you can almost smell the flesh roasting, of those he had burned at the stake. Walther the Witchfinder, he was called, although it is debatable if any of those he brought to justice were really witches. More likely just poor women who'd offended him in some way."

The voice chuckled as if that were funny, a somehow unnerving sound. Bruce again thought he'd heard it before, somewhere, but he couldn't be sure. If he could only see who it was…

"And, of course, your progenitor, Wolfram. Such a sequence he set into motion, if only he knew, he might not have been so reckless with those people whom he persecuted."

"What are you talking about?"

"Please keep as still as possible, and try not to speak, it disturbs the lines of your face. Tilt your head back, just slightly…there. I want to get the details just right."

Bruce wanted to ask who are you, but the words wouldn't come out. Some part of him did not want to know.

"As I was saying, painting brings out so much more detail than a photograph ever could capture. A portrait also suggests weight and substance. Your ancestors understood that: your family is a special family, and I am not speaking of wealth only. You should look more closely at theirs. You would learn much about your future, from looking at your past. But then…"

The voice dropped to a whisper. "…you already do that, don't you?"

The voice fell silent, then. For several minutes there was no sound except the scraping of a paintbrush against canvas.

An uneasy feeling began to grow within Bruce. Maybe it was the studio, and the fact that he didn't know how he'd got here, and this mysterious painter, whoever he was, saying these things about him and his family. How the hell did he know about him?

"Just move your chin slight down…yess…that's it."

Yes, he had heard the voice before. But where? Where?

"I-I know you, don't I?" Bruce whispered. It was a struggle to even talk. He almost felt as if something was constricting him. This couldn't be right. Something had happened to him.

Alarm swept through the Dark Knight, and he tried to adjust his position. "I…I can't move…" he managed to gasp.

"It is of no matter, I am almost finished. I believe I have your outline at least created."

The voice had changed, sounded thicker, guttural. Bruce tried to move his arms, his legs, but it was as if he was paralyzed. This had to be a trap, he'd walked into a trap, coming here. Who could have done this? The Penguin? The Joker! No, he was locked up in Arkham Asylum, and the voice was not the wild madman's. There was a terrible and deliberate purpose to it.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Bruce managed to gasp.

"Why?" The voice had definitely changed, lower and more sinister than it already was. "I owe you a debt of gratitude, Bruce...I must say it is because of you…I discovered my desire to paint, again."

"I…don't understand," Bruce's voice was barely audible. "Who are you?"

"It did take…some time," the voice was now guttural, and not quite sounding like a person anymore. "It...wasn't easy...I had to…learn how…to hold a paintbrush again."

Horror swept through Bruce now. There was not a person in the darkness, there, no...he didn't want to see it move into the light.

He struggled mightily to move, anything, but he was paralyzed. Now, from the darkness came other sounds. Muffled sounds of tearing, breaking…he recognized those sounds and what they meant.

"You will pardon me, if I shall take a break for a meal…painting can be such hungry work."

Bruce tried to cry out but now even his voice was gone. The words turned to gory chuckling as the easel was pulled away from the edge of the light, and something began flowing along the floor, moving from the darkened side to the light, steadily and relentlessly, something the color of red…then the voice laughed…and then glibbered.

Wayne…listen to me...

No, no, he had to get out of here, before the tide of blood reached him, before the painter stepped into the light he opened his mouth, desperately tried to shout for help.

"Alfred!…ALFRED!"

Bruce sat up, eyes wide and staring, then he realized that he had been screaming himself awake. His arms were up to defend himself, but he saw that he wasn't in some studio (the manor didn't even have a studio he remembered). He was sitting in his own bed, in his master bedroom, alone. For a few more seconds he just sat where he was, letting his pounding heart slow to normal.

He buried his face in his hands, feeling shaky and foolish and annoyed. He hadn't had a nightmare like that – the kind in which he screamed himself awake – for quite some time. He'd allowed himself to hope that his bad dreams were gone for good, since he had not had any for over a year. Now that hope seemed premature. However, this wasn't the usual nightmare, the one in which he witnessed his parents' murder over and over again and him helpless, a child again.

Pickman, Bruce thought with some bewilderment. I dreamed of Richard Upton Pickman. The human-turned-ghoul he had met in Alar. He knew the man, and what he had become: he had been a Boston painter who'd lived in the 1920s, and had disappeared without trace, leaving behind his grotesque and surreal paintings and an unsavory reputation. The mystery had never been solved but Bruce had discovered what had happened to him, what he had become: a monster. Yet, the creature had never threatened him. Perhaps because he had been under Randolph Carter's protection then. But now?

Although the dream (nightmare) had been so vivid, the fear it had engendered was dissipating, leaving him with only a disturbing feeling, just like his old nightmares had done. Maybe it was just nothing after all. Just something brought on the stress he'd been experiencing recently, like running the Justice League without Superman, since he was still depowered…and that he and the Kryptonian weren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment.

Bruce sighed and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. He was starting to feel calmer, more like himself. He could tell from a glance at the window that he still had an hour or so before dawn. He started to shout for his butler again, but then he remembered – Alfred wasn't here. He had gone back to his native England: a distant aunt or some such had passed away and he had taken time off to see to the final arrangements and funeral. He would not be back until the day after tomorrow.

Bruce suddenly remembered of an engagement he had this morning, and groaned aloud, the nightmare now completely vanishing from his mind to be replaced by another kind.

The Gotham City Ladies Auxiliary was due to arrive at the manor at 10AM. They were a collection of wealthy and elderly ladies – the youngest was 64 – who represented various important charities and civic foundations in the city, and who wielded considerable influence "behind the scenes" in Gotham's cultural and political spheres. This meant that they were often persistent nuisances and critics of any kind of change, and that most major endeavors would not get the green-light without their blessing. As a significant and long-standing member of Gotham society, Bruce Wayne was expected to host them twice a year at the Manor. Personally, he would have preferred to avoid them altogether, if it weren't for the fact that his late mother had been a member, and that Dr. Leslie, his old family physician (now retired) was currently the Auxiliaries President. One of the burdens of being a wealthy Gothamite.

Usually, Alfred would have dealt with all the arrangements and done the actual hosting of the event himself, with Bruce making a belated, and hopefully brief, appearance near the end to greet everyone and then bow out, but now he was absent. He would have to deal with everything himself.

He sighed. It hoped that the tedium of a Ladies Aux meeting might be enough to erase the disquiet he felt. If it did, the whole rigmarole would be worth it. He got up, and headed for his gym. Just a light workout then, and he would get ready for his day. The dream was already forgotten.

Several hours later…

In the well-lit drawing room of Wayne Manor, decorated and furnished with antiques from 18th-century France and England, the eight gray-haired ladies who represented the Gotham City Ladies Auxiliary sat on chairs and couches, and sipped English tea and nibbled on cucumber sandwiches. The tea was perhaps not quite as flavorful as it could be, the sandwiches cut a little crookedly, but that was only to be expected since the esteemed Alfred was absent. Bruce Wayne, each one of them was aware, wasn't the type of person to appreciate the nuances of an English social tea. He sat amongst them, barely touching any of the refreshments. In truth, he seemed rather distracted, failing to engage them in conversation and Dr. Leslie often felt she had to draw him into their discussions.

"I do hope he is not unwell?" Dr. Leslie had said.

Bruce looked up from his plate. "Who?"

"Mr. Pennyworth," the retired physician repeatedly patiently, while the others tut-tutted. "I said, I do hope he is not unwell?"

"No, no Alfred is quite well. He flew back to England two days ago to attend his aunt's funeral."

"Really?" She sipped her tea from the porcelain cup. "I didn't know he had any family left."

"I do believe he spoke of an aunt, a venerable lady living in Dorchester."

"She was 102," Bruce murmured. "He hadn't seen her for perhaps twenty years, but he was her only living relative."

"Oh. Perhaps he will come into an inheritance?" One of the other ladies said. Bruce knew she had had her eye on his butler for some time, and felt a distinct thrill in dashing her hopes.

"No, she was living on a pensioners' income in a boarding house."

"But he's not gone back to England permanently?"

"No, he will be back this week."

"Oh, that's very reassuring," another lady, a stout woman name either Mildred or Mathilde (Bruce wasn't sure which) added: "I would so hate it if Alfred was permanently indisposed."

Another lady changed the topic, hoping to engage him in talk. "Mr. Wayne, what is your position on the mayor's proposal to clean up Crime Alley?"

He didn't appear to hear her; she was another gray-haired eminence-type who would have given the Dowager Countess on Downton Abbey a run for her money. She stared at him in annoyance, thinking of Alfred's unfortunate absence. He had always give the Aux his utmost attention during their teas. The scion of Wayne Manor, however, was quite lacking in manners. No wonder this brash young man had gotten the dissolute reputation he had!

"Mr. Wayne!"

"What?" He looked up again. "Oh...forgive me. I was just lost in thought."

"I do hope we aren't boring you," Mrs. Jackie Martell was the 80-year-old widow of Arvin Martell, who had owned many major hotels in Gotham City. "I presume you are quite preoccupied with your many business engagements? Perhaps you are troubled by the economy?"

"No, not at all," Bruce Wayne seemed to remember his manners then. "Yes...I am quite busy, lately...don't worry, Wayne Enterprises is and will continue to support all of your charitable endeavors, ladies."

"Hmph!" proclaimed yet another one of the most senior members of the Aux, an ancient horror Bruce thought must have once rubbed shoulders with the Pharaohs. "I do think it would be better for Gotham City if we simply bulldozed the city down and started over. Get rid of all the riffraff and repopulate with better stock...people such as yourself, Mr. Wayne."

"Now, now, you don't mean that, Adelle," Dr. Leslie tutted. "That's no kind of solution."

"I do indeed mean that. If only this Batman fellow would just get on with his job, I am sure our city would be restored to its splendid glory."

"Oh, I think Gotham isn't that bad..."

"It is!"

"I say, this Batman character, I myself believe it is simply a myth propounded by the ignorant masses, if you'll pardon my saying so, such a person could not possibly exist in real life."

"Oh, I don't know, he has helped reduce the crime somewhat..."

Bruce sat back and retreated into himself as his guests began arguing amongst themselves again. It was the same every year. Somehow, despite all their fractiousness, the Aux did manage to fundraise successfully for quite a number of charities. He hated to admit it, but sometimes he thought these old ladies had it more together than the Justice League. The League was growing, and having the typical growing pains every organization experienced, Bruce thought. But sometimes he thought it was getting to be too many 'cooks in the kitchen' a phrase he had once heard Alfred say. But with Superman and Green Lantern absent, they just weren't as strong as Bruce would have liked. They had set a bad example, Bruce mused, by leaving so abruptly, despite their reasons. He should have-

A bright blue light had suddenly appeared across the room, a tiny glow hovering in the middle of the air, slowly spinning.

"Whatever is that?" Dr. Leslie was the first to notice it.

All of Bruce's highly-trained senses leapt to immediately asses the situation, as he - and the rest of the ladies - saw it. Slowly he stood up, his muscles beginning to tense in anticipation of danger. He didn't sense any heat or other energy from the light, which was growing in size. He didn't want to scare his guests yet he was painfully aware he didn't have access to his Batsuit, and Alfred wasn't here.

"Is there some electrical problem?" Another lady asked worriedly; Bruce was painfully aware she was prone to heart problems.

"No," Bruce replied as soothingly as possible. "I'm not sure, but I think I'll call for the fire department to be sure." He then abruptly recalled he'd left his smartphone in his bedroom.

"Whatever it is, it's getting bigger! Are you sure it's not a fire?" The other ladies looked at each other nervously.

"Perhaps we should, ah, evacuate?"

Unfortunately, the light was between them and the door. Now it was almost the size of a person and glowing more brightly, swirling like a whirlpool.

"Get behind me, Doctor Leslie," Bruce warned. She, of all of them, was the most likely to keep her head if this was truly a danger.

Despite not having access to his Batsuit, he still had his strength and his wits. Whatever the hell this was, he had to protect his guests. If this was some kind of an attack, or a diversion, he was certain he would find out soon enough.

He didn't have long to wait. The light suddenly swelled like a balloon; the others raised their hands to their eyes in alarm. Then, like a balloon, it popped, and it was gone with a swirl of bluish smoke. A person stood in its place, dressed in top-hat, fishnets, and corset. She smiled widely and threw up her arms in a theatrical gesture.

"Prepare to be astounded!"

The assembled ladies gasped and then applauded loudly. Thanks to social media, the Internet, and their grandkids, even the Gotham City Ladies' Auxiliary recognized Zatanna Zatara, the Mistress of Magic, who'd recently starred in her own special on cable TV!

"Hello, ladies," Zatanna doffed her top hat and bowed with a flourish. "I am the entertainment for today's brunch!"

"My, my, Bruce!" Dr. Leslie proclaimed in delight. "I had no idea you had prepared such a surprise for us!"

"No...I had no idea either," Bruce murmured, staring meaningfully at Zatanna. She pretended not to see it.

"Well, my entrance was meant to be a surprise! I hope it was effective?"

The ladies all agreed that it was, even Miss Maybelle, who was 80% blind and deaf. "My dear, you must perform some of your tricks for us!"

"Of course! If...my host has no objections?"

"No, of course he doesn't," Dr. Leslie took Zatanna proprietarily by the arm, leading her to the center of the room as the ladies retook their seats on the chairs and couches. "We would so like to see your skills!"

Zatanna obliged, and for the next half hour she performed: just easy, basic magic, nothing particularly complicated as her repertoire went. But she utilized her audience skills that her father had taught her early on, involving one or two of the ladies and constantly engaging them with witty banter. They repaid her with smiles, laughter and applause: it was like oxygen to her, she never got tired of it.

The entire time, Zatanna tried to avoid looking in Bruce's direction; it wasn't hard, since he was standing just outside the ladies' circle. But she caught a glimpse of his face: she thought he looked like Michael Douglas in that scene from Fatal Attraction when Glenn Close's crazy stalker character invited herself to his home.

Then, the show was over. Zatanna gave another bow as her audience applauded.

"Such a wonderful performance!" Dr. Leslie said. "Bruce, dear boy, didn't you think that was just splendid?"

"Um, yes, it was...very nice."

Dr. Leslie shook her head. She had known Bruce all his life - had delivered him, in fact - and recognized his tone.

"Bruce, you could at least give our dear artist here a smile!" Dr. Leslie turned to Zatanna. "You must forgive him, my dear. It's just how he is. You see, he was always a child prodigy, but also such a very difficult child, even before the terrible tragedy that took his parents."

Bruce glared at the retired doctor, and Zatanna could see the Bat start to come out in his face.

"I was never difficult," he retorted. "You just-"

"I have one last surprise!" Zatanna interrupted gaily. She made a flourish with her hands and eight tickets appeared, spread out like fan. "Tickets to my new show, premiering in Gotham City next month! Takers anyone?"

The ladies chirruped in delight, and she had no trouble giving them all away.

"It's been a wonderful event, we must do this again!" Adele gushed as she gathered up her purse to go. Whether she was talking to him or Zatanna, Bruce wasn't sure.

Zatanna stood back and let Bruce escort the ladies out the door of the Manor (where their chauffeured drivers had been waiting). She noticed he was all gracious smiles as he bid them goodbye: "Yes, thank you for coming...yes, it was, wasn't it...yes, I'll see you at the charity ball next month..."

Finally, when the last of the ladies were gone, and he saw them driven away, he shut the door, and turned to face Zatanna. The gracious smile was, of course, gone, replaced by something quite the opposite.

"Zatanna," Bruce rumbled ominously. "I trust you have an explanation for all this?".

"Umm…drumming up some publicity?" Zatanna said innocently. "I am playing in Gotham City soon..."

"So you thought to just break into my Manor, uninvited?"

"Bruce, you haven't returned any of my calls or texts. I hardly ever see you on the Watchtower when I'm there, and when I do you hardly even look at me."

Zatanna's eyes narrowed. "What, you thought you could just screw me and forget me? Bruce, I'm not going to be ignored."

Silence.

"Umm, Fatal Attraction? Glenn Close?" Zatanna laughed nervously. "That scene where..."

"Yes, I'm aware of the scene," Bruce said mildly. "I think you should at least have had the courtesy to let me know you were going to pull off that stunt."

Zatanna sighed. "I apologize. You're right, I shouldn't have barged in like I did. I'll leave now. I'm sorry. I'll get out of your way now."

She raised her arms to invoke her backwards speech but Bruce surprised her.

"Zee…wait."

His voice had changed, and she saw he actually looked contrite. She wished she had thought to bring her smartphone to capture that look.

"It's I who should apologize...I should have called you, but...things happened here that I had to take care of, and there was a breakout at Arkham Asylum...anyway, I know that's no excuse. But then, I thought...you might be mad at me, for not calling or texting you."

Bruce sounded remarkably, oddly, very young then. Zatanna was almost too surprised for words.

"No, I'm not, I mean, I wasn't mad. I was, um, worried myself, that you might think I was, um, a little too forward that night...I bet you were wondering what the hell happened..."

It was a bit true, Bruce thought. After he had gone home from the Dante Club, he'd fallen into such a deep sleep that Alfred had had to wake him late the next morning. He had felt a bit strange, but in a good way, it had felt almost...therapeutic. He had been worried too, but since Zatanna hadn't cursed him with, he didn't know what, maybe a 'shrinkage' spell, if such a thing existed, maybe then...but she hadn't called him either. He had seen her on the Watchtower, the one or two times they had shared the same watch together, but it was always very brief, and he'd avoided looking directly at her. She seemed to have done the same. The truth was he'd been simply too embarrassed to talk to her again. He realized she was looking at him expectantly.

"I thought you might be angry at me," Bruce finally said, lamely.

"Oh...well...no I'm not mad," Zatanna said, feeling a bit awkward herself. "I guess I just didn't know if you wanted to keep it...maybe just a one-time thing?"

Zatanna could almost hear Madame Xanadu's voice in her head, telling her that that was exactly what it should be. She banished it.

That bashful look came over Bruce's face again. She found it oddly endearing, it was so not like the old fart. "No...I don't think it has to be."

He took her hand.

Ten Minutes Later...

It was a good thing, Zatanna thought, as she lay face-down on the divan, that Alfred was out of town. Otherwise, if he could see what she and Bruce were doing on this extremely rare and valuable 18th century piece of furniture, he might have a fit.

It was certainly the most intimate encounter she'd ever had with such a piece of furniture. She clutched the edges of the 300-year-old fabric, hoping it wouldn't tear under her grip. That was the only thing keeping her from flying off it, as Bruce pounded away behind her with all the pent-up lust of two months (assuming he hadn't been seeing anyone else). Judging by his stamina, she guessed he hadn't. It was just like before, his powerful hands pressing down on her back and arms, his furnace breath on the back of her neck. This time, she'd barely had time to say a word before he'd pressed his lips hard against hers, his hands already pulling at her fishnets. She discovered herself just as ready, so when he'd entered her his size didn't hurt as much, but filled her so completely she almost came there and then. She realized how much she'd missed him.

After a few minutes, she felt his pace increase and she moaned, gripping the divan tighter, gritting her teeth. She wondered if the aphrodisiac could still be in his system, although it shouldn't have lasted that long, if it had he would have approached her much sooner, she'd thought. Then all further thoughts were temporarily expelled from her mind, as her own release neared.

Bruce gave a final thrust, up to the base of his cock and Zatanna cried out with him. In the next moment he collapsed against her back, and she felt almost crushed by his weight, but a second later, he was gone. She almost gasped at the emptiness he left.

She turned her head to see him already pulling up his pants, and buttoning his shirt. That abashed look had returned to his face.

"We shouldn't have done this," he muttered.

"What?" Zatanna was confused as she rolled to a sitting position. She winced slightly; she still hadn't gotten completely used to his size. "Why? I thought we wanted to do this, together..."

"That's not what I meant," he glanced at her sideways again, his abashed look replaced by suspicion, a more familiar look for him. "I think you've done something to me."

Does he know? "Now would could I have done?" She asked innocently

"I don't know," Bruce mused, sounding as if he were trying to solve a crime. "I don't know all your capabilities."

He didn't know. She crossed her arms. "Yes, Bruce, I do have a special power, unique only to people like me."

"What?" Bruce stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Yes, it starts with a 'V.' I'll give you a clue, Great Detective, it rhymes with 'angina.'"

Bruce picked up a cushion (also a 300-year-old piece) and threw it at her. "I'm serious. I've done this wrong."

Zatanna frowned. "You think...you and I are wrong?"

"No...on the contrary," he reached out and grasped her hand. "I think that maybe we've gotten it backwards. I've got an idea. Come to dinner with me?"

For a second Zatanna wondered if Bruce Wayne had been replaced by a doppleganger, or something. An invitation to dinner?

"You mean, a date?"

He smiled, and all suspicions evaporated from her mind. "I can get ready in a second."

Later that day...

Whenever Zatanna was on the road performing, she and her crew would typically eat out at whatever was available in whatever city or town they performed. Usually it was some franchise place like a Dennys or an IHOP, whatever was open 24 hours. She considered herself "down-to-earth" and wasn't that picky.

The restaurant that Bruce took her to was some place in Gotham City she'd never heard of, but it was clearly very fancy. Bruce said it was the "only Michelin-star restaurant in Gotham City' whatever that meant. After some thought she conjured up an outfit that she thought appropriate, a long dress that that revealed her legs (but covered up her tats). Bruce had driven Zatanna in his Lamborghini Reventon (of course he had one), and she had tried to inhale as much of that fancy car smell on the way there. Living in San Fran, she didn't even own a car.

As they entered the place, Zatanna saw that the hostess and waiters all appeared to recognize Bruce as a regular customer, with his own 'table.' No surprise, really. They passed a few other diners, some of whom nodded in greeting to Bruce as he passed, no doubt persons just as well-heeled as he was. She noted that some of them glanced at her curiously, maybe wondering who she was...and what she was doing with him. That gave her a little thrill.

"Are you vegetarian? They have some excellent vegetarian dishes here. Try the Mushroom Goat Cheese Lasagna," Bruce suggested as the menus were presented.

"Oh, I eat meat...sometimes," Zatanna said. "But I think I'll try that, since you suggested it!"

"It's very good..." Bruce went on for a few minutes about the food and wine selection, then after the waiter took their orders he lapsed into a sudden silence. Zatanna wondered if he was going to start brooding again. That would be awkward...here anyway.

"It occurs to me I don't know that much about you Zee...still," Bruce finally said. "You're still very mysterious to me. I really do want to know everything about you."

"I think 'mysterious' is rather sexy," Zatanna teased. "But a magician doesn't give away all her secrets."

"Is that so," Bruce murmured. "I guess we all keep secrets, in our own way."

"Well," she said thoughtfully. "I hope we can be honest with each other, at least."

Bruce then fixed her with a penetrating gaze, and she was reminded uncomfortably of the stunt she had pulled with the aphrodisiac. Maybe she should tell him, but that would be a good way to end the date right here. Yet...

"The waiters here are all gossips," he continued. "As soon as we walked in together, I guarantee you that TMZ will be reporting on the 'Mistress of Magic's' latest conquest their next show."

She raised her eyebrows. "I hope so! Does that bother you?"

"No, I do have a reputation to maintain," he replied carelessly. "But..." he lowered his voice. "The League. That's another story"

"Oh, that," she rolled her eyes. "Why should it be. Do you really care what they say?"

He didn't respond immediately, and Zatanna took that for a yes. "Let them say what they want. I don't care what they think about us. We all have the same goal."

I wonder, Bruce thought.

[A/N: Well let's leave our latest power couple alone for the moment to enjoy their dinner, because they'll get enough flak about their relationship from the press and their friends...and others not so friendly. I did want to leave the impression that they don't entirely trust each other yet. But before we return to them, I haven't forgotten all you Superman/Wonder Woman shippers...next chapter will feature the return of Diana and Baby Jon, and we'll learn what's been going on with our favorite couple for the past two months. Hope you've enjoyed this and are still in suspense. Reviews please!]