February 5th

Nightwing regained consciousness a short time after losing it. Batman had taken him to the batcave. When he asked, he found out that Black Death had gotten away. Batman had followed the blood trail for almost half a mile before it disappeared. Presumably the villain had help, or perhaps just a vehicle. In any case, he was gone.

Though they had no proof of it, both the Bats sensed that he had abandoned Gotham as his hunting grounds, deciding that the protectors of the city were too vicious and persistent to bother with. Easier to move along to somewhere else where hunting was easier.

Batman had alerted the League, who were spreading the word via their numerous contacts. If Black Death showed up in any city which was guarded by a hero, they would be able to recognize him at once and attempt to either drive him away or, if possible, put a permanent end to him.

Nightwing spent most of the day resting, exhausted from even the short skirmish. Better that than dead, which is what he would have been had he not struck out as he had. Nobody needed to ask if his blow had been meant to kill, they all knew that it had been.

His silence told that the attack had reminded him too much of that night in the train yard when he'd sought to end Batman's life in much the same manner. But there was a significant difference this time, one which brought some small comfort to Nightwing's wounded heart.

The reason had been different. When he had lashed out, he had in mind only his own desire to survive, and to defend innocents from the savagery that was embodied by Black Death. Those were reasons which he could live with in good conscience.

Yet, even so, he felt his time in Gotham must come to an end. He felt keenly the desire to return to Blüdhaven, a want which could only be described as homesickness. And so he left not long after breakfast, arriving in the morning on February fifth.

He had not felt up to going to work for Grant, and so went directly to his warehouse and there he spent the entire day resting, barely moving save to get a drink or eat a little something.

But when night fell, he felt a horrible unease. Though he was still weak, and almost sick with pain, he heard the call of duty as clearly as a dog hears the whistle of his master. This was more than just another night. There was something evil out there, stalking the innocents of Blüdhaven like a hungry wolf preys upon lost sheep. As a fulfillment of the metaphor, Nightwing rose from his sick bed like a faithful sheepdog when he finds his flock threatened.

He didn't know where the trouble was, or what it looked like, but it was there. He could feel it.

As Batman had with Gotham, so too had Nightwing developed a regular route with Blüdhaven. He left the relative warmth of the warehouse and went out into the confused night. For February is a most bewildered month, as it can hardly decide whether it's spring or winter, and so has the worst features of both, being both cold and wet and worse than either alone.

Tonight it was slushy, for the day had warmed almost enough to melt the snow, but it was going back down to freezing, and would rapidly get even below that point. The sky was blotted out by clouds which threatened to make a snow storm happen before dawning.

It was no night to be out, whether you were hero, villain or otherwise. Even so, something... someone... was out here. And Nightwing was going to find them. He had no other choice.

Each time the wind blew, Nightwing had to steel his body against it, causing a tension which brought new pain with it each time the process was repeated.

He couldn't take a deep breath, and so was unable to make swift progress through the night. Instead he traveled slowly, slinking through the dark in search of the dreaded Someone which had brought him out of shelter and into this terrible night.

It did not escape him that this night was not wholly unlike the one which had been about when he had fled Gotham not so very long ago. He could not help but be reminded. By now he knew of the slug, knew that the night he remembered would never happen again. Yet his heart lacked conviction. But he did not allow the memory to turn his thoughts to jelly, nor let fear overtake him. He could not afford it.

He wandered without chancing to meet any opposition for well over an hour. He didn't even see any pedestrians, and there were few cars. It seemed he was the only person who was ignoring the signs from the sky that a downpour of half-frozen, or perhaps entirely frozen, rain was forthcoming. The wind was whipping through the city, driving anything not nailed down before it like a ferocious shepherd driving his flock to stampede.

And still Nightwing kept searching for the elusive Something that he knew was here in that strange way that only heroes are capable of. There is no science to explain this ability, and it's inconsistent at the best of times, but no hero will discount it when he feels inside that something is not right with the city which he has sworn his life to protect.

The first rain sliced down, forming into ice as it fell, cutting like the blade of a knife. The wind howled and the temperature dropped, and still Nightwing kept on. He was tired, he was cold and he was hurting badly, but there was nothing for it.

And then, at long last, he was rewarded. In a manner of speaking. He chanced to hear a woman's scream. At once he sprang into a run, forgetting his fatigue and broken ribs. It took him seconds to reach the source of the cry, but he wasn't fast enough.

Some kindly lady had opened her door to a beggar man in the street, only to find her throat slit by none other than Black Death himself. She lay in her doorway, startled eyes open but vacant, blood flowing like a river from her neck, down her front steps and into the filthy slush-snow. Black Death stood over her, knife in hand, breathing heavily, eyes full of a glorious malice as he drank in the rush which flooded through him after making a kill.

Nightwing felt something which went beyond fury at seeing this. He had already driven this monster away from Gotham, and it infuriated him beyond reason to find the beast here on his own doorstep not more than a day later.

"You!," he snarled above the wailing wind "get. Out. Of my. City!,"

Without waiting for answer, he flung himself upon his enemy in a frenzy of rage which surprised him perhaps more than Black Death himself. They fell out into the street, each struggling to get a death grip on the other, too close in their unloving embrace to properly attack or defend, rolling virtually helpless in their combined fury.

One of the dead lady's neighbors had heard her scream and come out to see what was the matter. She in turn screamed and ran back into her house at once to call the police to tell them that Nightwing had murdered Mrs. Dowry and Mr. Dowry was trying to fend him off.

This was incorrect of course, for Mr. Dowry was away on a business trip and was also less than half the size of the brutish Black Death. But the neighbor had never liked the idea of vigilantes and so saw exactly what it was that she wanted to see.

The two combatants, unaware of the neighbor or her phone call, continued to twist and writhe in the street, each actively seeking to kill the other, though for vastly different reasons. It was fortunate then that the weather was as dire as it was, or else a car might have run the both of them over. As it was, there were virtually no cars on the street at all.

At last Nightwing found leverage and kicked away from Black Death, sliding across the sludge until he was stopped by a curb. He scrambled to his feet and drew his eskrima sticks, mentally chiding himself for not having done that at the first. Black Death too gained his feet, still armed with his knife.

Their eyes locked on one another. Neither was willing to give any ground this time.

Nightwing could see the bloody gash he'd made with the birdarang, stretching across Black Death's face and down his neck, disappearing beneath his black cloak. It was this injury which had made Nightwing almost a match in strength, for the blood loss had left Black Death more weakened than Nightwing's broken ribs had left him.

Black Death charged, Nightwing parried and struck out with his free hand. The motion sorely jarred his ribs, but he tried to ignore the pain. His blow struck only glancingly and Black Death turned in passing to make a slash with his knife. The knife cut deep into Nightwing's exposed right side, but he barely felt it as he heaved backward out of range.

The ground was slippery and treacherous for both of them. They each staggered and nearly went down, regained their balance at nearly the same instant, and began the battle all over again, neither giving ground nor gaining it, evenly matched in both skill and ferocity.

"What in the hell-," Cole never finished the sentiment.

His temporary partner, who was greener than spring grass, hit the brakes too hard. The police car screeched and slid helplessly on down the road, weaving side to side of its own accord, ignoring the driver's attempts to set it right.

Cole and his partner had received the call about the fight. Turning onto the street, they had found two people in the street, ignorant of ice and wind as each sought to end the life of the other. Yet now they had far bigger problems as the police car slid right towards them. Neither seemed aware of it, so Cole did the only thing he could think of: he hit the siren.

At once, the smaller combatant lunged away from his opponent. As though oblivious, the other went after him, driving a knife into his exposed back. But before the knife could drive deep enough to be lethal, the police car plowed right into the shaggy black giant and continued down the road with him for some distance, finally stopping when it hopped the curb and smashed into a hapless light post.

Cole sprang from the car at once. He might have gone to the man at the front of the vehicle, but he didn't. Even as he consciously resisted it, he knew inside just who was the villain and who was not. And Nightwing most certainly was not.

He ran, slipping and sliding, to the side of the fallen warrior and then fell to his knees. He turned Nightwing onto his back, hoping to find him breathing and with a pulse. To his surprise, Nightwing managed to open his eyes, look at him for a moment, and then lost consciousness.

"Dammit, I didn't agree to this," Cole spat angrily.

Even so, he hefted the body of Nightwing in his arms, stood up and carried him into the shadows of an alley. He couldn't do anything now, but he planned to come back as soon as he could invent an excuse.

His partner, meantime, had gone to the aid of the man who'd been pinned between the lamp post and the car. The fight had opened the wound Nightwing had inflicted before, and it had bled just as profusely. Only he had less blood to lose.

"Guy's as good as dead," Cole's partner lamented "what about the other one?,"

"Gone," Cole lied, surprised by how easily he did so.

"Too bad. I'd have liked to get the bastard that would murder a woman in her own home,"

"It wasn't Nightwing that did it," Cole said "it was this guy here,"

"What makes you say that?,"

"Call it," Cole hesitated, looking over at the knife which had impaled a pile of snow, and then at the dead woman in the doorway "call it a hunch,"

Of course, Cole was right. Analysis of the wound, and fingerprints on the knife confirmed that only one person had handled it, and it was the murder weapon. Black Death, or Harry Thompson, did not die. He was the sort of person you just could never seem to kill. Or keep in jail.

Before the week was out he had escaped and vanished without a trace. But the killings did not resume in Blüdhaven, he was too smart for that. Black Death knew that Nightwing had survived, just as he had, and that the latter would do everything in his power to destroy the former. It isn't easy to arouse deathless hatred in the heart of a hero, but Black Death had more than done that.

Cole went back to "interview the witness", but found Nightwing had already gone somehow. He couldn't believe that the boy could move at all with the deep wounds he had sustained, and feared that doing so had encouraged the bleeding still further and that Nightwing would be found dead in some back alley, drowned in his own blood.

This did not happen, of course.

February 12th

"Hello, Cole,"

Cole had stepped out of his house for an evening smoke, and was startled to see the shadow figure standing at the corner of his porch, leaning on the railing. He knew the figure, and recognized the voice. He was reluctant to admit that he was relieved.

"You saved my life," Nightwing went on, not waiting for Cole to speak "and kept my identity secret, even from yourself, saving more lives than you'll ever know. I won't forget that,"

"Yeah, well...," Cole shrugged "you saved mine, I'd call that even,"

Nightwing dipped his head to acknowledge this.

"You could have turned me in," Nightwing said "you had every reason to. You know how bad the police want to get their hands on me. But you let me go,"

"I owed you, that's all,"

Nightwing's expression said he did not believe that, but he didn't argue, at least not verbally. Instead he smiled and seemed to nod to himself with some satisfaction.

"Any idea what happened to Black Death?," Cole asked.

"No," Nightwing's humor vanished all at once "but if he comes back, I'll be here. And I'll be waiting,"

Good, Cole thought. But this, he did not say.

A/N: Tomorrow's chapter is the epilogue.