"I came back for my girls."
It looks like her. Moves like her. Sounds like her. Smells like her ...
But something is wrong.
And when he hears those words, something in him growls in anger. Jade and Artemis are his girls. He's done his best for them—did his damnedest to make up for all the ways he failed them before—and he won't give them up to anyone.
Not even Paula.
"No."
"No?" The amusement in her voice is just like Paula's. The exact tone she'd get when someone would laugh at the idea that such a slight woman could be a threat.
"You ain't taking my girls." He's half the man he used to be, but he's at least twice the father he was then. "You ain't Paula, and you ain't getting my kids. Even if you were Paula, you can't have them."
"They're my daughters too, Lawrence." Still that amused tone of voice that would have been charming if he didn't remember how many men had died hearing that tone. "I gave birth to them. I trained them too. They love me more than they ever did you—even little Artemis."
"Maybe they love their mother more than me"—and he had no reason to doubt that; after all didn't he sometimes hear Artemis call out for her mother in her sleep?—"but you ain't her."
"What makes you say that?"
Because Paula had made me promise, he wanted to say, but didn't. "They did a good job, but it's not perfect."
"What?"
"Your nose."
"What about my nose?" She touches it in confusion.
"There's not the little bump in it—the one from the time that Starman broke it. And you're not just in good shape for a dead woman—you're in better shape than you were before you died!" He knows now. He understands. And he hates Ras al Ghul and the damn League of Shadows even more than he ever thought possible. "Look at you. You're at least 15 years younger than you ought to be—maybe 20. You're not my wife. You're not the Huntress—"
"I am the Huntress!" And the rage is like Paula's too …
"You're a clone."
"A clone?" She blinks, and for a moment there's no amusement, no anger … there's just … confusion. "You're insane, Lawrence. All this time as the Justice League's prisoner has driven you crazy."
"No. I'm not crazy. I wish to God I were. I wish you were really her. I wish my wife was back—but you're not her. The Shadows cloned Paula. Hell, they must have used a telepath to give you her memories—or at least recreate them enough to make you think you're her.
"But you're not her. You'll never be her." He pauses because she didn't ask for this. "I'm sorry."
She stares at him for another moment. "You're crazy. You're trying to trick me. It won't work, Lawrence. I knew who I am. I'm the Huntress. The girls belong with me—they belong with the Shadows. You can't stop me from taking them. The Justice League can't stop me. I'm going to have my children back!"
"You really think you're Paula Nguyen? Back from the dead?"
"I didn't die! The Shadows saved me after you abandoned me! After you stole my children from me!"
"You really think I'd have left you—left Paula—if she hadn't died in my arms?"
"Obviously. Because I'm here. It makes a lot more sense than the idea that the Shadows would clone a dead woman."
"If you're the Huntress—if you're Paula—what were your last words to me?"
"What?"
"What did you say to me on that rooftop?"
"I—" Her eyes close.
"Lawrence … the girls. Do not let this be their fate. Promise me. Promise me—"
"What were your last words?! What did you want more than anything else?!" He screams the words at this woman, this stranger with his wife's face, his wife's voice …
"Avenge me!" Her eyes snapped open. "I said, 'Avenge my death!'"
"No!" Vindication has never tasted so bitter. In spite of everything, he wanted her to remember… "That's not what you wanted—that's not what Paula wanted." She wanted the girls safe—and he had promised her. And he'll keep that promise—even against this living ghost of his wife. "She wanted the girls to be safe! Do you still think you're their mother?!"
She closes her eyes for a moment. She shudders, and then she screams out a primal cry of rage, of anger, of loss … "I AM THE HUNTRESS!"
But she knows she isn't.
He can see it in her eyes.
He still has the gun.
He could shoot her now. He could shoot her before she has a chance to adjust to the truth. He could kill her before she has a chance to kill him—a chance to get at his girls and use her face and her voice to lure them into a trap or worse. He could end her threat now with just the pull of a trigger …
But he can't.
He's not that man anymore.
"Go," he tells her finally. "I don't care what you call yourself or what you do—just get the hell out of my house and stay the hell away from my girls. If you don't …" He lets the threat linger.
She picks up the mask she had dropped off. "I have a new lover now, Lawrence."
"Oh?" He's surprised at the white hot jealousy that surges in his heart at those words.
"Deathstroke. He's twice the man you are—the man you were back when you were still a man." She sneers at him, but the words ring hollow. "I will be back, Lawrence. You can't keep the girls away from me—from the Shadows. The daughters of the Huntress belong to the Shadows."
"Like hell." He raises the gun, and it's steady as a rock. "Go before I change my mind."
"You're weak, Lawrence. Pathetic. I never loved you—she never loved you!"
"Whatever. I'm counting to three. If you're still here by the time I hit 'three' you're leaving in a body bag. One."
"I'll see you dead, Lawrence. Dead and your daughters with the Shadows. With me."
"Two." The safety is off. He's aiming at her forehead. One bullet and it's all over.
She throws something at her feet and a cloud of smoke covers her.
"Three."
He doesn't fire. He doesn't need to. He knows even before the smoke clears that she's gone.
He carefully puts the gun down.
He has to tell the girls. He has to warn them. He can't let them be caught off guard—not like he was. He has to warn them. He has to protect them …
But even after the smoke bomb, the scent of her perfume still lingers in the room …
Paula's perfume.
I have to be strong …
And then, try as he might to fight them, the tears come once more …
Paula. Dear God. Paula …