Chapter 6

Ten years ago . . .

Cassandra felt herself falling before she felt any pain, and when she did, it was deep and unrelenting—catching her off guard. She surmised this must be what it felt like to be burned alive—only the fire was inside her body. The left side of her chest felt like a sack of water-logged cement, hot as lava, and each gasp she took seemed to expand the lung—like the organ was giving its buddy oxygen a great big bear hug and was not willing to let go.

It's going to burst, she thought. My lung is going to burst out of my chest, all over my husband. I probably shouldn't make light of this.

Her lower torso hurt—not the skin, not really, kind of a dull ache, but inside . . . inside it felt like her innards were at war with each other, tearing, bleeding, patching, and tearing again. She was light-headed and a little dizzy, but was aware of Oswald's arms supporting her—lowering her to the pavement. Have I been shot? Where's Boo? Oh, he's here, in the crook of my arm. Asleep. That's all it is. He is asleep.

Above her, Oswald looked panicked. He has not been hit. Good. Looks scared, but no blood—not hurt. He needs to check Boo. Her heartrate increased. What if Boo is hurt? She could hear Oswald's voice bringing her out a tunnel she was willingly trying to go down—to numb the pain. How odd and incredibly unpleasant the sensation. She smiled at him and wanted to touch his face, but her arms were too tired right now. She would try again in a minute.

His eyes . . . his eyes . . . how I always want them locked on me . . . She frowned and tried to turn her head. No strength. Where's Boo? Was he hit? She flicked her eyes downward. The child was now being held by Oswald, motionless. No, please, let him be all right . . . just tired, that's all. Her throat tickled and she coughed before feeling wetness upon her lower lip. It's Oswald's tears. That's what it is. His tears. Ignore the pained look on his face and the fear in his eyes and the blood on his thumb as he wipes your mouth. Stay strong.

Can't. I think I'd like to go to sleep now.

"Boo . . ." she reminded him. He was the Prince of Gotham. Oswald had told her he would obey any command she gave him. Protect Boo. That's an order. She whispered her request and Oswald nodded, saying that he would. She heard another bang and saw Oswald fall backwards. Cassandra fought to regain full consciousness, but it was like swimming through gel. She couldn't move. She couldn't focus. Couldn't get to him. She couldn't get to Boo. I'm a failure. I've failed them.

Where's Gabe and Fara? Where's Gertrud?

Where are the damn police? Their cars are right here! Where's that James Gordon, in whom Oswald has so guilelessly placed his trust?

She heard shouting and the clank of metal before the EMS workers hurried to her side and lifted her off the sidewalk. Her fingers brushed Oswald's has they moved her to the gurney. What were they saying? Shoot Oswald; need her? Something's not right. She heard one swear at the other before a mask was placed over her face and everything faded to black.

Beep.

What is that? Am I in a hospital? The offensive odor of astringent invaded her nostrils and perked her brain back to a state of semi-awareness. A man was speaking, but it was not to her.

"It's astounding. I've never seen anything like it. Like her. Watch." She heard metal tap metal and then an intake of breath as people gasped.

How many are in here? Where's Oswald? Boo? Please . . .

"We all know the liver regenerates, but I have never seen it do it at this rate. Do you know what this means? What this could do for our profits? What this could do for medical science? Is she healthy—I mean besides the obvious wounds?"

The other man snickered.

"Healthy? Watch this, and keep in mind this is being recorded." Cassandra felt movement above her and slowly peeked through her lashes to get a bearing on her surroundings.

"Doctor, her heartrate is increasing." Above her, she felt the man hesitate. "It has to be done. It was going to be done, sooner or later. May as well do it sooner and get it over with, so that I don't have to open her up again." Cassandra saw him reach toward her stomach, no, into her stomach, no, her bladder? Uterus? She felt that. She was splayed open for the world to see and the sensation she felt was excruciating. She imagined this was how a cave felt when stalagmites were pulled from its gut. She screamed and someone clutched her hand.

"Doctor! Have mercy!" She heard a woman say. "Increase the anesthetic and place her completely back under. It's a wonder she has not screamed before now! Don't continue this!" The bed shook as the doctor slammed his hands down on its edges, accidentally nicking Cassandra's arm. The small red mark gradually scarred over. Cassandra thought she had only been scratched.

"Did you see that? Did you see that?" He raised his arms to make his point. "Probably felt like nothing to her! I was beginning to wonder if she felt anything at all and what I need now is to determine what level her threshold of pain is—she's a walking miracle! Now get out, all of you, if you cannot be silent and let me work!" Two more samples were taken and Cassandra screamed both times. He nodded giving permission to increase the medication and Cassandra gratefully passed out before he closed her up.

When she came to, she knew she was not alone. There was another presence in the room. She could hear the person breathing—as if he or she was in a deep sleep. Someone else entered the room. She stayed silent, hoping they would start talking and reveal some information she might not otherwise get.

"How's our patient?" asked a male voice. A woman answered.

"Looks like her heart rate is increasing." Cassandra tried to take slow, calming breathes. "She may wake up soon." Footsteps approached her bed, heavy—either the man's or the nurse was packing a few pounds. She felt fingers brush her bangs off her forehead and smooth her hair.

"Sorry about that," he whispered, not really remorseful at all. Profits first, in the name of science. Think of all the people he could help and all the money he could make. Already the rich had been coming to him for years, desiring various body parts. Now with this new discovery, the government would be interested. Isn't that what the visitor promised if he would take her? It was either him or Hugo, and there was no way Dulmacher was going to allow Hugo Strange get another government contract.

Indian Hill can kiss my ass, thought Dr. Dulmacher.

Of course, the agent had been livid that she had been shot. That was not part of the deal. Dulmacher had been paid thousands to rescue her and had been promised samples of her blood to help with ongoing secretive experiments. At the time, the doctor had wondered what would be so special about her blood. Now he was glad he accepted the assignment, even though she had been wounded. With anyone else, those injuries would have been fatal.

That he got to shoot Cobblepot was a bonus. Phil was an idiot and a bad aim. He was glad to be rid of him, although Dulmacher lamented that he had wasted a perfectly respectable tongue on the moron—replacing what had been ripped out in exchange for information on the whereabouts of Fish Mooney. Phil's ear could not be saved. Tsk. Tsk. The whole operation had ended up being an utter waste of time and flesh—Cobblepot had already killed her.

But now I have this little flower, and if the agent wants her—the price will have to be renegotiated. The good doctor was rightfully incensed that the agent had not divulged the rest of this mystery woman's secret.

Now he had leverage.

Not to mention tissue samples, and a harvested organ here and there. Surely they will not be missed. She will survive without them.

Too bad the doctor did not realize who he was really dealing with when planning his future bargaining chips with the agent—for that moment when he came a-courting. This acquaintance was actually a member of The Court of Owls. Dulmacher's narcissism is what attracted The Court—any doctor could sew up Cassandra, but this doctor already had a bias towards Cobblepot that could be used to acquire their assassin. And, since Dulmacher thought highly of his talents and was constantly thinking about himself—he did not have time to think about anyone else. So it would be easy to overtake him should a problem occur and threaten him if necessary. Gerbils always did scare so easily. Cassandra would not be with Dulmacher for very long, only the ego-focused doctor did not know that—and if he put up a fight, it would end badly. For him.

He was unaware of what was really taking place around him, intoxicated by the implications that his new patient had revealed to him. He had taken enough of her liver to cultivate new ones, and the portion still within her would regenerate just as quickly. In no time at all, he would market his high-grade livers to alcoholics—or anyone with a liver disease—for a hefty price of course. Because one cannot put a price tag on avoiding cirrhosis. Oh, wait, yes one could, he laughed, seeing dollar signs before his eyes and imagining himself rolling around in gold coins.

But he was truly in it for the prestige. Perhaps a Nobel Peace Prize?

When he had first had her in surgery to remove the three bullets, a piece of her lung was excavated from where the first bullet had been embedded. He had gawked as the hole started healing itself right before his eyes, and with the help of a chest tube removing the excess blood and air that had threatened to tear the organ apart, she was able to start breathing again on her own rather quickly, her lungs simply soaking up the small amount of leftover blood. She had been fortunate the bullet had missed her heart and surrounding arteries.

For sake of discovery and knowledge, he decided to remove her untouched spleen. Because, who really needs one, am I right? And of course the appendix—might as well get rid of that too in order to avoid any future infection all together.

So I am doing good. Goodwill to men. Call me Asclepius, deity of medicine. Then he had another thought. Could her blood make me immortal? Younger? He looked at himself in the stainless steel mirror. It warped his features.

He was gray, nearly bald, but still considered himself a rather handsome man. No one had ever disputed him, so it must be true, but what he would not give to have a few more follicles on top, darker too would be nice. Could I manipulate her blood to reverse or possibly slow down aging?

He turned to look at her and frowned. What caused this in the first place? That was the real puzzle. He chewed on his lower lip. At least I have tissue samples, he thought.

Of course, there was a bit of the sadist in him that performed an oocyte retrieval—eggs were a precious commodity—and removed her uterus, where the second of the three bullets had lodged.

What new breed of creature could I create with this? he speculated.

Next, he had carefully removed the last and third bullet that was kissing her spine. There was nerve damage, but he was giddy in the certainty that she would heal herself—with no help from medical science from here on out. She probably would have no mobility issues at all. Amazing.

So many implications to this great discovery. He would become world renowned, respected, sought after, and incredibly rich. Why, yes, I would love to speak at your medical convention in Geneva and be the recurring featured contributor to The Journal of International Medical Research. What? You want me to be editor of The Journal of the American Medical Association? Sigh. If I can find the time. Then he could continue his private experiments in medical luxury.

He chuckled. That would really irritate his "nemepal" Hugo. Bet he hasn't made any fascinating discoveries lately. Wiping the blood from his scalpel, Dulmacher pondered this and wondered why the anonymous person wanted his patient.

Maybe, just maybe, I will not give her up at all.