Chapter 8

Ten years ago . . .

She woke up to the smell of smoke. Oh, no, not again. Not another nightmare. There was haze in the atmosphere and she could hear shouting. Is no one coming to check on me? She made sure she was not attached to any tubes or medical components and, satisfied that she was not a cyborg, slid out of the bed, a little wobbly on her feet, and shuffled to the door. She tried the handle, but it was locked, and out of frustration she slammed her fist against the steel. It did not make a dent. Angrily she kicked it several times, only stopping when she noticed the grooves her bare feet were making in the metal.

Did I really do this? Maybe if I had actually made contact with the orderlies, I might have been able to do some damage. But the men had been more at her sides, restraining her, while the doctor administered the shot to her neck from behind.

Absentmindedly, she reached up and rubbed her neck as she knelt to look at the buckled steel. She ran her hand across the marks, but did not have long to inspect—the door was thrust open and the impact sent her skidding backwards where she was slammed against the wall, bumping her head. When she looked up, a vision from her childhood stood in front of her, and she envisioned her heart leaping out of her chest and running out the door.

It was the creature she had set aflame when she was a child, back for its revenge, stepping out of the smoke and fire and shadows to claim her.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he said. "I am here to retrieve you."

She tried to back away, but ended up cornering herself. She wore only a gown. Modesty had been flung out the window as she scrambled away from him, trying locate anything she could use as a weapon, or find some unrealistic place of refuge. Where did all my bravado go? she wondered. Hadn't I told Oswald I wanted to kill it?

He continued advancing toward her. "This building is on fire. I am here to rescue you. Stop running. You have no place to go. You belong with us." She made for one last dash of freedom as he reached to grab her, securing her gown in one hand, pulling her backwards and wrapping his other arm around her waist. "You are one of us," he hissed.

Us. More than one, she thought. This might not be the killer she injured so long ago. No, it's only the whole blooming posse come to seek their vengeance. One big happy, goggle-sporting, cape-crusading, blade-wielding family. Nothing to worry about.

"We each have our talents," he continued. "Our abilities, areas of interest that can be utilized."

"Oh, yeah?" she said, through gritted teeth. "What's yours?"

"One of them is strength," he answered.

"No kidding." She twisted in his grasp, but it was as he had said. He had an iron grip on her. "So what's mine?" She let herself hang there like a ragdoll in his bulky arm. His other arm swung to and fro as if he was out for a Sunday walk along the pier.

He laughed. "We already know you are skillful with incendiary devices, but have yet to determine your other abilities." She thought of the dents in the door.

"Maybe I'm strong too," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She kicked one of his knees with all her might using both legs and heard a crack and a gasp, before he opened up a litany of curse words.

"Well, that was stupid," he said. "So we know one of your gifts is not intelligence." He started to give her a squeeze, but then remembered she had recently had surgery and he was not supposed to damage the goods. "I cannot heal fast enough to get us out of this inferno in time. You should know that."

"Let me go or I'll play footsie with your other knee." She turned her head to look at him and saw his attention flicker elsewhere for just a second. He nodded and lowered her to the floor. It was warm from the heat.

She second guessed her actions when he dislodged a wall rail from its brackets and used it as a crutch. So far, the hall had remained untouched by the spreading fire, which seemed to be below them. Up seemed to be logical place to go. She turned to look at him. "I hope you make it. I really do." Then she turned to run down the hall.

"There's more of us here!" he called out. "The Court doesn't do anything halfway!" That revelation did not stop her in her tracks. She was only concerned with one thing now and that was getting home.

"I don't care about The Court of Owls right now! It is the last thing on my mind!" She sped up her pace.

Her "liberator" limped after her, but the space between them was widening. "It should be the first! Who do you think sent us? We have swarmed the building, tying up loose ends, so to speak."

"Great! Terrific. If you don't take out the doctor, I'll finish the job later! But, right now, I'm going home to my family!" she sobbed. Even to that troublemaker Gertrud.

"Oh, we have already seen to him," the injured assailant said, referring to Dulmacher. "Tried to back out of the deal. He has been . . . reprimanded." He skipped along behind her, using the railing to propel himself into a quicker stride. "You can't escape The Court, Cassandra. Stop trying. We're everywhere."

She nodded. "I'll keep that in mind. Let's me know I need to keep a sharp lookout for—." She was pummeled against the wall and hit her head. Dammit. Second time today. This attacker had sprinted out of the adjoining hallway.

"Immobilize her legs!" Her original captor yelled. There was a struggle. "It's of no use! You'll have to hit her!"

"I draw the line there," came the other male voice. Cassandra kicked him in the arm and heard it break. "Or maybe not," hissed the assailant.

"You have to be one to hit her, if I do it . . ." he let that sink in. He might crack open her skull, which would further delay her special training. "We don't have much time." He looked over his shoulder. Fire was licking its way around the corner. "Do it! You know she'll revive in minutes afterwards! Now do it before she breaks your other arm!"

The pain was minimal—a sting—like someone pinching her nose really hard, but it did the trick. After her assailant's fist met her nose, she blacked out.

This is getting to be a habit, she thought as she slowly revived. And now I'm jiggling. She hated that word, but that's what she was doing—jiggling. She was disorientated, upside down, and she felt something around her legs. Her head cleared and she recognized what she was looking at—somebody's butt. It reminded her of being carried over the threshold of the club when Oswald had lifted her to one of his shoulders—throwing her over, caveman style. She grinned at the memory, but then immediately returned to faking unconsciousness. I will get them when they least expect it. Surprise attacks were always the most fun.

A door opened and she felt fresh air swirl around her body and rejuvenate her lungs, but she and her captors were not out of danger yet. The fire was near and crackling, the black smoke rising fast, and portions of the roof was beginning to collapse. She thought about what Dulmacher had taken from her and reveled in the fact that now it was all burned away, charred and scorched and diminished to ashes—he would never be able to use her organs or her blood. They were gone. Destroyed. Good. She almost cried with relief.

Wind whipped her hair and threatened to expose her hindquarters as it played with the hem of her gown, but that appreciatively was being held down by her "rescuer's" arm. She peeked and saw that they were on the roof of the building, and Cassandra could hear a loud swishing noise, like a motor running in 3/3 time, imitating a waltz. As they got closer to the sound, Cassandra peeked again and took in the sight of the most beautiful blimp she had ever seen. Golden and shimmering. If amber quartz ever had a wish, it would be to exist as this dirigible.

They boarded and all she could hear was the hum of the engine as the aerial ship lifted and commenced its flight.

"Put her down gently," she heard a woman say. "Do not injure her." Cassandra hid a smirk. She felt rather than saw the sullenness of her abductors as one limped away and the other held his arm, after having been dismissed.

"Oh, do not play coy with me, young lady," the voice said. "I know you are awake and aware of your surroundings."

Cassandra felt soft cushions underneath her, and a pillow behind her head. "I'm not so aware," she said opening her eyes and slowly sitting up. She had a bit of trouble adjusting because of the metal wrapped around her legs. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim lighting, she recognized the constraint as the railing that had been plucked so easily from the hospital wall. The stronger of the two abductors must have wrapped it around her. She attempted to free herself, but her legs were not strong enough to break the stronghold. She may be able to cause dents and shatter bone, but the twisted metal that locked her legs together played against those strengths. Physics, damn you, she swore in her head. She heard a snicker and looked up to meet the second creature from her childhood nightmares.

A woman with no face—only a white mask with slits for eyes, a small beak-like nose, and no mouth—stood in front of her. For the second time today, Cassandra awkwardly scrambled backwards, having been reduced to being able to use only her arms. She succeeded in pushing herself further against the cushions. She could not go anywhere with her legs bound. She was trapped.

"Do not panic," the woman said. "I am having someone bring you clothing and something to eat. I can only imagine you need sustenance. In the meantime, welcome aboard." The woman promptly turned her attentions to a drawer in a grandiose dark-grained desk that would have looked absolutely ostentatious in any other room but this one.

The surroundings were exquisite. Old and ancient, with secrets carved into the wood and sewn into the tapestries. Hidden in plain sight. How familiar a phrase.

Everywhere Cassandra looked, there was evidence of eras that should have evaporated into the past, but had dug their heels in and stayed, unabashedly and defiantly pumping their lifeblood, refusing to leave the present. Antiques and mahogany, burgundy-colored velvet, crystal chandeliers—not one, but four—and windows. Lots of windows. The sun was setting and already the grey-blue sky was morphing into a rich, dark indigo. Someone brought in a stack of white linens. This person also wore the same style mask.

"You may change," said the stately woman, turning so that Cassandra could have some model of privacy, which Cassandra doubted she had as she scanned the room for any obvious cameras. She did not see any, but changed underneath the hospital gown anyway.

Her new outfit could only be described as white scrubs, or maybe an Asian-inspired lounger, or heaven forbid, a communal uniform reserved for the most lucrative pushers of long-stemmed roses upon unsuspecting pedestrians. But instead of pants, she had a wraparound skirt. She was given tan canvas shoes to wear. Slip-ons. She was even given a bra—thank goodness. Everything fit as if it had been specifically tailored for her. Cassandra found this unnerving.

"I want my locket and rings," she stated, not waiting on polite formalities or introductions. She gathered this woman knew who Cassandra was already. "Now. Right now."

"I am at liberty to tell you that they have been shipped to their rightful, intended recipient. Please be reassured that they are in loving hands. Something else has been sent as well. Just for fun." Cassandra heard the smile in the woman's voice.

"What, pray tell?" Yes, prey, tell me.

"Nothing with which you need to concern yourself," she answered.

"Well, then, why did you mention it?"

"Because one thing we relish and delight in is mind games. Almost as much fun as administering physical torture. Now," she paused. "Are you not glad you asked?"

"You had better not touch my husband and child—"

The woman hissed. "Or you will what? Kill us? Others have died trying, so I do wish you the best of luck." She turned and seated herself at the desk where she had laid a manila file. She opened it and began reviewing its contents. "You seem well enough," she said, looking up at Cassandra. "Tomorrow you begin your training. I suggest you rest tonight. You will need all your strength—not just in body, but in mind. Perhaps more so in mind, though I am sure you will be broken easily. Physically we may have a tougher time, but . . ." Cassandra imagined her grinning at her from underneath that mask. "We believe in your abilities and are willing to take that chance." She said this like someone reviewing an unpolished dancer for the ballet program at The Julliard.

"Well," said Cassandra. "Since you are sure I will be destroyed one way or the other, how about answering a few questions for me."

The woman laid her arms upon the desk, interlacing her fingers and leaned forward, giving Cassandra her full attention. "Of course, but I must correct your assumption that we wish to destroy you. That is not entirely true. Your will shall be broken, yes—that is true, in order to make you a better, stronger you. We value your skills and will put them to good use."

"So you are only thinking of me." When she did not answer, Cassandra asked another question. "What are my skills?"

"Some we know, some are yet to be determined."

"Someone had come for me when I was a child with Haly's Circus—before the other one came—the one that I burned. Was that you?"

"No."

"Who?"

"A representative."

"For whom?"

"Sebastian Clark, the grandmaster of The Court of Owls."

"Why do I heal faster than others?"

"Not all others. There are more like you. I will not tell you the secret, except to say that someday—soon, The Court suspects—you and your kind will heal even quicker, become indestructible even. We look forward to that day."

"Why?"

"Paradise will come to Gotham."

"Whose?"

The woman's eyes widened and she smiled to herself, proud that Cassandra had asked the question.

"We did choose well with you, did we not? You are a bright one. None of the others have possessed the forethought to ask that question."

Cassandra repeated her question, "Whose? Whose paradise will come to Gotham? Yours? The Court's? How can you be so sure you will not bring Hell instead?"

"Because Eden was perfect, and soon the garden will revive."

"If you recall, the garden contained a serpent."

"Owls eat serpents. Hungry?" A cart had been rolled in—again by someone donning the same type of mask—and the lid was lifted to reveal a seafood pasta in lobster crème with a side salad and iced tea—sweet.

"The chef took the liberty of creating something that would remind you of home."

Cassandra's eyes instantly filled with tears. Oswald adored seafood. It was his very favorite. She thought about how he playfully teased her for gorging on salads and had started serving sweet tea in his club at her suggestion. "You are cruel."

The woman answered her instantly in a non-apologetic tone.

"Yes, dear. We are."