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Chapter 10

Demon

Jason leaned against one of the towering pine trees, rough bark pressing against his back through his jacket, and just let the night air cool the stinging along his chest and arm and shoulder—stinging where inky, ethereal claws had gored flesh. That's what he got for trying to go after Tim when a pack of demons was determined to keep him away. Not that there was any sign of his assailants now. The deep shadows had faded back into the normal, thin darkness of the night. There was nothing but the thick trunks of trees and the empty sidewalk beyond. Tim was nowhere in sight.

It was just as well. Jason didn't think he could have freed the kid in his condition anyway. Tim's wild swing hadn't cut him deeply, just a graze along his arm where he had been able to rid himself of most of the poisonous blood immediately, but it had slowed him down, leaving him vulnerable.

Scowling, he pushed himself away from the tree, leaving bloody smears on the bark, and started back toward the manor—stalked back, shoving branches out of his way. He may have gotten the bad blood out of his system, what little of it there was, but the trace amounts remaining would keep his body sluggish as a human for hours. In point of fact, the thin line of the wound hadn't healed, dripping tiny droplets of blood behind him. Neither had the deeper claw marks across his chest and arm and shoulder. All this meant he had to walk back, injured, to the family he'd been avoiding for the better part of a century—the family who still sometimes looked at him like he was some shameful secret—and nothing could keep him from being completely ticked off about it.

By the time he reached the manor, his foul mood had doubled.

"Jason!" Dick looked up from where he sat on the bed beside the unconscious Damian. "What happened?" Dick's honest worry at seeing him standing there like a storm cloud, dripping blood instead of water, put him off only a little.

"Demons." He found Bruce, catching the man's gaze. "There were freaking demons." And watched those ice blue eyes darken dangerously. Dick caught on, releasing Damian's hand to stand hurriedly.

"Where's Tim?"

"He stabbed me." Possibly, the anger was wearing off into shock. Dick put two hands on his shoulders, steadying, focusing Jason's attention.

"Where's Tim?" Dick tried again, and Jason let the older boy drag the answer out of him, shoulders slumped hopelessly with the words.

"Ra's has him."

The silence that followed the statement smothered the room. It felt like that night, like losing Timothy all over again. Jason wished someone would say something, anything to break the awful pall of painful memories. He wished Bruce would say it was going to be all right, that he'd been expecting this, even if it was a lie—once Jason had thought the man had all the answers, now he just wanted one. He wished… he wished the demon brat would wake up and tell them they were all idiots.

"You need to replace the blood you've lost," Dick finally said, more an attempt at a distraction than anything—more to fill the need to fix something, anything. "Let me…"

"Not you," Bruce interrupted suddenly, crossing to where they stood. "You're depleted from helping Damian." He rolled his own sleeve up instead, holding the arm out, blue eyes level.

"I can hunt," Jason grunted, pushing the offer away. He didn't need anything from these people. But as he turned to leave, a tight grip on his arm brought him up short.

"I don't want you going out like this." Bruce was indomitable as usual. Jason jerked out of the grip—not an easy thing to do in his state.

"I stopped being your obedient lapdog the moment you decided not to kill Timothy's murderer, old man."

"Jason!" Bruce barked, and despite himself, Jason stopped. Some habits were hard to kick. "I need you. Tim needs you. Isn't that more important than your pride?" He didn't want to admit that Bruce was right, that finding Tim was more important than retaining the distance he'd maintained from this man for the better part of a century, and he definitely didn't want the sharing of emotions and perceptions that always came when their kind shared blood. It was the most honest thing they could ever do. If he took Bruce's blood, he would no longer be able to deny that the man cared about him, about all of them. More than anything, he didn't want to let go of the anger that had been his constant companion for so long. But this time, when Bruce held out his arm, Jason snatched the offering back angrily, sinking sharp incisors into the man's elbow. He didn't bother being gentle. Bruce only grunted.

Then there was no escaping it. Even steeling himself, even with the wall of anger he'd erected against the world, Jason wasn't immune. The man's emotions washed over him—through him, through this brief bond they were sharing—and Jason shuddered against the raw openness of it. He tried to ignore it, reject it, anything, because he definitely didn't want to know that behind that cold, dispassionate façade, Bruce was still mourning Timothy too, still stung by Jason's betrayal, still worried about them all. He could feel it anyway: the pain, the despair, the anger that echoed Jason's. And the newfound hope since they'd found Tim. Hope at the chance to fix old mistakes and mend broken ties. Hope for the boy, for his predicament and lost memories. Panic over losing him to an old foe, one who had already taken so much from them.

Jason gritted his teeth, inadvertently biting deeper, harder.

It was lies! All of it! It had to be lies. Because Bruce didn't care enough about them to take out the real villains in the world, to take out the monster that had taken Timothy from them. He didn't care enough to do what was necessary to keep them safe. But the blood in his mouth, the connection between them, was undeniable. It swept away his mistrust mercilessly. Bruce watched him with that dispassionate demeanor, but Jason could see past it now. The stark veracity of it hurt.

Why did the man have to make everything so difficult?

As preoccupied as Jason was, it was Dick, watching them, who noticed first. It was Dick who suddenly grabbed his arm, the older boy's alarm pulling Jason out of the haze of emotions that came with Bruce's blood—warmth and worry, the emptiness of losing a son, watching another fall away—and he knew, even before he looked down where Dick was staring at him with something akin to panic, that he wasn't going to like what he found.

"Water." The need for it pulled him up from the darkness. "Water." It rasped from dry lips, throat constricting painfully around the word.

Someone held out a glass and he took it, draining the contents before he even registered who'd given it to him. It was taken away just as suddenly as it had been given—taken and returned. Tim sat up, steadying himself with one shaking hand.

He was on his third glass before he looked up, past the plush blankets, to the man sitting in the chair beside him. Despite the white gracing the hair at his temples and the creases at the corners of his eyes, there was something powerful in the man's bearing, something startling about the piercing green eyes watching him intently.

"Ra's," whispered the voice he'd come to think of as Timothy. He didn't need the wary lilt to know he should exercise caution around this man. There was a film of fuzzy darkness gathering at the edges of his vision, a whisper of voices, fear. He stayed sitting up straight by sheer force of will, pushing the shadowy fingers of memories away.

Slowly, he lowered the glass, still half-full of water, and set it aside, never taking his eyes off the other man.

"Considering how much blood you lost, you must be thirsty." That was an understatement, his throat felt like sandpaper. Of course he was thirsty. That wasn't the issue.

"What's in it?"

"Come now, Timothy, we both know if I wanted you dead I wouldn't have brought you here."

"What's in it?" Tim repeated, because there were worse things to worry about than death. Ra's' smile was indulgent.

"Let me put your paranoia to rest." He poured a second glass from the half-empty pitcher and lifted it to his lips. "It's only water."

Tim considered. Just because the pitcher was clean didn't mean his glass was clean, but realistically, he'd already had more than enough to do the damage, if there was going to be any. He drained the rest of the water from the glass, finally taking his eyes off the dangerous man in front of him to take in his surroundings. The room was huge, a good six-hundred square feet if he had to guess. Little details whispered of luxury, from the straw marquetry of the walls he was sure had been hand applied, to the Thai canopy bed on which he sat, half covered under silk bedding that gleamed like… No, it was gold. The bedding was woven with gold threads. He shivered.

It was lavish, but impersonal. Maybe newly acquired, but no, the furnishing didn't match with the personal style of Ra's' clothes. More like a room that switched hands often. Maybe a hotel suite. From where he sat, he could only see gray clouds out the bay window.

He didn't know where he was.

He didn't know how much time had passed either, but judging by the lack of fatigue that had been plaguing him for the past several days, he had a bad feeling it had been a considerable amount. The last thing he remembered, he'd been running, wet blood running down his throat… Instantly, his hand shot to cover the remembered injury, to the place where Damian's incisors had bitten deep. He could still remember the lancing pain, bright and unadulterated, when the other boy had bitten down. But his fingernails scraped only smooth skin, not a scab or mark to show for it.

"Regarding your injury," Ra's said, reading him all too easily, "despite the blood, there was no wound when we found you."

Jason, of course. Jason really had been trying to help him. Momentary guilt washed over Tim, drowned out by worry. The last time he'd seen the older boy, the demons had been closing in. He hoped Jason was all right.

"Did one of the Waynes try to turn you?" The man's eyes bored into him, weighing his worth, sifting out the truth. Tim nodded. "Trying to override the curse? It wouldn't have worked." He chuckled when Tim's scowl deepened. "In case you were wondering."

"How do you know so much about this curse?" Tim asked suspiciously.

"My dear Timothy, I have had extensive experience with curses in my time, and mine has been a very long time." Something about his mannerisms, the quiet amusement in green eyes, made Tim believe him. "Though of all my experience, there's something especially appealing about the physical element of this particular curse." Ra's' eyes followed the traipse of black brush strokes along the pale canvas of his skin, regarding it with aesthetic appreciation, even as the man leaned forward, reaching out to brush the trails of marks across his arm demonstratively.

"I can't say I agree…" He trailed off as the first brush of those fingers against his skin sent a spike of alarm through him, the sickening onslaught of memories. It was like ten bouts of déjà vu at once: not a single memory, but half a dozen overlapping. Tim jerked away from the touch, from the overpowering rush of terrified memories, and they faded, whispering out on a single focal point: "It is done, Timothy."

His eyes snapped wide.

"You killed me!"

"Ah, you remember that…" Ra's withdrew his hand. "Unpleasant memories, I'm sure. But necessary, as you know." Seeing Tim's scowl, Ra's practically purred over steepled fingers. "So your recollection is still limited. Even at such a critical junction. Such a pity." It didn't sound like it. "If you want to know, I can provide the answers you're seeking."

"And if I want to leave?"

"You don't." Ra's' smile was knowing, tempered by time and unending patience. "You want to hear what I have to say. You're curious: why am I doing this? What do I want? What do I know about the curse? And you're desperate: you're running out of time. You can feel the curse wearing at you, the physical claim of it along your skin like the finest chains."

"But if I want to leave?" Tim pressed, hands clamped tight around the glass. This man was dangerous.

"Then the curse will slowly devour your soul. Of course…" he spread his hands, "the choice is still yours."

Tim turned the glass in his hands, considering. This man had killed him—had admitted to it completely unabashed. Not just once, but repeatedly. Ra's had sought him out, every life, every incarnation, and calmly cut that life short. This man's hands had been the last thing he'd ever felt, holding him while he died—murdering, poisonous hands catching him up when he collapsed, feeling the heat slowly drain from his body. That kind of touch couldn't be forgotten so easily. Tim could feel it when the man's skin brushed his—a seeping of cold under his skin, the dregs of far-gone panic, echoes of sharp gasps. Even if he didn't know personally, the knowledge of it was ingrained in him, a flesh memory carried across time.

This was the man he was thinking of trusting. Or at least listening to. This was the man who had the answers he needed. No, he couldn't trust the man, but he needed him. Ra's was right. He was going to stay.

Decisively, he reached out, setting the glass aside with a clink.

"Why did you have Talia use the dagger on me?"

Ra's looked almost… quizzical. Perhaps it was something Tim should have already known.

"My unity with the demons affords me many advantages, including near immortality, a trait my children do not share. I sent Talia to investigate the dagger's claim to immortality. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"A perfect test subject." Tim crossed his arms. Ra's made some little noise of affront.

"I assure you, your involvement was purely coincidental."

"Why did you kill me then?" He went for the straightforward approach, waiting to see if Ra's would dodge the question, but he was a little unprepared when the man took the directness in stride and reciprocated instead.

"You asked me to." Green eyes flicked up to meet his directly. Maybe the man liked throwing him off balance. Tim definitely hadn't been expecting that answer. It knocked the breath out of him. Memories stirred, sticky like cobwebs, pulling at him, sucking him under.

He didn't blink. Not once. Not even when the pain took him to his knees, the steel of the scimitar still embedded in his abdomen. Ra's' right hand was still on the handle. The man's left hand tightened around his chin, rough fingers digging into his flesh, tilting his face up, perhaps to see the determination he wore, reflected even in clouded blue eyes. The scimitar pushed in another inch, grating against bone.

"Don't forget…" Timothy caught the blade with one hand, fingers scrabbling weakly at the metal, and leaned into it—into the steel and the hand still tightly gripping his chin—as if he could pull the man closer, all while staring down that infinite green gaze. "…your promise."

Ra's pulled the blade free with a wet noise.

"It'll be my pleasure."

Tim batted the memories away, pulling in a deep breath, much like a swimmer coming up for air.

"I asked–"

"You were a danger to yourself and those around you. Once the curse consumes you, there's nothing left but an empty husk, consumed with the destruction of everything and everyone."

"A demon," Tim whispered, still feeling bowled over by the enormity of it. The curse on the stupid dagger was trying to turn him into something like a demon. But if he'd asked Ra's to kill him to stop it, then why…?

"The curse is attached to the soul," Timothy whispered."It recreates the physical body each time it's destroyed. Thus, death became a temporary out to buy time." And thus, Tim realized, the need for an accordance with Ra's to ensure the curse couldn't consume him in a future incarnation if everything didn't go according to plan.

He almost wanted to laugh. If this was what the dagger's immortality amounted to—the slow deterioration of sanity into a creature of havoc and ruin, unable even to die to escape that fate—it was definitely overrated.

"I did you a favor," Ra's said.

"You don't do favors." It was something he knew without knowing. Something Timothy knew.

"Maybe for the right person."

"Or for the right reasons." Tim's eyes narrowed, pressing for the truth.

"Maybe something of both," Ra's conceded, inclining his head.

The man wanted something from him, and whatever it was, Tim was sure he wasn't going to like it. Judging by the flicker of shadows around the edges of the room, escape would be difficult. It was perfect. Just perfect.

He wasn't expecting the echo of his thoughts.

"Perfect," Timothy said, tone holding the pleased note he got when some calculation had gone right. "He has the dagger."

Damian woke up cold and cranky with a vague memory of having woken up once before, of skin and warm blood in the hazy darkness. Grayson, he thought, because only Dick would have felt that… kind. But if Dick had been there before, he wasn't now. Damian knew the truth of it before his eyes opened, the same way he knew he wasn't in Tim's room anymore. Judging by the drop in temperature and the echoing quality of the room, the smell of antiseptic, he was in the medical bay in the cave.

To his dismay, he realized that his head felt… stuffy, his senses dull. He did not groan as he sat up and dropped to the floor, but he did catch himself on the table, his perceptions thrown off just enough to disorient him. Stinging at his midriff told him the wound hadn't healed yet either. Another annoyance.

He stalked out to the medical bay, slowing cautiously only when he noticed Bruce at the computer console, scouring maps of the city.

He was not sneaking. He definitely didn't have any reason to do anything as cowardly as hiding. But if father didn't notice him in this… deplorably weakened state, all the better. He did not want Bruce to think him less of an asset, and he didn't want to face the man now, while at such a disadvantage.

He just had to get to the stairs undetected…

"We will be talking about your conduct with Tim." Bruce was still facing the screen.

Damian froze. He definitely did not want to talk about how a mere human had managed to incapacitate him. But Bruce turned around to regard him then, and there was no escaping those penetrating blue eyes. Was this what humans felt when they faced the man? This rush of alarm?

"I only did what you were incapable of. I protected my family." He crossed his arms defensively. He still thought turning Tim was the right decision. If Tim died again, they'd all be impossible to live with. The guilt and despair of losing him a second time would crush them.

"You nearly stripped a brother of his ties to his life and remaining family."

"He's no brother of mine!"

Bruce's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You know the toll that this existence exacts. We do not force comrades into it against their will."

As far as Damian was concerned, Drake had made the decision once already, he was as good as one of them, if he'd just stop being so indecisive. Drake had been allowed to hurt his family long enough, waltzing around as a weak human. Damian had just been doing what needed to be done to take care of the liability.

"Please, you were all pining over him so pathetically. If I'd been able to finish, he'd be strong, immortalized by our curse. You wouldn't have to guard him or worry about hurting him anymore."

"These are not justifications." Bruce's tone was growing colder by the second. "These are the excuses of a jealous child."

"Anyone incompetent enough to get killed doesn't deserve your regard!" Damian rushed ahead, despite the terrifying anger pinching his father's countenance. "You have more worthy sons beside you even now!"

"Enough!" Bruce growled.

"I'm ten times as capable as he is!"

"I said enough!" This time it was a roar, filling the cave, echoing a hundred times over. Damian stood his ground, lips pressed tight, staring the man down while the echoes died away.

"Are you going to ground me from patrol again then?" he asked finally.

"You will not be punished," Bruce replied, quieter. "Tim has done a fine job of that already. Besides, I wouldn't want to deprive you of the opportunity to prove yourself by helping rescue your brother."

"Rescue?" Damian asked warily.

"Thanks to your bungling, Ra's had the opportunity to take Tim." Damian fought an annoyed eyebrow twitch. The idiot really was useless. He sucked in a steadying breath. There was no point arguing: Bruce's tone brooked no dispute.

Sometimes his father could be cruel.

"Very well."

"Also," and here Bruce seemed unexpectedly pitying, "since your fates are now tied together, I hope you find more immediate cause for solving this fiasco."

Tied fates? More immediate cause for what? What on earth was father on about? That grim demeanor, those pitying blue eyes…

With sudden clarity, Damian jerked his shirt up, exposing the still-healing gash along his side and felt true panic for the first time in a long while. Where Drake had drawn his blood, where the wound had been stitched together—stitched! Like a common human!—there were faint black wisps, the prelude to something much more dire.

"He cursed me!" Later he'd hate how pathetically lost he sounded just then, holding onto indignation when his feet had already been neatly swept out from under him. He gritted his teeth. He was not going to let Drake pull him down. "I won't stand for this!"

A cynical laugh sounded behind him.

"Me neither, kid." Jason had joined them, standing in the shadow of the flat screen, idly fiddling with a set of yellow bandoliers Damian had never seen before.

"What are you talking about?" In response, Jason held his arm out so that Damian could see the beginning of faint black spirals crawling from a healed slit in his skin. He swallowed, thoughts spiraling.

"And Grayson?"

"No," Bruce replied, watching him carefully. "As far as we can tell, neither Dick nor I have been tainted." Damian felt the faintest relief. He rocked back onto his heels. At least Drake hadn't destroyed them all.

"You'd better hope that kid really does have some answers locked in that brain of his." Jason chuckled grimly, finding some perverse sense of amusement in their shared predicament, hands never ceasing their examination of the bandoliers. "Tim's your only hope now." Damian growled, frustrated.

"This shouldn't have happened! Drake was the one infected! Not us!"

"Yes," Bruce agreed, eyes hooded. "I think the source of the curse may have been closer than we considered."

Author Notes: Sorry for the two-month delay. Even with everyone's encouragement, I still had a lot of writing to do before I could post—there was an entire third of the story left (and I did prioritize this story over the others). BUT! The good news is that I worked my heart out and have drafts of the next three chapters complete, as well as 80% of the two chapters following those, and I think I can now hold to an updating schedule of every two weeks. That should allow me time to finish things off and get my next story in shape.

Ha! Surprise! Ra's and Timothy are working together! I can't tell you how long I've wanted to post that. It should be noted that even though Ra's isn't lying about the coincidence of Tim's involvement doesn't mean Talia wasn't thinking something like "I'm not letting him use this on me until I know what it does." Also, I was informed my Ra's is something of a fanboy (more particularly in the next chapter?). XD Forgive me. I've always favored the idea that Ra's respects Tim somewhat and might take advantage of a chance to get the boy on his side.

Favorite part of this chapter? Least favorite part? Things that surprised you? Characters you wish I would give more time/attention to in the story as a whole?

obsessivebookdiva: who still won't let me respond to her comments via pm... I feel I should apologize to you the most about the delay. I hope with the advent of summer break and the oncoming holiday that things perk up for you. So I totally tried to finish off the little vamp-Tim fic and failed terribly. I got completely sidetracked for an entire week writing a Persona fic, which is available through the link on my profile under Batfam links, even though it's Dick and Tim, not Jason. BUT I am hoping to write a full-length Persona fic for Jay and Tim where everyone is trying to figure out who the new Robin is, and Jay gets knocked out in a fight, forcing Red Hood to take over, who then decides to use Jay's unconscious body to go visit Robin's vessel (because he's smart like that and already has it figured) and decide whether the pipsqueak is up to standards. This leads to a lot of freaking out on Tim's part (who STILL doesn't know he's Robin, but has been worried about all the blacking out lately), because there's a vigilante Persona IN. HIS. APARTMENT. holding a gun on him, and he's possibly more freaked out when Hood releases Jay, leaving Tim with an unconscious man on his floor. Jay wakes up tied down very thoroughly with no idea where he is. I want to write this sooo bad. Must. Write. HOL2. First.