For the next five nights Cassandra returned to the Cathedral in her Angel uniform, the transmitter from Batman always close at hand. There were no further attempted break-ins, no sight of the giant she'd fought, and the dark knight himself kept busy elsewhere.
Early in the morning of the fifth day, Monsignor Ryan and Snowball approached her as she sat, half-asleep, in a pew toward the front of the church. The poodle jumped and curled up next to her, and the priest shook her gently by one shoulder. She opened her yes and looked up at him.
"The police are watching the church, Cassandra," Father Ryan said. "All is well at night; you don't need to keep pushing yourself like this."
Angel gently raised a hand waved it, as is to shoo away his concerns.
"Christmas is coming soon," he said. "Hannah and John want you home for the holiday. It's little Marco's first Christmas since his parents were sent away, and I'm sure he would like to spend it with you too."
Cassandra breathed out a sigh, but nodded.
"The buses don't run this early. Come on, let's get you somewhere more comfortable to rest."
At eleven, garbed in her street clothes again and with the transmitter tucked into her backpack, Cassandra departed for home. When she arrived at the Lorenzo home, George was stretched across Larry and Peter's usual spot on the couch. When they met eyes briefly, he said, "Hey, cous. Auntie's, y'know, got the kids making gingerbread in the kitchen."
Cassandra nodded her thanks. Since George had begun his stay there was usually an odd trepidation about him, but she was getting used to it. The beep of the oven timer went off. She stepped into the kitchen as Peter rose from his seat at the table, marched to the oven, and set it for another twenty-five minutes. At the wide table, Hannah, in an apron dusted all over with flour, rolled out a sheet of cookie dough. Larry, Marco, and Rosie looked on as she flattened it thinner and thinner.
The look in Hannah's eyes was tired when she looked up and asked, "Hey, Cassie. You want to do a few?"
She smirked and stepped up to the table. Rose pulled out the chair between her and Marco and said, "Sit here, sit here!"
"I wish George would get off the TV," Larry said.
Hannah sighed as she passed out the cookie cutters. "I know, I know. If you're done doing the cookies for right now, you can watch the set in my bedroom."
Larry glared toward the living room. "But he's in my spot."
"I know, hon, I know," Hannah said. "The holiday feels like it's been hard on him, we're just trying our best."
Not that Cassandra was around to catch much of his behavior, but he didn't seem all that bothered as he just sat out there. She put the thought out of her mind as she picked out shapes with Rosie and Marco. Two years before, someone in Gotham had started selling something they insisted was not a Bat-symbol, but Cassandra didn't buy that anyone believed it, and she pleaded as best she could with Hannah for one. She took that cutter while Marco pressed out trees and Rosie, to Cassandra's quiet approval, used the angel stamp.
Christmas activities continued that way through the afternoon. Lucille arrived home from her last day of school before winter break and sampled a few of the cookies. John finished his shift of deliveries late, but still was ready for popcorn and catching It's a Wonderful Life on TV. George departed from the living room as the rest of the family came in and settled, some on the couch, some on a few single seats, Cassandra and Rosie on a pair of throw pillows she pulled onto the floor.
"You can still watch with us if you want," Hannah said. "You've been here for a week and we hardly see you."
"Nah, I'm—I'm fine," George said. "You and the rugrats gonna be around tomorrow? I was talking about meeting up with some friends I've got around her."
"We're taking the Larry, Peter, Rosie, and Marco to see Santa at the mall tomorrow." Hannah hesitated a moment before she went on. "And your friends want to come here?"
George raised his hands defensively. "No, no, no, no, They don't have to, I just said I'd ask. Some of 'em live just a few blocks down."
He was on edge again, Cassandra could sense it.
Hannah considered his words for a few seconds before she sighed and said, "I'm sorry, with everything going on for the holidays, I'd just rather you go over to one of their places."
"Cool, cool." George raised his hands in supplication. "I'm going up to my room for the night then. You guys enjoy the movie."
A minute later, when John excused himself to make popcorn and Peter followed behind him to work the oven timer, Lucille narrowed her eyes to a glare and looked toward her mother. "What was that about, mom?"
"What? I told him he could go, didn't I?"
"It's a pain to meet up with people sometimes, and we're all going to be out of the house anyway."
"Cassandra's probably going to still be sleeping."
"Aww." Rosie leaned against Cassandra's arm. "You're not coming with us to see Santa?"
Cassandra patted Rosie's head, but then showed her an exaggerated yawn.
"Well, yeah, but you could have just said that," Lucille said. "I know he came from a bad place, but if you treat him like you don't trust him, that's all you're going to see." With her voice hushed, she followed with, "You don't treat Cassie that way."
Hannah turned all of her attention toward the TV. "I'm not having this conversation right now."
The movie played out and popcorn was eaten, but the unease hung over the mother and daughter the rest of the night. And though neither knew it, Cassandra had heard Lucille's words as well, and she too stewed in the same pain and discomfort.
Everyone went to bed early that night, but only Cassandra slept until noon. She showered briefly and then headed downstairs. George was in his same spot on the couch, a mug of coffee in hand.
"Hey, cous," he said. "You thirsty? There's another cup on the heater."
Cassandra shook her head.
"All right," George said. "The timing's off, but Aunt Han left a breakfast plate for you in the fridge."
She smiled and nodded to him.
On the way into the kitchen, he called, "Drink the last of that OJ too, I think it's about to go off."
Cassandra found and warmed up the plate of pancakes and sausage he'd mentioned. There was only a little of the orange juice left, so she gave the jug a few shakes and downed it. Almost as soon as she did she wretched, there was something vile and bitter in the taste. She looked at the bottle, but since she couldn't read the dates, figured it didn't matter. Still, she swallowed dutifully, Hannah was never one to approve of throwing away food.
As she tossed it into the trash, George slipped past her and pulled the phone off the receiver. "'Scuse me, calling those friends I was talking about last night."
With a glass of water Cassandra tried to wash the taste out of her mouth and sat down at the table to eat.
"Hey, it's, uh, it's George." His voice was uneasy as ever. "Yeah, I took care of it. When do you think you'll be here?"
Cassandra ate quickly and set everything in the dishwasher. The headache she was sure she'd beaten with enough sleep seemed to be creeping up again. She headed for the bathroom for some aspirin.
"Really? That fast? Well, uh, good. That's good. Thanks. See you then."
Cassandra downed a few pills, but the pain seemed to outrun even any placebo effects. Her vision began to fuzz and as she headed for her bedroom, she stumbled on the staircase.
"Cassandra?"
She looked down toward George as he stepped into the living room.
"You don't look well. You should come back down here."
There was something, she couldn't tell what, just an instinct, that commanded her not to do that. Cassandra continued upward.
"Woah, woah, hey, you're gonna trip. Aren't you feeling woozy?"
Cassandra's heart accelerated as she pushed through to the upper floor. How in the world would he know anything about that?
"My friends are on their way over. They won't be long. I think you should come back down here, nice and easy."
With a spike of adrenaline Cassandra rushed into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Under the bed she reached and pulled out her Angel uniform. She searched the pockets desperately for the transmitter Batman gave her—would it clue him into her location? Or just tell him she was in the church?
From the window, Cassandra saw a pair of white vans as they pulled into the Lorenzo driveway. The men who stepped out were dressed in dark frock coats over white T-shirts with close-shaven heads, and one of the driver's had a tilted beret. She'd seen, even fought men like them, a few times. She had an idea of where they'd come from that affirmed all of her worst fears.
The transmitter was inside one of the suit's more secretive pockets, and she knew she'd need to be in uniform to meet Batman anyway. In a haze she pulled the Angel suit on and struggled with her pouches for the yellow transmitter. Stomps on the staircase echoed upward as she fumbled for the device.
George pulled open the door, in her delirium it seemed Cassandra had forgotten to lock it. She'd just gotten her hands on the transmitter when he rushed up and reached for it. Cassandra's mind was foggy, but her warrior's instinct could act without it. Transmitter still clutched in one hand, she punched George square in the face. He shouted in pain and staggered backwards.
Cassandra racked her brain. What was the combination Batman told her? This one that one this one? But which one? Did it matter? Could she just randomly hit buttons and he's know she was in distress? Again, would it even tell her where she was—
With all her concentration on the device, George rushed back up from behind and tackled her. The transmitter slipped from her grip and her cousin pocketed it. Uneasy and sick, Cassandra kicked him like a mule to force him off, George yelped again and fell backwards. There were other footsteps coming up the stairs, she could hear them. With little else clear, Cassandra wrenched open the window and leapt for the ground.
"There she is!"
In her state she couldn't make out the men from the vans as much more than blurs, but still she ran. One of the splotches threw a punch, she ducked under it, tripped him, and stomped his face. Another threw a kick, she caught it, whirled around, and flipped him over her body, the blur roared in pain as it hit the concrete. But from behind, someone kicked the back of her head before she could pick up on it. Cassandra whipped around, but another sucker-punched her before he could enter her periphery. With every whip around she managed an attack or two, but they were coming too fast and too frequent. Without all her faculties, she was soon pinned to the ground in both pain and confusion.
On the edge of consciousness, the last thing she heard was, "Well done, Mister Ryan, let's go." Then she slipped into the darkness.