by Greg Cox
Anger flared inside Joanna, helping to combat the terror. “Lydia brought more grace and beauty to Gotham than any of you greedy, grasping Owls. All you’ve ever given this city is nightmares!”
“We’re not interested in giving,” he replied. “Only taking what’s rightfully ours—power, wealth, and now the future.” He was keeping his distance for the moment, but Joanna knew he wasn’t going to be content to keep sparring verbally for long. Keeping her eye on him, she braced for the inevitable attack while waiting anxiously for Batman or Batgirl to intervene. Maybe if she could just stall Vincent long enough…?
“Grab her,” he said.
Footsteps sounded behind her as she realized too late that Vincent had been stalling, as well, distracting her long enough for one of his henchmen to sneak up behind her. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw a beefy, murderous-looking hoodlum lunging for her. She started to panic, then remembered the stun gun in her hand. Swinging her arm back, she hit the ignition switch and the business end of the weapon collided with an outstretched arm. Electricity popped loudly, sounding like a sudden burst of static.
The high-voltage jolt caught the goon by surprise. He stiffened and tumbled off the base of the pedestal, adding more scum to the fountain. Joanna didn’t have time to savor her close call, however, as Vincent darted around the side of the tomb toward her, forcing her to hastily circle around to keep the pedestal between them.
“Uh-uh!” She brandished the weapon menacingly. As she held it over the bronze lid of the sarcophagus, a blue electric charge crackled between the points on the front end. “You try laying hands on me or Lydia, and you’re in for the shock of your life… literally!”
An exasperated sound escaped his avian mask. “You’re making this far too difficult.” He drew a handgun from beneath his tailored jacket. “And it’s becoming an untenable waste of time.”
She froze at the sight. Memories of her parents, gunned down in the streets so many years ago, came rushing back. Her mouth went dry, so that she could hardly speak.
“You… you had a gun all along?”
“Of course,” he replied. “No fancy swords or daggers for me, I’m afraid. Tradition has its place, but I like to think of myself as a thoroughly modern Owl. Besides, those other weapons require far too much training.” He aimed the gun at her. “I regret having to resort to such crude tactics, but you’ve left me little choice.” His voice took on a harder edge—one she remembered from the lab in the plasma center. “Now toss away that silly toy.”
She wondered why he didn’t just shoot her. Perhaps he didn’t regard her as quite so expendable after all. Or maybe he just didn’t have the balls to pull the trigger.
Could be, she thought.
“Hurry up!” he snapped. “I need to get the formula and get away while the Bats are still occupied!”
Joanna stared down the barrel of the gun. Her own weapon lacked the range of a firearm. The thought of being gunned down in her prime—just like her mother and father—made her afraid, and it made her angry. It was as though a bullet had been coming for her all this time, and there was only one thing left to do.
I’m sorry, Lydia, she thought. For everything.
Holding the stun gun in front of her, she lunged.
* * *
Metal claws jabbed the winged emblem on Batman’s chest, but failed to penetrate the Kevlar panel beneath the symbol. He brought his right elbow down on the forearm of the modern Talon, cracking it while simultaneously blocking an equally vicious stab at his eyes.
Both defenses were executed flawlessly, yet they didn’t stop the other Talon from delivering a solid blow to the back of his cowl— one he felt even through the hardened shell. Grunting, he grabbed the older Talon and executed a back-flip that put him behind his foe. The weighted tips of his scalloped cape smacked the hooded killer in the face as he snatched a sword from the scabbard on the Talon’s back before landing on his feet.
One less weapon for him, Batman thought. One more for me.
He was holding his own, but just barely. No sooner did he repel one strike, then another came at him from another direction. Every time he scored a blow against one opponent, the other was there to keep him from following up. They weren’t exactly working as a team—if anything, they seemed to be competing to see which of them landed the most strikes. Unlike the Talons, however, he couldn’t heal impossibly fast. He had to tough out every blow, every cut, all while Vincent moved closer to the sarcophagus, Percy’s elixir, and Joanna.
This isn’t going our way.
He ran the older Talon’s own sword through him so that the point emerged from the man’s gut. It would have been a fatal blow to a normal adversary. An unnatural ichor, undoubtedly laced with electrum, streamed down the Talon’s uniform as he fell to his knees. He was crippled for the moment—but only for the moment.
“Deftly done,” the man said, choking on what passed for his blood. “You missed your calling, Bat-Man. That was a ploy worthy of a Talon.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take that as a compliment.”
He yanked the sword free, imagining that he could already hear the man’s organs and muscles and tendons reknitting themselves. Looking past him, he watched the other Talon flex his briefly fractured arm and draw his own sword. Raising it high, he bounded forward, all but trampling his associate in the process.
“Get out of my way, you worthless relic!” the modern Talon snarled. “Let me show you how it’s done these days!” That confirmed the rivalry between the two. Joanna had told him there was no love lost there, so he stoked the fires of competition.
“I wouldn’t brag if I were you,” he taunted. “Last time I checked, my head was still on my shoulders, and you struck out with Claire Nesko—twice. Maybe you should take a few lessons from your senior partner. From what I can tell, he outclasses you in brains and, well… class.”
“Shows how much you know.” The Talon’s furious tone indicated that Batman had hit a nerve. “Those older Talons had it easy back in the day, before you Bats started fighting back. From what I hear, your ancestors were easy pickings!”
Batman’s expression darkened, but he didn’t take the bait. Ultimately, this fight wasn’t about the crimes committed against Alan Wayne. It wasn’t even about the long-dead woman who still graced the fountain in Bruce’s mother’s garden, or the hell the Court had put him through in this very Labyrinth. He was fighting to protect the future, not avenge the past.
“Times have changed,” he said. “Bats aren’t prey for Owls anymore.”
Springing forward with a roar, the Talon swung his sword. Sparks flew as Batman parried the attack with the blade he still held. They dueled across the debris-strewn chamber, the ringing song of steel against steel echoing off the high marble walls, punctuated by the shouts and curses and thuds coming from Batgirl’s fracas with Vincent’s hired guns.
Batman briefly caught sight of her. She was in constant motion, dispatching the goons with her customary precision and efficiency. Perhaps it was best that she had stuck around after all. He had enough on his hands.
Rapid-fire thrusts, feints, and parries came one after another as Batman took the Talon’s measure. He was clearly well-versed in swordplay, but Batman had crossed swords with the likes of Ra’s al-l and survived. He felt confident that, given time, he stood a good chance of besting his opponent.
Problem was, he didn’t have time. The other Talon was healing even now. It was only a matter of minutes before he was fighting both of them again.
I need to make this guy angry, Batman thought. Sloppy.
“You’ll need to do better than this if you want to take my head.” Batman drew a Batarang with his free hand and used it in the manner of a parrying dagger, to deflect the Talon’s swipes and thrusts while freeing up his sword to stay on the offense. “Or is that just an old nursery rhyme, after all?”
“Ask me again after I’ve sliced you to pieces!” Mimicking Batman, he pulled a knife fr
om a sheath so that they each wielded two weapons. They circled each other, seeking an opening or advantage. The killer’s form and technique were excellent.
Suddenly Batman shifted his tactics and hurled the edged Batarang toward the Talon, just as he had during their first encounter on the rooftops near Claire’s apartment. As before, the spinning missile whizzed past the enemy’s head. The Talon belted out a laugh.
“You’re running out of tricks,” he jeered. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me!”
He glanced back to track the weapon’s speedy return. That gave Batman the opening he needed. Shifting his grip on the sword hilt, he threw the weapon like a spear, aiming for the Talon’s sword-arm. It pierced the wrist and he let out a bellow of pain and fury, losing his grip so that his sword clattered to the floor.
As it did, the Batarang struck its real target: the other “older” Talon, climbing to his feet and clutching his abdomen. It wedged itself in the man’s hooded brow. The resurrected Talon reeled unsteadily, grunting in pain, as he wrenched the missile from his skull. Ichor gushed from the head wound, streaming over his antique hood and goggles, blinding him. Outdated expletives spewed from his lips.
Still howling in rage, the modern assassin sheathed his dagger in order to extricate the sword from his wrist, where electrum-laced blood was flowing freely. Batman followed up with a second, razor-edged Batarang that sliced into the Talon’s chest and, more importantly, through the bandolier. The assassin’s ready supply of throwing knives joined the sword on the floor.
Then he launched a Batrope that snared the Talon, wrapping itself around his legs. Batman swiftly attached the other end of the rope to a grapnel hook and fired it into the ceiling. Yanked off his feet, the Talon abruptly found himself hanging upside-down, high above the ground, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
“Seriously?” the Talon hissed. He clutched his wrist to staunch the bleeding. “You really think this is going to stop me?”
“It’s a start,” Batman said. He gave himself a moment to catch his breath. The fight was far from over, he knew, and he seized the bandolier that held the Talon’s knives, tossing it into the pit. Clenching his fists, he calculated how much more damage he could inflict while his foes were still disabled—provided he moved quickly enough.
Then a gunshot, followed by a shriek of pain, seized his attention.
Oh, no…
Turning toward the bang, he saw Joanna stagger backwards, clutching her chest, as Vincent looked on, holding a smoking weapon. A stun gun slipped from her fingers.
The harsh report echoed through the cavern as Joanna tumbled backward off the huge pedestal into the fountain, leaving Vincent alone by the tomb.
“Damn it!” the Owl cursed. “You had to push your luck, didn’t you?” Still holding the pistol, he approached the sarcophagus. “I told you I was in a hurry!”
“Leave it alone, Vincent!” Batman rushed toward the pedestal. “You don’t know what you’re doing. It’s not safe.”
“I beg to differ.” He opened fire on Batman as he ripped off his mask, placing it carefully on the edge of the cavity that held the tomb. His face was flushed and sweaty. Exultation rang in his voice. “The future is my inheritance. What was Percy’s is now mine!”
Batman held up his cape to shield himself from the bullets. Keeping his head down, he zigged and zagged across the floor of the violated burial chamber in a futile attempt to reach the tomb before Vincent could open it.
As the Owl fumbled with the latch, Batman saw clearly Percy’s grand design. As Bruce Wayne, he knew too well what it was like to mourn lost loved ones. Why would Percy place Lydia’s tomb here—and plant clues that might lead to it someday being desecrated?
Unless that was his plan all along.
Cassandra.
After the Fall of Troy, Cassandra intentionally left behind a sealed cask bearing a curse for the first Greek who opened it. Thus had the doomed prophetess achieved a measure of revenge, against those who had wronged her.
“Don’t do it!” he shouted. “This is just what Percy wanted! That’s not treasure…
“It’s bait!”
MacDougal Lane, Gotham City, 1925
“Time is running out for me, Lydia. My days are numbered.”
It was well past midnight and Percy sat alone in his studio, talking to a clay maquette perched atop his sculpting stand. The sculpture captured Lydia posing for what had eventually become Alan Wayne’s fountain. He glanced forlornly at the empty platform where she had once posed for this very piece, before he had been forced to rely on old memories and studies. So few years had passed since that halcyon afternoon, yet he felt immeasurably older.
Guilt had aged him.
“Margaret and the other Owls are losing patience with me, growing tired of waiting for their damned elixir.” He’d spent those seven years pretending to refine the elixir, which the Court had insisted on testing on yet more human subjects, dredged up from Gotham’s poorest neighborhoods. The tests had yielded nothing more than a string of charred corpses—and yet more blood on his hands. The deaths had been attributed to a mysterious new fever— “the Burning Sickness,” they called it—but Percy knew the truth. Those people had died to hide his secret from the Court.
That he’d perfected his elixir long ago.
He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. Written on the paper in a fine, legible hand was the formula. He reviewed it one last time, for vanity’s sake, and walked over to the fireplace, where a crackling blaze awaited. He crumpled the document into a ball and cast it into the flames, then watched grimly as his greatest scientific achievement burned, fittingly, before his eyes.
“It’s the only way, Lydia,” he said. “I see that now. The Court must not gain dominion over Gotham’s future. They’re dreadful enough already.” Waiting until he was certain the formula was ashes, he turned away from the fire and looked once more upon his beloved. He envied her graceful repose. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept well.
“It won’t be long now, Lydia. Not after last night.”
He had drunk too much the night before, at that damned reception, and the guilt and frustration had gotten the better of him. It had been far too bitter a draught—to be lauded for his accomplishments while carrying so many sins on his conscience. He had rambled drunkenly, alluding to crimes past and yet to be, before being escorted from the scene by his minders. Such a reckless display would not sit well with Margaret and the Court.
“The Talon will be coming for me soon. Oh, they’ll make it look as though I died of natural causes, or perhaps in an ‘accident’ like poor Alan Wayne, but the Court will have their way as they always do. I’ll be free of them before long… and they’ll think they’re rid of me.”
A bitter chuckle accompanied his musings.
“But the trap is set, dearest. The clues planted, the breadcrumbs laid out like bait for those with eyes to see. In my lifetime I lacked the courage to defy the Court, fearing for the safety of friends and family, but I have planted the seeds for our revenge, which someday will blossom, long after I am beyond their retribution. As you already are.”
He contemplated the maquette’s tranquil features, which were hardly those of an avenging fury. “But would you desire vengeance, you who were so full of warmth and compassion? Or would you urge me to show mercy and compassion against those who wronged us, who stole our future? I’ve pondered this, Lydia, and I’ve chosen to leave their fate in their hands. As long as you are allowed to rest in peace, no harm will come to the Court or Gotham, but should anyone ever follow my clues, they will find instead… the inferno!”
Vincent scorned Batman’s warnings.
“Save your breath!” he shouted back. “Scare tactics may work on the thugs and maniacs you’re accustomed to, but I’m not so easily manipulated.” Gun in hand, he fired to keep his enemy at bay. “As if I’d stop now, with Percy’s secrets finally within reach…”
&nb
sp; He clicked open the latch, releasing a hiss of air from the sarcophagus. Its bronze lid lifted a few inches, almost as if the sculpted simulacrum of Lydia was taking a breath for the first time in a century. Vincent’s eyes gleamed in anticipation.
“Finally! Let’s see what we have here.”
Dodging Vincent’s bullets, Batman wondered for a moment if he’d been wrong about Percy’s true intentions. Maybe the tomb wasn’t bait after all?
Then a sudden blast of heat and light blew the lid off the sarcophagus. It shot into the air with tremendous force, before crashing back down with a metallic clang several yards from its origin. Batman dove out of the way to avoid being crushed.
Marble floor tiles shattered, the sound echoing across the burial chamber. Up on the pedestal, Vincent stumbled backward, his eyebrows and goatee smoking from the blast, his discarded Owl mask clattering to the ground. His usual smug self-assurance had taken damage as well.
“No,” he said. “The formula…”
Batman frowned. As impressive as it was, the explosion struck him as relatively inconsequential. Was that the best revenge Percy could manage?
But the blast was only the beginning.
She rose from the tomb, burning bright. Flickering red flames veiled her face and figure, but there was no mistaking her identity. Lydia Doyle—“Miss Gotham”—stood before them, clothed only in fire. The flames blazed hotly, but did not consume her. She lit up the murky burial chamber like a torch, causing shadows to dance erratically across the high marble walls of the maze. Incalescent yellow eyes looked upon the world again as Batman recalled the ominous inscription on the sarcophagus.
You will bring conflagration back with you.
This could only be Percy’s doing. Somehow the long-dead genius had combined a variant of his elixir with the serum used to resurrect the Talons and render them indestructible. After a hundred years, the mixture had reanimated Lydia in this fiery new form, which had ignited when oxygen entered her airtight sarcophagus.