“Let the flames touch the sky,” she whispered. “The time has come for plants to take back the world so rightfully ours . . . for Nature to again assert her place in the scheme of things.”
And she was Nature’s agent, her spirit, her will. “I am Mother Nature,” she declared. “And it’s not nice to fool with me.” She grinned, reveling in the blaze. “It’s not nice at all.”
As she left the tent, something caught Pamela’s eye. She lifted a broken beaker. On it, there was a logo—that of Wayne Enterprises.
In the distance, she could hear Bane screaming his birth pain to the world. Bellowing like the biggest, baddest newborn anyone had ever imagined.
She turned in the direction of his cry. “Coming, Bane darling. After all, we’ve got a plane to catch, you and I.”
CHAPTER SIX
Freeze walked through the frozen bowels of his hideout, admiring the ice sculptures he had made. Subzero art, he thought appraisingly. He didn’t care if it never caught on anywhere else. Here, in his lair, the sculptures made him feel at home.
Outside, this place was an abandoned ice-cream factory built in the shape of a snowman’s face, a dripping cone stuck onto his frigid head. Inside, Freeze reflected with some satisfaction, it was an unbroken icescape. An arctic terrain that echoed the wasteland in his soul.
Up ahead of him, on what had once been the factory floor, Icemen and curvaceous Snow Bunnies in parkas ate frozen dinners, laughing at the wide-screen television they’d installed. One of the Bunnies separated herself from the others and approached him.
“Freezy,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him, “I’m feeling kind of . . . hot.”
Freeze grunted, not at all enamored of the name the woman had hung on him. “I find that unlikely,” he told her.
“Okay,” she conceded. “Truth is, I’m freezing. My hair is brittle, my skin is dry . . . but I don’t care. I’d weather blizzards to have you. You’re the most perfect man I’ve ever known.”
Freeze scowled. “To be frozen. To never change. A life of perfect ice-olation.” He shook his head. “There is no perfection in that.”
The Bunny pressed herself against him. “Then let’s turn up the heat,” she purred suggestively.
Freeze glared at her from his Olympian height. “You are skating on thin ice,” he said. “My passion thaws for one woman and one woman only.”
She sighed alluringly. “Forget your frosty femme. These lips are wet and ready to get frostbitten.”
Freeze dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Hop away, little Bunny. Before I cool your jets. Permanently.”
She recoiled at that—and well she might. His patience was limited, and everyone who worked for him knew it.
Muttering beneath her breath, the Bunny left him alone. He watched her go. It wasn’t as if she didn’t move him. He just couldn’t allow himself to be disloyal to Nora—even if she was entombed in ice.
Freeze wondered how cold he could make his shower. He looked around for his aide-de-camp.
“Frosty!” he called.
The man was by his side before he knew it. “Yes, Boss?”
“Look at them,” he said, indicating the Icemen and their Snow Bunnies with a tilt of his head. “Everyone is always having a good time—except me. Try as I might, I can find no pleasure in life. Perhaps my heart truly has turned to ice.”
Suddenly, Freeze had an idea. He lifted his gun and fired, freezing Frosty into a solid block of ice.
The villain considered his work. “Well, that was fun,” he commented grimly, ironically. “There’s hope for me yet, I think.”
Changing the setting on his gun, Freeze fired again. This time, it emitted a thawing beam. Frosty seemed to come back to life, though he was soaked and dripping like a wet cat.
Without a word, Freeze turned and walked past his work area—and its mounting piles of scrawled schematics. He could hear Frosty following him.
“Tell me,” Freeze said.
The response was almost instantaneous. “Anything, Mr. Freeze.”
“Do you think I’m mad, Frosty?”
Frosty wrung out his sleeves. “That’s really a judgment call, Boss. Not for me to say.”
A soft beeping sound interrupted their conversation. Alerted by it, Freeze consulted his wrist display. The power gauge was on “low.”
“Battling the Bat exhausted my power,” he observed.
Freeze approached a safe. Opening it, he removed three small diamonds and placed them in his suit compartment. Immediately, his power levels spiked back to normal.
“But I was successful nevertheless,” he added.
Freeze continued to a pedestal, atop which sat a machine powered by two giant diamonds. There were slots for two more diamonds, still empty. Smiling to himself, he reached into his tunic and removed the diamond stolen from the Gotham Museum. Then he placed it in one of the empty slots.
“One more giant diamond of this size,” he told Frosty. “One more and my freezing cannon will be complete. I will hold Gotham ransom. Unless the city bows to my demands, it’s winter forever here in goat-town.”
“The city fathers will cough up millions,” said Frosty, coughing even at the thought of it.
“Billions,” Freeze corrected. “They’ll have no choice.” He turned to gaze at a frozen wall. “Then I’ll have the funds I need to complete my research. To find the cure for . . .”
His eyes narrowed as he continued to stare at the wall. As he thought about what—and who—was on the other side of it.
“Leave us,” he said abruptly. “We need quality time.”
Frosty complied. As soon as his aide had slunk out of sight, Freeze opened a door in the wall and entered a walk-in freezer. There, he found a frozen-dinner box and lifted it—causing a door like that found on a bank vault to swing open.
Lifting his chin, he stepped into what looked like a frozen mausoleum. In the center of it stood a computerized, glacial sarcophagus with a transparent face. He walked up to it and bent over to get a better look.
Inside it, he could see his frozen wife, ineffably beautiful in near death, a snowflake pendant gracing her frigid breast. Lovingly, he touched the transparent material separating them.
Memories came to him. Of better times. Of life and warmth. Unfortunately, they were only memories, encased as she was in a casket of ice.
“Soon,” he promised, “we will be together once more.”
Then, reluctantly, he straightened and took his leave of her. After all, he couldn’t revive her without curing the disease that had taken her.
And so far, he hadn’t even come close.
Dick was emerging from the Batcave, still sweaty after a rigorous training session, when he heard the doorbell ring.
His first impulse was to get the door. After all, he hadn’t grown up in a mansion with servants catering to him all the time. He’d spent most of his youth around circus people, who did for themselves.
But in the short time he’d been living here, he’d learned that Alfred got the door. Just Alfred, no one else. That was the protocol.
So he stopped himself. And waited for Alfred to get it.
The doorbell rang a second time. Now, that’s unusual, Dick told himself. Emerging from the study, he followed the hallway past the stairwell and into the foyer.
Squinting at the light that streamed in from the halfcircle window above the door, Dick looked around—and saw Bruce coming from the direction of the dining room, obviously with the same question on his lips.
“Where’s Alfred?” they asked simultaneously.
The bell rang a third time.
Suddenly, Alfred appeared behind them. “I must have dozed off,” the butler explained—and not without a certain amount of embarrassment. As he confronted Bruce, he looked painfully contrite. “My sincerest apologies, sir.”
Bruce held up a hand and smiled. “First time in thirty years, Alfred. I think we can find it in our hearts to overlook it.”
Dick l
ooked at the door. The suspense was killing him. Wayne Manor didn’t get too many visitors, mostly since Bruce didn’t encourage them. So he couldn’t wait to find out who was there.
Without further ado, he opened the door. “Mystery pizza delivery?” he wondered out loud.
A beautiful young woman stood before him, her blond hair catching the golden autumn light. She was dressed in prim, schoolgirl clothes.
Dick swallowed. “Please be looking for me,” he said. Inwardly, he added another please.
The girl smiled, “I’m sorry to trouble you, but—”
Her eyes drifted from Dick to Bruce and beyond. It was then that they lit up like beacons.
“Uncle Alfred?” she exclaimed.
Suddenly, she rushed past Dick and Bruce and leaped into the butler’s arms. Alfred held her to him with obvious affection—and obvious surprise.
And he wasn’t the only one.
Dick looked at Bruce. Bruce shrugged. Together, they mouthed the word “uncle?”
Barbara Wilson felt as if she were in a fairy tale as her hosts gave her the Grand Tour of Wayne Manor.
Only in her dreams had she seen anyplace like it. It was so big, so stately, so majestic it almost didn’t seem real.
The garden was especially magnificent, taking advantage as it did of the brightest and most vivid autumn hues. As she strolled through it, Barbara felt an impulse to take her “uncle’s” arm in her own.
“The wisteria bushes are marvelous,” she observed. “Fantastic color. Quite a surprise so late in the year.”
Alfred grunted softly in agreement. “As are you, my dear.”
Barbara laughed. “More of a shock, I suspect. How long has it been since we saw each other last?”
“Since my last visit to England?” The butler thought for a moment. “Two years,” he concluded.
“Two years, three months, four days,” she said. “Roughly.”
Alfred turned to his employer. “Barbara isn’t really my niece, sir. She’s Margaret Clark’s daughter.”
Bruce nodded. “Of course.” He seemed to regard Barbara with new respect. Or was it merely curiosity? “You know, Alfred still keeps your mother’s photograph in his room.”
Dick cleared his throat. “Anybody want to tell us kids in the cheap seats who Margaret Clark is?”
Alfred turned to Dick. “Ah, yes. I don’t suppose you would know that, would you?” He paused reflectively. “Margaret and I fell in love while I was visiting Metropolis a very long time ago. But when I realized the difference in our ages was unfair to her . . .”
Barbara finished the sentence. “Uncle Alfred returned to Gotham. Much to Mother’s dismay, I might add.”
“Eventually,” said Alfred, “she married a young physician. I wouldn’t imagine she was unhappy with the turn of events.”
“Alfred’s main squeeze,” Dick remarked devilishly, as they approached the stables. “Is she here?”
The young woman felt herself reddening. Her “uncle” was blushing as well, she noticed.
“Don’t tell me,” Dick sighed. “I’m about to scrape the bottom of my shoe off my tongue.”
Recovering, Barbara smiled sympathetically. “My parents were killed in an auto accident ten years ago. Alfred has been supporting me ever since.”
Bruce seemed surprised. “You have?” he asked.
The butler shrugged. “Secrets are a virtual prerequisite in this house, don’t you think?”
Barbara didn’t understand the reference. But then, every family had its little quirks. As friendly as this one appeared, she was sure it was no exception to the rule.
“At any rate,” she said, “I’m on break from—”
“Oxbridge Academy,” Bruce said. “Alfred’s alma mater.”
She looked at him. “Their new computer sciences division, yes. But how on earth did you know that?”
“I recognized the accent,” he told her.
She looked at him askance. “The . . . accent?” As far as she could tell, she hadn’t picked one up.
“All right,” Bruce conceded, a youngster caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. He pointed to a school crest on her sweater. “It says so on your patch.”
Barbara rolled her eyes. “I should have known.”
By then, they had come to the garage. An ebony-colored motorcycle stood out front. Barbara couldn’t help grinning at the sight of it. It was so streamlined, so rich-looking as it caught the sunlight.
“What is it?” she asked, coming close enough to run her fingers along its chassis. “It’s beautiful.”
“You can say that again,” Dick muttered.
Barbara turned to him—and saw he wasn’t looking at the motorcycle. He was looking at her.
She tried not to giggle as he waxed serious to conceal his embarrassment.
“It’s, er, a competition racer I’ve been fixing up,” he said. “A vintage Black Knight. Maybe one day I’ll show you how to ride.”
“You most certainly will not,” Alfred interjected.
“Thank you anyway,” said Barbara, waving away the suggestion, “but to be honest, those things frighten me.”
“Well,” Bruce remarked, “riding lessons or not, I hope you’ll stay with us while you’re here in the States.”
“Actually,” said Alfred, “there’s a lovely inn just down the—”
“All this luxury really isn’t my style,” the young woman confessed, hoping her interruption didn’t seem rude to her uncle. “But . . .” She eyed the bike. “The truth is I’d actually love to stay.”
“Then it’s settled,” Bruce declared hospitably.
Alfred frowned. “Oh, but, sir, so much goes on—”
“Don’t be silly,” Bruce told him. “After all, Alfred, she’s family.”
Barbara smiled. She was family, all right—though not his.
Pamela Isley—or rather, the woman who had been Pamela Isley—stood in the lee of the plane from which she had just disembarked, on the starlit tarmac of Gotham Airport. She was dressed all in black, her newly unique coloration obscured by a widow’s veil.
Luggage handlers scurried all around her. She watched them remove an immense black coffin from the plane’s cargo hold.
“Be careful,” Pamela said. “He’s always been a little touchy.”
The foreman grunted with the magnitude of his effort. “Right. Whatever you say, lady.”
She overheard him speak to one of his fellow handlers as they wrestled the coffin onto their truck.
“What did she feed this guy? Lead?”
“He’s always been touchy,” echoed the other handler. “Uh-huh. Like he’s gonna sit up and complain about it.”
Suddenly, a giant fist came crashing through the coffin lid, splintering it into fragments. And in its wake, a hulking, leather-clad form emerged. A rather terrifying apparition under the circumstances, Pamela imagined.
It was Bane, of course, in full costume, his Venom-injector pack strapped to his back. As Pamela looked on through her veil, he waded in among the baggage handlers.
“Geez Louise!” cried one of them, backing off in fear, his eyes as wide as airplane wheels.
But he wasn’t quick enough to elude Bane. Reaching out, the giant grabbed him and began swinging him like a baseball bat, sending the other handlers flying in every direction. Every time he made contact, there was a thud of bone hitting bone.
Pamela smiled. She had never realized how satisfying a little death and destruction could be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As he dressed for bed, Alfred glanced at the photograph on the other side of the room. It stood there in a wooden frame in a place of honor on his dresser, just as it had every day and night for more than three decades.
Crossing the room, he picked it up and gazed at it and remembered. Oh, the things he remembered.
The insistence with which the rain had begun pounding on the wide, gray streets of Metropolis, hissing like an angry serpent. The remarkable scarcit
y of taxicabs just minutes after the downpour began. The way he’d spotted one and made for it like a bandit.
As luck would have it, a young lady had arrived at the cab door at the same time as he. And her eyes—so dark, so expressive—had looked up into his. Without thinking, Alfred had suggested they share the ride. Perhaps with just as little thought, spurred by the inclemency of the weather, she had agreed to the proposition.
It was only afterward that they’d discussed their respective destinations. He had been headed for the city’s premier department store, she for the theater—where she enjoyed a minor part in a popular musical.
“Oh?” he’d said. “My mother was an actress. In fact, I dabbled in the West End establishments once myself.”
Her delight in that discovery had led to an invitation. A ticket for the evening’s performance, impossible to come by otherwise. And just like that, their two destinations had become one, the prospect of visiting Dacy’s no longer quite so tempting to him.
After the performance was over, he’d told her how much he enjoyed her contribution, small as it was. It had been no more than the truth. She had potential, it had seemed to his practiced eye. And if she remained there in Metropolis, with its abundance of high-profile productions, it had a chance of being realized.
After that it was dinner for two at Balducci’s, where the waiters were kind enough to give them a secluded table, though they must have wondered what such a lovely young woman saw in a middle-aged gentleman like himself. And they’d talked of this and that, though words were hardly the only things that passed between them.
Why hadn’t he remained in the theater? she wondered.
He spoke of his father and his father’s father, manservants through and through, and the footsteps in which he had eventually followed. And he spoke of his employers, the Waynes, though she hadn’t heard of them.
He had smiled and assured her that she would have heard of them, if she had lived in Gotham rather than Metropolis.
Eventually, even their very patient hosts had expressed a desire to go home. Alfred had imagined that the evening, wonderful as it was, had come to an end.
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