by Marie Lu
Bruce imagined Richard’s life going forward, without a father, with guilt hanging over his shoulders after falling in with a crowd that had changed his life. Maybe after serving his time, Richard could find some solace and peace with his remaining family. “Thank you, Detective,” Bruce said.
Draccon gave him a kind smile. “Look, Bruce—I know I originally came down hard on you. When you first landed yourself in community service, I wanted to remind you that you can’t just go around doing whatever you like.” She paused. “But you have your reasons for seeking out justice. I’ve actually enjoyed working with you these past couple of months, through all the ups and downs. You’re a good kid, Bruce, with a good heart. And with what you’ve seen and suffered, that’s not nothing.”
“Thank you, Detective,” Bruce decided to say. Was he good? He had hurt those he loved before; he had disobeyed orders a hundred times over. But perhaps there was something at the end of all that, something that would make more sense to him as he stepped into his parents’ legacy.
One edge of his lips tilted up. “So…do I have more probation to look forward to? Not that I don’t enjoy probation.”
At that, both detectives let out a chuckle, and for a moment, Draccon sounded more like herself. “Not this time, no,” she confirmed. “Given the situation you were involved in, and what you contributed, you’ve been granted a full pardon and your record will be cleared of anything from this case.” She fixed Bruce with a stern frown. “Don’t push your luck, though. Let’s make this the last time you cross hairs with GCPD.”
“The last time,” Bruce said firmly. “I doubt I’ll ever be involved with anything this intense again.”
Draccon pursed her lips. “I suppose not.” This time, Bruce noticed an uneasy expression pass on the detective’s features, as if there was still something else on her mind.
Gordon leaned forward. “We found evidence linking Cameron Wallace to the three murders originally put on Madeleine—we didn’t know he was alive, so our DNA evidence against her is looking less conclusive. She was there, but she likely didn’t commit the murders.”
Bruce nodded numbly, trying not to picture Madeleine’s still body. When he looked at Detective Draccon, he noticed the grimace on her face again. The curious part of his mind flared up. “What aren’t you telling me, Detective?”
From behind Bruce came Alfred’s voice as he returned from the kitchen. “You might as well tell him, Detective,” Alfred said. “He’ll find out on his own, one way or another.”
Draccon rubbed her temple once, then straightened her blazer. “Madeleine…her body vanished from the hospital an hour after we took her in.”
Bruce stilled. “What?”
“We tracked her to the airport, where we learned that she had already managed to take a flight out of the country.”
Madeleine hadn’t died. Not even close.
She was alive.
She had fooled the medical teams into taking her to the hospital, and in the chaos she had slipped away. Bruce thought back to her pale face, her tears, her farewells. Another, final con.
He couldn’t help lowering his head and letting out a single laugh. Of course she found a way to free herself.
“Well,” Bruce said, after a long pause. “She must have found a way to wire all that money to herself, wherever she is now.”
Gordon cleared his throat, and Bruce looked at him. “What?” he asked.
“Madeleine didn’t take the money from the Nightwalkers’ accounts,” he replied.
Bruce paused at that. “She didn’t?”
“No,” said Gordon. “She funneled everything into a charity. The Gotham City Legal Protection Fund just received a donation in her mother’s name, in the millions.”
At that, Bruce looked back and forth between the detectives. The Gotham City Legal Protection Fund—that was the charity his mother had always contributed to with her benefits, the group that defended those who couldn’t afford to defend themselves in court. And Madeleine had just given away the Nightwalkers’ money to it. As the detectives fell into conversation, Bruce found himself looking out the windows and wondering what had gone through her mind as she did it, what had prompted the move.
Perhaps she no longer believed that they were fighting for opposite sides. Perhaps he had changed her just as she had changed him. Perhaps it was a final gesture of goodwill, whether they’d been friends, or enemies, or more.
Or, perhaps, after all the lies between them, this was her way of telling him the truth of who she really was.
A full moon illuminated the streets of Gotham City tonight, painting its corners black and white and silver.
Bruce tore down the freeway in a new car, lost in thought. Earlier in the day, he had joined Harvey at the airport to see Dianne off as she flew to England; later in the week, he would do the same with Harvey as his friend headed off to college. And soon, Bruce would step into university life himself, right here in Gotham City, and into the shoes of his parents as Lucius and Alfred continued to groom him for Wayne Industries.
It seemed like life had organized itself again, that all the blocks of his future had aligned in the appropriate order and that he knew exactly what he needed to do. Everything was back to normal.
And yet, as Bruce drove, he still felt like he didn’t quite know where he was going. The GPS in his car kept dinging, reminding him that he needed to make a turn eventually if he was going to head back home. But he kept driving forward, passing one intersection after another. His thoughts lingered on the pockets of his life that still, after everything, seemed unfulfilled. Waiting.
A half hour later, he realized that he had ended up right in front of the Gotham City Concert Hall.
Bruce parked his car in the empty lot, then pulled on his long coat and walked toward the building. The streets here that had once teemed with police and flashing lights were now empty, and the concert hall itself sat shrouded in shadows, instead of illuminated by floodlights. A cold breeze blew about him, and he hiked up the collar of his dark coat so that only the upper half of his face could be seen. There was no event at the hall tonight, but the outer stairwell doors were unlocked, and so he went in, taking the stairs all the way up to the hall’s roof.
Once there, he headed to the ledge, where he could see the glittering lights of the entire city.
It seemed strange that only a few months ago, he had set foot inside Arkham Asylum and found himself face to face with a girl who seemed to exist in a realm between black and white, who seemed a force of evil, then of good, and then everything in between. He could still remember their first meeting—her, seated against the wall with her eyes glancing briefly in his direction, her expression unreadable, her thoughts hidden behind the dark wall of her gaze. What had gone through her mind during that first moment? What had she seen in him? Just another billionaire mark, her ticket to escaping from Arkham? Or had she seen someone worth talking to?
Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter that Madeleine had left him before her escape from Arkham. He had folded and refolded it—first into a flower, then into the diamond, then back again—so many times now, following the lines that she’d originally made, that the creases were starting to fray, leaving fine tears in the paper. He read the words again.
Dear Bruce,
We’re not a very smart match, are we? I can’t think of a story where the billionaire and the murderer end up happily ever after. So let’s call us even: thank you for helping me get out of this place, and you’re welcome for the months of entertainment. I hope you’ll remember me.
xo,
MW
Bruce studied her words for a moment. When he’d first read it, he had found her note mocking, taunting him for being so foolish as to allow her to escape; now the words sounded wistful, even nostalgic, a letter yearning for something that would never be. A final note to him, in case their paths never crossed again. Maybe she had even done that on purpose. It was difficult to tell, with her.
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In spite of himself, he could feel a small smile turning his lips up at the memory of their conversations together, the knowledge that she was still out there, somewhere, no doubt carving a new path for herself.
Maybe they weren’t a smart match, but fate had matched them anyway. And someday, in some future, perhaps they would be matched again. He wondered what he would say if he ever saw her again. He would tell her that he wished they could have met in a different world, without glass between them.
Finally, he refolded the note and put it carefully back into his pocket. Bruce closed his eyes, breathed, and listened to the evening settle in. Somewhere deep in Gotham City, he could hear the sound of sirens, defenders of justice beginning another night of work. The wind picked up, combing his dark hair back and pulling at the tail of his coat, stretching it out so that it almost looked like a cape.
From a distance, Bruce was almost certainly invisible, a tiny silhouette lost against the shadows of the concert hall and the city behind it. There were no lights in the sky for him, no faces turned up in his direction, no one calling his name. No one might ever know that he stood there, a silent sentinel watching over his city.
But looking out, all he saw was an ocean of light, the shimmering heart of Gotham City spread out before him. He didn’t know everything his future held for him, not yet, but he knew that whatever it was, it would remain here.
It looked like a place worth protecting.
It looked like home.
I don’t entirely understand how I lucked into writing a story about Batman, but I do remember how quickly I said “Yes!” to this project. My earliest memory of the Dark Knight is from Batman: The Animated Series; I would watch that show with my head propped up in my hands, imagining what it would be like to soar around a city and defeat bad guys. Batman was my introduction to a nuanced character—to the idea that no matter how little appreciation you get or how much the dark side tempts you, you still need to get up and fight the good fight. To me, that rings true now more than ever.
Batman has the Justice League, and in writing this story, I had one, too:
To Kristin Nelson, my wonderful agent and friend, who thinks of everything and then some. To my brilliant editor, Chelsea Eberly—thank you for being in the trenches with me as we steered Bruce Wayne’s story into its final form, by (technology) hell or high water. We made it!
I’m so grateful to the entire team at Random House for welcoming me with open arms and warm enthusiasm: Michelle Nagler, Jenna Lettice, Barbara Bakowski, Alison Impey, Dominique Cimina, Aisha Cloud, Kerri Benvenuto, Lauren Adams, John Adamo, Adrienne Waintraub, Tara Grieco, Kate Keating, Hanna Lee, Regina Flath, and Jocelyn Lange. Thank you, thank you, thank you all for your kindness, your invaluable editorial help, your design and marketing/publicity savvy, and your extreme awesomeness. To the wonderful team at Warner Brothers—Ben Harper, Melanie Swartz, and Thomas Zellers—and everyone at DC, thank you for entrusting me with the story of young Bruce Wayne and for giving me the chance to say “I’m Batman.” This will always be a highlight in my life.
To my fierce, brilliant Amazon of a friend, the inimitable Leigh Bardugo (aka Wondugo): this batty author couldn’t have made it without you. Thank you for everything.
My wonderful Dianne—this book was for you from the beginning, you smart lady, but you knew that. Thank you for indulging my Batman questions and having in-depth Bruce Wayne discussions with me over afternoon tea, as one does. Your brain is full of the best things!
To the fabulous Dhonielle Clayton, for all your insight, wit, wisdom, and friendship. To my dear Amie Kaufman, JJ, and Sabaa Tahir—thank you so much for cheering me on whenever I needed it most. I aspire to be each of you.
To Primo, my super hero of a husband—thank you for the many nights of Batman talk, for watching all the Batman things with me, and for being your awesome, fun, kind self. It’s like we love each other or something.
Finally, to readers and defenders of justice everywhere: thank you for being the real Dark Knights of our world. Super heroes inspire us because they represent the best that humanity can offer. They are our reminders that we, too, can bring about change and do good. You don’t need a billion dollars and a Batcave to be like Batman. You just need your brave, badass heart. Keep on fighting.
MARIE LU is the author of the highly anticipated Warcross, the #1 New York Times bestselling series The Young Elites, and the blockbuster bestselling Legend series. She graduated from the University of Southern California and jumped into the video game industry as an artist. Now a full-time writer, she spends her spare time reading, drawing, playing games, and getting stuck in traffic. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, one Chihuahua mix, and one Pembroke Welsh corgi.
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@Marie_Lu
The roaring crowd in the makeshift arena didn’t set her blood on fire.
It did not shake her, or rile her, or set her hopping from foot to foot. No, Selina Kyle only rolled her shoulders—once, twice.
And waited.
The wild cheering that barreled down the grimy hallway to the prep room was little more than a distant rumble of thunder. A storm, just like the one that had rolled over the East End on her walk from the apartment complex. She’d been soaked before she reached the covert subway entrance that led into the underground gaming warren owned by Carmine Falcone, the latest of Gotham City’s endless parade of mob bosses.
But like any other storm, this fight, too, would be weathered.
Rain still drying in her long, dark hair, Selina checked that it was indeed tucked into its tight bun atop her head. She’d made the mistake once of wearing a ponytail—in her second street fight. The other girl had managed to grab it, and those few seconds when Selina’s neck had been exposed had lasted longer than any in her life.
But she’d won—barely. And she’d learned. Had learned at every fight since, whether on the streets above or in the arena carved into the sewers beneath Gotham City.
It didn’t matter who her opponent was tonight. The challengers were all usually variations of the same: desperate men who owed more than they could repay to Falcone. Fools willing to risk their lives for a chance to lift their debts by taking on one of his Leopards in the ring. The prize: never having to look over their shoulders for a waiting shadow. The cost of failing: having their asses handed to them—and the debts remained. Usually with the promise of a one-way ticket to the bottom of the Sprang River. The odds of winning: slim to none.
Regardless of whatever sad sack she’d be battling tonight, Selina prayed Falcone would give her the nod faster than last time. That fight…He’d made her keep that particularly brutal match going. The crowd had been too excited, too ready to spend money on the cheap alcohol and everything else for sale in the subterranean warren. She’d taken home more bruises than usual, and the man she’d beaten to unconsciousness…
Not her problem, she told herself again and again. Even when she saw her adversaries’ bloodied faces in her dreams, both asleep and waking. What Falcone did with them after the fight was not her problem. She left her opponents breathing. At least she had that.
And at least she wasn’t dumb enough to push back outright, like some of the other Leopards. The ones who were too proud or too stupid or too young to get how the game was played. No, her small rebellions against Carmine Falcone were subtler. He wanted men dead—she left them unconscious, but did it so well that not one person in the crowd objected.
A fine line to walk, especially with her sister’s life hanging in the balance. Push back too much, and Falcone might ask questions, start wondering who meant the most to her. Where to strike hardest. She’d never allow it to get to that point. Never risk Maggie’s safety like that—even if these fights were all for her. Every one of them.
It had been three years since Selina had joined the Leopards, and nearly two and a half since she’d proved herself against the other girl gangs well enough that Mika, her Alpha, had introduced her to Fa
lcone. Selina hadn’t dared miss that meeting.
Order in the girl gangs was simple: The Alpha of each gang ruled and protected, laid down punishment and reward. The Alphas’ commands were law. And the enforcers of those commands were their Seconds and Thirds. From there, the pecking order turned murkier. Fighting offered a way to rise in the ranks—or you could fall, depending on how badly a match went. Even an Alpha might be challenged if you were stupid or brave enough to do so.
But the thought of ascending the ranks had been far from Selina’s mind when Mika had brought Falcone over to watch her take on the Second of the Wolf Pack and leave the girl leaking blood onto the concrete of the alley. Before that fight, only four leopard spots had been inked onto Selina’s left arm, each a trophy of a fight won.
Selina adjusted the hem of her white tank. At seventeen, she now had twenty-seven spots inked across both arms.
Undefeated.
That’s what the match emcee was declaring down the hall. Selina could just make out the croon of words: The undefeated champion, the fiercest of Leopards…
A thump on the metal door was her signal to go. Selina checked her shirt, her black spandex pants, the green sneakers that matched her eyes—though no one had ever commented on it. She flexed her fingers within their wrappings. All good.
Or as good as could be.
The rusty door groaned as she opened it. Mika was tending to the new girl in the hall beyond, the flickering fluorescent lights draining the Alpha’s golden-brown skin of its usual glow.
Mika threw Selina an assessing look over her narrow shoulder, her tight braid shifting with the movement. The new girl sniffling in front of her gingerly wiped away the blood streaming from her swollen nose. One of the kitten’s eyes was already puffy and red, the other swimming with unshed tears.
