by Greg Cox
Batman frowned, for more reasons than one. He switched to a private line.
“Gordon, I’m sending you the address for a Dennis Lewton, who may have been targeted by the Court of Owls. Recommend dispatching a unit to take him into protective custody. Will explain later.”
Claire stared at him. “You think Dennis is in trouble, too?”
“Better safe than sorry.” He needed to stow Claire somewhere safe before looking for Dennis—or Joanna. “That’s my problem, not yours.”
It was time to call in another favor.
MacDougal Lane, Gotham City, 1918
“Remarkable,” Percy Wright said. “Just remarkable.”
Clad only in sunlight, Lydia Doyle reclined on her side atop a velvet-covered platform at the center of his airy, well-lit studio as he sculpted in clay a preliminary maquette of his next major work. As so often before, he was struck by what a superlative model she was. Not only were her face and form sublime—the very epitome of feminine perfection—but her ability to maintain a pose for long, grueling periods of time was, in his experience, unparalleled.
Many an artist’s model was willing to pose in the altogether for fifty cents an hour, but few possessed Lydia’s singular ability to enter into the spirit of a piece and embody the desired mood and emotion—in this case a languorous moment of peace and relaxation. One hand hung below the edge of the platform, while she peered down at it with an expression of utter tranquility.
Perfect.
He blessed the propitious day she had first presented herself at the door of his downtown studio, seeking modeling work. In the months since she had become his muse, his collaborator, and more.
Much more.
“You’re welcome,” she replied, and she broke the pose long enough to cast a coquettish grin. “Your appreciation is duly noted, sir.” Flaxen blonde braids fell to her shoulders. Her porcelain skin and rosy complexion pleased the eye and exceeded the ability of his hands to capture her true radiance. Striking blue eyes made him long to paint her portrait as well.
“Please curb your mirth, my dear,” the sculptor chided her gently. “If only for just a little longer.” He was some years older than she, going grey at the temples, but still lean and fit for a man of his years. A rumpled apron shielded his attire as he worked. A walrus mustache added character to his face, or so he flattered himself. His gaze, as ever, was fixed on Lydia.
“Yes, yes, I know,” she teased. “A nude with a serene expression is fine art and suitable for public display, but a girl grinning without any clothes on is simply lewd. Or so I have been told.”
“It is simply a matter of aesthetics… and propriety,” he replied. “Not that I am immune to your smile, as you well know.” He extracted his pocket watch from his trousers and discovered, with a twinge of remorse, that Lydia had in fact been holding her pose for more than thirty-five minutes without pause. “Then again, it is past time that I allow you a rest period. You must forgive me, dearest. You make it rather too easy for me to become lost in the work.”
“No need to apologize.” She rose from the velvet stand and stretched her limbs before donning a robe that hung from a hook nearby. “Far be it from me to object to your rapt attention.”
Percy’s studio was located in the attic of a row house he had acquired in one of Gotham’s more “bohemian” neighborhoods. Skylights provided ample sunlight by day, while gaslights allowed him to work well into the night when time and stamina allowed. Stands, easels, and workbenches cluttered the space, which was entirely devoted to serving his craft. Sketches and studies of various works-in-progress were strewn about, along with a handful of chiseled stone sculptures in various stages of completion, awaiting further inspiration.
Wherever the eye might fall, Lydia’s exquisite form was on display—captured on paper and in clay, plaster, bronze, and stone. Her ubiquity testified to her astounding versatility, as well as to his increasing inability to perform without her. A fire blazing in a brick hearth kept the room warm enough for her comfort, even when she was posing au naturel. A well-cushioned couch was available for catnaps on long nights—and for more passionate pursuits.
Drawing the robe about her, she joined him by the movable stand on which her miniature replica resided. The final sculpture was to be life-sized, but the maquette allowed him to work out the details of the project on a smaller and more convenient scale. A turntable gave him the ability to rotate it as needed.
Percy stepped back to inspect his progress thus far. There was still work to be done, refining the lines of the piece, but he was pleased with how it was coming along, in no small part due to his subject’s uncommon grace and intuitive knack for posing. It was always a pleasure to sculpt her. She brought out the best in him.
“Don’t forget,” she reminded him, “you promised to pose for me sometime.” Among her other gifts, Lydia had a talent for illustration. Her sketchbooks were filled with line drawings of considerable quality, which she often produced during times of leisure. It was one of her favorite pastimes.
He raised an eyebrow. “In the altogether?”
“Of course,” she replied. “Fair’s fair.”
There was that grin again, so vivacious and beguiling. He took her in his arms and drew her close. That she was years his junior hardly seemed to matter when they were alone together, making him profoundly grateful for the privacy afforded them by his lodgings in the city, so far from the cares and obligations of his unhappy home life.
A sigh escaped him.
“Is something amiss?” she inquired.
“I simply regret that idyllic afternoons such as these cannot last forever,” he confessed. “It pains me to recall that all too soon I must catch the six o’clock train back to that drafty old house outside town.”
“And back to Mrs. Wright,” she added for him. There was no bitterness or jealousy in her voice, only a rueful acceptance of things as they were. She nestled against him, resting her head against his shoulder. “Does she suspect… about us?”
“I don’t believe so,” he replied. “She understands that artists employ models. Truth to tell, however, I’m not certain she would care overmuch, even if she did know—provided we remained sufficiently discreet. Her foremost concern would be social embarrassment, as opposed to the loss of my affections.”
“How terribly sad for you,” Lydia said, sounding sincerely sympathetic, “and for her.”
If only she knew Margaret as I do, Percy thought.
“Your generous heart makes me adore you all the more,” he said aloud, “but let us not waste these precious hours dwelling on such dismal matters.” He glanced at the unfinished maquette, which called out for further refinement. “I hope to make further progress on the piece before the day is out.”
“You artists!” She laughed, and the merry sound lifted the pall that had briefly fallen over their embrace. “Always obsessed with your work. If I didn’t know better, I would swear that you care more for my effigies than you do for me.”
“Not possible,” he insisted. “But perhaps you can resume the pose for just one more brief interval? I’m not entirely satisfied with how I’ve rendered the elegant flow of your neck into your shoulder.” He cast a beseeching look in her direction. “Indulge me, please?”
“Of course, my love, if you insist.” She turned her head to contemplate her miniature reflection. “But might I ask where my charms are next to be displayed?”
“In a lovely garden,” he informed her, “on the Wayne family estate.”
The safe house was a former boarding house in Lower Gotham that the GCPD had quietly commandeered after its previous owner pled guilty to a shocking number of safety violations. Having turned Claire over to Gordon and his people, Batman crouched atop the building.
The neighborhood was a quiet one, consisting of assorted small shops and businesses that mostly shut down after dark. Railroad tracks ran directly across the street from the safe house, rendering the location less than desirable to t
ourists, developers, or organized crime. He hoped Claire would be secure here, even if her missing roommate was still unaccounted for.
According to Gordon, police officers dispatched to Dennis Lewton’s apartment had found no one at home. The address remained under observation, but for the time being Lewton’s whereabouts remained unknown. It might be that Joanna’s boyfriend was simply difficult to contact, but they had to consider more ominous possibilities, as well. Chances were he was in hiding with Joanna, or the Talon had found him already. The lack of a body was promising, for sure, but the remains—charred or otherwise— might still turn up.
“You called?”
The voice came from behind. Nightwing joined him on the rooftop, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Batman had been aware of his protégé’s approach, but was impressed by the newcomer’s effortless stealth nonetheless.
I trained him well.
The young hero’s garb was less ornate than his mentor’s. Minus a cape and cowl, he wore a streamlined black uniform that suited his acrobatic fighting style. The red-winged insignia on his chest declared both his individuality and his affiliation with Batman, while the black adhesive mask over his eyes echoed the domino disguise he’d once worn as Robin. The former Boy Wonder had grown into a crusading adventurer in his own right, but Dick Grayson could always be counted upon to lend a hand.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, then he briefed Dick on the case at hand.
“The Owls again,” Nightwing replied. “And a new Talon?”
Batman nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Great, just great.” Nightwing scowled at the news, and ran a gloved hand through his tousled black hair. “I suppose we always knew they’d be back.”
“It’s more like they never truly went away.”
“That’s one way to look at it, I guess.”
Dick Grayson had his own troubling history with the Court and their handpicked assassins. For generations they had recruited Talons from circuses and carnivals, procuring the most promising young acrobats, aerialists, and escape artists. They trained them to become assassins instead of performers, while indoctrinating them in the lore and traditions of the Court—essentially brainwashing them so as to ensure their absolute loyalty.
William Cobb, Nightwing’s great-grandfather, had been such a Talon and it had been intended that Dick would follow in his footsteps—until the unanticipated death of his parents had led Dick to be raised by Bruce Wayne, thus placing him out of reach of the Owls.
Had fate proceeded differently, the son of the Flying Graysons might well have become a Talon himself. Perhaps the deadliest of them all.
We got off lucky there, Batman mused. Better a Robin than an Owl.
“The Talon has already come after Claire Nesko once,” he said to his former partner. “I trust Gordon’s people, but the Owls have eyes and ears everywhere. I’d appreciate it if you keep an eye on her, while I search for Joanna Lee and find out what they’re trying to accomplish here.” Batman peered into the night, as if searching for answers. “The Court wouldn’t be going to such lengths just to cover up a scandal from generations ago.”
“Torture, murder, kidnapping, arson.” Nightwing ticked them off on his fingers. “That does seem like overkill.”
“Yes,” Batman agreed. “There has to be more to it.” He gazed out over the sleeping city, wondering what new nightmares were brewing even as they spoke. Like bats, Owls were more active after dark, and showed no mercy to their prey.
“What about you?” Nightwing asked.
Batman kept looking out at his city. “What about me?”
“The stoic act might work on everyone else, but not with me,” the younger man replied. “Your history with the Owls runs deep. Where does that put you?”
Batman’s first instinct was to shrug off the question—to shut it down. He had work to do, and the Talon was still out there. Talking about his feelings wouldn’t help save Joanna, or stop the Court from getting whatever it was they were after—regardless of the body count.
Yet this was Dick. He deserved an honest answer.
“It’s difficult to parse,” he replied. “Not just these new attacks, but the fact that they seem to relate back to something that occurred more than a century ago. It drives home the point that Gotham may always have been a city of Owls. What if they’re rooted so deeply in the city’s history that they can never truly be eradicated? What if, despite everything we’ve done, Gotham’s future belongs to them, as well?”
There was a moment of silence between them.
“I like to think we make our own futures.” Nightwing clapped his hand on Batman’s shoulder. “You taught me that. And remember, you’re not in this fight alone.”
It was true. The Court might have its minions, but Batman had allies, too.
They would have to be enough.
Wayne Manor, Gotham City, 1918
The unveiling of Percy Wright’s latest work was the occasion for a lavish garden party on the grounds of Wayne Manor. Champagne flowed like water, while liveried servers provided delicious hors d’œuvres for Gotham’s upper crust, who were taking advantage of the sunny spring afternoon to mix and mingle at the exclusive event. Blooming rose bushes perfumed the air, as though Nature herself had been enlisted to set the atmosphere. In a gazebo on the expansive lawn, a band played ragtime.
Standing off by himself, Percy studied the immaculately contained garden and judged it to be an ideal setting for his latest sculpture, which was the centerpiece of a marble fountain, newly installed on the grounds. Carved from pristine white stone, the graceful nymph relaxed by the water’s edge, her fingers dipping beneath the surface as though trailing through a stream, her polished limbs stretched out to enjoy the sunlight. Her hair was braided, her expression one of utter peace and tranquility.
A pity, he thought, that Lydia herself cannot be here, to see how her beauty provides the crowning glory to this Arcadian garden spot.
“Admiring your work, Mr. Wright?”
The host of the party, Alan Wayne, approached, bearing a flute of champagne in each hand. Expanding on the work begun by his father, the noted architect was celebrated as the creator of Gotham’s modern skyline. He was advancing in years, but appeared in good health and spirits. He cut a distinguished figure with silvered hair, neatly trimmed mustache, and confident bearing, looking not too far removed from the bold young visionary who had proposed a city of soaring stone and steel, of towering suspension bridges and skyscrapers, all in place of the brick and wooden Gotham into which he had been born.
For Percy, Wayne was a long-time friend and patron who had done much over the years to promote his career and reputation. The fashionable Beaux Arts movement sought to beautify America’s great cities by filling them with decorations in the classical tradition, the better to rival the historic grandeur of the Old World. Properly trained sculptors were needed to fulfill such ambitions, so Percy found himself much in demand—due in no small part to the patronage of movers and shakers like his sponsor.
“Merely appreciating the exquisite setting,” Percy responded cheerfully. “I could ask for no better home for my sweet, recumbent nymph. I hope your family enjoys her for generations to come.”
“I’m quite certain they will.” Alan foisted his spare flute of champagne on Percy. “Now drink up, man, before those blasted Temperance crusaders make it illegal.” Percy accepted the drink. He’d already enjoyed one dose of the bubbly, but assumed that another would do him no harm.
“You don’t truly suppose that Prohibition will be enacted into law, do you?”
“Who knows?” Alan said with a shrug. “I’m old enough to have learned that most anything is possible. Why, I remember when the tallest building in Gotham was only fifteen stories high, and sheep still grazed in the parks.
“In the meantime”—he raised his glass in a toast—“here’s to another masterwork from my favorite artist. You did a fine job, Percy. Some of your best work, without a doubt.
”
Percy joined him in the toast. The champagne, which was of the finest quality, went well with the praise from his old friend. He savored both.
“You’re too kind,” he said. Turning then, Percy regarded the statue once more, smiling as he recalled its creation. “I was… inspired.”
“By my money,” Alan quipped, “or by the model?” He joined his chum in admiring the marble nymph in her repose. “A vision of loveliness, truly. Were I a younger man, and less concerned with my reputation, I would be buttonholing you for the particulars.”
“You have no idea,” Percy replied. “Cold marble can only approximate the sublime charms of the genuine article. She is positively incandescent, setting the world aglow by her very presence… as an artist’s model, of course.”
Suddenly he feared that he might have rhapsodized overmuch, and blamed the champagne for his lapse in judgment. One drink too many had loosened his tongue, perhaps to a reckless degree. He glanced anxiously at Alan, and found the older man eyeing him knowingly.
“Of course.” Alan glanced around to make certain no curious ears were listening in on their conversation. Then he leaned in and lowered his voice. “A word to the wise, Percy—take it from one who has learned better regarding such matters. Don’t be drawn in by this particular flame, no matter how ‘incandescent’ she may be. Your wife is a formidable woman and—if I may be so bold as to say so—not someone to be crossed, if you value your hide.”
Percy had to agree, not that he was in any position to admit this to Alan. To the contrary, he was strictly bound on the topic. His wife had secret affiliations—and ambitions—that could never come to light.
“Oh dear!” he said instead, feigning bemused innocence. “I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression. I spoke only of the model’s talent for posing, which is indeed exceptional. Certainly I appreciate your sage and well-intentioned advice, but I assure you that my relations with the young lady are strictly professional. She is but a tool of my trade, not unlike my chisel or sandpaper.
