by Greg Cox
“In a minute.” Lisa applied the gel to her palms. “Better safe than sorry.”
Vincent clucked at them. “You’re all taking this way too seriously. Gotham is awash in spooky legends and folklore. Hell, you can take a ghost tour of the city most any night of the week. This ‘Burning Sickness’ is just another historical horror story, blown all out of proportion.”
“Like the Court of Owls?” Bruce asked.
It wasn’t subtle, but sometimes brute force got the job done more effectively than any intricate strategy. The Owls already knew that Bruce Wayne and Batman were one and the same, so there was little danger of exposing his true identity. He watched intently for any telltale reaction on Vincent’s part.
There!
Was it his imagination or did the provocation hit a nerve? Just for a moment, Vincent stiffened and his eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. His charming smile never slipped, but it suddenly looked a bit more forced, if only for a heartbeat. A certain wariness entered his body language, as well. His cultivated poise seemed more… artificial than before.
“Yes, precisely,” he said, recovering smoothly. “Exactly like the so-called ‘Court of Owls.’ Unsubstantiated rumors and legends.”
He was a cool customer. Most people wouldn’t have noticed his micro-tells. Bruce, however, wasn’t “most people.”
“But, Vinnie,” Lisa protested, “I heard the Owls were real. Remember when all those politicians got assassinated a while ago? People said it was the Talons, like out of the stories. That wasn’t just talk. That was on the news.”
She wasn’t wrong. Not too long ago, during the so-called “Night of Owls,” the Court had briefly thrown their traditional secrecy to the winds and dispatched a squadron of reanimated Talons in an all-out assault on Gotham’s movers and shakers, with an eye to asserting their dominion over the city once and for all. Several prominent citizens had been assassinated before Batman and his allies had succeeded in neutralizing the threat. It was a drastic overreach that had cost the Court dearly.
They had been more circumspect since.
“Yet more clickbait,” Vincent said dismissively. “Yes, of course, we all remember when some masked terrorists or gang members went on a horrific killing spree. Gotham lost many fine public servants that terrible night. And, yes, from what I understand, the killers dressed up as the ‘Talons’ from the old nursery rhyme, probably just to scare people. Gotham criminals love their theatrics after all, not unlike a certain Dark Knight I could name.”
He glanced pointedly at Bruce.
“So you don’t believe in the Court of Owls?” Bruce pressed.
“No more than I believe in the tooth fairy or the boogeyman.” Vincent yawned, as though growing bored with the topic. “Seriously, my family has been rooted in Gotham almost since its founding. If the Court of Owls were really nesting in the city’s nooks and crannies, I like to think my distinguished ancestors would have run across them at some point.”
“Well, my family has been in Gotham since its very beginnings,” Bruce reminded him. “And I’ve learned never to underestimate what might be hiding in its shadows.”
A tense pause ensued before a contrite look came over Vincent’s face. He smacked his forehead.
“As in Crime Alley, of course,” he said. “I’m so sorry, old man. Given your personal history, I can understand why you—of all people—should be wary of Gotham’s darker corners. I should have taken that into account before pooh-poohing your concerns so insensitively.” He feigned sympathy convincingly enough. “But trust me when I tell you that, as far as I know, the Court of Owls is just a bedtime story.”
“And the Burning Sickness?”
“Hype and hysteria, I’m sure.”
“If you say so.” Bruce decided to bring the skirmish to a close. He’d seen what he was looking for, or thought he had. Vincent was on guard now. It was unlikely he was going to let anything else slip.
The lights flickered overhead, signaling that the curtain would be rising soon. The crowd began filing into the auditorium to claim their seats, grabbing perhaps one last drink or canapé before the play began. The musicians put down their instruments.
“Ah, show time!” Vincent announced to his companions. “We should seek out our private box. You’re welcome to join us, Bruce, unless you’ve made other arrangements.”
“I’m going to pass on the play,” he replied. “With due respect to George Bernard Shaw, I don’t need to see Pygmalion again.”
“Can’t blame you there,” Vincent quipped, all chummy cordiality again. “Just so you know, though, I’m throwing an after-party at the Plaza later on, exclusively for a few very special friends and associates. You should definitely drop by, and please feel free to bring a guest if you like or, if you’re truly going stag this evening, I’m certain we can find suitable company for Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.”
“Oh, yeah,” Judith said invitingly. “I don’t think that would be a problem.”
“No problem at all,” Lisa confirmed.
“Thanks for the invitation,” Bruce replied, noting the women’s obvious disappointment, “but I’m afraid I have other plans for the evening.”
* * *
Batman glided over the streets. His scalloped black cape fanned out behind him as it caught the air currents that held him aloft. Despite the hour, the lights of the city glittered beneath him, combating the darkness. Aging chimneys and water towers shared rooftops with modern solar panels and satellite disks. The pedestrians enjoying Gotham’s nightlife remained unaware of the stealthy figure soaring high above the streetlamps.
Expertly guiding his descent, he touched down on the rooftop of a pricy penthouse atop a gleaming new high-rise condominium. His boots made no sound as he landed, even though, in theory, there was no one to hear him in the apartment below.
Vincent Wright’s party at the Plaza Hotel would be well underway by now. The discovery that Vincent would be away for the evening had been a welcome fringe benefit of their encounter at the theater, and it presented an ideal opportunity to search his residence. Batman hoped to confirm his suspicions, and perhaps even discover some reference to the current killings.
How exactly is your family mixed up in this, Vincent?
A very expensive, very sophisticated security system barely slowed him down as he entered the penthouse via a skylight. Infrared sensors in his cowl failed to detect any unexpected heat signatures, confirming that no one was at home. A brisk sweep of the suite revealed nothing incriminating, which came as little surprise. Batman had hardly expected Vincent to leave anything of value out in the open. The Owls guarded their secrets well.
From a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime…
Digging deeper, Batman searched the apartment as swiftly and efficiently as possible. Even though he had every reason to assume that Vincent would be out late, he wasn’t inclined to push his luck by lingering any longer than was necessary. Wright’s well-equipped home office was the logical place to focus the search, so he began by firing up Vincent’s home computer and starting the process of downloading its contents, encrypted or otherwise, onto a flash drive programmed to bypass all but military-strength security measures.
The download required several minutes to complete, and he used those minutes to take a closer look at Vincent’s personal library, which included a few of the standard books on Percy Wright and his art, as well as a sizable number of advanced scientific texts on biochemistry. Vincent, it appeared, took after his illustrious ancestor when it came to scientific curiosity. Much of the Wright fortune was invested in pharmaceuticals and biotech, and Percy Wright had been a chemist, as well.
A family tradition, perhaps?
Vincent also seemed to share his ancestor’s interest in art.
Framed on the wall of the office was what appeared to be a rough pencil sketch of a nude model striking a dramatic pose. The woman’s face was turned away from the artist, but by now Batman recognized the familiar co
ntours of Lydia Doyle. Percy Wright’s signature was scribbled in the lower right-hand corner of the sketch, which might have been a preliminary study for some sculpture. Batman made a mental note to compare the sketch to Wright’s known oeuvre.
Perhaps Vincent shares Joanna’s fascination with Lydia.
He reminded himself that the portrait wasn’t necessarily a smoking gun. There were perfectly innocent reasons why Vincent might want to proudly display his ancestor’s work, just as it was hardly a crime to take an interest in chemistry. But coupled with the Court’s scorched-earth response to Joanna Lee’s research, the portrait’s presence was provocative, to say the least. Where there was smoke, there was often fire—perhaps even spontaneous combustion.
What other secrets might “Lydia” be hiding?
Carefully removing the framed portrait from the wall, he uncovered the built-in safe hiding behind it. Unlike the drawing, it was far from vintage, being a top-of-the-line steel-and-cement composite with a digital keypad. It was a serious container meant to protect serious valuables. Or secrets.
Selina would find this irresistible. Batman knew the feeling, at least in this particular instance. He wasn’t leaving without finding out what Vincent was hiding, although he considered his options as he retrieved the spy-drive from Vincent’s computer. Having studied under the finest safecrackers on six continents, and taken pains to keep abreast of the latest innovations in the field, he was confident that he could break into the safe in due time. But time was indeed an issue.
There was no way of knowing for certain when Vincent might come wandering home, alone or with company, and Batman was in no hurry to get caught breaking and entering. There was also the danger that in breaching the safe’s defenses, he might leave behind evidence that it had been tampered with, thus tipping his hand. Perhaps it was worth trying a less invasive approach?
Batman considered the keypad. His gaze darted over to the portrait, which he had placed atop Vincent’s desk.
“Hmm,” he grunted. Playing a hunch, he took a stab at the password.
LYDIA.
A digital display replied.
PASSWORD INCORRECT
Batman tried again.
PERCY.
PASSWORD INCORRECT
He paused. Safes of this make and model often only allowed a limited number of false guesses before denying access and likely triggering an alarm. He could only risk one more guess. Searching his mind, he recalled what he knew of Percy and Lydia. The ice sculpture back at the theater glistened in his memory as another possibility came to mind. He recalled that old quote from Percy that Joanna had turned up, his rambling remarks at that long-ago reception in his honor.
Batman keyed in another password, oddly confident of the results.
MUSE.
PASSWORD ACCEPTED
ACCESS GRANTED
A metallic click indicated that the safe was unlocked. Batman found the recessed grip and pulled the door open, exposing the contents. A sharp intake of breath betrayed his reaction to what he found.
A white porcelain Owl mask was propped up on a stand. Unlike the black leather hood and metal goggles worn by the Talons, a mask of this sort was worn only by a high-ranking member of the Court, and typically only at one of the Court’s clandestine meetings. The stylized mask was both elegant and eerie in its simplicity. Oblong eyes and a hint of a jagged beak sufficed to give the impression of a distinctly owlish mien. Batman recognized the mask at once.
He could never forget it.
Once again, his mind threw him back to the Labyrinth. He was trapped in a gladiatorial pit at the heart of the maze, penned in by towering marble walls, as the Court of Owls peered down on him from their lofty galleries high above his head. Their faces were concealed by masks like this one.
Starved, drugged, and battered, Batman hadn’t even been able to trust his own senses, so that the masks had seemed to come alive, transforming the Owls into nightmarish, half-human, half-avian monstrosities, hooting shrilly as they prepared to feast upon his flesh and bones. A colossal white marble statue of an owl loomed majestically over the scene, tainted water spilling from its beak into an elegant fountain. Blinding lights had exposed Batman to the Court’s relentless scrutiny as they’d voyeuristically delighted in his suffering. Masked men, women, and even children had shed their humanity, along with any trace of mercy or compassion…
Batman repressed a shudder as he forced the hellish memory back into the past where it belonged. He’d escaped from the Labyrinth, that was what mattered.
He reached for the mask, then reconsidered. There was no law against possessing an Owl mask, and taking the object would merely alert Vincent to the incursion and put him further on guard. Batman had found the confirmation he sought. Better now to slip back into the night with the captured data from the computer, leaving Vincent none the wiser.
“Hoo goes there,” a voice said behind him. “Hoo, hoo.”
Batman spun around to find the Talon standing in the doorway, knives drawn. Batman was impressed. It took skill to sneak up on him.
Maybe if I hadn’t let memories distract me…
But he could castigate himself later. Snatching the Owl mask, he flung it at the assassin who, predictably, dropped one of his knives to rescue it, snatching it out of the air before it could shatter against a wall. At the same time the Talon hurled his remaining knife at his opponent’s face.
Batman turned his head just in time to avoid the missile, which smacked into the wall behind him, missing him by inches. He snatched the flash drive from the computer and overturned Vincent’s desk, spilling the computer and other desktop items toward the Talon, forcing him backward into the spacious living room that lay beyond.
Springing over the desk, he took the fight to the Talon, who flung the captured mask onto a plush sofa to get it out of harm’s way. Batman threw a hard punch at the Talon’s jaw, putting his weight into it. The blow knocked the Talon’s head to one side, and Batman followed it up with a right, a left, and an elbow to the face. The last strike cracked one of the yellow goggles that hid the Talon’s eyes.
The Talon retaliated by slashing out with his eponymous claws, which raked across the embossed Bat-emblem on the hero’s chest. A hideous scraping noise assailed Batman’s ears, making him grateful for the extra layer of Kevlar that lay beneath the symbol. The men grappled furiously until the Talon managed to shove Batman backward over a glass coffee table, which shattered beneath his weight. Batman landed hard, the debris digging into his back.
“Mister Wright said you might come snooping around.” The Talon drew a sword from the scabbard on his back. “I still owe you for that zap back by Claire Nesko’s place.”
“Consider it on me,” Batman said.
“Oh, I always pay my debts,” the Talon replied, “but I wouldn’t advise trying that taser-toy again. I’m ready for it now.”
Good to know.
Raising the sword above his head, the Talon swung it down at Batman, who rolled out of the way to avoid being bisected, even as he hurled a Batarang at his foe with all his strength. The Talon’s reflexes were too fast, however, and he caught it in midair, despite the razor-sharp edges which cut through his leather glove and into his palm. Blood streamed from his hand, but the stream rapidly slowed to a trickle, then a halt, as the killer’s sliced flesh healed with terrifying speed. He snarled as he tossed the bloody Batarang aside.
Adrenaline accelerated a Talon’s regenerative abilities.
“How is Claire doing these days?” the assassin asked. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me where I can find her… or Joanna.”
Bingo!
“Not particularly.” Batman sprang to his feet, fists clenched and ready. “I’ve seen what you did to Dennis Lewton and Professor Morse. What’s with the spontaneous combustion gimmick? That’s not from your team’s usual playbook.”
“What can I say?” the Talon responded with a shrug. “Everything old is new again.” He came at Batman again, swi
nging his sword horizontally this time, aiming for his midriff. Batman leapt above the assault, pulling his legs up so that the blade sliced through the empty air beneath him. Turning his defense into an attack, he delivered a snap-kick to the Talon’s chin that caused the hooded assassin to lose his grip on his sword, which went flying across the room.
Batman dropped back onto his feet, wanting to keep the Talon off-balance. He came in close to deliver a rapid-fire series of blows he hoped would stun the Talon long enough to immobilize him. A kidney punch, followed by an open-handed chop to the man’s throat, elicited a grunt of pain from the assassin. A solid left hook to his jaw whipped his head to the side—but still didn’t put the Talon down for the count.
“My turn,” he growled.
Grabbing his foe by the shoulders, he hurled Batman across the room. He crashed into a glass display case holding various expensive artifacts. The impact jarred Batman even through his protective suit. Bruised ribs ached in protest. His mouth tasted of blood.
“You getting it now, Bat?” the Talon crowed. He threw out his chest as he postured before a large plate-glass window that overlooked the city. “You may have beaten some of those old Talons before—barely—but you don’t stand a chance against me. There’s a reason the Court took me in, and trained me to within an inch of my life. I’m a legend in the making.”
“That’s what they all say,” Batman replied. “And you know what? I’m getting damn sick of legends.”
The bright side to the Talon’s indestructibility was that Batman didn’t have to hold back. Springing into the air, he grabbed onto a hanging ceiling lamp and swung feet-first at his opponent, letting go of the lamp in order to clear the distance between them. The soles of his boots slammed into the Talon’s chest, knocking the killer right through the plate-glass window—and sending both men flying out into the sky high above Gotham.
Burglar alarms shrieked over the sound of broken glass as gravity seized the two. The Talon grabbed onto Batman’s right leg as they plunged toward the street, forcing the hero to drive his left heel into the killer’s hooded face. He kicked repeatedly even as he fired his grapnel gun at a balcony on the skyscraper across the street. Ordinarily, he would want to save his foe from falling, but this was a Talon. Batman knew from experience that even a multi-story fall would only slow him down.
