Gifts - Chapter Four

By: Marla F. Fair

Diana advanced into the center of the room, staring at the old man and his grand-child. Old, she thought, because he looked it. Old and tired. She turned back to her husband and met his bright blue eyes. He followed her and then moved beyond her to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder.

The man who had been the Batman looked up, tears in his eyes. "We were wrong, you know. We should have let him go. We made him choose." He stroked Nightstar's hair. "I made him choose."

Ibn had regained his feet and as Bruce rose to face his friend, he slipped in and scooped Mar'i from the floor. She didn't resist him, but clung to his neck, still sobbing. Her green eyes were red and raw with tears and as he met them, she acknowledged the fact that there would be time enough for him to pay ~ tomorrow.

Tonight she needed him.

She needed to grieve.

Clark said nothing. He turned to his wife and took the paper from her hand. "Bruce."

His hand was on the back of the chair. If it had not been for his exo-skeleton, he might have fallen down. "Yes? Clark," he answered, pulling himself together. "What is it?"

"We found a note."

"What is this, a sick joke?"

Clark shook his head, pursing his lips as was his habit. His hand reached for the glasses that were a part of the disguise he no longer wore. Diana walked to his side and faced her son's god-father. "We had followed a trail. A woman had been reported struggling with a small red-headed male child. A strong child." She paused. "They had been spotted on the west side of Gotham."

"Here?" They grey-black eyebrows rose. "In my city? Impossible. I have eyes everywhere. My sentinels."

"Are fallible. They are not human. And even they cannot be everywhere." Her blue eyes narrowed. She knew the pain he was feeling. If her son had been missing." Even they cannot see everything."

Bruce growled low in his throat. "Like Hell they can't."

"Then they can be disabled. Perhaps controlled."

He was sitting before the fire now, the thin slip of paper clenched in his fingers. The words were written in a curious cursive, slightly askew, indicating a troubled but clever mind. On it there was a grotesque representation of his former ward's costumed form and the words, 'For sale, cheap. One crime-fighter, slightly used and much abused. Won't last . Going fast.' There was a break where the paper had been folded and then it finished, 'If interested, call Hell and ask for me by name. But come quick, the merchandise will begin to smell after twenty-two hours.'

Bruce sighed and opened his mouth to speak.

Someone else beat him to it. "So John was only the bait."

Bruce looked up quickly as did the others. The front door stood open. The night had disintegrated into storms and lightning flashed beyond the rectangular portal. Silhouetted in it was the form of a tall strong woman. On Earth she would have been referred to as Amazonian, but he knew better. She was from Tamaran. And she was his son's wife.

Soaked to the skin, her bright red hair copper and pressed to her form, she stood dripping on the high-priced Persian rug. Her mouth was set in a line and her green eyes were at once savage as the night and rounded with sorrow. She explained that she had been delayed by a boat which had overturned with the approach of the storm. Seven lives had been saved because she had stopped, and yet each second she had been delayed had taken a year from her life.

"It was Dick they wanted all along."

Bruce gestured away the Bot-butler who was fretting over the wet carpet. "I'm afraid so."

Koriand'r's fingers folded into fists. "And who are they? Or who is he or she?"

Diana moved to face her. "Koriand'r"

The Tamaranean's hand rose to stop her. "No. No kindness. No sympathy. This is not a time for softness but for steel." The princess's head was held high. Her back stiff as a pike. "Tell me."

"We don't know ~ "

Bruce cleared his throat and Diana stopped. "What?"

The older man stood and walked to face his alien daughter-in-law, knowing the beliefs that separated them were bridged by the love of one man. He held her eyes and then indicated she should follow him to the cave which still lay buried deep within the earth beneath Wayne Manor. He had had the familiar haunt had been recreated as well. It was, after all, a part of his soul.

She refused to move. "Bruce? What is it?"

"I think I do."

She had held her tongue as long as she could. Once they had left the others upstairs, she turned on him, her green eyes blazing. "I feel as if the world is closing in on me. X'Hal, how could this have happened? He was in your care, old man." She left unvoiced the words, "They were both in your care, " but he heard them anyway.

Bruce laughed. A hard bitter laugh. Old man. That was about right. Impotent old man. He didn't answer her but asked, "Have you spoken to your daughter?"

Koriand'r's toe was tapping. Like her daughter's. "About your son?"

The gray head nodded. He glanced at her hands and saw they were still golden, if somewhat pale. "He was right, you know."

"Right? Right?" She could still see her child's jade eyes, wide with grief and worry, trapped between her own disappointment with Ibn and her fear for what her mother might do to him.

Koriand'r had not been gentle when she questioned him.

"Yes, right."

The princess drew a breath. "About what?"

Bruce shook his head. "We tried to cage a tiger. We were wrong. Strong creatures die in captivity."

"He is not an animal or creature. Dick has a mind. We tried to protect him. He is not well," her voice broke, " now."

"No, we were killing him, as sure as whoever it is sent this note and did this thing." He faced her, his blue eyes earnest. "He had to go. Had to ~ "

"Be pig-headed and single-minded as the man who raised him?" Her temper was flaring and scarlet lines ran round her nails and fingers. "Why are we standing here debating this? Where is he?" She took a step forward. "Do you know?"

"Not where, not yet, but." Bruce deliberately turned his back on her without acknowledging her anger and turned to the computers. Then he began to punch a series of letters and numbers into it in a systematic pattern. "even though it makes no sense, I may have an idea of who."

Nightwing opened his eyes. The air was close and still. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear water rushing by, as if he was by a riverfront or inside some sort of power plant. He rolled over and drew a breath and then regretted it instantly as excruciating pain shot through his frame.

"Awake at last. Sleepy boy."

The voice was quiet. Calm.

Demented.

"Are we comfy?"

Dick spit out blood and whispered, "Yeah, I'm just great."

"Oh," the voice seemed to pout, "too bad. We can remedy that."

A tiny explosion in his arm made him scream and then glance down. Even though the lighting was dim, his eyes had adjusted enough that he could see a thin black river of blood running down his forearm onto his hand.

"Better?"

The crimefighter clamped his mouth shut. Somehow it didn't seem prudent to answer.

"Better."

Silence overtook the room. He listened intently trying to determine his tormentor's sex and size from the footsteps as they shifted from side to side, twisting knobs and pressing buttons. It was impossible. They made very little sound and what he did catch, made no sense. He lay on the floor, stifling a groan, and then finally asked ~ because he couldn't stand it. "Is my son here?"

"Oh, goodness, no," came the instant reply. "This is no place for a child. The other has him."

The other?

"We both know what all too well what happens when a child watches its parent die. Nasty business. Psychosis. Obsession. Isn't that true, Mr. Grayson?"

Nightwing frowned. Who was this madman?

He swallowed. "Am I going to die?"

A shadow moved through the deeper shadows that masked the room until it drew close. As it did, a hidden skylight opened in the ceiling above, inviting the moonlight to enter the small cramped space. He could see not that it was filled with curious equipment and a number of medical beds, one of which he must be laying on. He realized at the same time that his hands and feet were held fast in iron restraints. As he pulled against them, his captor came to his side. The figure silhouetted against the evening star was slender, almost feminine, but tall and rangy like a man. One arm of its curious costume was bare, the other clad in a stylish tweed such as Bruce had often worn when playing the fop. Its hair, backlit by the stars, stood up as if being held for ransom.

It wore and air of menace like a second skin and Dick forced himself to continue to stare as it reached out and turned on a light.

One side of its face was smiling, the blood-red lip turned up with a quirk. The other side frowned. One cheek was white as chalk and the other bronze, as though its owner had fallen asleep like Rip Van Winkle for twenty years only under the false light of a tanning bed. Its disheveled hair shone a tawny yellow, with a sick greenish tint, and gleamed like old gold.

"Who are you?" he whispered, wanting to move away but unable to shift even the tiniest bit.

The face came closer and he could see it was a jester's, split in half, as if its creator had been unable to determine what it wanted: a smiling clown or a harlequin gone made.

"You may call me, the Pretender."

Continued in Chapter Five