Batman: The Blind Cuts

Chapter 7

Close Up Magic

Martin Cahill

 

A weathered key. The pocket watch of gold. A class ring of silver. A diamond necklace. A monogrammed handkerchief. And one more item, lost from her vision.

Zatanna couldn’t shake the images from her mind, sitting with her lukewarm cup of coffee, half the donuts they’d ordered to help her recover already gone.

Barbara—no, Batgirl, when she was in uniform—paced across the bare floor, boots clicking in the silence, hand on her chin. She limped slightly from the scuffle she’d entered with Nathaniel before his flight from Blood’s brownstone. Watching from the shattered window, Zatanna was able to tell it had been a tough fight; he wasn’t holding back.

“So, let’s break it down, just to make sure I understand,” Batgirl said. “Lent has magic that brings people back from the dead. Check.”

“The problem,” said Zatanna, “is that the souls don’t stick around without some . . . how would you put it? Collateral damage?”

“Sacrifices.” The sonorous voice of Jason Blood interjected, rough and labored after Nathaniel had nearly strangled him to keep the demon Etrigan from being unleashed. “Resurrection is a bad bargain, yes, but one that can be made with that rare currency: life must pay for life.” He fixed his gaze on Zatanna. “Lent has become quite practiced at finding souls to exchange for her charges, this cabal of elites. And it is a two-part process. First, the suppression of the host’s soul by that of the called-back spirit. Second, the cementing of the invasive spirit within the host body.”

“Right,” Zatanna said. “So we need to figure out where she’s planning on doing that this time around. It’s going to be soon. These murders only began a few weeks ago and, from what I could glean, once every spirit has found a host, there will only be a short period before Lent has to cement the transfer with a sacrifice. Something big . . . Page 3 slayings wouldn’t cut it.”

“Okay, slow down,” Batgirl said. “There’s a lot of moving pieces. Agreed on disrupting the ritual, but that only solves one problem. The other is, even if we interrupt the ritual, what’s the guarantee the souls of the hosts just . . . return to their body? Zatanna, you’ve got the best grasp on this of any of us. What’s our first order of business?”

Zatanna admired Barbara; ever the police chief’s daughter, she sought organization in a sea of chaos, even when several of her own crew had already been tossed overboard.

“Right. First things first. Lent stores the souls of the hosts in ordinary objects that they had on their person when they were taken. I caught images of them in her mind. First order of business is recovering those.”

“And then we, what? Destroy them?” Batgirl said.

Zatanna shook her head. “Not then and there, though I get the impulse. But if we release the soul without their body there and waiting, guess where they go?”

“I’m . . . not sure.”

“Neither are we,” said Blood, arching an eyebrow at the youth. “We’ll have to curb our instincts to grab and smash. Magic or no, this will be a battle of the mind, not brute strength.”

“That’s true,” Batgirl said, nodding. Gods bless her, Zatanna thought. Of all the things she’d learned from her mentor, Batgirl’s ability to improvise and go with the flow was something all her own.

“Except you’re not entirely right there, Dr. Blood,” Batgirl continued. “There’s going to be some element of strength. Bruce is still out there with a fanatic living in his body. You know, the body that can do eight hours of cardio straight and bench press three hundred pounds?” Turning back to Zatanna, Batgirl frowned. “I know Bruce has trained us to take him down if necessary, but I didn’t think it would be so soon. I kind of figured it would be a Mad Hatter mind control thing, or a strange day with Bat-Mite, not . . . this.”

Jason Blood nodded, his expression darkening. “As evidenced by our encounter a few hours ago, it seems the hostile spirit has already acclimated to Mr. Wayne’s extraordinary capacity for violence.”

Zatanna’s heart dropped into her stomach. “I can only imagine. I had . . . while in the spell, I sensed Bruce nearby. Faint, but fighting. When you were fending off Nathaniel, did you . . . sense anything of Bruce? Any hesitation?”

Batgirl shook her head. “The only thing I saw in his eyes was hate. I knew that either he wasn’t in his right mind, or it was something much worse. But he had no problem utilizing all of Bruce’s techniques against me. I’m lucky he wanted to get away, not put me in traction.”

Blood frowned. “It seems the longer these spirits stay in their new bodies, the more they’re able to access the knowledge or skills of the hosts. Not so great a concern for the wealthier members of this cabal, but clearly the skills of the Batman sit easily in the mind of Nathaniel Wayne.” His dark eyes flashed back to Batgirl. “I’m sure your father has information about the police department he’d rather keep out of the hands of a mad spirit, yes?”

“He does. That brings us to the main point—”

“Which is that we need to get moving.” Zatanna stood. It was time to get the act on the road; no more wasting time backstage. “Receptacles first. We need those souls in hand.”

Blood and Batgirl nodded at each other. “Understood,” she said. “You got glimpses of them. Do you know where they’d be?”

Zatanna searched her memory, sorting through the ocean of Lent’s life, cross-referencing with everything she knew of necromancy. “They’d be on their person when it happened, but Lent wouldn’t just want to hang on to them, too risky,” she muttered, images flickering and fading in her mind, staccato. But they kept slipping from her; everything was hard to hold on to after that trip down memory lane. “I think I’ve got a friend who can help.”

She reached down, shoved half a donut in her mouth, and said, “Orteip, em reah!”

Her words echoed through the stone, out into the city, finding her mori, dear Pietro, who had mapped Gotham City and knew it like his own calcified heart.

My friend! You live. Something bad is happening in my city. The streets taste of death.

Pietro! she thought with relief. It’s so good to hear from you. Yes, I’m aware. Can you help me? Can you find bright points of life? They’d be small, no bigger than the flicker of a flame; possibly near places of great magic.

Pietro went silent. Zatanna felt him dig into the roots he’d put down in this city, sounding through each crack and crevice, a ghostly bloodhound searching for the scent of life, sweet life, something he remembered so dearly.

Yes! In a forest, there’s a pocket watch, and down an alley sits a key by a sewer grate. By the water, a ring sits on the boardwalk, and in the financial district, yes, a handkerchief is at the bottom of a trashcan. And on the corner of two streets converging, there, a necklace has been taken and now lines a robin’s nest, in the eaves of laundromat.

That’s only five, Pietro. There should be another. Where is the sixth? The seventh? Please, she thought, please let him find Bruce. Or at least the rest of the cabal.

Finally, his melancholy voice came back. If there is a seventh, friend, it is hidden from me. But there is a sixth, though it moves through the streets. It will not stay still, friend. What spirit moves with no mind to move it?

I’ll find out, I promise. You’re a godsend, Pietro. Stay safe. Thank you.

She severed her link to the gargoyle as she turned back to the rest of them. “Batgirl, do you have a reference for every one of those crime scenes? The ones Bruce was attributing to Poison Ivy?”

“Of course.” Her fingers flew across the data pad on her gauntlet, a list of locations appearing. They read the list together, matching the sites to each of the receptacles: Gotham Harbor for the ring; the corner of Cavern and Willow for the necklace; an alleyway off Kensington Boulevard for the key; the Courtyard of Tomorrow in front of the Wolfe Building for the handkerchief; and deep in the heart of Nora Fries Memorial Park for the pocket watch. “This is great,” Batgirl muttered under her breath, “but where’s Bruce?”

Zatanna thought about the soul on the move, of Lent’s panache for objects she had on hand, and could only think how rushed she’d been in the parking lot of the Casino.

With a burst of bittersweet understanding, Zatanna remembered the deck of cards she’d given to Bruce. He’d put them in his jacket pocket, the jacket Nathaniel would have no reason to take off.

If we get through this, she thought, the irony of it all is going to make him grind his teeth.

“I’ve got Bruce,” she said. A moment of silence as the other two stared at her. “What? You think I can’t do it?”

“No offense,” Batgirl said into the silence, “but Bruce trained me to be the best of the best, Dr. Blood can summon his demon, and Nathaniel still put us both in the dirt with half the experience and none of the know-how. I . . . honestly don’t know how much of a shot you have.”

Zatanna brushed off her top hat and tried not to think about the confrontation in the astral plane, where even as a spirit, Nathaniel knew how to shut her magic down faster than she could cast it. “Oh, ye of little faith. I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeves. Besides, you think I’m going to try and stop him physically? I put all my stats into charisma, kid. He may be strong and he may be tough, but he doesn’t possess any of Bruce’s smarts. Which means—”

“You intend to goad the brute,” said Blood.

“I’ve always had good patter,” she said, with confidence she didn’t quite feel. “Besides, he’s looking for me. If I sweeten the pot, he’s not going to be able to resist.”

“Want to walk us through that?” Batgirl asked. “We’re not going to have time to go over plans when we’re in the field. If you need back-up, you need to tell us now.”

She winked at her. “A magician never reveals her secrets. But trust me when I say I’m the one you want there to get Bruce back where he needs to be. Besides, you two need to find the other receptacles. We’re burning time already.”

Blood took a deep breath, planted his feet, curled his fingers into intricate arcane gestures, and recited the incantation that would relinquish his place in this reality.

“GONE, GONE THE FORM OF MAN. AND RISE THE DEMON ETRIGAN.”

There was a hot flash of light; under his feet, a pentagram burned red, searing itself into the wood. Light like flames burst beneath him, and a scream erupted from Blood’s throat, a scream that would not end but only grew, deepened, stretched, enlarged, became massive and dark, a scream that folded in on itself, stuttering, once, twice, until Zatanna realized with a twist of her gut: it was a laugh.

As the light dimmed, the form that stood where Jason Blood had been was huge, towering over them even while hunched. Golden scaled skin shone like dragon’s hide in the dim candlelight, and eyes the color of fresh blood and autumn leaves gazed out at the two mortals. A grin more tooth than mirth broke the craggy face, as muscles tensed and twitched, claws eager for the hunt. When Etrigan the Demon spoke, it was as though the earth had spoken, language in the grinding of tectonic plates.

GATHERED HERE, WE COMPANIONS THREE TO

SEARCH FOR IMPRISONED SOULS TO FREE

THOUGH LE FEY WALKS THE EARTH ONCE MORE

I’LL BANISH HER BACK TO HELL’S FAIR SHORE

ONCE I’VE DONE ALL I CAN FOR THEE

In a small voice, Batgirl whispered to Zatanna, “I . . . forgot about the rhyming thing. Yikes.”

“Eh, you get used to it,” Zatanna said, marching them toward the massive windows overlooking the city. “Split up the sites between you; you know what we’re looking for. When you’ve got them, we’ll regroup at Wayne Manor. Hopefully by then we’ll have figured out where this mass sacrifice will take place.”

Batgirl hopped up onto the sill, casting a nervous glance at the grinning demon before turning back to Zatanna. “What about you? How are you going to get Nathaniel to come to you?”

“I need to make him really angry,” she said, looking toward the distant rooftop of the G.C.P.D. building. “And I think I know exactly how to do it.”

---

Nathaniel Wayne stood above the filthy, sinful city and couldn’t stomach it.

It had a corruption that rotted the streets and homes of those that made their life here. A haven for the miserable, the godless, and the horrid; Nathaniel preferred the cold, for it deadened the stench of the unwashed masses beneath him.

From rooftop to rooftop he leapt, the grace and strength of his descendant’s exceptional body lending aid to his holy cause. It was gratifying to know his descendant had dedicated his life to the eradication of sin, much like himself. But under such a demonic guise! The child had gone astray. A terrible creature of the night, a servant of the Devil, surely. A bat. Of all symbols holy and good, of all the ways to strike terror into the hearts of wicked, this Bruce had chosen a disease carrier, as gruesome a beast as any. How wise of the Lord to bring His servant Nathaniel here and now to set his scion’s path aright.

A small part of him worried he was corrupted now, too. To do the will of God in such a body, one that had been so thoroughly transformed by its experience in the darkness . . . did it make him just as decadent?

Bah, let him not focus on it. Rise above it. The answer, of course, was no. After all, Lent’s unsavory power kept him alive but never turned his soul. Nathaniel Wayne was a tool in the hand of Heaven, not because he himself wielded the terrible power, or even enjoyed it, but because he alone understood the Lord’s plans for this world. No . . . no, he was nothing like the others. He was better than them. A virtuous man. And a virtuous man’s heart was always pure.

But this wicked city, it longed to turn him into something else, a shadow of himself. First the others of this cabal of the long-lived. They invited him to consort and dance in the blood of innocents, all their rage and hunger and boredom trapped for so long they lost themselves to it like animals. But that was no matter. They always asked, he always declined.

And then the warlock and the child accosted him.

And yes, the witch, she of the backward tongue. The worst of them all. Children could be beaten, taught the path of God. Warlocks and their demons could be slaughtered. Even the villains who called him friend, Ellis, Graves, Winters, Dancy, Crowne. They had long been consigned to Hell and would find the great fire waiting for them on the day Lent failed at last. But the witch, she flaunted her corruption. She was not some youth to be shown a better path. Nor was she evil by instinct, driven as the wolf is to find meat.

No, she chose magic. She chose to abandon God, and to bend the world to her dark will.

She would return. She could not hide forever. It was she he sought on the wind, in the day before the final ritual would pin Nathaniel into this body with finality.

Good. The sooner, the better; he had much work to do—

There. A scent on the wind; it tasted like embers and sea salt. Like the flash of lightning before the thunder’s rolling rumble. A growl formed in the back of his throat.

Magic.

A light caught his eye; it broke the night like a blade, and above him, Nathaniel saw the image of a bat, engraved on the very sky itself. Except the bat, which should’ve been black, blazed a brilliant white, as though it were holy and the night itself were the enemy.

“Witch.” He must say it, must name her as his enemy. She called to him, taunted him. Well, let her learn what happened when you tempted a man who could not be tempted. Let her learn what happened to those who turned their back on God.

Nathaniel took a running leap, and made for source of the light, intent on snuffing it, and her, out for good.

---

Zatanna saw Bruce’s form descend to the rooftop, the eyes of the mad Puritan glaring at her from her friend’s face.

“Ah, you came. Good. I was just getting ready for the show.” She gestured to the rickety card table in front of her, bare, the green felt tattered and worn. “Wanna play?”

Now that she knew what to look for, there was no way she’d ever mistake this man for Bruce. He stood too tall, imperious; didn’t just look down his nose, but seemed to enjoy it. He had a superiority about him that was alien to see in Bruce’s body. He stalked forward, step by step, into the brilliant light of the Bat-Signal. “What is this? Parlor tricks?”

“No parlor tricks. Just a good old-fashioned game of chance.” She winked, her stomach in knots. “That is, if you think you can win.”

He stood on the other side of the light, silhouetted in its dazzling ray, scowling at her. “You are trying to distract me. Testing my faith. I should warn you, witch. My faith has endured centuries. It is the stuff of mountains. You could not hope to topple it.”

Zatanna took a step to the left. Nathaniel mirrored her. They stared at one another in the silence. Silent for now, she had to remind herself. There was more at stake here than just a magic trick. They began to circle each other. Cat, meet mouse, she thought.

“Oh, I’m not trying to change your faith, or destroy it. I just wanted to extend an olive branch. Have a little heart to heart? You and yours . . . well, you’ve clearly been doing this a while, and I’m good, but I’m not ‘stop a centuries-long immortality racket’ good. So, what do you say? Maybe we can aim for a little peace in our time?”

She hated his laugh; it was as heavy and cold as the winter night around them. “You wish for peace, witch? When you and your kind play with flame and wonder why the world burns? No.”

“And why not? What do you have to lose by looking the other way?”

He looked hurt for just a moment, as if this one possibility were too painful to even contemplate. “Asking a man of faith the cost of ignoring that faith is the surest sign you are lost, witch. Better to ask the fish to fly, or the bird to swim. My faith sustains me; without it, I am as damned as you are now.” He glared at her, eyes narrowing. “Surely you did not dream you’d leave this rooftop alive.”

Zatanna shrugged, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart in her ribcage. “Nah, you’re right. I mean, it was worth a shot. A woman has to try.” She saw him tense suddenly across the way, and thought he would lunge then and there, ruin the set-up. What had she said? Was the simple word woman enough to set this creature off? She had to keep him hooked, had to keep him invested. This was the goddamn show of a lifetime; she could not let him walk out before she hit her prestige!

She held up a finger, and he paused, wary. “Tell me one thing . . . how do you do it? How do you still believe magic is evil when it’s the fuel in your tank and the reason for your season?”

His face relaxed, going smug. Men like him loved to explain to women how they were wrong, and it was buying her time. “Because in truth there is no such thing as magic. There is only power. And power comes from Above or it comes from Below. There is no in between. Lent has power. I have power. You have . . . a child’s toys. Illusions, a fanciful way to explain the world of God, the follies and foibles of mankind, and the workings of the Devil. Lent’s power reeks of sulfur, but in the long view, it serves God, because it serves me. He works in mysterious ways—and there is no way more mysterious than mine. But you? You play with your little blocks and cards and silly books and think yourself strong instead of what you are: damned for a bauble, damned for a song sung backwards and out of tune.”

Zatanna nodded and made sounds of agreement as they circled each other. For a moment, Nathaniel reached down and dragged a knuckle across the worn green felt of the card table. “You tempt men from the path of purity. Even if your power did not come from the Devil, even if you were just a mortal and nothing more . . . no sin is worse.”

Zatanna leaned across the Bat-Signal, letting the white-hot glow illuminate her from beneath, as her face fell into shadowy relief, her eyes twinkling in the light. “And can I tell you something, Nathaniel? Here at the end of my life, which you’re going to take from me?”

A pause. See how he cocked his head. Notice the raised eyebrow. She had him. “You’re so much more right than you know. I don’t have power at all. It’s all fake.”

Stunned silence. She had to be careful now. Couldn’t rattle him. Time to reel him in, slow. Whether he noticed or not, his hand had found its way back to the felt of the table. “Is it now?” he said, his voice thin as a razor. Did he dare believe her?

Lean in now, Zatanna. C’mon. Show him he has nothing to fear. “Look, it’s a trade secret, I’m sure you can understand. Bruce did. He was right, it’s just . . . make believe. I’m nothing compared to you.”

Nathaniel lifted his hand away, clenched it into a fist at his side. “You lie. Again. You just wish me to stay my hand. You prolong your wicked life, witch. Your honeyed words will not aid thee, this I promise, no matter how sweet the bargain. Truth must be paramount, else all falls to ruin.”

Damn, too much, there. Don’t tell a righteous man he’s right; he needs to come to it himself.

She put up her hands, gently tugged at her sleeves as though to say, see, nothing there, my friend. “I promise you right back, sir, I’m not in the business of lying, no matter what you think of witches. Adding a little whimsy, a little beauty to the world, that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.” She nodded to the streets below. “The people, well, they don’t want truth, not too much anyway. They may prefer a little lie, if it brings a bit of wonder with it. It’s the fine line, you know? Too much truth, and the wonder won’t take. Not enough of the lie, and they’ll forget quickly. True magic is helping people find the wonder in the world, bending the truth just a little for them to find some wonder of their own someday. That’s the trick; they do the work for you.”

Nathaniel grunted, looking away out over the city. “Again, false words and mistruths. You speak much, but say very little. You are consort to the Devil. Your words work to be a labyrinth to ensnare me. It won’t work. These tricks of yours . . . you say they bring wonder, but like all Hell’s favors, if the people knew how it worked, they would not find wonder; they would be enraged to be deceived so.”

There it is. Push him. “So . . . you think you can tell the difference between true magic and false? Between power and baubles?”

His steely gaze fit into Bruce’s face a little too well. “I know it. I have bet my soul on it for generations of men.”

“Then let’s play.” She pointed at the green felt table. “A simple game. The Three-Card Monte. Bruce could spot it without trying. How will you fare?”

Step by step, she made her way, hands up, doing her best to appear as non-threatening as possible. “C’mon. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll even use your deck.” She pointed to his jacket pocket. “Just so you know I’m playing fair.”

Without taking his eyes off her, Nathaniel reached into the jacket, and pulled out the deck of cards, surprised to find it there. Out in the open, Zatanna could feel the energy coming off the deck. Nathaniel eyed it for a moment, two, three; the seconds dripped, aching in their slowness. C’mon, she thought. C’mon!

Finally, a grim smile. “It does my heart good to see you so low in these final moments. God may forgive the wicked, should they recant their sinful ways. Perform your dark art and I shall judge thee true.” Something glimmered in his eyes. “For old times’ sake.”

He took a step away from the table, and nodded at her. Zatanna approached and picked up the deck, immediately taking it apart, falling into the shuffle and cut, shuffle and cut rhythm of her craft, the muscle memory rising to the surface and, with it, soothing her fear.

“Here’s the one you want. Watch and see. Easy as pie, one, two, three,” she said. “It’s not too hard a game there, jack, you just have to keep your eyes . . . on . . . black.”

There.

The Ace of Spades thrummed in her hand, Bruce’s soul confined in the playing card. She let Nathaniel see, let him watch as she carefully slid it into her other hand, along with two others, the Two of Hearts and the Three of Diamonds. She placed each of them face up in front of her, keeping her eyes locked on Nathaniel’s.

“Are you ready?”

A single nod, the smirk never leaving his face.

She took a deep breath, flipping the two red cards, the solitary Ace sitting between them.

Then, she flipped it, too, her finger on top, the patter dancing across her tongue as she began.

Sink into it, she thought. He thinks it’s a show. Give him a show.

“Here’s the plan, my man. This here’s yours, no one else. Watch your card, watch your card, I promise, it’s not going far. Black for you, red for me. Easy as one, two, three.” Her hands began to move rapidly, back and forth, back and forth.

Nathaniel’s eyes raced across the table, as her hands easily took card after card, bending them under her nail, flipping and sliding them around. She could feel Bruce’s card flying between her hands, the energy giving her an extra jolt as she gambled with her friend’s life.

“Watch close, I’m gonna race ’em and chase ’em so, my friend, watch where I place ’em.” Faster and faster, she shuffled them across the green felt table, as worn as anything beloved, well-used and sturdy. “One in three, one in three. Where’s the knight? You tell me.”

Her voice dropped low, intimate. Give her a crowd and she’d bring the energy up.

Nothing made an audience lean in like a shout; give them energy, they’d give it right back, a feedback loop of wonder and tension. But here? An audience of one demanded something stronger; give him the good stuff, the whisper, the voice of the storyteller, not the soothsayer. Intimacy conjured investment and, here in the cold night, the stakes had never been higher.

Let him feel part like part of the story; let him feel like he got to say how it ended.

She moved even faster now, and to add a little flair, looked him right in the eyes, letting her hands dance as they knew how to, pirouetting across the table like the acrobats they were. “Under my fingers, there’s red, red, black. Easy pickings, if you’ve got the knack. Find the knight, find the knight, we don’t have all night. He’s not going down without a fight.”

Nathaniel was rapt, leering at the table with eyes wide open, looking for the trick, his eyes doing their best to track her movements. Let him try. She moved faster still, feeling sweat bead along her forehead, immediately chilled by the winter air. The only sound was the heartbeat pumping in her ears, the shush of card against felt sliding across the table.

She could feel it coming to an end, the natural rhythm winding down. Zatanna knew where Bruce was, positioning him, slowing down on purpose, trying to get Nathaniel to see. Let him feel superior, she thought, let him think what he wanted. A righteous man could blaze with all the fire he wanted, but it didn’t make him right, and in the end, it would only ever burn him down.

Because she didn’t lie: that was the real trick. All you had to do was play the game; it was the audience who convinced themselves it was fair.

“Here we go, here we go, now it’s time to take it slow. The trick is watch my hands, don’t watch me.” Slower and slower, winding down. Zatanna felt her heart thudding in her chest. “Find your knight. How hard can it be?”

Flip. Flip. Shuffle. Slip.

Slower, slow. C’mon, let him see.

“This one’s for all the marbles, the whole jar of honey,” she whispered, sliding the last of the cards into place, Bruce exactly where he had started. She stared at Nathaniel, ready, waiting. “Shout it loud, if you think you’ve won . . .”

She took a single step back, and spread her hands to her side, the performance done. “Easy money.”

The wind picked up, throwing snow across the light, as Nathaniel took a step forward, and placed a finger on the center card. His smile widened. “You’ve lost your touch, witch. Here at the end of your life, you could not even trick me. This, here, is the knight I seek. You have nothing. It was only a game. Do not think that means mercy.”

Reaching forward, Zatanna picked up the card, and held it up before her, knowing what he’d see: a single black bat, a touch of illusion she’d worked in.

“Well, wouldn’t you know? You’re right. This is the knight I wanted.”

Quick as a flourish, Zatanna ripped the card in half. “Tsohg enogeb! Nruter ecurB!”

Nathaniel screamed and lunged across the table as she spoke, but he was too late. As the card tore in two, there was a flash of gold and black light. Arcane energy surged out from her, slamming Zatanna back and Nathaniel away; behind them, the Bat-Signal shattered, plunging them into night.

Zatanna stayed on her feet, skidding in the snow, focusing on the spell. The gold and black light swirled around Nathaniel, who was raging, trying to make his way toward her. He moved as though time had slowed around him, fighting an invisible wind emanating from her as she poured all her focus into this moment.

“Go, Bruce! Go!”

If he heard her, she had no idea. But one moment the cloud of gold and black light was there, and the next it descended straight into the heart of Nathaniel. As it filled him, Nathaniel screamed, his eyes filling with black and gold light.

“No! No! You shall not banish me! I am holy! I am the hand of Heaven!”

Zatanna could feel the magic in her mind, the push and pull of spirit against spirit. She blinked, willing her sight to pierce the veils. Where Bruce’s body stood, she saw two specters battling in the astral plane.

One was clearly Nathaniel, a sinister and oily violet light, a smear of gasoline, iridescent and bleak, tasting of ashes and anger. The other was a figure of black like the space between stars, and gold like the stars themselves, wrestling the oily spirit, pinning him.

“No!” howled Nathaniel, screaming and squirming in the grasp of Bruce’s spirit, frothing at the mouth, desperate to be free. “You can’t do this! You are wicked! Only I can remain. I am pure! I am holy!”

“The only thing pure about you,” said Bruce, the voice of his spirit echoing in the astral plane, “is your hate. You’re a stain on the history of my family.” He got an elbow around Nathaniel’s throat, and squeezed, doing his best to eject his ancestor. “My family. Not yours.”

“No, please!” Nathaniel said, his voice turning desperate and scared. “Please, no. It’s . . . it’s so dark out there. Please, don’t send me to the dark. Please!”

Bruce frowned. “I don’t know what’s out there for you. But I know your time here is over, Nathaniel. Now leave.”

The specter began to fracture and break in Bruce’s grip, and Zatanna spoke aloud, “Tsohg enogeb,” once more, thick bands of gray light flying from her fingertips, wrapping Nathaniel from head to toe in spectral chains.

“No! But I did it! I beat her. I proved myself better than the witch!”

A slight smile on Bruce’s face as Nathaniel began to sink, away and down, out of the astral plane and to wherever he was bound. “That was your first mistake, Nathaniel. You bet against a magician at her own game.” Bruce’s spirit looked at her, as he began to settle back into his body, his voice fading from the astral plane as he entered the real world. “Some of us learn the easy way; the hard way hurts like hell.”

Nathaniel’s scream faded to silence as Zatanna ended her spell. Before her, Bruce had fallen to his knees, panting. Around them, the snow swirled in the dark.

He looked up, and in his eyes, Zatanna once again saw her friend. She ran to him, putting an arm through his, and getting him back to his feet. “Z,” he said, his voice ragged. “Thank you.”

“Always, Bruce. I wasn’t going to let that monster parade around in your body. How much do you remember?”

“I . . . I . . .” Bruce mumbled under his breath. Zatanna suddenly felt the weight shift on top of her as he fell unconscious, pulling her down.

“Whoa!” She moved with the shift, and fell to her knees on the cold roof. “Bruce?” She could feel his breath, shallow and rough, and she knew she had to get him out of there.

A pounding at the door, the muffled voices of police officers wondering why the roof was locked. “Okay, hang in there, Bruce. We’re going home.”

She closed her eyes and focused on the warm and comforting light that Alfred always left on, lighting the front of the manor against the dark.

“Ronam eynaW ot!”

With a sensation like falling, like flying, Zatanna made her way toward that light with her friend in tow, relief mingling in her gut with dread.

They had Bruce back. They had Batman back.

Now, it was time to stop Lent.