“Well there’s a hellcat, loose cat, hear it moan,

Stalking your shadow all night long…”

Rory Gallagher, Hell Cat

ONE

The black cat jumped up onto the corner of the bar and proceeded to lick its paw, tail flicking, but otherwise thoroughly disinterested in what was about to occur. Tradition held that black cats were unlucky. Tradition didn’t know the half of it…

The barkeep was of a Neanderthal persuasion, standard for this scum-crust district of New Gotham: shaved head, ginger goatee, tattoos, piercings, the whole shebang, as if some kid had received the Dirty Biker Boy limited edition of Mister Potato Head for Christmas and had used all the accessories in one fell swoop. When he grinned he displayed the obligatory gold nugget in place of a missing tooth. The shotgun with the sawn-off barrels he now pulled out from behind the counter was also de rigueur. Honestly, it was no wonder that some downtown bars like Lenny’s had such a bad reputation.

“Dis ain’t no place fo’ da likes’o you, Miss Pussycat,” the keep sneered. “Dat is, ‘less you lookin’ fo’ trouble.”

The black cat glanced up from its paw-washing duties, but the comment was directed elsewhere.

It was the slender woman standing in the doorway across the room who responded, arching a delicate eyebrow and smiling. “My friend,” she purred, with a voice like molasses, “I thought you’d never ask…”

The Lenny’s barkeep raised his gun by never got the chance to fire. Instead, the woman snapped her right arm and a ten-foot length of black whipcord, nylon woven with wire, suddenly lashed out across the room like a tongue of shadow and with a hearty crack! The keep squawked and immediately dropped his weapon, scrabbling frantically at his throat with both hands, his face swiftly colouring an unhealthy puce. The woman then yanked her arm back with a snarl of exertion and the keep – ensnared by the lash of the whip his attacker was brandishing – flew forward like a greasy fish on a hook, slithering over the polished bar in a flail of limbs and bottles and landing on the wooden floor beyond amidst a crash of shattering glass. The woman flicked her wrist once more and the whipcord loosened and slipped away. The barkeep curled into a ball, pink and spluttering, then rasped something unintelligible but which was inevitably unpleasant – and which was, unquestionably, a call to arms.

Immediately there was a kafuffle of cursing and scraping chairs, and a flurry of bodies surging forward, all fists and snarls and aggressive attitude. The black cat on the bar yawned. Elektra Kyle, otherwise known as the vigilante and assassin Catsai, sighed and rolled her eyes, an exquisite shade of Peridot green ridged with coal black lashes. The hoi polloi were always so predictable…

Two brawny thugs in cut-off shirts wielding pool cues approached from Catsai’s left whilst a heroin-chic whore with bubblegum pink hair and dressed in cheap, studded denim lunged in with a flick-knife from behind. Without hesitation, Catsai swivelled at the hips and aimed a high kick to the whore’s face, dislocating her jaw, splitting her upper lip and busting her nose with a single blow of the sole of her foot, which was not shod with a traditional boot but rather swathed in tightly wound ivory cloth like that of a dancer. Catsai then twisted her entire body and lashed out with her other leg, briefly suspended in mid-air, jamming her foot beneath the chin of the first of the two men attempting to batter her with their cues. She flexed her ankle and rolled her toes expertly against the man’s throat, buckling his windpipe with a vicious delicacy and causing him to stumble backwards, choking and bug-eyed.

Even before her two victims had fallen Catsai then added the third, landing back on her feet with perfect balance and instantly slamming a fist into the curvature of the second man’s ribcage, causing it to splinter under the impact. Then, as the fellow spasmed in agony, she flicked up her elbow into the side of his head at such an angle that it shattered his right eye-socket and dislodged the cartilage of his nose, making his face appear to crumple like a beer can.

On the bar counter, the black cat began preening its whiskers.

Catsai whirled, still brandishing her whip in her right hand whilst the left crept to her waist, and the pair of Sais that were belted there in thin scabbards. Her fingers – bound in that same ivory cloth as her feet – closed about the golden hilt of one Sai and withdrew it with a whisper of steel, revealing its distinctive, triple-pronged blade, akin to the head of a trident. A man with a knife darted in towards her and received a quicksilver thrust of the Sai dagger to his gut for his trouble. He flailed weakly with his own weapon but Catsai deflected it with her forearm and clubbed him viciously between the eyes with the butt of her whip, sending him sprawling, blood oozing thickly from three circular wounds in his stomach. The man would die. That was okay. That was often what men did best.

Catsai spun once more as a fat, tattooed woman approached, ducking instinctively beneath a hurled punch and kicking out at her attacker’s closest leg, rupturing her kneecap and bringing her to ground, whereupon she stamped on her other knee and broke that too. The fat woman screamed until she was silenced by a sidefoot sweep to the head. A few feet away yet another man had drawn a handgun and was attempting to draw a bead. Catsai cracked her whip and the lash stripped a neat layer of flesh from the man’s face, right across the bridge of the nose like war paint, causing him to scream and drop his weapon.

That made seven in a period of less than a minute. Catsai wasn’t even breathing heavily, unless excitement counted. She always enjoyed her work.

“Enough!” a male voice bellowed. “Jesus Christ! Jesus! What the hell are you doing?”

Catsai glanced up to see a portly fellow in a pinstripe suit cowering over in a corner booth, clutching a silver briefcase to his chest. Balding and bespectacled, the man was pale, his expression aghast, as he surveyed the bloody carnage that had ripped through the room like an angry tornado. Catsai smiled.

“Samuel Falcone-Silke, I presume,” she breathed. “Otherwise known as The Arranger. You’re a difficult man to track down, Sammy. This is the third scum-hole I’ve been forced to visit tonight. I’m going to earn myself a reputation as a barfly.”

Samuel ran a hand over his smooth pate, then shook his head in disbelief. “You psychopathic bitch!” he muttered. “You can’t… you can’t just…”

“Kill people? I think you have me confused with my contemporaries. Dark Claw, Sparrow, Moonwing… they may be more inclined towards self-restraint but, unfortunately for you, I don’t share their perspective. Besides,” Catsai’s lips curled into a snarl, “You deserve it. All of you. Sign on to Fisk’s payroll and you become fair prey.”

Samuel simply stared at the woman before him, incredulous. She was heart-seizure stunning, of that there was no doubt; her midnight-black hair, crowned by a golden headdress, fell sharp and straight like knife-blades about a delicate, half-moon face that was dominated by those iridescent green eyes and a mischievous smile; her body was a stone-cold killer, lithe and curvaceous, sheathed so tight in gleaming black leather her skin hissed every time she moved. But, beneath the surface, madness bubbled like something hot and black. She wore the blood she had spilled like perfume, and even now raised the back of her wrist to her lips to lap absently at a daub of red on the ivory cloth with a tiny, pink tongue.

Sammy Falcone-Silke, right hand man to New Gotham’s own version of The Devil, flinched as his nerve broke – and then, knowing that this woman intended to kill him, he dropped his case and turned to run. Catsai flicked out her hand and there was a flash of silver upon the air – and Samuel screamed as a Sai speared him through the back of his knee, cutting him off in mid-stride and causing him to collapse like a child’s discarded rag doll. Catsai wandered nonchalantly over to the shrieking, writhing man and stared down at him without the slightest hint of remorse. She stretched out a long leg and stroked his cheek with the side of her foot, flicking away his spectacles, then hooked her toes beneath the line of his jaw, exerting just enough pressure to make him mewl.

The black cat on the bar glanced up, eyes bright.

Catsai said, “Tell me the name of the individual who killed Karen Vale…”

TWO

[Three hours earlier…]

Dedicated to New Gotham’s previous Mayor, a popular man who had died in suspicious circumstances during a hunting trip the previous year, the Hugo Osborn Memorial in Bridwell Plaza was a fifty-metre tall edifice of modern art, an obelisk of banded green-and-white onyx marble that tapered to a sharp point at its apex like an anorexic pyramid. Tonight, just like every night, the Memorial was respectfully lit by four halogens set into concrete squares at each corner of the pyramid. Thus, the woman’s corpse that was currently impaled on the summit of the obelisk was brightly illuminated, akin to a particularly gruesome parody of yuletide with the fairy at the top of the tree.

Loitering at the edge of the crime scene – an area that encompassed almost the entire open face of the Plaza, considering the blood splatter had sprayed in all directions for an extraordinary distance – NGPD detectives Jean Montoya and Crispus Carter looked on with scowls that were so identical it was if they’d spent all week practising. Montoya – short, Hispanic, pretty in a sad way – was dragging on a cigarette, whilst Carter – tall, African-American, smug in a smug way – was sipping at a cup of bad coffee, trying to ignore the steam that was fogging his glasses.

“Witnesses say she just fell out of the sky, screaming,” Carter murmured. “Guess we can take that as gospel. I mean, how else is a body going to end up fifty metres in the air, right?”

Montoya exhaled a smoke ring.

“Lot of blood,” Carter said. “How far do you think she fell? Corpse is relatively intact, considering, so probably wasn’t from a plane or anything like that. Reckon whoever did it was aiming for the spike. You think?”

Montoya grimaced.

Carter nodded. “Pretty obvious, I suppose. Hugo Osborn’s cenotaph? Guess that’s sending a message that there’s a new Mayor in town and he’s not going away any time soon. Especially considering the identity of the deceased…”

Montoya puffed. Carter glanced towards the north end of the Plaza and the dark silhouette that dominated the skyline; fifteen storeys taller than any other building in New Gotham and a hell of a lot more than fifteen times uglier, the twisted obscenity that was Arkham Tower, built upon the ruined foundations of what had once been an accursed asylum, loomed like an veritable Barad-dûr over the dark city.

“So,” Carter said quietly. “Which one of us gets to tell poor Jimmy Urich that his fiancée is dead?”

Montoya dropped the butt of her cigarette and crushed it beneath the pointed toe of her boot. Carter sighed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I figured.”

At that moment there was a sound overhead – a scrape of slate, soft, seemingly innocuous. However, in New Gotham, nothing was insignificant. Montoya and Carter both glanced up towards the ridge of the balcony beneath which they were standing, passing time as they awaited the delivery of initial results from the forensics team who were busying themselves about the crime scene. Montoya’s eyes, already dark, now narrowed to knife-cuts. Carter sipped thoughtfully at his coffee.

“Was it him, do you think?” he asked, eventually.

Montoya shook her head. “He wouldn’t have made a noise,” she said, her voice harsh with the rasp of a regulation two-packs-a-day. “It was one of the others. For all the difference it makes.”

A few feet away, a black cat padded into view. It glanced at the detectives, its eyes shining like torchlight in the night. It hissed.

Montoya lit another cigarette.

She hated this bitch of a city…

[Now…]

“Karen Vale: twenty-three years old, a junior member of the news team of television network WNGN, due to be married to fellow reporter Jimmy Urich six months from now. Jimmy Urich: twenty-one years of age, considered to be in line to become the youngest ever winner of all the top national journalism awards after his recent expose of the corrupt mayoral administration of Edward Fisk.”

Catsai pressed down with the arch of her toes against Sammy Falcone-Silke’s throat where he lay upon the barroom floor, causing him to gag and flail.

“Edward Fisk,” Catsai hissed, leaning in close, her green eyes flashing dark. “Mayor of New Gotham despite criminal convictions in his youth whilst operating under the moniker of The Big Question, a name relating to his considerable physical bulk and also for his obsessive penchant for riddles, wordplay and allegory. Edward Fisk, accused of extortion, drug trafficking and murder. Edward Fisk, the man who recently tried to kill another woman with his own bare hands – a woman who happens to mean a great deal to me…”

The black cat on the bar cocked its head. Catsai breathed deeply.

“Edward Fisk,” she said, more calmly. “Your employer, Samuel. Tonight Karen Vale was found murdered, her body impaled on the Hugo Osborn Memorial. I’m thinking Fisk ordered her execution, to be carried out in idiosyncratically symbolic fashion. You would have arranged that, Samuel. That’s your purpose. Now you’re going to tell me everything I want to know.”

Sammy moaned, his spectacles askew, his brow beaded with sweat. “I can’t!” he croaked. “He’ll kill me, you know that! He - ”

Catsai shifted her weight and Sammy’s neck twisted. His eyes bulged.

“The case,” he spat. “In the case. There’s money, a location… I was just about to head out to make the payment. I promise. Please…”

Keeping her foot lodged against the man’s throat, Catsai bent elegantly at the waist and snatched up the silver case that Sammy had been carrying. He told her the lock combination with gasping breaths and she checked inside. There were a number of reams of used dollar bills and a business card for an art-house theatre. Catsai flashed the card in Sammy’s direction and he grunted an affirmative. She smiled.

“There now,” she purred. “Your cooperation deserves a reward, don’t you think?”

She tossed the case aside, unconcerned at the fact that it spilled its monetary contents over the floor. Then, she reached down and pulled her Sai from where it was still embedded in the back of Sammy’s leg, sprinkling blood. Sammy squealed. The black cat on the bar jumped to the floor and slinked away into the shadows. The scene, it knew, was done. Save for one last act.

“We both know Fisk would kill you slowly, Samuel,” Catsai said, softly. “So this is actually a mercy.”

She withdrew her foot then, but before the man before her could move she stabbed out with the Sai, penetrating the dimple at the bridge of his nose with the longest prong and shoving it in deep, through his skull and brain beyond, the two other spikes puncturing both his eyes into the bargain. Samuel Falcone-Silke died with a grunt and a shudder, hands windmilling then falling limp. Catsai then slid her blade free and wiped her victim’s blood on his suit before turning back towards those other patrons of the bar who remained, wide-eyed and ashen-faced. Her own expression nonchalant, Catsai raised an eyebrow, a curl of a smile still twitching at the corner of her lips.

“Anyone else?” she asked. After a long moment of silence, she nodded. “Yes,” she breathed. “That’s what I thought.”

And with that, she strode from Lenny’s, leaving a trail of death in her wake.

THREE

The man who was not a man stood at the rooftop’s edge and stared out into the night. He had chosen this location for the meeting because it would remind of his purpose. He knew that the temperature would be cold, if only he could feel it; he knew that the scent of perfume and cigarette smoke would linger upon the air if only he could smell it; he knew that the laughter and conversation of those coming and going through the doors of the theatre below would rouse a sense of kinship within him if only he possessed flesh and heart and blood instead of metal and gears and oil. He wanted to scream. He wanted to weep. He wanted to be part of the world or to shatter it between his fists like glass – anything to end this torment.

That was his purpose. And tonight he took a significant step towards achieving the humanity that was denied him.

He had no name, just a designation: his creator, an engineering genius specialising in advanced robotics called William Magnus, had christened him The Black Vulture. He was an artificial construct, staggeringly sophisticated in design but in truth no more human than an automobile or a clock or a toaster oven. But then, what was humanity in itself? Organic machines powered by some inexplicable spiritual essence… surely, then, it was not inconceivable that he could eventually become human? These fleshlings, they extended their precious lives through the painstaking replacement of faulty organs and limbs with mechanics and prosthetics and transplants. Why could the process not work in the opposite direction?

There were those in this world who had devoted themselves to genetics and biological science just as Doctor Magnus had nurtured his own obsession. Promises had been made that, for the right price, The Black Vulture could attain the humanity he craved. That price, however, was high. For weeks now he had sought to attain the funds he required via petty theft, but heists were ineffectual in this modern era of electronic financial transfers – and so he had hired out his one expertise, exploiting the solitary purpose of his original creation. He had become a killer.

Tonight he had slaughtered a woman he had never met at the behest of a man just as much a stranger, for which he would be recompensed with not only with a quarter of a million dollars but also, more importantly, with a contract: tonight he had earned himself a position as chief assassin for Edward Fisk, The Big Question. Just a half dozen more assignments and corresponding payments and –

The Black Vulture turned at a sudden sound, the movement of his head accompanied by a soft, mechanical whir. In the light of a full moon that hung low overhead he saw a small form scamper across the roof before him: a black cat, tail hooked like a query mark. Then the cat vanished…

…and, a few metres further back, a slender figure clad in black leathers and ivory cloth stepped from the shadows, eyes bright behind the dark curtain of her hair, moonlight glinting on the tri-bladed Sais she clutched in either hand.

“I was expecting The Big Question’s Arranger,” The Black Vulture stated, his voice an eerily inhuman hum.

“Samuel Falcone-Silke is dead,” said Catsai. “I’m not here as an emissary of Fisk. I’m here as an emissary of a city that’s been stained by his filth. Don’t take it personally. I’ve just made it my mission to ensure any attempt on his part to regain a foothold in Gotham meets with failure – and that includes employing the likes of you.”

The man who was not a man inclined his head slowly, a flicker of electricity sparking in metal cavities that passed for eyes in a gleaming shell that passed for a face. On either side of his head a pair of discs that were more membranous than metal – ears, perhaps? – throbbed with a pale green glow. Moonlight traced the lines of a humanoid body punctuated with spines and studs and rivets, cast dark in black and green-tinted chrome. And then The Black Vulture spread his arms…

…and extended wings each some five metres across, crafted from dozens of interlaced slivers of green-black steel honed with a razor edge. The sound of the wings unfurling was like the simultaneous sharpening of a thousand knife blades. Catsai stared on, mute, her heart pounding, paralysed at the sight of the nigh-demonic creature before her.

“You have… interfered,” The Black Vulture hissed, flexing hands that consisted of little more than long, jagged claws. “And for that I shall break you.”

Moonlight reflected upon steel and leather, coming together in a sudden blur of motion. Catsai grunted and rolled her body, shifting her weight into her hips and sweeping up both arms with all her strength. Her Sais were directed at an angle specific to piercing her attacker at gut and throat, but her blades merely glanced off The Black Vulture’s shell; in contrast, her enemy’s razor wings slashed through her leather bodysuit and the flesh beneath with ease, and his claws would have disembowelled her from sternum to groin had she not twisted to protect herself. As it was she was thrown backwards off her feet, skidding along the asphalt rooftop with legs splayed, scarlet rivers trailing in her wake. She gasped in pain as she attempted to scramble clear but another attack shredded her back and propelled her sideways, almost to the edge of the roof. One Sai flew from her grasp. She heard a cry above her, an unholy shriek of metal against metal, and smelled hot grease mingling with the scent of her own blood. Then that nightmarish visage loomed into view, eyes blazing, twin discs on either side of the shining faceplate glowing a luminescent green, pulsing like hungry mouths…

…and then, claws closed about Catsai’s throat.

“Care for a ride?” The Black Vulture hissed. “Miss Vale would recommend it; she had the time of her life!”

And then, in a rush, they were aloft, rocketing skywards. Catsai twisted, gasping for breath, but the grip about her neck was too strong. She saw the moon, and clouds, and endless swathes of dark. Her captor emitted a harsh sound that was something close to a cackle, and his steel wings beat like a hurricane. Then, suddenly, they were upside down and Catsai found herself staring at the glittering lights of buildings and traffic from very, very far away.

“Your predecessor screamed for me,” The Black Vulture rasped. “Will you scream, little one?”

Catsai gazed up through green eyes that now glinted like stones, full of hate and defiance. Her attacker hovered, thrumming with power.

“Silence?” he snarled. “So be it.”

And then, he released his grip…

…and Catsai fell.

FOUR

It is said that a cat always lands upon its feet; however, this far above the ground, the point was moot. Elektra Kyle growled deep in her throat as she fell, reacting instinctively, swivelling her hips in mid-air and kicking out with both legs – not flailing in panic but rather shifting her weight with very specific purpose. She cradled her remaining Sai with one hand and with the other snatched at her whip, looped and clipped at the belt about her waist. Her fingers curled tight about the handle as the whipcord came loose. Above her, The Black Vulture was ready to wheel away in triumph.

Catsai had a split second in which to act. That was all she needed.

Directing her body so that she could utilise the momentum of her plunge she snapped out her arm and lashed her whipcord towards her adversary’s trailing legs. The cord snared his ankles and caught tight. He faltered, thrown off balance, then glanced down to see that the job was not done. His inhuman face was incapable of scowling but the flare of his eyes was indication enough of his rage; he curled one wing, razor tips glittering in the moonlight, intending to sever the cord that sought to capture him like a common fowl. To which Catsai smiled.

Judging to perfection The Black Vulture’s attempts to regain his balance, Catsai pulled one way and then the other on her whipcord, gaining a measure of impetus, then brought her knees up to her chest and flipped backwards, pulling down on her lash as her body was propelled in the opposite direction. Her enemy could have avoided her approach had he not been so astonished by her agility and poise; instead he hesitated, allowing Catsai to pass within touching distance of him. She pirouetted in mid-air, with feline grace…

…then landed upon The Black Vulture’s back, between the span of his wings, legs scissoring tight about his waist. She ducked low, grinning, her mouth close to the glowing membranes on either side of his head.

“For a man of steel to fly,” she breathed, “He would require an internal power source with an anti-gravity core, yes? And such a core would, in turn, require an emissions outlet…”

She curled her arm about her adversary’s neck and then positioned the point of the long blade of her Sai against the glowing disc on the left side of his head. The Black Vulture hummed, energy crackling within his metal shell.

“An elementary supposition,” he rasped, “But not one that leads to any advantage. Steal away my power of flight and we shall both die.”

For a moment they remained locked together, as if sharing an intimate dance, gliding in lazy circles upon outstretched wings. Then, Catsai slowly pulled back her weapon…

…and stabbed forward once more, her prong penetrating The Black Vulture’s head through one of his glowing discs and then punching out though the other, skewering the power core housed inside his metal skull and causing it to rupture in a shower of sparks. The man who was not a man shrieked, wings suddenly wracked with spasms and energy tendrils leaking from his wounds.

“Such bitter irony,” Catsai purred, in the moment before they began to plummet to the city streets far below. “You claim that we’ll die – yet do either of us really have a life to lose…?”

[One hour later…]

The woman lay in the hospital bed, the upper half of her face from crown to the tip of her nose swathed in bandages. Alongside her, the machine to which she was connected by a series of tubes and wires bleeped softly. It was a steady, monotonous sound that on other nights had lulled her into welcome sleep… but not tonight.

Tonight, Slade Murdock was very much awake.

“I know you’re there,” she murmured. “I can hear you breathing. Not to mention the creak of the window where the wood is settling beneath your boots as you crouch upon the frame. And the way your muscles move beneath your cloak, especially the ones stiffened by scars. And the way your heart skips when you hear my voice after so long, and when you look upon me as I am now…”

Slade didn’t turn her head towards the window. She wouldn’t have done so even if her eyes hadn’t been covered with bandages. After all, she had been blind for many years now.

She breathed, “Hello, Logan.”

The figure in the shadows made no attempt to move. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice as deep and dark as a well of sorrows.

“For not visiting? Or for what Fisk did to me?” Slade raised a hand to her forehead, her fingers hesitant and trembling. “He took them away, you know,” she whispered. “He gave me horns for the sake of amusement, and then when I no longer entertained him he took them away again…”

“I’m sorry because I’m bringing bad news.”

There was silence between them, not for the first time in their lives. They had shared far more than that, of course, but it was the silence that always defined them, neither having ever truly been able to trust in the other. It was the fact that they were so alike that had driven them apart.

“There was a battle,” said the man who wore the darkness like a second shroud. “Witnesses saw her and her opponent both fall from a great height. The creature she was fighting – an automation – was all but destroyed, its remains taken into maximum security storage. But otherwise…”

“Her body wasn’t recovered.”

“No.” The shadows shifted. “She isn’t human, is she?”

There was no need for either of them to state specifically who they were talking about, theirs was a ménage à trois with so much bitter history. Slade Murdock’s lips curled into a thin smile. “She was human once,” she murmured. “We all were. Remember? Besides, it’s common knowledge that cats have nine lives…”

“Does she have access to The Lazarus Pit? Is that the secret?”

“Not exactly. It’s all connected, of course… as you well know, so many things in this world are connected. But that’s a mystery you’ll have to work out all by yourself. You are a detective, after all.”

Eyes flickered in the dark, accompanied by a feral snarl.

“She killed two men tonight, and maimed countless others. She’s out of control. Worse, since what happened to you.”

“And you’re going to be the one to stop her?”

Silence again. The shadows about the window shimmered, and a cast of moonlight fell suddenly upon the edge of a cowl and a jaw hewn with stubble. Despite her blindness, Slade Murdock turned her head upon her pillow, her face directed towards the light.

“Then I’ll wish you the best of luck, lover,” she breathed. “You’re going to need it…”

THE END