Issue #20: “Affairs of Blood and Fate, Part Six”

Previously, in New Outsiders #49...
...the sands of the hourglass count down on the two different times, as the Church of Blood rises in the 1930s and in the present day! The Sanguine Father possesses everything he needs for the Rite of Deciding: the First and Second Prophecies of St. Dumas, and the Twice-Named Vessel; as the heroes gather at last in Arizona to stop him, he is ready to use the Rite to roll back enlightenment and hope by erasing the Holy Grail and restoring an age of bloody magic represented by the Cauldron of Pwyll! Brother Blood has claimed the Holy Grail in St. Peter’s Square as his (willing and unwilling) devout servants battle the Outsiders and their allies, stretched by the global chase and worn down emotionally with the death of Speed Saunders and the secrets and hidden agendas bubbling within the group; secrets that were given voice at the worst moment when Anarky revealed himself as a traitor, killed his father Brother Blood and claimed the Cup of Christ and the Church of Blood for his own, all while telling Batwoman the truth: she murdered Vito Bertinelli and her friends made her forget! Now the heroes of two times face their most vulnerable moments in the face of powerful forces out to reshape the future!

And now...



Church of Blood Compound in Flagstaff,
as 1935 becomes 1936
“They come,” growled the tigress as she paced the rose-lined walkway that led to the huge cathedral behind her and her allies. Her breath could be seen on the cool night air, as she added, “I can smell them. The monkey is with them.”

“He did seem to take our theft personally,” Quater acknowledged as he clenched and stretched his fingers in preparation.

“It does not matter,” Furst said as he and his five “brothers” stared unblinking at the main entrance to the compound. “None of them shall pass, and none of them shall survive this foolish charge.”

“What of the one we can’t see?” Thrice asked as he rolled his shoulders.

“Kill Psychic as quickly as we can, and whatever magic she cast should subside,” Furst answered without hesitation. “Then we can make this unseen one pay.”

“Hopefully a number of times,” chuckled Senary with a cracking of his knuckles.

“He has been particularly irritating,” Quince agreed as he stood stock still and waited.

The dark grew quiet again now as the seven figures stood as a solid wall, and waited. Not for long, as the gates to the grounds were thrown open, hard and fast, a challenge to all. In stormed Azrael, sword drawn and clutched in his hands as he glared past the defenders and to the church beyond.

“Stand aside or know the taste of righteous fury!” he announced as he continued his march.

Behind him came the the others, a line of adventurers, tensed and wary, a step or two behind the champion of the Order of St. Dumas. The tension rose with each foot of distance closed, as enemies peered out across the darkness, back and forth, weighing strengths and weaknesses. The Society of Six shifted from one foot to another, rolled shoulders and stretched necks; Midnight unbuttoned his suit coat, while Speed Saunders rolled up his shirt sleeves. Nmura the Gorilla Knight stood straight and tall, heavy knuckles beating on his chest as he bellowed a fierce challenge that rattled the enemy on a mental level thanks to his telepathy. Tigra Tropica licked her lips; Rima let slip a wordless prayer. Andrew Bennett’s eyes flared red and angry; Furst’s lips curled into a vicious sneer.

And then Azrael, who had reached the enemy, called out, “Optat Deus!” and the battle was joined. The holy warrior crashed into Secund and Thrice, slashed at one and kicked at the other as the two lines surged against each other. Tigra Tropica’s sleek body leaped into the air to pounce on Azrael from the side, but was brutally intercepted by Nmura’s powerful arms; they wrapped around her tawny midsection and drove her back to the ground. Nicodemus and Speed closed with the Society member called Quater, lashing out high and low as the thick man blocked and attacked in kind.

Thrice vaulted past Azrael as the holy warrior found his sword jammed into Secund’s torso, trapped by the construct’s dense physique, as Secund’s ham-hands grabbed each side of the helmet and jammed the champion’s face into his knee. Thrice raced for Midnight, his back turned toward the threat as he grappled with Quince, but Trin Dee leaped out of the dark and brought her foot across Thrice’s head, spinning him away from her lover.

Furst and Senary reached the rear of the attackers, determined to find and kill Rose Psychic, and instead found themselves engaged with Andrew’s fury; teeth bared in a snarl, the vampire hurtled into the two, iron-hard muscles flinging them back, and like the predator he was, unleashed after so long restrained by his morality, leaped immediately after them.

Rose Psychic and Eel O’Brien watched the nobleman’s assault in equal levels of shock. “I accepted that he was a vampire, knew that he strove hard each day to hold the bloodlust in check,” Rose said softly as she squeezed Eel’s hand for reassurance. “But even I never imagined...”

“Ain’t you our group know-it-all though, Rose?” Eel said as he took hold of the hand and led her around the perimeter of the battle, slow and quiet in the cloak of night. “I don’t like seeing you rattled about something that’s your bailiwick.”

“Andrew’s normally so civilized, you forget the truth about him from time to time,” Rose admitted. “Be that as it may. Patrick, we need to get past the fight and into the church. I sense the source of the Rite of Six is beneath the church, somewhere.”

“Okay then, now we’re talking my bailiwick,” Eel replied with a grin. “Let’s try something. You stay behind me, and maybe if the Society can’t see me, they can’t see through me.”

“Interesting notion,” Rose said with a light laugh, and did her best to shadow the grifter as he led them slowly toward the building. All the while, fists, feet and swords, fang and claw lashed at each other back and forth.

“Where is the psychic?” Furst called out as he pivoted and threw Andrew with a tidy hip throw. “Find her, kill her!”

“She’s hiding behind her little bodyguard, but my senses pick her out,” Tigra snarled as she swiped at Nmura’s eyes and forced him back, and allowed her to leap for her prey.

“No you don’t, treacherous beast,” Rima said in a steely whisper. She stepped in from somewhere the tigress didn’t notice, and held her hand firm as she spoke in her odd, ancient seemingly-nonsense language.

Tigra Tropica roared as her body seized up in response to the jungle woman’s command, and she shifted into her human form swiftly. “Don’t seek to command me, human stain!” She punched Rima hard in the jaw, but then felt Nmura’s powerful hands grab her waist and throw her back away from Rima, Eel and Rose, and into the heart of the battle.

“You okay?” Eel asked, but Rima merely waved them to continue.

Trin Dee was a whirlwind of motion; never before, not even in her sworn duties against the Cult of the Blood Red Moon, had she fought so hard, so fast, so unrelentlessly. Every punch to Thrice was immediately followed by a kick to Secund, and a head butt to Senary; and each blow drew her closer to Quince and Quater, who teamed up now on Midnight. The masked man’s injured arm slowed him down, and left him vulnerable on his now-tattered left side.

“Get away from him!” Trin yelled, her face contorted in rage as she lashed at the two Society members. She ignored the broken lip and the trickle of blood from her forehead as she fought like a hurricane.

Speed glanced at Nicodemus as the two of them recovered from Quater’s initial assault and charged in to give Trin some relief now. “This is great, Nick,” Speed grunted as he tackled Quater at the knees. “Trin’s losing it, Andrew’s lost it, and Azrael never had it! What the hell is making us all go nuts?”

“The blasphemy!” Nicodemus replied as he ran the handle of his scourge into Quater’s face, momentarily dazing the thug. “Sanguine Father’s Rite of Deciding, it’s trying to restore the primitive, dark, bloody days of our worst history. He’s trying to shut out the light of hope!”

“I shall not let that happen!” Azrael roared as he heard Nicodemus’s words. “I will uphold the Prophecies of St. Dumas!” He swung his sword and lopped off the head of Secund, but it didn’t keep the brute’s hands from latching onto his neck and trying to squeeze.

“This close to the puppet master, there is no killing these automatons,” Nmura grumbled as he grabbed up the head in his paw and brought it down to strike Tigra’s face as she shifted back into her animal form. “But at least they can be of some use to us!”

“Quick, inside,” Eel urged Rose as he blocked as much of the door as possible, and then slipped into the lobby of the church. Rose ducked in and glanced around in the dim candlelight. The two of them took a moment as they felt the ceremony being conducted in the heart of the building; they could feel the seething power being built up by the Sanguine Father, and could feel his seductive and insidious presence even here.

“I can sense a woman...She’s...” Rose glanced around, not truly looking at her surroundings, but trying to look beyond them with a sense beyond sight. “...she’s conducting the Rite of the Six...Not in the church...Beneath it, maybe.”

“Makes sense,” Eel said with a nod and a lack of jokes. His heart pounded, and sweat trickled down his back. He wanted to run, more than ever, but his eyes caught Rose’s for a moment and he felt her hand in his. He swallowed hard around the painful lump in his throat, then grinned. “So if I were a power-mad religious mastermind, where would I hide my secret entrances?”

“More than one?”

“Has to be,” he said. “I bet one’s up there, under the altar. There’s no real purpose for that altar otherwise, because it’s too small for a sacrifice, and it’s not like this is a church with a bible and wafers and all that rigmarole.” He stroked his jaw and grinned wider now, a more sincere grin. “But if I’m a paranoid mastermind able to hide my old obviously blasphemous Church of Blood under a different name...of course I’m gonna have an escape hatch for my secret rooms.” He led Rose across the small lobby as a goal formed in his mind.

St. Peter’s Square, Vatican City,
in the Present
Zatanna regained consciousness to find herself on the roof of the Vatican; she felt it cracking beneath her and quickly uttered a translocation spell. Immediately all those gathered there found themselves transported down to the ground below, just before the roof would have given way; though her friend didn’t notice, for Batwoman the roof had already fallen in.

“Come on, please, you have to snap out of this, now is not the time to lose it!” Black Canary urgently pleaded with her friend, but it was no use. Batwoman sank to her knees, eyes staring out sightlessly as she tried to absorb all those horrid words and images drawn out by the Outsiders’ traitor.

“You did this, you little bastard!” Grace roared as she charged toward Anarky. She got within arm’s reach when Mother Mayhem stepped up next to her and rested a hand on the tattooed, steel-like shoulder.

“No, Sister Grace, do not lose sight of the truth now,” Mother Mayhem said softly, almost cooing in her ear. Grace spun, fist brought up high, but their eyes met and Grace was paused in mid-blow. “The truth: treacherous, conniving, corrupted Outsiders, or loving family in Blood?”

“‘Scuse me, bird-lady, but I got a date with a Bat,” Skorpio said as the drama played out with his superiors. His arm swept into Canary’s midsection and knocked her aside. He glared at the unmoving Batwoman and prepared to thrust his clawed hands into her face. “This is gonna be double the fun, killing you and scoring a Bat to my cred!”

Barbara Gordon barely heard a whisper of words over the roar in her own head. She saw nothing, as the idea of murder blackened her soul and treachery sapped her will. Skorpio’s hand thrust for her face, but her hand lashed out and caught it. She casually twisted it as she stood up, and brought the limb down over an up-thrust knee that twisted it cruelly out of shape, and then she casually tossed the screaming killer to the side. She saw nothing, felt nothing, but her body knew: around her, everywhere around her...nothing but enemies.

“Holy crap, Batwoman’s gone mad!” Huntress called out as she watched the red-haired heroine move past Skorpio with a calm step. Then came a sidekick out of nowhere that caught Riddler in the jaw, all the paralyzing riddles in his repertoire unable to stop an unthinking mind.

“Thanks for the save, Bats,” Plastic Man moaned as he tried to pull himself together, but Batwoman said nothing. She jumped up and landed her feet on the back of his pliable skull, smashing his face into the pavement and leaping for Mother Mayhem; she then bounced off her back as she forced Mayhem into Grace’s indestructible body, and spun in mid-air to land a brutal kick across Zatanna’s nose with a crack. “I miss something?” Plas spat out rubble and watched as Batwoman never paused in her mayhem.

“Nothing’s saving your team, so it doesn’t matter!” Spider called out as he released an arrow at Huntress. “Your righteousness is as hollow as my old man’s, and now everyone around can see it, writ large in Vigilante’s blood!” Huntress desperately spun away, and the cloak took some of the shot, but she still felt her shoulder blade opened up by the missile. She backflipped almost immediately as another arrow sped her way, tearing into nearby rubble as she narrowly avoided being hit again.

“Get up, you whiny little piss-ant!” Shadow Thief growled at Skorpio as he slung a flexed flat arm around the assassin’s chest and hauled him to his feet. “We’re in a war, you’re gonna get hurt, all you can do is inflict some worse hurt back! So do it!”

Skorpio yelped in pain as he was hauled around, but flexed his tail and released several blasts of energy to help throw apart the heroes as they attempted to collect themselves again. “Gotta get outta...here...” he whimpered as he pulled himself from Shadow Thief and held his limp arm.

“Screw you!” Thief snapped and slithered off into the shadows of the rubble as the human cyclone that was Batwoman spun toward him. The roundhouse kick meant for Thief’s head instead smashed the frightened Skorpio’s jaw and drove him back to the ground again.

Off to one side of the battleground, a cardinal stirred, Brother Blood having discarded the apparent Church leader like garbage when he was done with him. Now his gloved hand reached up to hold his battered head. The things he went through with Blood to reach this point. He stood, leaned against a wall and reached for a hidden pocket beneath the quickly-snatched vestments he wore. “Stupidest plan you ever came up with, Dave...but it got you where you needed to be, didn’t it?” he whispered to himself, and slipped out the blue-black cloth. With a subtle move of his fingers, he caught Azrael’s quickly-disintegrating focus, and then nodded his head toward the holy vessel in Anarky’s hand. He shrugged the borrowed robes off his broad shoulders, and stood tall at last. He unbuttoned his dark blue suit coat, wrapped his mask around his eyes, and unfurled his fedora, settling it squarely onto his bruised head.

Then the man called Midnight moved into position.

The Past
Rose Psychic could hear the noise from the top of the narrow staircase; she clenched her ruby lips firmly against the sick feeling in her heart as she listened to Eel do his best to hold back the few guards who had caught them at the secret passage. He’d done so much more than she ever expected, ever intended really. She was very proud of him, and now she had to do her part.

The ritual chamber was a flickering array of candles and shadows and dancing, squiggling sigils; each represented a concept older than humanity. All of these whirled around Abbess Anarchy, who knelt in the center, chanting, brow knit in near-total concentration as she maintained the Rite of the Six. “How did...you...evade them?” she finally whispered in a hoarse voice as she let one blue eye gaze at Rose.

“Tantra,” was all the black-haired woman answered as she moved up to the outer circle etched into the ground.

“Sex magic? I hope he was good-looking at least,” the Abbess said as she slowly rose to her feet, a hand clenched tight.

“Foolish girl, it’s not about the sex, and that’s why you and your master overlooked it,” Rose said with narrowed eyes. “You know why I’m here, of course.”

“My Society will crush your allies, and you can’t stop me, not now, I will not let the Sanguine Father down!” she practically screeched, and threw glittering gold and silver dust into the air with a single ancient nonsense word thrown into the air as well.

The glittering dust bore into Rose’s eyes; all she could see were flashes of silver and gold stars now, and all she could hear was the laugh of the wicked ritualist.

“I’m going to kill you, and your blood will be a foundation of the newly-risen Church of Blood, and my beloved Father will honor me above all others!” Abbess Anarchy declared as she grabbed up a slim curved dagger and stepped forward.

“You know what Freud would say about a sentence like that?” Rose asked, calm despite her blindness. She reached out on a different level, a higher level. Her mental awareness found the churning tide of emotions in her opponent. “He’d start with the insecurities it reveals,” she added as she reached down deep into Abbess Anarchy’s recent youth, pulled forth the older brother lost in the Great War; the younger brother lured into the seedy world of gangsters and booze; a father, with a wife dead from tuberculosis and only a daughter to tend his farm, hardened to her pleas for love. All of these memories were torn from where Gail Swensen had buried them when she devoted herself to the handsome and powerful Sanguine Father; when she gave herself to him, her first and her only true love.

Abbess Anarchy dropped the dagger and clutched her temples and screamed in anguish. She dropped to her knees and sobbed as Rose Psychic continued her assault, merciless. “Then he’d focus on the way they’ve subverted your dreams.” Her life, as she wished it, as she’d imagined it could be: with her family, and then with her own family to raise, and growing old, and watching sunsets from a porch with a kindly husband; all of it now soaked with blood, washed away in a crimson tide.

“It’s not your fault, not totally, Gail, but I can’t let that stop me,” Rose finished as she stepped up, slow and unsure of her footing, and then her fingers found the young woman’s soft brown hair, and pressed firmly but tenderly to her scalp. “I’m sorry.” And Gail’s weeping stopped as she fell over, asleep, awash in disturbed dreams of what might have been. Rose blinked her eyes clear and turned her attention to dismantling the ritual room.

The Present
“Blasphemer!” Azrael cried out as he charged Anarky and slammed an armored shoulder into the crimson-cloaked enemy. Eyes guarded beneath a helmet locked onto eyes hidden by a golden mask, and Ramsey Spencer felt a different anger surge inside him for a moment. “Mom’s friends were good to you, and you spit on them, and treat them like this? I’ll kill you, not just for God!”

The metal gauntlet of his left hand cracked suddenly against Anarky’s right hand and made a quick twist, reclaiming his sword, as his opponent brought his knee up into the warrior’s short ribs and pushed him off-balance for a moment.

“You tool! You don’t get it, do you? It’s not about some fake guy in the clouds, or corrupt institutions, or pretenders to social change like Bat’s buddies,” Anarky replied in a rising voice. The mask hid the gleeful surprised look when his hand didn’t hurt punching metal, and at the amount of force he inflicted on his foe. Blood’s cloak, suffused with blood, gave him the power at last to free the people of the world. “It’s about finally reaching that brave new world everyone talks about, but no one does nothing to make!” He swung his shock-rod with tremendous force, but the sword clanged hard against it, sparks flying as Azrael thrust himself forward, all his weight suddenly shoving Anarky back.

“I’m a tool? You’re the guy who fulfilled a religious curse!” Ramsey growled as he saw the signal from Midnight. He jabbed the pommel of his sword upward into Anarky’s wrist, and the gold-faced mastermind watched his numb fingers lose their grip on Christ’s cup as it sailed into the air once more. Ramsey’s mind filled again with his God-driven purpose, and his voice changed. “The son has slain the father and taken his church, but this time, there will be no son to kill you, Anarky! The Champion of St. Dumas will strike you down first!”

The Grail twisted in the air and landed in the hands of Midnight as the masked man raced across the broken square. He spied Rose to one side of the battlefield and gave a thumb’s up to her and she responded with her own nod. She closed her eyes and sent a thought out into the ether, to find the Symbol of Seven now far away, now in the hands of Dove at the headquarters of the Outsiders. To let the Symbol alert the last two players that the endgame had arrived.

“namowtaB pots!” Zatanna called in alarm as she leaped in front of her friend. Batwoman froze in mid-spin, her eyes glaring at the tuxedoed magician. There wasn’t much left to the shattered psyche still dealing with the weight of murder and betrayal, but enough burned in her eyes to rattle Zatanna.

“You did this to me,” she muttered angrily, eyes narrowed behind the cowl, her muscles tensed as she tried to fight against the magic. “You...did...this!”

“Please, listen, let me help you! Batwoman...listen to me...snap out of it, we need you!” Zatanna argued as she stepped up, smooth pale hands reaching for her friend’s gauntlets. The paralysis emboldened her, unafraid now of her friend’s physical rampage. She just tried to focus all her attentions on Barbara’s injured mind, and desperately struggled to sort out the right spell to cast to heal it.

“I hate you! I want you dead! You betrayed us all, you’re no better than Brother Blood!” Batwoman screamed as she broke the spell. A fist crashed into Zee’s face, and then a kick and then a vicious knee to drive the air from her lungs. “No better than Charlton, worse than Morrow...no better than your damned sister!” She screamed now as her assault continued.

Zatanna heard the words, felt the blows; all of it sank into every chink in her confidence, every self-doubt, each and every little fear burrowing into her mind and crushing her spirit. She couldn’t see the wicked smile on Twisted Sister’s face as she stood behind the wizardess, all her mental prowess bent toward the task of breaking the most powerful member of the enemy. She couldn’t see that Batwoman remained frozen impotently, sobbing as all she could do was sink into her own miasma. Zatanna could only suffer under what she perceived as the truth.

“teG em tuo fo ereh!” Zatanna screamed in horror, sobbing to herself briefly as she vanished with a pop of rushing air.

“Ha! Yes! Did you see that, Mother?” Twisted Sister cried as she kicked the air where Zatanna had been then stepped in closer and swept her leg against Batwoman’s leg, causing her to tumble frozen to the ground.

“Good work!” Mother Mayhem said with a wicked smile of her own, then turned her attentions back on Grace, who lashed out, as she struggled to determine if Blood’s conditioning or the Outsiders’ loyalties would drive her. “Sister Grace, get the Grail back, and break it!” she told the powerhouse. Before she could do anything else though, a powerful blast crashed against the small of her back and sent her rolling away from Grace and the duel between Azrael and Anarky.

“You call yourself a mother?” Manhunter accused as she drove a second blow of her staff into the unholy woman’s midsection. “Your son is murdered, cold and brutal, and all you can do is lick his murderer’s boots?”

Mother Mayhem rolled away from the second blow and pulled herself back up to her feet. Her fervently-divined strength let her block a third blow, and she stepped into Manhunter, a blow to her stomach sending the heroine reeling to the ground. “Wha-- I...” She paused, confused.

Manhunter leaped back up to her feet and grabbed Mayhem’s head, shoving it to the wreckage of Blood’s last stand, and letting the mother see the decapitated head. “Your son!”

Mother Mayhem lashed out in a primal scream, a straight arm throwing Manhunter back, but her head darted up toward Anarky. “Traitor! Killer! Heretic!”

The Past
Secund’s headless body suddenly stiffened up and fell to the ground, unmoving. The five remaining members of the Society turned as one to look at the shocking sight, and the adventurers grabbed the opportunity presented.

“Forward, allies! Let us storm this unholy structure!” Azrael cried as he ran past the disjointed defenders, and up the broad marble steps.

“You heard the man, now’s our chance!” Nicodemus said as he vaulted over a hunched Quater and dashed after the armored warrior.

“Right behind you, Nicky!” Midnight replied as he followed along.

Rima watched the three of them advance as the remaining group continued the battle with the surviving Society members and Tigra. She slipped away quietly, and found a tree to climb, and used it to leap onto the low-hanging eaves of the church building. Quickly she scrambled up the tiled roof, small, agile toes and sturdy fingers gripping each minute hold that they could find to propel her higher and higher.

“Right, guess this makes us the defenders now,” Speed said to the remaining three near him. “Move to the steps and hold the line, fellas! Give our guys the protection we can!”

Nmura grunted in response and grabbed up Tigra Tropica in his arms, then threw her hard. He bled from several vicious claw marks, and one shoulder barely worked from the massive bite wound, but he refused to slow down as his telepathic prowess continued to confuse the tiger-were and limit her own fighting skills.

“But Midnight’s in there, I need to help him!” Trin protested as she launched a storm of punches and a final kick into Senary to batter him onto his back.

“We need you out here!” Speed insisted. “We’ll follow along when we wrap these guys up, but one step at a time!”

Trin’s frustration leaked out as a throaty growl and a wicked chop to Senary’s neck, the flat crack somehow echoing over the noisy fight.

“Your time has come, foul one!” Azrael declared as he tore through the doors to the nave, and pointed his sword toward the central dais. “Sanguine Father, Brother Blood...your title matters little, for your mad religion ends here!”

“Protect the Sanguine Father!” Black Beauty cried out as she stepped up in front of the cult leader. His focus was on the Twice-Named Vessel; sweat dripped down his face, which was flushed red from the mighty concentration of magic he wielded. Already, the Rite of Deciding’s target slowed in its endless metamorphoses, becoming more and more the ancient cauldron. Black Beauty’s dark eyes roamed over the three intruders, hands on her lush hips, the seductive stance further inspiring loyalty, until her own focus was rattled. “Nicodemus?”

The crowd of worshipers rose up and started to surge toward the trio, heedless of Beauty’s own surprise. But they paid attention to the sound of gunfire from behind them, and everyone in the church but the Father, still locked in the ceremony, turned to look.

“Howdy, y’all. I’m gonna be bringing the house down on all this here evil, so if I were you, I’d start runnin’,” Johnny Thunder declared as he stood on the first step onto the dais. He could ‘hear’ from above Rima’s gentle call to the heavens, and let that sensation trickle down his spine, into his arm, and through his trigger finger as he squeezed. The bullet fired above the heads of the congregation harmlessly; but the screeching roar of the Thunderbird rattled the very air and shook away like a layer of dust the powerful charismatic aura of the Father.

And then the panic ensued.

The Present
Rose Psychic dashed across the ruined plaza and crouched next to Batwoman’s prone, immobile form. She ran her fingers across the redhead’s masked brow, and hushed softly. With Zatanna’s absence and Rose’s efforts, the paralysis wore away and Barbara’s eyes blinked hard and fast as she attempted to sit up.

“Shh,” Rose hushed again as her fingers remained against the crime-fighter’s furrowed brow, and gently soothed further. “You did well, Barbara,” Rose said as she wrapped Barbara’s arm around her shoulders and pulled her from the battlefield, to safety behind a wall. “You need to rest. You’ve got a long road to recovery, and you need sleep, to heal. So forgive me when you can think again, please.” With those final words, Barbara’s eyes closed and she went limp in Rose’s arms. The mystic hugged the poor woman as the fight raged on; kept her safe and sound, and hoped that the healing could start when this was done.

Grace Choi’s rage only bubbled up greater and greater as she watched the battle go against the Outsiders, and now suddenly, Mother Mayhem was opposed to Anarky, who she had said replaced Brother Blood, but was a teammate. The conditioning fought to regain control; the power inherent in the cloak borne now by the newly-anointed head of the Church of Blood worked to keep Grace leashed; Batwoman’s breakdown at this man’s hands still fired her defiance.

“Heya, Gracie-poo,” Plastic Man said as he stretched out and wrapped around her, “body of a Greek statue, and the pose to match, but we kinda need you thumpin’ and bashin’, so...” His face twisted up into exaggerated determination and then he squeezed and planted a big one on the powerhouse.

“Hey, rubber man, watch the hands!” Grace snarled and pulled out of Plastic Man’s ragged loops. “And let go, I got me some ass to kick for screwin’ with my mind...AGAIN!”

Plastic Man watched her charge toward the nearest villain she could find, and then gave the hiding Rose a wink.

“He learned so well, Barbara,” Rose said softly to her charge. “And you, you turned him into a magnificent hero...in his own inimitable fashion. You should be proud.”

There was a sudden tearing of one area in the battlefield, a brief light and then it sealed up fast as Dove and Eddie Fyers stepped through. Dove gripped the Symbol of Seven, which shimmered with its own reddish glow; Eddie however, had a rifle cradled against his shoulder, finger in the trigger guard, and quickly took stock of the situation.

“Glad to see you two could make the party,” Midnight called out as he leaped into the air over a flattened, elongated ebon arm from Shadow Thief. “Pick a partner and get in on the square dance!” He clutched his fedora with one hand and crouched into a roll to avoid the second arm.

“Good to get on the dance floor at last,” Eddie said. “This has been going on way too long, and I got me a daughter to get back to.”

“Then duck, my friend,” Dove said as he leaped into Eddie and knocked him out of the way of a pair of arrows that tore up the ground where they had stood.

“Passing through, ‘scuse me,” Huntress griped as she vaulted over the two men, a hand streaked in crimson clutching her torn shoulder. She twisted in mid-air and fired her hand crossbow back, but the quarrel splintered on the way when met by another Spider arrow, a fourth catching her in one calf and she crashed into the ground.

“Damaged goods like you, I don’t have to keep alive,” Spider said in a vicious growl as he drew another arrow and released it.

“No!” Dove declared as he cartwheeled through the arrow’s path and snatched it aside with his speed, sending it harmlessly into the ground.

“Riddle me this, Canary,” Riddler said as he stalked the Outsider, and worked up one of his most wicked creations yet. His eyes glittered with sickly green sparks as he prepared the conundrum. “What--?”

“Let me try this,” Canary said as she threw cobblestone at the criminal to interrupt him. “Who can speak a riddle with busted eardrums?” Riddler’s eyes grew fearfully wide as he raced to finish his riddle when he saw her mouth open wide. But he never had a chance as the canary cry battered him down and destroyed his attack.

“You! I’m glad it’s you I get first, you sick little bastard!” Grace yelled as the last of her Blood-enhanced ability allowed her strength to drive her fingers into Shadow Thief’s stomach; her hands curled up tight, and he screamed in fear and started to beg, but Grace just smiled and ripped his shadow-form in half, tossed each half to either side of her, and marched past him. “Oh yeah, that felt good,” she said as she wiped off stray wisps of shadow from her hands.

At the center of it all, Anarky and Azrael dueled: sword to stun-rod; divine strength against defiled relic; cause versus cause. Sparks flew from Anarky’s weapon as Azrael grew more pale. The Suit of Sorrow empowered him, but down inside, Ramsey started to realize the truth, that he was no more the true Azrael then Walter Carmichael before him. A true Azrael was to come for the Third Prophecy. A Prophecy Ramsey realized he wouldn’t be around for, as he grunted in pain and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as Anarky struck a powerful blow into his ribs. “I don’t care...I’m doing this. If I’m not Azrael, I’m at least not letting down my God, or my mother.”

He rose to his knees and grabbed the rod when it was thrust at him again. He jerked Anarky toward him and brought his helmeted brow down on the murderer’s face, shattering the gold mask, and tearing open some of the disguise over Lonnie’s face. “You think whatever you want, Az, but with my father’s cloak still bathed in blood, I have more than enough power to break you.” He bunched up his fists and shoved them hard against Ramsey; forced him to fall back and away, as he also retreated. He wouldn’t admit it, but while much of his plan had worked, things were falling apart, and he wasn’t nearly so confident as he had been moments ago.

“Cloak, huh?” Eddie said with a grin. “Fine then, let’s even the odds.” He squeezed off a round and let it tear the cloak’s clasp away, the bone-white mantle fluttering away in the wind.

The Past
Without mercy or compassion, Azrael Walter Carmichael swung his sword, slicing and slashing through those church members that had not chosen to run away earlier. The blade was slick with blood as he pushed through them and toward the Sanguine Father.

Nicodemus saw his ally’s bloody march toward the dais, and leaped onto the back of a pew, and then vaulted to the next, and then the one after that, desperately using his momentum to keep from stumbling. “Nastasia! Get away from there!” he cried out to Black Beauty.

“Nicky, what are you doing here?” Black Beauty asked, shocked to see him, taking a tentative step forward, then retreated away from him and the dais as he drew closer.

“What do you think, Nastasia?” he asked as he arrived at the altar. He lashed out with the handle of his scourge and caught an approaching cultist in the temple. “When I heard you were caught up in all of this Crimson Flame/Church of Blood blasphemy, I had to seek you out.”

“Nicky, you...you...softie you,” she said with a quivering lip.

“Wait a minute? He knows that woman?” Midnight asked as he battered down two more cultists.

“It would seem, but that is irrelevant. All that matters is the Sanguine Father!” Azrael growled as he broke through and raced toward his hated foe.

“Well, that put me in my place,” Midnight said as he ducked under another attacker and then stood up straight, throwing the man over his back.

Johnny Thunder grabbed the Sanguine Father by the shoulder and turned him around hard. “No more of this, whatever you wanna call yerself.”

“You hope to stop me, old man? You whose bones are ready to crack under the strain of walking? I think not!”

“I’m not here to stop you,” Johnny said as he pivoted to one side and watched as Azrael hurtled across the length of the dais, over the altar, and tackled the Sanguine Father to the floor. “I’m here to Decide.” One hand gripped the Twice-Named Vessel, as the other fired a second shot into the air, screaming an alarm to Rima, who waited on the roof.

“Get off me, you tin-plated simpleton!” the Father demanded, struggling back to his feet to see the ceiling of his church tear apart. “NO!”

Rima sang her strange song on the roof, and guided down from the distant heavens the spirit of the Thunderbird. It tore through the roof, and reached its aged agent below, and swept through the altar. Thunder rattled the building, shattered glass and cracked foundations, as the mystical creature poured through Johnny Thunder as he gripped the Vessel and smiled at the Sanguine Father. The cauldron was torn from the Vessel, shredding the ancient rusted object; the magic of the Rite of Deciding exploded around Johnny as he became fainter and fainter, while the Cup of Christ became more and more solid. A final roaring peal of thunder shook hearts and bodies; the noise deafened and an explosion of light blinded, and none could resist.

When at last, staggered eyes blinked the world back into focus, the Holy Grail stood on the altar, and Johnny Thunder was no more. Rima sank to her knees above, eyes downcast, face sorrowful as she felt the Thunderbird return to its home, not alone this time.

“Don’t you see, Nastasia? This...this Black Beauty nonsense, it’s going to get you killed! You have time,” Nicodemus said as he reached the gangster and held her shoulders tight in his hands. “Please, listen this one last time! Repent, do something with your gifts, and your brains and...seek forgiveness for your wickedness, I beg you!”

Black Beauty’s eyes stared in wide-eyed awe at Nicodemus. Her heart soared and then felt dashed, then she shook her head. “I’ll call you, Nicky. When I’m settled down again.” She gave a whistle, and two of the cultists, those two who had shared the afternoon with her, turned their attentions to her, and leaped at the religious man. “Sorry, Nicky. I really am,” she said as she turned and ran. “But thank you for saving me from this at least!”

The Present
“The cloak!” Anarky cried out in shock as he leaped after the garment. He grabbed it by a corner and swept it back onto his shoulders.

“For someone so eager to bring down the institutions of the world,” Azrael said as he closed once more with his enemy, bringing the flat of his blade hard against the small of Anarky’s back, “you seem rather fixated with a holy relic!”

“Power is power,” Anarky said as he brought the stun-rod up into Azrael’s stomach, and held it there, letting all the energy flood into the holy warrior. “Besides, Christ was on my side! An anarchist, teaching people that the way to enlightenment was a personal relationship with the self and inspiration from above, not some rusted, corrupted bureaucracy!”

Azrael felt his teeth ache and his skin burn, but he stood there and took the blast. “But not murder and destruction!” The sword slashed his enemy’s weapon in half, and was followed up quickly with the pommel to Anarky’s jaw. Lonnie Machin’s body screamed in pain, and without a way to fasten the cloak to him, the powers in the cloth eluded him.

“I’ve had enough of you!” Huntress said as she took advantage of Dove’s interception, and lunged for the archer. “I’m not listening to a damned thing you have to say! You’re the guy who killed his own father for an archery set!” Spider back-pedaled, but the fury in Huntress’s body made her faster. “You were working for a maniac who bathed in blood, and enslaved the minds of innocents, just to make himself feel better, and you’re going to judge me?” Huntress brought the heavy combat boot against Spider’s jaw, teeth flying away. “You...you bastard!” She continued her assault as Spider felt a wrist snap and watched his bow break in half as he tried to block another kick. “I have nothing to feel guilty about! Can you say the same?” She brought her fist again and again into his face, until a hand on her shoulder made her spin around in fury, but her fist missed this time.

Dove had bounced back from her, ready for the furious reaction, then approached her once more. “He’s down. He’s not going anywhere.”

“He’s killed, his own father, for weapons, for no good reason other than to draw blood.” She turned back and drew out one of her daggers. “I have to put him down, he’s just a mad dog.”

“And you? Can you pretend to be rational, right now, this moment? Can you really claim to be superior to him and then do what he was doing to you?” Dove asked.

“At this very moment, I hate you,” Huntress growled and stalked off to find Batwoman.

“Still easier to deal with than Hank,” Dove muttered to himself. He squeezed the tingling Symbol and then started to move toward the final battle.

Twisted Sister stalked her prey quietly, crept up through the broken walls and torn cobblestone, and let her distorted eyes land on Manhunter. “Let’s see what you fear,” Sister muttered as she let her power reach out to Kate Spencer’s mind and dig. “Though I’m betting I know, and getting to it ain’t going to be hard at all.”

“Harder than you think it’s going to be,” Black Canary said as she stepped up behind the villain. Sister spun and tried to shift targets, but Dinah only grinned wickedly and brought a punch down hard on the bizarre face. “Lots of bad people here, and yet, somehow, you managed to get near the top of the pile. Guess that’ll give you something to be proud of in the slammer!” She brought her knee up into the Twisted Sister’s distended jaw and drove her back, a spin kick into the side of her head putting the villain down.

Riddle me this, Eddie, Riddler thought as he started to slink away, slithering prone where he’d been blasted down by Canary earlier. What the hell are you doing staying here? People are dying, and you’ve been dead once already. I don’t want to do that again. Let’s face it, this power just isn’t as sweet as it was supposed to be anyway. Slowly he inched away, and started to put his brilliant mind toward what was necessary to get him back home to Gotham City.

Anarky had slowly backed away now as Black Canary, Grace and Manhunter approached from behind Azrael. Mother Mayhem was nowhere to be seen, and the rest of his dead father’s ‘super-troops’ were scattered and defeated.

“Letting your focus slip again, Anarky,” Azrael said as he lunged forward and the sword opened up a gash in Lonnie’s torso. “It’s over. Surrender, and ask for mercy, and it might still be yours.”

Lonnie looked at the approaching forces, and then narrowed his attentions on Ramsey. The young man struggled despite his confident words. What he could see through the tattered armor was a bruised and pallid chest, and each step forward was an effort for the holy warrior. “One last little surprise, Az.” He grinned, a smug if bloody smile, and made a quick movement. “I’m still connected to the Outsiders’ little ‘porter.”

“NOOO!” Azrael screamed as he watched Anarky step back into a suddenly appearing doorway and then he was gone from sight.

The Past
The Sanguine Father rose to his feet first in the wake of Johnny Thunder’s sacrifice, and his hands, empowered by his cloak, wrapped tightly around the gorget protecting Azrael’s neck.

“You will all pay for this!” he roared as the hefted the holy warrior into the air and brought him down through the granite altar. “I will see your blood drained for my cloak, in the consecration ceremony in my homeland of Zandia!”

The world spun, mixed with stars, for Azrael, but he punched into the Father’s side with his weapon hand, and managed to shove him to the side.

“Your blood-soaked reign ends here and now, and then I’ll bring the Crusade back to Zandia and cleanse it of every last remnant of your abomination!” Azrael screamed back and lunged forward. The Father sidestepped the vicious thrust and grabbed a tall candle sconce, using it like a staff, and battered Azrael back.

“You know the truth now, that you are not the true Azrael, that you are a false shade,” the cult leader growled as he stalked up and swung with his makeshift weapon, clashing off the powerful sword. “The suit eats at you as a result: eats at your body, mind and soul, while I--”

“Can shut up! If I’m false because the Prophecy said so, then I accept that,” Azrael interrupted and thrust his sword up under the Sanguine Father’s attempt to block. The metal bit into flesh, and the holy warrior pushed himself to his feet and continued to drive the weapon into the Father’s torso. “Can you accept that you were also the false one?” Walter Carmichael grinned under the helmet, face covered in rivulets of sweat as he pressed further and further, until the two of them were clutching each other. “I can accept my fate. Can you?” He took a glance at Midnight as his heart pounded harder and harder, his body weakening with each breath he drew. “Can you?”

Tattered and torn, Midnight pulled himself from the pile of unconscious cultists that remained, and tugged at his necktie as it hung over the rags of his white shirt. He could see the sword jut through the Sanguine Father, and the way the villain jerked in his death throes. The mastermind’s blood stained the corrupted Shawl of Christ he wore, mingled with the energies of the ritual, of the Thunderbird’s passage, and the reality in that spot seemed to shimmer and roil. “Blood is shed by the False Angel,” Midnight muttered. “Both of them, false angels, this Brother Blood masquerading as another cult...Walter’s accepted he’s not Azrael...and Midnight falls.” He grimaced, his heart sunk, and he could feel his stomach knot up as he understood what needed to be done. He ran as hard as he could to the dais as the two men fell dying. He saw a secret door in the dais pushing up through the rubble of the altar; Rose and some other young woman, dazed and weak in her arms, stepped out.

“NO!” the other woman, the Abbess cried out in horror as she watched the men fall and clutched at her lover, the fingers gripping the cloak and tearing it from him. Rose struggled to hold onto her and the lip of the passage as the roiling air turned into a vortex.

Midnight clenched his jaw, and made one last famous flying tackle into the two men, and they vanished through the portal, the energies falling in with them and sealing it before Rose and the Abbess could be lost.

“Sebastian,” Gail Swensen sobbed into the garment she clutched as Rose and Nicodemus stared at the wreckage of the battle. Then another wail caught their attentions, and they turned to see their allies finally enter the church.

“David? David, where are you?” Trin Dee cried out, and then saw Rose and Nicodemus looking back at her, and the way the Abbess cried over a bloody scene.

“David?” Trin whimpered.

The Present
“Damn it, no!” Ramsey said as he took a step forward to catch Anarky before the door could close, but he was too slow, too weak. The Suit of Sorrows ate at him, and in that last step, he stumbled to his knees, then fell to the ground.

“Ramsey, no, no, no, no!” Manhunter cried out in horror as she leaped to her son’s side and tore the helmet off. “Please, no!”

The Huntress limped over as quickly as she could as well, as others slowly turned their attentions to the fallen warrior. “Dammit, no! You can’t possibly tell me that we went through all this, he did everything he was supposed to, and dies for it? That’s God’s way?”

Midnight shook his head and produced a small flask from his suit coat. “Of course not. He’d never ask for a sacrifice of faith and then not follow through,” Midnight replied as he poured water from the flask into the Holy Grail. Then the cup touched Ramsey’s lips and the water dribbled out, to soak into cracked lips and parched tongue.

Manhunter stared as color returned to Ramsey’s face, cuts sealed and bruises faded; the pieces of the Suit of Sorrow broke away to leave him in his mother’s arms as Grace walked up behind her and rested strong, rough hands on Kate’s shaking shoulders. “And even if He might, I wasn’t ever going to let the kid get hurt if I could help it,” Midnight said as he stood back up and backed away, to leave mother and son together.

“David Clark,” Rose said as she approached her old friend with a serene , pleased smile. She reached out for her Symbol of Seven and Dove handed it to her. “It’s so wonderful to see you again. And don’t you worry, David. Your words are very true. And what goes around, comes around.”

“Huh?” Midnight looked confused as she pressed the charged symbol against his chest. All the energies Dove had been collecting, all the serenity and Order he represented, poured out in a massive humming rush of power. Then Midnight was swept away into time.

“Whoa, where’d he go?” Plastic Man asked. He rolled up carefully, in the shape of a hospital bed which held the unconscious Batwoman.

“Back where he belongs,” Rose said gently. “Back where he belongs.”

“He’s not waking up,” Manhunter said softly as she hugged her son tightly. “Why isn’t he waking up?”

“Not sure,” Rose said softly, a little concerned now.

“The Grail should have healed him completely, that’s the whole purpose, right?” Huntress looked over as Plastic Man rolled to them carefully.

“He’s...not at peace. I think he might be having trouble accepting he wasn’t meant to be the Azrael, the one of the Third Prophecy of St. Dumas,” Dove said softly. “That inner turmoil could be making it hard for him to come back. He’ll need to recover.”

“He’s not the only one,” Dinah said in a pained voice, her fingers stroking Barbara’s hair, and then touched Plastic Man’s cheek oh-so-tenderly. She glanced up to see Rose smiling at her, and the two women nodded at each other. Then she turned to the group, and said in a firm voice, “Okay, before we’re swamped in local police, let’s grab up our wounded and get them back to the base. We’re done here.” All eyes looked at the destruction, and she added, “More than done with this case.”

“Shh,” Mother Mayhem said with a finger to her lips, as she slipped through the wreckage and up to Twisted Sister. She helped the battered woman to her feet, helped her to recover her senses, and kept her quiet. “We must retreat,” Mother said as she led Twisted Sister to the torn Shadow Thief; his shadowy form slowly threading back together. The two women grabbed him up and made their dash from the scene while all attention was paid to the center of the square, the Outsiders collecting their own and tending to wounds. “We will come back for our other adherents,” she assured Twisted Sister. “Spider, Skorpio, Riddler...we’ll come back for them, but for now, we escape to Zandia. We will report to Lady Zand and we will battle the heretic Anarky for the soul of our Church, Sister. I promise.”

The Past
“So he’s gone?” Speed asked as he crouched over the smashed altar, and ran fingers through the pieces. “That’s a shame, I always wanted a chance to meet him.” He furrowed his brow and dug a little more now and pulled up a worn wooden thunderbird clasp, chipped at the edges, but intact.

“Johnny Thunder, Walter Carmichael and Midnight,” Nicodemus said softly as he stood to one side, the Grail cradled reverently in his hands. “All of them gone.”

Trin paced at the front of the building, her hands clutched tight around the rolled blue fedora, and her eyes glazed. Inside was a storm of emotions, a storm she struggled to contain; she wasn’t going to reveal it in front of these people. There’d be time later.

“Trin Dee,” Nmura said as he reached out to touch her shoulder. “Do you think that would be possible?”

“Sorry, my...head’s elsewhere,” she said as she turned to look at the gorilla, who clutched the Prophecies in his paw.

“I can tell, even without reading minds,” he said in a compassionate growl. “I am taking charge again of the Prophecies. We will bring the tiger-were back to Gorilla City for containment, and I will gather several of my knights, to repair our honor by guarding these parchments again. We had thought that perhaps, your monastery, on the island, would be a good place for that. To offer greater protection against the Church of Blood’s attempts to return, and because of the nature of your order.”

“Second chances, yes,” Trin replied with a nod. She rested her hand in Nmura’s and let him give it a squeeze of confirmation. “I think that would work just fine.”

“And I will make sure the Grail is returned to its proper place,” Nicodemus said as he wrapped the cup up in some cloth. “And apparently, acquire a new scourge, since mine seems to have been appropriated during the Thundebird’s light show.” He gave an enigmatic glance in the direction he’d last seen Black Beauty darting off and shook his head. Then he noticed the way Rose caught the glance, and gave her a reassuring wink.

“Things seem to have been wrapped up then,” Speed said as he held the wooden bird-shape in his hand. “I’ll see that this gets to his grandson, Jim. I’ve met him a couple of times before, a stunt man in Hollywood. I do love visiting Hollywood. And he should get to hear about his granddad’s big farewell first hand.”

“I will see that the Abbess is brought to the proper authorities, and hope that she can be rehabilitated,” Rose said as she turned to Eel. “And you, you’re done. Thanks for everything, Patrick. You did so well, better than I could have hoped.”

“Wait? Is this goodbye? Am I getting the brush-off?” Eel asked with arched brow.

“We’ve talked about this, Patrick,” Rose said softly. “I have my path, you have yours, but don’t you worry. Maybe this is goodbye, but we’ll see each other again.” She stepped over and hugged him, and kissed him softly. “We’re not a couple, but we’re not in a business relationship. I’m not a prostitute.” She laughed softly as she parted from him. “We have something unique. Enjoy it when you can.”

“Yeah, okay. I guess. I’m still buying the first round at the first bar we find in Flagstaff though, and hope to have some company,” he announced as he stepped back from Rose and refused to feel the lump in his throat.

He stood and watched as Speed stepped up and shook his hand and took him up on his offer; but not the others. Slowly, the group peeled away, headed in different directions as they reached the broken gates of the compound. Started down different trails away from the battle, quiet and somber, making no notice of the passing of the old year, and the start of the new one.

Tongues of fire licked around the scene as Zara of the Crimson Flame leaned forward on her throne. She’d had it brought specially for this moment, and had it installed inside the Zandian palace, in the room she’d selected for her personal audience hall. Servants and advisors watched from a safe distance as she shifted the flames to take in Black Beauty’s flight to the south, cultists in tow, clutching a leather scourge in her hands. She shifted the flames again to look closer on the Abbess as she still clutched the cloak, still sobbed.

“Oh mighty Zara, of the Crimson Flame, the general staff of the old Zandian government has been scattered, most captured, the rest hunted down,” said one advisor as he fell to his knees when her eyes fell on him.

“Excellent. Make all the preparations for my coronation, and spread word that strong-backed men good in construction will be needed to restore the grandeur of the Church of Blood to the island, as quickly as possible,” Zara announced as she leaned back. “Have plans drawn up to rescue our poor Abbess...no, no more Anarchy. She is with child now, and she must be elevated properly. Have plans drawn up to rescue our Mother Mayhem and the shawl from these heretics as soon as possible. And one last thing.” Her eyes blazed furiously, and flames leaped forth to devour the advisor, in a brutally swift attack. “From now on, I am Lady Zand, queen of Zandia, and regent of the Church of Blood.”



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