Chapter Text
Selina Kyle had arrived in Gotham two weeks ago, fresh off a stint in Bedford Hills. Sure, she promised her lawyer, Marty Goldman, that she was on the straight and narrow now, but that was before she heard about Wayne Manor. First, there was the tragic back story. Word on the street was the last living Wayne offed himself right in the foyer at the tender young age of thirty-one. He'd been a playboy with a fat wallet and a different shade of blonde on his arm every week. Talk about first world problems. Then, there was the curse. The three cops who went to cut Bruce Wayne down had found him hanging precariously from a thousand-dollar chandelier: not by his neck, but upside down with the noose around his ankles. "Wayne’s eyes were wide open," the bartender at Half Moon Club whispered to Selina, peeling his wrinkly eyelids back in imitation. "He stared at them, stared until them coppers went screaming for the hills!"
"And they all died," Selina finished, unimpressed, "within twenty-four hours. I've heard it a million times, Robbie."
"But then there was the gang of schoolboys, rich fellas from Gotham Academy," Robbie the bartender continued with relish. "Tried to rob the place, and they ended up in Arkham, mumbling about bats and fangs and red eyes."
"Mm hmm," Selina replied. Why couldn't she finish her gin and tonic in peace? Her eyes drifted to the television. Breaking News: Reporter Injured at Wayne Manor. Robbie turned up the volume.
"... our very own Vicki Vale bravely took on Wayne Manor," the red-haired anchorwoman said. "She was found this morning by a jogger who recognized her by her hair. Ms. Vale suffers from first- and second-degree burns but is otherwise in stable condition. Fans are keeping vigil outside Gotham Memorial."
The screen cut to a ruddy-faced man, who shouted, "We want to know who hurt Ms. Vale, because she's real pretty. And we made t-shirts." He held up a plain black t-shirt, and the screen quickly cut back to the anchorwoman.
"Oh my," the bartender said, polishing a glass. "A monster in the manor." He sounded delighted.
Selina shrugged, sucking pensively on a lime. All she knew was that Wayne Manor had a safe that hadn’t been touched in years. And surely Bruce Wayne, dead or undead, wouldn’t miss a few jewels.
~
Night of truth, Selina thought. She entered Wayne Manor through a side window in the west wing. The room had a single rose, or what she assumed used to be a rose--only a single petal remained--probably a cheap fake. The rest of the wing was mostly empty, dotted with a few dated paintings and marble busts. Selina moved silently towards the open door. That’s when she heard the voices.
“We have a week, tops, Dick,” a male voice said urgently. “And Bruce is in denial, or he’s given up. We have to make a plan, now.”
“And not like your last plan,” snorted another male voice. “We don’t need Damian burning someone’s face off again.”
“She deserved it,” a younger voice grumbled.
“Guys, I--” a fourth voice started.
Selina froze behind the door. Then a shadow fell upon her, and she knew no more.
~
Selina woke up hours later, cuffed to the wall. A rose-gold candelabra shaped like an angel hovered in front of her. Selina shook her head. Objects did not hover. “Jeez, Dick, I don’t think she’ll be much better than that journalist,” a voice said. Selina could have sworn that it came directly from a large calculator resting innocuously on the desk.
“She’s awake, dumbass,” a harsh voice guffawed. A cast iron skillet (what was it doing in the library?) sitting on a nearby chair seemed to tremble slightly.
“It’s okay,” the candelabra said soothingly, still inexplicably floating. The angel-candelabra had two flames, one in each outstretched hand. Selina scrunched her eyes and shook her head again. The candelabra smiled.
“I know all about you, Selina Kyle,” the candelabra said, not unkindly. “I know why you’re here.” The candelabra glided to the corner and returned with a blue glistening crown.
“The Sapphire Diadem,” Selina croaked. God, she must be hallucinating. The Sapphire Diadem was worth millions. It was Selina’s dream--perhaps the only treasure she would never sell--and had disappeared somewhere in the northeast decades ago; no way was it here at Wayne Manor.
“That’s right, Selina,” the candelabra said, dangling the diadem right in front of her nose. “Thomas Wayne secretly bought this beauty from Avery Gates in 1976.”
Now the calculator floated her way. “You’ve heard rumors that Wayne Manor is cursed, haven’t you?” it said. “But the truth is, Selina,” the calculator said, pausing for dramatic effect, “the manor isn’t cursed … we are.”
The cast iron skillet awkwardly rolled an elegant standing mirror towards them, and Selina nearly fainted. She had to be dreaming.
The Sapphire Diadem was still there. But instead of a candelabra, she saw the reflection of a young man with blue eyes, wavy black hair, and a charismatic smile. “This diadem is yours,” the young man said, “if you can help us break the spell.”
The cast iron skillet, who in the mirror appeared to be a broad-shouldered man with a forelock of white hair, exhaled loudly. “It’s not going to work,” he grumbled.
“It’s all we’ve got,” the calculator said firmly.
“You’ve got nothing to lose if you indulge us,” the candelabra said. “And if you don’t …” The flames in the angel’s hands were suddenly snuffed out.
“That reporter … Vicki Vale,” Selina rasped, recalling the broadcast. “You did that?” she asked, staring at the candelabra.
“Ha! Angel boy would never,” the skillet said. “Hey, don’t look at me!” the skillet squawked, when Selina cast it an accusatory glare.
“Tt. It was me,” another voice said smugly. A small black teacup with a chipped rim entered the library and floated ominously in front of Selina. “And I could do the same to you, too, if you don’t stay in line,” it threatened.
“Relax, relax, no one’s burning anyone’s face off,” the candelabra said, shooing the teacup away. “It’ll only be a week,” he continued, addressing Selina again. “Not that you have a choice. But after that, we’ll let you go with the diadem. Scout’s honor.”
Selina rolled her eyes. This candelabra sure was an odd duck. “Well I don’t have much of a choice, do I,” she shrugged. It was the first time in her life that she had no idea what she was dealing with--magical mushrooms, a prolonged dream, or worse, animated household objects. But Selina would deal, as she always did, and claw her way out of this bizarre nightmare the first chance she got.
“That’s the spirit,” the candelabra said, its flames alight again. “Now, here’s the plan ….”
~
Now Selina was sure the curse was real. The talking candlestick hadn’t convinced her, but this … monster was something far beyond Selina's powers of imagination. After explaining the plan, the cast-iron skillet and calculator had escorted Selina to dinner--or, more accurately, had somehow tied her to a chair and placed her in the dining room. They had assured her that she wasn’t part of the menu, but now she wasn’t so sure. Shortly after the appetizer (a plate of bruschetta) had literally walked into the room of its own accord, the beast arrived. It was a grotesque hybrid of bat and man with two sharp upturned ears, bright lidless eyes, a pink snout, and fangs as long as her hand. His entire body was covered in dark tawny fur, and his humanoid arms had black leathery wings and ended in glistening claws. He held the candelabra tightly in his right hand. “What’s this?” he growled.
“This is Selina Kyle,” the candelabra said sweetly. “She was just passing through, and we thought she could join you for dinner.”
“Are you--are you trying to set me up,” the beast said incredulously. Selina snorted silently. If what the skillet and calculator said about the curse was true, then they were all royally screwed.
The candelabra twisted in the monster’s grip, staring at Selina.
“This bruschetta looks divine,” she said, trying not to sound entirely disgusted. Internally, she shuddered. No way was she putting her lips anywhere near that … thing.
The candelabra hopped onto the table and scooted the plate towards the beast. The flames in the angel’s hands seemed to flicker. The beast resignedly took a slice of bruschetta into his hands, as if eating gourmet food were a tedious chore.
“Ms. Kyle ... what brings you to Gotham?” the beast said, not sounding the least bit interested.
“Just visiting some friends,” Selina lied.
“Charming,” the beast said with a snort. Selina tried not to snap back. The calculator hadn’t been too clear on the details, but she figured that the beast must be Bruce Wayne. For a man on the verge of serving a life sentence as a saber-toothed Chewbacca, he seemed remarkably unperturbed.
"So, Selina," the candelabra said, wriggling out of the beast's grip and hopping gracefully onto the table. "Where are you from?"
“New York,” Selina lied again. “My parents teach at Columbia. What about yours?”
“Dead,” the beast snapped. The candelabra winced.
“Oh. I’m … sorry,” Selina said, her voice softer.
At that, the cast iron skillet floated into the room with a brass-mahogany grandfather clock at his side. “Braised lamb with gremolata,” the clock said, its voice distinctly English. Selina gaped at the steaming plate of two generously-sized lamb shanks. “Don’t worry, Ms. Kyle,” the clock said. “It’s not alive.”
“Pan-seared salmon on baby arugula and roasted asparagus with caper vinaigrette,” the cast iron skillet grunted, setting another two dishes on the table. “Bon appétit … or whatever.”
The grandfather clock tutted at the skillet. “Enjoy your meal,” he said pleasantly, and then they both disappeared around the corner.
“Well, dig in!” the angel-candelabra said, eyeing the lamb covetously. "You're the guest.”
“Can you …?” Selina started, looking at the food and back at the candelabra with a raised eyebrow.
“No,” the beast interrupted. Then it finished a lamb shank in two bites, tossed an entire salmon steak into its mouth, downed half the plate of asparagus, and stood up abruptly.
“Bruce!” the candelabra said angrily, then immediate looked guilty at having spoken the beast’s name.
“Don’t worry, angel,” Selina said. “I already knew.”
“Hn,” the beast said, “Good night.” He picked the candelabra up and swiftly walked out of the room.
Selina shrugged. “It’s your funeral,” she muttered once they were both out of earshot.