Martha had a gift. The 7th daughter of a 7th daughter, once she turned 16 years old, she had visions. Scenes that then happened, some yet to be and of people met and unmet. At 32, one became the nightmare that haunted her. Her grandson would die, along with his wife in a foul alley in a city grown so dark and twisted the small town of Gotham had become almost recognizable. Their young boy, scarred by the tragedy, survived. Beyond she could not see his fate.
A flurry at the window rattled the panes again. The bats that nested in caves near the manor leaving for their nocturnal hunt had startled her awake. She looked up at a full autumn moon draped in shreds of clouds, their upper edges lighted from behind. Turning from it, she took a Lucifer from the small box on the table. With a scratch of the sulfurous match—its instant flame still amazed—she lighted the wick of a hand lamp. It flickered as she walked down the hall to a smaller bedroom. Opening the door, she looked at Thomas and grieved at was to come for her boy. She knew the loss of a son. Thomas’s twin, Bruce, had died at birth. She must change what might be… she would rise by night. She too would hunt. Denizens of dark alleys, skulkers, criminals, and killers beware.