Zatanna primped a stubborn raven curl into place. For what seemed like the one-hundredth time, it laid wrong. No amount of hair spray tamed its resolve. Most women would have given up and chosen another hairstyle, but Zatanna was not most women.

"Nwod yal riah," she commanded. Each dark, ruly lock moved perfectly into place. She tried not to use magic for such mundane tasks, but this engagement wasn't like most. There would be no rabbits, top hats, or fishnets.

Instead, her attire was much more conservative than her customary stage duds. Her brown plaid skirt, beige sweater, and brown leather loafers, were more suited for the halls of an Ivy League institution than the stage. Zatanna smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Her now-tamed hair was carefully pinned up off her shoulders. Only a few carefully chosen curls hung down against her face. The ensemble was completed with a garnet necklace given to her by John Constantine. It was refreshing to look like an ordinary woman for a change.

Zatanna paced the room. It had been ages since she felt the wings of butterflies beating in her stomach. What a painfully delicious rush! She savored the high as her usually icy nerves melted at her feet.

After all, her audience wasn't the usual family of five eager to ooh and ah at the simplest sleight of hand. They were much more sophisticated and demanding than a group of curiosity seekers or paparazzi. Included in the crowd were Apollyon City historians from all walks of life. She was tempted to wish for a super-villain or two among them, just to calm her jitters. Instead, she poured a cup of tea.

The warm bite of Darjeeling Summer washed over her tongue. Someone in charge of hospitality had excellent taste. Zatanna appreciated the tea's robust, full-bodied flavor. No wonder its rich leaves were exported from the Indian continent to the rest of the world. Her moment of heaven was interrupted by a knock at her dressing room door.

"You're up, Miss."

Zatanna took a deep breath and gave herself another once-over in the full length mirror. "I'm coming," she replied.

She left her dressing room and followed the young man in the white collared shirt and khakis. They wound through a small backstage area before stopping behind a heavy, felt curtain. The small lecture hall at Apollyon City Community College often doubled as a rehearsal hall for the theater group. Zatanna was glad. The tattered old curtain and colored lights overhead made her feel at home.

An Italian man with a booming baritone voice introduced her and Zatanna took the stage to a polite round of applause. How refreshing to be greeted by something other than wolf calls. This was definitely a different crowd. She settled behind the speaker's podium and smiled nervously.

"I appreciate the Metro Historical Commission for this delightful opportunity. Most of you know me as a superhero, or maybe a magician. What you don't know is that I'm one of you as well. After all, a girl can only pull a rabbit from her hat or save the world so many times before it gets old."

Polite laughter filled the room, allowing Zatanna to ease into her presentation. "In observance of Halloween, I was asked to chronicle the history of the supernatural in Apollyon. It's no secret that our city's history is steeped in magic and legend, much of it involving Polly Blackbear."

"While in New Orleans recently, I visited some of the local bookstores, looking for books on the occult and the supernatural, and stumbled upon an amazing discovery in a little shop on Hampson Street. I found two old, dusty journals written by a woman named Madame Marie Cavendish."

"What does this have to do with Apollyon?" asked a portly gentleman in the second row. His caustic tone shook Zatanna's confidence.

"Plenty," Zatanna stammered. "According to her journals, Marie Cavendish's maiden name was Polly Blackbear."

The audience gasped. Polly was a legend in Apollyon. Many still blamed her for the deadly twister that brought Sycamore Springs, the first town built on present-day Apollyon City, to its untimely end. Zatanna learned the legend was true while aiding Green Lantern in his battle with Beelzebub.

The disgruntled man stood and pointed an accusing finger. "What is this? A Halloween prank?"

Scholars could sure be edgy.

Zatanna smiled, hoping to calm him. "It's no prank, sir. If you'll allow me to continue..."

"Yes, please," said Paul Edinger, the man who asked her to speak. He was the Historical Commission's President and the first with whom Zatanna shared the journals. "You certainly have everyone's attention."

The polite laughter that filled the room gave Zatanna courage to continue.

"Thank you, Paul," Zatanna replied.

The disgruntled man shook his head and settled into his seat.

"As I said, our tale begins in New Orleans. The Big Easy was different in those days. The French Quarter was still years away from being a rowdy tourist trap promoting a never-ending party. Jazz wasn't yet king of the delta and the powerful steamboats coming into port from the mouth of the mighty Mississippi were there for work, not play. By 1850, the image of the riverboat gambler would be cemented in the American consciousness. But not yet.

The Bayou was the land of Cajuns and Indians, pregnant with the nightmares of grown men; snakes, swamps, alligators, quicksand, and more than a few characters on the wrong side of the law. But nothing was more feared or revered than voodoo. It was what first attracted Polly Blackbear to this untamed land.

When she arrived in New Orleans, Polly had mastered black magic in Transylvania and Moldavia, but lusted for even more knowledge. She heard tales of Cajun voodoo and came to learn its secrets. Knowledge was power and she needed power to make the white man pay for the devastation of her village. And the pale skins called her people savages! How would they feel if they'd witnessed the cold-blooded murder of everyone they loved at the hands of merciless invaders? Or if they'd suffered a brutal rape afterwards and left for dead? Or if these same savages- the true savages- built their homes, businesses, and even a house of worship over the shallow unmarked graves of their people?

Yes, the Big Easy was much different in those days, and into this wild, untamed city came Polly Blackbear in April of 1834. Allow me to read her first journal entry."

April 4, 1834

My first glimpse of New Orleans was hardly glorious. My ship arrived on the docks at 8:17 in the morning. The stench of the morning catch was still in the air. I suffered nausea from being on the water too long and the fishy smell was more than my stomach could bear. It was an relentless mixture, and soon I vomited. A helpful dockworker escorted me to an area where the air was cleaner. The dockworkers were an odd lot. Most were Creole and I had a difficult time understanding their thick drawl, but made do best as I could. My red hair unnerved a few of them as well. They believed it a sign of vampirism. I tucked my long, red locks under my shawl and ventured into the heart of the city.

It was pleasant, but much too humid for my liking. The muggy air and persistent mosquitoes left me yearning for the dark shadows of the Transylvania hills. I even missed Sighasora with its narrow, winding lanes, tunnel-front homes, donjons, and church towers. The people of New Orleans were much busier than those of Transylvania. It seemed everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere. The white man's disease, I call it.

But I'm not here to see the city or its people. I'm here to learn voodoo. I'm supposed to meet a woman named Marie Laveau. Many called her the Voodoo Queen, or the Bosswoman.

Zatanna watched the crowd for a reaction. Getting none, she began the second entry from the same date.

April 4, 1834

Madame Laveau set me up with a small, furnished room in a boarding house. She's a very impressive woman, large and powerfully built. But there's also a kindness to her that perplexes me. Still, she would make a formidable enemy, if not in magic then with her political and social connections. Feared and revered by both black and white, she runs this town. She was eager to talk to me about Europe and seemed pleased that I have taken an interest in her people's magic. I'm a little confused though. In Transylvania, magic and the Christian faith are enemies. Here, they're inseparable. Voodoo shares its bed with saints and cathedrals. I'm not sure I am comfortable with the arrangement, but I will glean what I can from its teachings.

Zatanna interjected. "Polly attended several social functions with Madame Laveau over the next few days. At one such party, she met an unimpressive-looking woman who lived in the mansion at 1140 Rue Royal. Her name was Delphine LaLaurie, wife of the prominent Dr. Louis LaLaurie. The two ladies discussed magic and voodoo over chicory coffee and beignets. Polly enjoyed Madame LaLaurie's wit and easy demeanor. She was also very candid with her opinions of European magic, though Polly disagreed vehemently.

Madame LaLaurie invited Polly to her home the next day to show her true power. Despite Madame Laveau's cryptic warnings to stay away, Polly had to see for herself."

Polly arrived at 1140 Rue Royal during a driving rain storm. She knocked on the door and waited.

The servant who opened the door said nothing, but invited her in.

"Do come in out of the rain," said Madame LaLaurie. "The storms are powerful when they blow in off the Gulf."

Polly removed her wet coat and boots. "You have a lovely home."

"Thank you, dear," said Madame LaLaurie.

The servant took Polly's wet clothing and exited the room.

The LaLaurie mansion was beautiful and filled with the finest furnishings and art money could buy. Marble and mahogany dominated the mansion's interior. Lavish oriental silk covered intricately carved furniture. Thousands of candles lit up grand chandeliers. There weren't many homes in America on par with the finest in Europe, but this one was.

Polly tried to keep their conversation simple as they retired to the parlor. "Thank you for seeing me again."

Madame LaLaurie smiled and traced her fingers up Polly's arm as they sat on a red silk sofa with ornately carved arms and trim. "Think nothing of it, my dear. I believe our friendship will prove mutually beneficial."

Polly wasn't sure if Madame LaLaurie was speaking in sexual innuendo or if she were truly interested in the exchange of ideas between their respective crafts.

"Would you care for some coffee?" asked the Madame.

"Yes, thank you," Polly replied. "It may warm me up."

The Madame retrieved a small, silver bell from the occasional table and rung it. It's noise was shrill and demanding. Within moments a servant arrived.

"Two cups of coffee," Madame LaLaurie demanded. "Now!"

The servant nodded. "Yes, Ma'am. Coffee."

Polly studied the remarkable black woman's eyes. At first glance, they appeared strong, but sad like a broken horse. The servant's gaze never left her Madame. She disappeared into the kitchen and quickly returned with two cups of coffee served in delicate china.

Polly waited for Madame LaLaurie to take her cup first. When the fragile-looking cup didn't break, Polly accepted hers. "Thank you," she said to the servant.

The servant's eyes danced back and forth between Polly and Madame LaLaurie before she backed out of the room.

"Please don't feel obligated to acknowledge the servants," Madame LaLaurie laughed.

Polly didn't answer, but seethed inside.

Despite Polly's revulsion to Madame LaLaurie's treatment of her servants, the two women talked for hours. Madame LaLaurie's personality was willful. She swore by voodoo and dismissed European and African magic as barbaric nonsense.

"Voodoo is the most powerful of all," explained Madame LaLaurie. "I'll prove it to you. By this time next week our butcher, Boudreaux Hebert, will die and they will find a tangle of young snakes in his belly."

"Snakes in his belly? Polly asked. "Impossible. How?"

Madame LaLaurie placed her coffee on the table and stood. She gestured for Polly to follow. Leaving the parlor, the women passed through several rooms and finally into the kitchen. How peculiar to see the servant's area in such a fine home. Most society women kept these rooms out of view from their guests. Polly was shocked to see the cook chained to the fireplace. The cook lowered her head as the women passed by. Exiting the kitchen, they reached a crude set of stairs and ascended slowly. They passed the second floor living quarters and on up into the garret, where Madame LaLaurie removed a key from her dress.

The creaking of the door was drowned out by the sound of moans. The room was dark and it took Polly a few moments to get her bearings before Madame LaLaurie lit a gas lamp. Polly cursed the light for unveiling horrors she would remember the rest of her life. The cruelty was senseless and barbaric.

The broken bodies of slaves littered the room. Some were chained to the wall with running, open sores where their bonds held their ankles and wrists tight. Others were bound to makeshift operating tables. Alive or dead, Polly couldn't tell. Unrecognizable hunks of raw flesh littered the floor along with arms and legs that looked to be ripped from the torso. Shelves were stocked with human heads, their faces frozen in eternal torment. A lucky few looked relieved the peace of death had finally claimed them. Beside the shelves were various instruments of torture - saws, paddles, whips, chains, razors, grisly reminders of the unspeakable horrors these unfortunate souls endured. Even more disturbing were those still alive. Naked and malnourished, their condition bore witness of their Madame's heinous cruelty. One woman was sliced open and bound with her own intestines. Another's mouth was filled with animal excrement and sewn shut. Her eyes were missing. The men were missing their genitalia. One man was chained to a wall with a stick protruding from a hole drilled in his head so his brains could be stirred. The smell of burnt human flesh filled the space. Polly wretched and fled the grisly scene.

How could a society that claimed to be so civilized breed such hatred and contempt for others? And her people were supposed to be uncivilized savages? Where was this great society the American newspapers trumpeted on their front pages? If the cusp of American society was capable of such cruelty, what of the commoners?

For days the grisly scene weighed on Polly's mind. It wasn't the death that bothered her. She witnessed human sacrifice in the hills surrounding Sighasora, but it was a means to an end, quick and painless to the victim. Madame LaLaurie was nothing more than a common butcher who delighted in the suffering of those she regarded as inferior because of their skin.

Polly would see to it that Madame LaLaurie's servants would suffer no more. She conceived a plan to avenge them. The next two days and nights were spent in discussion with Marie Laveau and her followers. The Bosswoman was infuriated with the news from the LaLaurie mansion and agreed to help.

On April 11th, a mysterious fire consumed the mansion. The mansion was saved but Madame LaLaurie's secret attic was discovered. The city was outraged. The next day a mob rushed to the LaLaurie house to drag the family to justice. But a black carriage pulled up ahead of the mob and whisked Madame LaLaurie off to safety and she was never heard from again, or so history thought. The mob tried to catch the carriage, but the coachman had a good start on them. Even the local newspapers told of how the carriage whipped through the city's streets on the edge of control with the angry mob in pursuit. Some say the coachman was so reckless that he courted death foolishly. What no one knew was that the coachman had no reason to fear death. He was already dead. According to Polly's journal the LaLaurie family pleaded for their lives before the coachman finally stopped on Bayou St. John. Another dead man, a ship's captain, ferried the family to the north shore of Lake Ponchatrain. From there the family was escorted deep into the swamps.

Madame LaLaurie was forced to watch as her husband was emasculated and fed to the alligators. Next, her two daughters were tortured before finally meeting the same fate. A desperate Madame LaLaurie pleaded for her life, but was tortured slowly before succumbing to death.

The story should have ended there, but it was after the Madame expired that it took a bizarre twist. A man stepped forward and resurrected her! She was tortured to death and brought back again and again.

"This is an outrage!" cried the same man who interrupted Zatanna earlier. "No one can die and come to life again! She's playing us for fools!"

"I'm reading from the journal, sir," Zatanna answered. "I make no claims to its accuracy."

Paul Edinger pointed the man to his seat. "If you can't refrain from such outbursts, security will remove you, sir."

The disgruntled man studied the younger, muscular Historical Commission President and sat down.

Mr. Edinger nodded to Zatanna. "Please continue."

"Thank you, Paul," she answered.

Polly's initial disappointment in Madame LaLaurie was quickly forgotten. The Voodouns possessed great power and she wanted to harness their secrets. She spoke at length with the man who repeatedly animated LaLaurie's corpse. His name was Abraham Cavendish.

Cavendish was a young mortician who came to New Orleans about ten years earlier with his wealthy parents. After settling in the Garden District, his father established a funeral parlor and death was a booming business on the Bayou. After a decade of prosperity, Cavendish's parents were killed on the way home from a dinner party when their carriage ran off the road during a storm. The young mortician carried on the family business, but also discovered voodoo and studied it openly, which cost him his place in society. He purportedly developed the ability to speak with the dead and to even animate them! It was said he could control a single corpse or raise an entire cemetery, but his control diminished with each additional cadaver.

Polly was enamored with his abilities, which rivaled her own mastery of the European dark arts. He was even more enamored with Polly's beauty. They soon became lovers and married.

The next two years passed uneventfully for Polly Marie Blackbear Cavendish. She worked with Marie Laveau and her followers and spent many nights in Congo Square performing rituals and soaking up as much information about voodoo as she could. It was here that she became enamored with the Christian idea of eternal life, but she didn't want to wait for heaven or hell. Despite continued warnings from Laveau, Polly chased immortality. Finally, Laveau's group disavowed the Cavendishes altogether. But that was fine with Polly. She was increasingly put off by the showmanship and chicanery of voodoo. Its effectiveness often relied heavily on the belief of the victim or the beneficiary that they were hexed or cured, rather than the certainty of true magic. But Abraham - he had real power.

For their second anniversary, he presented Polly with the one gift she secretly wished for time and again in her journal but was afraid to ask of even her own husband. He led Polly into their bedroom and asked her to join him on the middle of the bed. They sat cross-legged and held hands in meditation. Then Abraham broke their rumination and presented his wife with a box. Upon opening it, Polly was surprised to see instructions directing her to speak her mother's name three times.

"Oh, Abe! Really?" Polly asked.

Her husband nodded and smiled.

Polly followed the instructions to the letter. "Running Doe. Running Doe. Running Doe."

The air was still as Abraham fell into a deep trance. Polly wasn't scared, but was nervous. She'd spoken with the dead a number of times since meeting Abraham, but this was different. What would her own mother say to her?

<"Is that you, my little Firehair?"> Abraham's voice was replaced by the gentle song of the morning birds, or at least it sounded that way to Polly. A warm tear tickled her cheek. It had been years since she had been called Firehair. She never told anyone about the nickname. <"Yes, mother. Please speak slowly. My Algonquin tongue is rusty.">

<"You should not disturb my slumber, child. It is unnatural.>

<"I've learned much that isn't natural since you passed.">

The silence nearly choked Polly before her mother spoke again. <"I don't need your vengeance, Firehair.">

<"I do,"> Polly answered.

<"Please let go of your hatred before it consumes you,"> Running Doe begged.

Polly said nothing. This is not what she wanted to hear from her mother. She sought affirmation that she was doing the right thing by bringing the white man to justice.

<"Your soul will never rest in peace if it dies seeking vengeance, child.">

<"I am not a woman of peace,"> Polly answered.

Abraham's lips looked as if they were struggling to dam up Running Doe's words. They quivered at the pace of a racing palomino, before he collapsed on the bed in a violent seizure. His body bucked up and down, slamming his head into the headboard repeatedly. Drooling foam seeped from his lips as he struggled to maintain contact.

"Abraham! What is it? What's happening?" Polly screamed. She tried to leap off the bed to avoid his thrashing arms and legs.

Abraham grabbed his wife by the arms and looked her in the eye. Running Doe's voice screamed, <"Then you are not my daughter!">

As soon as the words burst from his mouth, Abraham collapsed. He heaved to regain his breath as his blue pupils replaced the pallid whiteness of his rolled back eyes. "I'm... I'm sorry."

Polly struck him in the chest with her closed fist. "Bring her back! She has to understand! Make her take it back, damn you! Make her take it back!"

Abraham reached for his wife, but she pulled away and ran from their home.

Zatanna eyed the crowd. Everyone was on the edge of their seat, except the man in the second row. He sat with crossed arms and a brooding face. His anger was evident. Why would anyone make something that happened so long ago so personal? A relative perhaps? But that didn't make sense. Even relatives of such famous old west outlaws as Billy the Kid and Jesse James took pride in their ancestry, if not their ancestor's deeds. A fan? There were those who vehemently denied Polly was anything more than a crazy old Indian woman who enjoyed scaring the townsfolk of Sycamore Springs. Or perhaps an entrepreneur of some sort? He certainly acted like someone who was about to lose lots of money. Whatever his interest, Zatanna wasn't going to allow him to ruin her presentation. She had her audience hook, line, and sinker and wasn't about to let up.

 

Abraham carried a great amount of guilt over channeling Polly's mother. The dead often said things the living didn't want to hear. To make it up to his wife, he devoted himself to her quest for immortality. They considered vampires, but Polly didn't want to spend eternity undead. Then she learned of a spell that required the kiss of an immortal. The couple heard rumors of an immortal man walking the streets of New Orleans. Each morning for months, Abraham sat out in Sherlock Holmes fashion to find this man. Even those entrenched deeply in the voodoun community were reluctant to speak of him. If there was an immortal among them, no one was talking, including Marie Laveau. An impromptu meeting with a dockworker, a free man of color, set Abraham on the proper path. One day he rushed through the front door of their rented home with exciting news.

"Polly Marie? Where are you, dear?"

"I'm upstairs in the library," Polly answered. Her voice wafted through the house.

Abraham couldn't wait to see his wife's face. "Come down here. I have excellent news!"

Polly lingered for a few minutes before making her way downstairs. She regarded her husband thoughtfully and shrugged her shoulders. "Yes?"

Abraham grabbed his wife by her shoulders and kissed her hard.

"Are you drunk?" Polly asked.

"I found him!"

"Found who?"

"Him, the immortal!"

Polly furrowed her brows. "Please don't tease me, Abe."

Abraham was undaunted. "I'm not teasing, my love. He resides on Rue St. Charles, a wealthy man."

"St. Charles? A very wealthy man indeed," Polly answered.

"He wants to meet you," said Abraham. "Alone."

"Alone?" Polly asked.

"Yes, love. He was very clear that he never receives more than one visitor at a time. A bit of a hermit," Abraham answered.

"And what of you? Are you comfortable with such an arrangement?" Polly asked.

Abraham grabbed his wife by the hand and spun her around so her back was facing him. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed the back of her neck. "One kiss to know my beloved will live forever? I can't deny you."

Polly spun herself around in her husband's arms and kissed him passionately. "My best kisses are yours always."

Zatanna sensed that the crowd of historians wasn't as enamored by the mushy, romantic side of the tale as she was. They probably didn't like Titanic either.

Polly arrived at seven-thirty. She was dressed in a bright yellow long-sleeved dress, with thick layers of ruffles and lace underneath. A matching hat and lace umbrella completed her ensemble. Her hair was pinned up and she smelled of vanilla. Abraham said she was prettier than any society woman he'd ever seen. Polly thanked him with a kiss but felt silly.

It was a good thing she dressed so proper. If she hadn't the mansion would have surely outshone her. It was splendid. Even in the fading evening sun, the grounds were a feast to the eye. On either side of the walk leading to the entrance, the prickly, sinewy rosebushes were bent like a warrior's bow beneath the weight of plump, heavy roses. Their smell filled the air, reminding Polly of the flowers her mother pinned in her fiery hair as a child. She climbed the hand-carved limestone steps and knocked on the front door.

She was surprised when a white gentleman answered the door, rather than a servant.

"Mrs. Cavendish?" the man asked in a low baritone. His dark, curly hair and thick moustache and beard framed a devilishly handsome face. His brow was pronounced, but hidden behind well-groomed dark eyebrows. He wore a silk robe and pajamas and didn't seem the least bit uncomfortable in his unmentionables.

Polly cursed her modesty. She had seen the male form in far more revealing circumstances and never found herself blushing. As a girl, the braves in her village wore practically nothing during the warm summer months. Only a loincloth kept their nakedness from view. In the forests of Transylvania, she had participated in more than one orgy. Now a man in silk pajamas made her blush? She had lived too long in the white man's world.

"Yes, I'm Mrs. Cavendish," Polly answered. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Savage."

"Please call me, Van," the man answered. "And the pleasure is all mine." He took Polly's gloved hand and kissed her fingertips lightly.

Polly shivered beneath the kiss.

"Your husband says you require the kiss of an immortal?"

Polly nodded. "How do I know you're the real thing?"

The man laughed heartily. "What if I told you I've walked this earth since the days of prehistoric man? Or that I've ruled great civilizations in Egypt and Rome? Who do you think convinced General Desaix to send reinforcements to Emperor Napoleon's aid while he battled General Melas at Marengo? And I was the one who oversaw the Emperor's final exile at St. Helena, when he no longer served my needs. I've lived, my dear. Oh, how I've lived!"

"And how do I know you're not a liar? Or a madman?" Polly asked.

Van Savage pulled Polly to him and took her hands in his own and removed the white glove on her left hand. "Because of the way you feel when I do this."

He kissed Polly's fingers again, but this time the kiss wore more sensual, much more erotic.

Polly's spinning mind begged her quivering knees to not buckle under Savage's unapologetic seduction. She'd known many lovers, but this man was different. She thought of Abraham and the excitement in his voice when he told her of Savage. And now her lips were drawn to his intoxicating kiss, immortal or not.

Before long, Polly was in Savage's bed. Their lovemaking was furious until the bedroom door flung open.

"You whore!" Abraham screamed.

Polly covered herself with the silk sheets, as if her nakedness was something to hide from her husband.

"Why, Polly?" Abraham asked. "Is nothing sacred to you?"

Savage turned on his side and faced Abraham in the doorway. "Thank you for allowing me the pleasure of your wife's company."

A stinging slap from Polly's right hand reddened Savage's cheek. "Shut up, you bastard!"

Polly wrapped herself in the sheets and gathered up her clothes. She ran to her husband. "Abe, I'm sorry..."

Abraham turned and bolted. "Go to hell!"

Polly hastily dressed and chased after her husband.

Vandal Savage's raucous laughter filled the mansion as Polly ran from it, leaving the door open behind her.

The man in the second row heard enough. "Can't you allow the dead to sleep in peace? You taint their memory with your fiction and your lies! You make up these details for a more captivating tale!"

"I'm sorry you feel that way, sir," Zatanna answered. "If I've offended your view of history, I apologize. But the details are from Polly's own journal."

Two large security guards arrived and grabbed the man on either side. "Please come with us, sir," said one of the men.

The man batted at the guard's arms. "Get your hands off me, you mongrels!"

His struggle gained him little, as the guards quickly removed him from the room.

Paul Edinger stood and addressed the crowd. "Again, I apologize to our speaker and audience. We're all historians here. I'm sure we all know one or two radicals on the outer fringe of historical theories."

Nervous laughter swept through the crowd before Paul turned to Zatanna. "Please proceed with your tale."

"Thank you," said Zatanna.

Polly followed Abraham home where she found him packing.

"Abe, please. You don't have to do this. I didn't mean for that to happen. I feel terrible. The immortal overwhelmed me."

Abraham grabbed his wife by the hair and spit on her. "The immortal or you own lust? I hope you die, woman. Oh, that's right. You can't die now, can you? You selfish whore. I've done nothing but give to you and this is how you repay my love?"

"Abe, please! I..."

A blow from Abraham's right hand sent Polly sprawling to the floor. Blood poured from her mouth and nose.

"You hit me," Polly said in surprise. "You... you hit me."

Abraham raised her off the floor and hit her again. Her cheekbone cracked beneath the blow.

Polly slumped to the floor, but now she was angry. She looked up at her husband with the fires of hell burning in her green, Irish-Indian eyes. "Don't you ever hit me again!"

A vase flew across the room and struck the back of Abraham's head. He fell to the floor and crawled to his wife. He grabbed her ankle and bit it.

Polly yelped in pain and tried to kick him away with her free leg. A broken nose was all Abraham got for his trouble.

Polly stood to her feet and continued hurling objects at her husband, like she commanded an army of poltergeists. At first her magic pelted him with small objects, a hairbrush, a mirror, and books. But he kept coming at her, batting them away with his hands and hitting her when he could. The objects became heavier as Polly grew more desperate. Finally, she hurled a dresser into him. He fell to the floor in agony. She was sorry she cheated on him, but no man was ever going to hit her again. No white man, especially. "I'll not let you beat me. Please let me help you."

Abe looked up at her with angry, but broken eyes. "I don't want your help, you dirty half-breed whore."

Polly snapped. So that's how her saw her? She was no longer a wife or a partner, but a dirty half-breed whore? How long had he harbored such feelings? Polly felt she deserved to be called a whore. She certainly felt like one, and could understand Abe feeling betrayed. But why did the man she loved call her dirty and a half-breed?

Polly ripped open her elegant dress and looked upon Abraham with disdain. "Is that what you see when you look at me? A dirty, half-breed?"

Abraham shook his head. "No, my love. I didn't mean it. I swear. You know I love you."

"I don't want or need your love," Polly answered. She walked to the door and turned the knob.

She could hear Abe lifting himself from the floor. His voice was filled with rage. "Don't you walk out on me! Don't you walk out on me!"

Polly slammed the door shut behind her and fled down the street. How did she become so sidetracked from her mission? Her people were not yet avenged and she was prancing around the Bayou like a sixteen year old at a catillion! When did it start to matter where she lived? South Pierce or Prytania? What did it matter? Where did her warrior spirit go?

Domestic affairs had distracted Polly from her mission. She was immortal now and needed no one, least of all a pathetic, racist husband. Through the city streets she wondered until she reached the docks. Wondering along the dark waterway, she remembered her first day in New Orleans. And what had she learned? Nothing. All she did was prolong her vengeance by allowing herself to love a white man, even an outcast one.

Polly bumped into someone, bringing her to an abrupt halt. "Excuse me, sir."

She looked up into the empty eyes of a large, black man. The hulking man didn't acknowledge her apology. Instead, he grabbed Polly by the throat and lifted her from the ground. A low moan escaped his lips. In horror, Polly realized he was of the undead, under her husband's control. She fought against his tight grip to no avail. Then she saw them, an endless army of the undead rising from the water.

Polly tried to scream but the hand around her throat muffled it into a sickly whimper. Her arms and legs flailed but the brutish hulk refused to release her.

The undead circled like vultures, chilling moans emanating from their throats. It seemed Abraham's control was waning, until one of them stepped forward.

It was Madame Delphine LaLaurie!

"Did I not promise you'd pay?" Madame LaLaurie asked.

A horrified Polly shook her head. At last, she managed to squeak one word despite the firm grip seizing her throat. "Butcher."

"Disputatious until the very end? How dreadfully European, witch," Madame LaLaurie shrieked. "But we have a problem. It seems you're immortal now. I suppose you'll have to suffer again and again as I did."

Madame LaLaurie closed her face to within inches of Polly's own. "Only you won't die."

Led by Madame LaLaurie, the undead beat Polly senseless. Again and again, they pummeled her with vicious blow after blow. The beating was merciless and went on for what felt like eternity. Blood flowed from her nose and mouth with every brutal blow. Polly's eyes were so swollen she could barely open them. Whelps and bruises appeared on her arms, legs, and face. She heard her right arm break, then her left collar bone. And a few ribs. Someone ripped out a handful of her hair. And another. And another. She was stomped, beaten with sticks, bottles, whipped, and tortured for hours. Finally, the undead relented and pulled away from her. Holding her hand to the heavens to shield her face, she prayed to whatever God that would listen to be merciful to her and let her bargain with darkness expire. "Please, let me die!"

God didn't answer. Instead, Madame LaLaurie bit a chunk from her hand.

Polly howled in pain. At last she heard a familiar voice.

"Enough!"

Polly shook in fear as her husband approached.

"So my little half-breed wants to die?"

Polly nodded. "Please."

"Then we bargain. You pass your immortality to me and I order the undead back to their graves. Whether you live or die afterwards will depend on your own will to survive. I don't care either way."

Again Polly nodded. A tear rolled down her face as her husband leaned in to kiss her. She felt nothing, just as when Vandal Savage's lips first touched her own, but knew the bargain was sealed.

Zatanna closed the tome before her. "We know Polly didn't die there, but in Sycamore Springs. Ironically, history has granted her immortality after all, if not revenge on the white race. As for Abraham Cavendish, who knows? Perhaps he still walks the streets of New Orleans. Polly writes that he thwarted her vengeance schemes several times. Legend says a man named Cavendish killed Bill Polk in 1918 in Arizona, but that is purely speculative legend. However, it is interesting that the killer of legend shares the same name with..."

The doors to the lecture hall flew open. A man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a fine, dark blue suit and tall top hat. He was old world handsome with a pencil-thin moustache. "Someone has been a bad girl!"

"Daddy?" asked Zatanna. "Impossible! You're dead."

A panicked rumble quickly spread through the hall as Zatarra floated to the stage. "And you will join me, my daughter!"

Frightened scholars rushed for the exits.

"thgit kcol srooD!" Zatarra cried.

The doors shut tight, leaving a crowd of historians huddled together in fear. Try as they might, the doors wouldn't budge.

"enog eb yrekcoM!" Zatanna ordered.

Zatarra landed on the stage to Zatanna's right. "Foolish girl, I'm not an apparition you can order away with a misguided spell."

"Why are you doing this?" Zatanna asked.

"Some secrets are best left untold," Zatarra answered.

"!fles eurt ruoy wohs arrataZ" Zattana cried.

"This is my true self," Zatarra answered. "Now it is you who will learn, daughter. annataZ no llaf niatruC!"

Zatanna looked above to see the heavy, theater curtain give way and plummet toward her. "ecalp reporp ruoy ot nruter niatruC!"

The curtain floated in mid-air for a moment, caught between the will of Zatanna's magic and that of Zatarra's, before settling back into place overhead.

"I don't know who you are, abomination, but that's my father you're disgracing," Zatanna warned. "And I'm not happy!"

"And you have disgraced me," Zatarra answered. He grabbed his daughter by the throat and choked her. "Just can't leave well enough alone. Can you, Zatanna? Always sticking your nose into other people's business."

Whether the genuine article or a clever deception, Zatanna couldn't allow Zatarra to kill her. She clawed his eyes, forcing him to release his grip. "Who are you?" she asked.

"You know me," Zatarra answered. "Search your heart, daughter."

"Evarg ruoy ot kcab, arrataZ!" Zatanna cried.

Zatarra backhanded her, knocking Zatanna to one knee. "I think not! It's good to walk again after having my atoms disassembled. Still, I tire of this stalemate."

Zatarra turned to the history scholars huddled by the sealed door. "Who wants to die first?"

"semoh ruoy ot ecneiduA!" Zatanna commanded. The audience disappeared. "Now it's just you and me."

Zatarra lunged at his daughter. "Then you volunteer to die first?"

"yawa taolf arrataZ!" Zatanna cried, but her father kept coming. Her magic wasn't working against him. She rolled away and he fell to the ground, but still grabbed her leg.

"You could have found me sooner, Zatanna, but you enjoyed the limelight, didn't you? Prancing around with the Justice Leaguers on wild goose chases, pretending to search for me!" Zatarra accused.

Zatanna tried to pull her foot from her father's hands but his grip was relentless. She kicked again and again, to no avail. But were his accusations right? Did she enjoy her time in the League so much that she forgot why she was drawn to the heroes in the first place? Did palling around with the likes of Superman and Wonder Woman dull her sense of familial duty? After all, there was always some crisis that interfered with her search. "No, father! I wanted us to be a family!"

Zatarra dragged Zatanna closer. "Liar! And now you soil the memory of my sweet Polly as well!"

The psychological spell was broken the moment Zatarra mentioned Polly. For a brief moment, Zatanna wanted to believe there was a small chance her father could be in this body somewhere, affected by some corrupt magic, but he wasn't. He would not snap out of this trance. His mere presence was an abomination, an empty shell controlled by a fiendish immortal. There was no soul, no source of life. This was not how Zatanna wanted to remember the man who meant so much to her.

"Cavendish!" Zatanna cried.

"So you know me now?" Zatarra asked. "Please call me Abra Cadaver."

Her kicks grew fiercer, but the immortal controlling her father's corpse felt no pain. He tugged at her right leg so hard it popped out of socket.

Zatanna cried out in pain and reached frantically for the podium as he drug her by it. She was looking to anchor herself to anything. Her fingers wrapped around the pine trim around the bottom of the podium and she held on tight. She fought against her attacker but he was too strong physically. Years of the superhero business left her father's body in excellent condition.

If he was too strong for her and her magic wouldn't work against the animated corpse, perhaps there was another way. Looking overhead, she spied the lighting rig high on the catwalk. "tnaliassa ym no llaf gir gnitgiL."

With a creak, the heavy rigging gave way from it's mooring and plummeted to the stage. Zatarra looked up but it was too late.

CRASH!!!

The lighting rig crushed Zatarra's body.

For long minutes, Zatanna said nothing. She released her father's grip from her ankle then crawled over to his body and shook him. "Daddy?"

There was no reply.

The emotion hit Zatanna in waves. So many times she imagined her father was alive, but it was never like this. In her dreams, Superman would find him in a weird dimension somewhere, safe and ready to return home. There would be a surprise reunion at the Watchtower where all her closest friends could share in her joy. Then she and her father would spend precious time together. They would visit a nice Italian restaurant and perhaps catch a movie and talk about it afterwards. No matter who the lead actor was, Zatarra would swear he was no Jimmy Stewart and they would laugh about it over late night coffee. She never dreamed he'd come back only to die again. Or that she'd be the one to kill him. No! She didn't kill him. He was already dead. He died saving the multiverse during the Crisis. He was a hero. Her hero.

Zatanna wasn't sure what happened to Abra Cadaver. For whatever reason, he released his hold on her father's corpse. Perhaps the immortal abandoned Zatarra to avoid a psychic backlash? Zatanna didn't care why, but she was glad he was gone. She crawled to her father's body and cradled his head in her arms and cried.

One day Abra Cadaver would pay for causing her this much pain, but not today. Today was a day of mourning.