“Well,” said Nightstalker, running the strip of film through her gloved fingers, “that’s something you don’t see every day.”

“Ayup,” agreed Detective Holland.

“Is he all right?”

“Physically? Or, more, uh, holistically.”

“Either.”

“Doc said he was fine. Taking a leave of absence until we get this whole thing settled.”

“Probably for the best.”

“Ayup.”

There was another long silence as Nightstalker tore herself away from the tiny, canted image of the man masturbating and spooled the film back onto its reel. “It’s definitely Dominique, though.”

“You sound confident.”

“Really, Detective? I’m sure you knew before you came up here to ask for my help.” Holland didn’t take the bait, so she began ticking points off on her fingers. “First, it’s her m.o. Well, mostly. No threats, no violence, just talking her way in and then mysteriously making someone do what she wants. The, uh, business at the end is unusual, but its also not the first person she’s humiliated on the way out. Second, the real Claudia Nicolosi didn’t report the keys being stolen, or the bank would have known about it, which means she likely was given the same treatment – well, some of the same treatment – and that means some kind of strange mind powers again. Third, she’s wearing a hat and never quite looks towards the camera but the other woman, her assistant, does, and she’s a dead ringer for Natalie Cabot, Boston socialite kidnapped by Dominique near the start of her little spree nine months ago, and missing since then.”

“You know an awful lot about this lady.”

“It’s my business to. And fourth, you smuggled evidence out of the police station and brought it to the roof of your building to show me, which you wouldn’t have done if you thought this was just some con artist.”

“Hrmph,” said Holland.

Nightstalker handed him back the reel. “And so, you’ve called me up here to help you out.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“And I’m not sure you’re allowed to.” Nightstalker grinned at Holland’s irritated expression. “Don’t worry, I won’t get you in trouble. If a concerned citizen calls in a tip on where Dominique is hiding, tied to a chair and punched a couple of times, that’s just the department’s good fortune.”

“Hrmph,” repeated Holland.

Nightstalker walked over to the edge of the roof and stretched. She’d been here before, and knew the route—three meters or so down to the fire escape, two flights down and then a jump to the next building, across it and eastward towards the downtown. She needed to limber up before making some of those running jumps, though.

“Hey,” said Holland. She looked behind her. “She seems like a really dangerous woman to be around. Be careful.”

“I always am,” she said, and threw herself off the roof.

She was grateful, as she made her way over the rooftops and up and down the sides of buildings, that the rooftop of Holland’s building had been too dark for him to see her. That had been the condition of their meetings ever since she had started working with him; there was no light for him to ever identify her (while her own altered vision let her pick facial expressions off a tiny strip of film in the pitch-black). But this time it was mostly because he hadn’t been able to see her flushing when he twitted her about her knowledge of Dominique. She hadn’t been lying, exactly. She did keep up on anyone running around with superpowers who might be a danger to River City and its population.

But she’d been trying to fit the pieces together for Dominique specifically for a while now, and there was still something she was missing. She hit up banks, mostly, because “that’s where the money is.” as the man said; but the bit at the end didn’t seem connected. Nobody, weirdly humiliated or not, had ever reported doing anything out of the ordinary. There didn’t seem to be any distinguishing difference between those victims she left sitting on the floor and the ones she… handled rougher; at least not in the police reports she’d been able to see. If she could figure out that, she’d have a handle on Dominique that might help her find her.

Being able to beat her was the other puzzle. Her power was overwhelming, but possibly not irresistible: she moved across the country fast and seemed to take care to only hit unwarned targets. Someone prepared for it might stand a better chance—at least, Nightstalker hoped so. But Cabot had been with her for months, now, and everyone else who’d been affected had been out again in a few hours, four at the most. She might just be hammering Cabot any time she could escape, but it seemed more likely that there was some other aspect of her power she was missing: either it got harder to resist, the more you were exposed (a worrying thought), or she had some more subtle aspect to it that could enslave someone on a more long-term basis (an even more worrying thought). That was another thing she’d need to figure out fast.

But then, of course, there was the filmstrip itself. She’d tried to strip it down in good investigative fashion, for facts and faces useful to her search, but some of it had seared itself into her mind’s eye. Not Meertens whacking off, that was simply gross. That moment in front of the vault when Dominique had suddenly stopped pretending to be some idiot heiress and became the most important thing in Cabot and Meertens’ universes. She wanted that, wanted someone to look at her like that, wanted someone to look at with the look on Cabot’s face when she came out of the vault a slave. Not Cabot, of course. Obviously. Cabot was good-looking but a hostage, so, obviously not Cabot. She needed to be rescued and it would be inappropriate.

She was panting, a little bit, now. The rooftop run was normal, the sort of thing she did almost every night without trouble, and she wasn’t out of breath. She was just getting excited. She consciously tried to think of it, instead, in pragmatic terms. Bank robber and kidnapper. Dangerous, needing to be stopped. Nightstalker needed to stop her, get her nice and disabled, leave her for the police to pick up and arrest and return the stolen valuables. The sort of thing Nightstalker had done before and, God willing, would do many times again in future. Nothing out of the ordinary.

It helped a little.

Nightstalker crouched on the fire escape outside the flat. This was the place, if her deductions were right. It was something like three AM now, and with any luck both Dominique and Cabot would be asleep. Still, luck was nothing like preparation, and she paused for a moment to work out lighting. The flat was pitch black, meaning she’d be silhouetted to anyone inside if there was light behind her. But there was another building right across the way, with no lights on on its mostly-brick side, and the little light filtering up from the streetlamps three stories down and a few dozen meters away was too little to be useful to anyone with normal sight.

She hazarded a glance through the window. A little combination living-dining room: some chairs, a table. There was a woman seated at one of the chairs, facing the windows. It was Cabot. Nightstalker was sure of it, made eye contact with her, although, of course, Cabot couldn’t see back in the witching hour darkness. The next window over had been left open – it was a couple of feet away from the ladder, but nothing she couldn’t manage pretty easily. She climbed out across the wall, onto the sill, and slid gracefully through the window.

She landed noisily on the sheet of tinfoil spread out directly under the window. Trap! Dominique was waiting for me! Nightstalker screamed futilely at herself, as Cabot snapped to attention. In the dark, she was looking slightly to Nightstalker’s left, but clearly aware of her presence.

“Ms. Nightstalker?” Cabot said, politely. “We’ve been expecting you.” Nightstalker didn’t answer. The floor was carpeted, and once she was off the tinfoil – another round of soft crashing sounds in the predawn darkness that made her cringe – she was moving silently towards Cabot again. Cabot had lost her, still looking roughly at the window, and talking:  “My mistress has a proposition for you. If you would—augh!”

Nightstalker had grabbed her by the arm and spun her until she was armlocked, facing away from her. She hissed into the woman’s ear: “Please keep quieter, Ms. Cabot. I can help you get away safely if you help me. Is Dominique awake?”

“I don’t see what—oh, um, right—” she said, and then without warning slammed her head back into Nightstalker’s forehead. Nightstalker didn’t make a noise, and kept hold of her arms, but Cabot kept going hard, pulling her arms hard and headbutting again and then trying some kind of backwards leg sweep thing that didn’t knock Nightstalker over but did unbalance her enough to lose her grip. Cabot sprinted forwards to the far wall and started slapping it, trying to find the light switch in the dark.

Nightstalker rushed after her and hit her with her shoulder just as Cabot’s hand found the switch. The lights went on and Cabot gave a wheezing cough as Nightstalker slammed her into the wall. Nightstalker flipped the light back off—she could still see perfectly, of course, but Cabot’s ordinary eyes would be almost blind, adjusting to a moment of light and then pitch darkness again.

It was a mistake – Cabot didn’t need to see her. While she was hitting the light Cabot was getting her breath back and fell forward onto Nightstalker. Cabot was taller and heavier and surprisingly muscular for her soft socialite background – Dominique must have had her on some kind of exercise program since she’d become a hostage-cum-henchwoman. Nightstalker toppled backwards. But whatever weightlifting she was doing wasn’t quite the same as a career in streetfighting: she could see Cabot hesitate as Nightstalker hit the ground, trying to reassess the situation in the dark. Nightstalker had no such hesitation. Even as her elbows barked painfully into the floor, she turned the momentum of her legs swinging out from under her into a slamming knee to Cabot’s groin.

Cabot made a small noise and dropped on Nightstalker. She shoved Cabot off of her, reached for her handcuffs, punched Cabot in the nose when she looked like she might be getting some kind of focus back, and cuffed Cabot’s hands behind her back.

“Sorry about this,” she whispered. “Once I deal with Dominique we can get you free from her control and then you can go home.”

Cabot gave her a cool look. “If you like. Mistress is waiting for you by now, I’m sure.”

Cabot was still well under the influence, clearly. Well, that was ok. Dominique’s power wore off quick enough, and Nightstalker would have dealt with this one way or another by morning.

One way or another—that was the problem. Now that the adrenaline was running low again, Nightstalker could feel a knot of awful anticipation coming in her stomach. She knew what Dominique could do, and in a few moments all that power would be turned on her. She was going to test her will against Dominique’s and had to pray she could hold up. And threaded through the worry was a flicker of anticipation that was eager and expectant: she wanted to know what it felt like, to be as controlled as Cabot had been and still was –

She shook her head and stood up. She had to stay focused, steel herself for the confrontation. This was important. “Stay there,” she said vaguely to Cabot. Cabot, bound on the floor and still half-winded, snorted contemptuously. Nightstalker walked into the interior of the flat.

She was in the bedroom, of course. “Hello,” said Dominique, from the bed. She was in a diaphanous nightgown—her nipples, hard and brown, clearly visible through it—and she lay sprawled on top of the covers in a deliberate pose. The room was lit only by a bedside lamp, and Nightstalker decided to spot her the bags under her eyes and mussed hair. No one else would have had the vision to notice them. She looked like she’d been up well past her bedtime, waiting for Nightstalker. Nightstalker would have been flattered if the obviousness of the setup wasn’t so worrying.

“It’s over,” said Nightstalker, more confidently than she felt. “Give yourself up.”

“Funny,” said Dominique, “I was about to say the same thing. Is Natalie all right?”

“She’ll be fine in the morning. Fine and free to go back home, and you’ll be in jail.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” She looked Nightstalker in the eyes and Nightstalker tried very hard not to flinch. Kneel.

“No,” ground out Nightstalker, somehow staying on her feet. She turned an attempt by her left knee to buckle into a staggering step forward.

So valiant! I knew We chose right. Kneel.

Nightstalker’s legs were pins and needles and her feet felt numb. She managed another step.

Your time for playing is over, She said, getting up off the bed. She was very close to Nightstalker, now. You want this. Do as your Mistress commands. Kneel.

Surrender felt every bit as good as Nightstalker had imagined.