Forget what you think you know about superheroes.

Because this is the real world, and in the real world there is no such thing as "magical healing" or "super-sense" to keep a man alive. In the real world, there's just a man in a mask. Or in this case, woman.

And she's bleeding to death.

A drop of blood landed in the greasy puddle at the priest's feet. Father William Everett looked up in surprise, his startled gaze climbing the soot- stained limestone facade of Gothic cathedral looming before him. The church—his church—rose from the blighted urban landscape surrounding it like a fortress, holding fast against the squalid decay of Paris. Through the tireless efforts of Father Everett and his predecessors, the Church of the Holy Innocents had always provided a refuge from the crime, poverty, and bloodshed that had long characterized this most infamous of Paris's neighborhoods.

At least, until tonight.

"What the devil?" he murmured, stepping back from the bloodstained puddle and crossing himself.

It was well after midnight, but the corner street lights partially illuminated the western fenced in parking lot (now closed for the night) and a storefront psychic and tarot card reader (also closed). Stained glass windows depicting various saints and apostles looked out from pointed Gothic arches, while ornate stone tracery, sadly corroded by smog and acid rain, adorned the rising turrets and central spire. Father Everett's worried eyes watched the familiar planes and angles of the old church, anxious to discover the source of the blood, yet was fearful of what he might find.

Please, he prayed silently, let it not be human. Although he had witnessed much evil and heartbreak during his years, his heart had, for or for worse, never hardened against human suffering. Let it be some poor bird or beast.

Steam rose from a nearby sewer grate, and a solitary rat, no doubt attracted by scent of blood, crept up to the edge of the puddle, only to scurry away as another crimson droplet fell from somewhere above, breaking the surface of the puddle and causing lurid red circles to ripple outward. Father Everett glanced down just in time to see the husky black rat depart, before resuming his fretful quest for blood's point of origin.

Then, as if to assist him in his investigation, a police helicopter came flying low over the neighborhood. The cold white beam of the copter's searchlight probed the nearby rooftops before turning its incandescent gaze on the church. Something serious is happening, the priest realized. But what—or whom— could the copter be hunting for?

Father Everett peered upward. At first, he spotted nothing unusual, just high church walls somewhat in need of a good scrubbing; but then, tilting his head back as far as it could go, he lifted his gaze all the way up to the large marble crucifix rising proudly at the very peak of the cathedral's tall stone spire. His jaw dropped, and a frisson of superstitious fear coursed through his soul at the startling sight atop the cathedral, where the Devil himself could be seen draped over the outstretched arms of the cross.

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear, Father Everett thought nervously, recalling a hoary maxim drummed into him at his mothers knee. He blinked his eyes in amazement and crossed himself for the second time in as many minutes. For an endless heartbeat or two, he thought himself genuinely in the presence of the Adversary, until his innate good sense and reason, well honed by decades of ministering to the city's mean streets, reasserted itself. In Paris, he knew from hard experience, the Devil's works were almost always performed by human hands.

Looking again through more skeptical eyes, the middle-aged priest saw that the figure clinging to the spire, exposed by the police copter's incandescent beam, was just a woman wearing a costume, dark black in color. A mask covered the upper half of her face. Some sort of prank? Father Everett wondered hopefully, more relieved than annoyed. But it's the middle of summer—Halloween is over two months away!

The disguised woman staggered against the elevated cross, and another blood red droplet splashed into the puddle on the sidewalk outside the Church of the Holy Innocents. Father Everett knew this was no joke; the woman up there was obviously hurt, perhaps seriously.

The worried priest held his breath, afraid that at any moment the unknown stranger would lose her grip on the cross and fall to her death. The spire rose over two hundred feet above the pavement; the wounded woman would need a miracle to survive.

Slowly, painfully, the stranger lowered herself onto the roof of the cathedral, eventually disappearing from Father Everett's sight as he fled the glare of the searchlight by dipping below the ornamented turrets of the church. Did the bleeding woman mean to enter the Church of the Holy Innocents from the roof? Father Everett couldn't figure out where else she could go.

The priest stared at the locked front entrance of the church, torn between Christian charity and caution. Who knew what the intruder wanted or why the police were searching for her? What if she was armed and dangerous? A wounded felon could still pose a serious threat.

He looked up and down the moonlit street, hoping for a Good Samaritan (or, better yet, several) he could recruit for assistance. But aside from the whirring helicopter hovering overhead, as frustratingly distant and out of reach as Heaven itself, there was not a soul in sight. Paris might be a city that never sleeps, but people in Paris knew better than to brave these lonely, litter-strewn streets at such an ungodly hour of the night. Taxi drivers avoided the whole neighborhood like the plague, especially after dark; only a deathbed visit to a dying parishioner had kept the priest himself out so late. And as for the police . . . who knew when reinforcements for the helicopter would arrive on the ground?

Father Everett took a few halting steps toward the church entrance, then hesitated once more. Despite the muggy August heat, a shiver ran through his body and the sweat on his back felt as cold as ice. He trembled in the cathedral's shadow, afraid to draw nearer. Aside from the fact that she's hurt, he asked himself cautiously, what else do I know about this woman? He tugged nervously at his starched white collar only to remember solemn vows taken years ago and never regretted. He let out a fatalistic sigh and took another step closer to the door. What else do I need to know?

Committed now, if no less apprehensive, the priest climbed the steps to the closed double doors barring his way. His shaky hands fumbled with the padlock; as ever, he hated the fact that he had to lock the doors of the cathedral while away after dark, but in Paris, there was really no other choice, aside from letting the church be looted and vandalized every other week or so. The doors swung open, and he made his way through the vestibule to the nave, where a shocking tableau awaited him.

Moonlight entered the vast cathedral through stained-glass windows mounted high above the marble floor, throwing an eerie spotlight on the figure sprawled in the center aisle, in front of the altar at the far end of the vaulted chamber. Half collapsed, half crawling, the woman in the black garb gripped the end of the gilded altar in an effort to keep from falling completely onto the scuffed marble tiles beneath her knees.

Father Everett suddenly recalled a rumor he heard, about a costumed vigilante supposedly prowling the neighborhood, putting the fear of God, or at least the Devil, into the local hoods and drug dealers. What did the papers call her again? The priest scoured his memory, trying to remember a tabloid headline he hadn't paid much attention to before. The Woman in Black? Devil Girl? The Daring Devil?

No. The name came to him at last. Daredevil.

A pain-racked groan escaped the injured woman, interrupting Father Everett's moment of revelation. "Hello?" he called out, grateful that his voice shook only a little. The muffled susurrus of the helicopters propellers barely penetrated the cathedral's high stone walls. He flicked a switch, causing two rows Of lantern-shaped chandeliers to light up above the varnished wooden pews. The lamps emitted a soft golden glow that dispelled many of the shadows cast by the stained glass tinted moonlight. Drawing strength from the added illumination, the priest hurried down the aisle toward the other woman. "Can I help you?"

Daredevil, if that was who the stranger was, merely grunted in reply. Gritting her teeth, she tried to climb to her feet, only to falter and, gasping, drop back onto the floor. Blood dripped from what looked like a vicious stab wound in her right shoulder and an extremely large gash on her side.

"Careful, my daughter," Father Everett counseled as he helped the injured intruder onto the sanctuary cradling the masked woman's head. "Do not exert yourself."

On closer inspection, he saw now that Daredevil's bizarre garb was made of nothing more the black cargo pants, a thin black sports shirt, along with matching gloves and boots. A black holster strapped to her right thigh held two wooden shafts about one and half feet long. Weapons? Father Everett guessed, briefly wondering who on earth had dared to attack such an ominous looking individual.

A blank black mask concealed all but the bottom half of Daredevil's face. A white woman, Father Everett noted, whose strong chin and smooth features might have appeared beautiful had they not borne the ugly evidence of some recent brawl. Swollen lips, bruised and bleeding, testified that their owner had endured other blows besides the stabs to her shoulder and side. Her breath came in ragged pants, and she appeared to be struggling to remain conscious. Father Everett tried to look into the other woman's eyes, only to discover black cloth looking back at him. How in Heaven does she see through that? he wondered.

Concerned that his new charge might be suffering from shock or a concussion, the priest gently undid the knot around the back off Daredevil's head and tried to take off the mask hiding the vigilante's eyes. "No—" Daredevil murmured weakly, raising a hand to stop Father Everett, but her strength deserted her and she surrendered to the older man's kindly intervention.

"Sssh," Father Everett whispered soothingly. "It's all right. I just want to see how badly you're hurt." Confronted with the irrefutable reality Of the injured woman's weakness, priest felt his earlier fears slip away. The black cloth fell away as well, revealing the battered face of a young woman in her early twenties. Darkish blue, almost black hair, slick with perspiration, plastered to her skull, and dark purple bruises marred her features. Lifeless eyes stared past Father Everett at the vaulted ceiling and circular rose window high above them. The old priest gasped in astonishment. He knew this face—indeed, he had known it for years. It was a face from the neighborhood, one that had with- stood more than its fair share of tragedy over the last few decades. "Marinette?" he whispered uncertainty, striving to come to grips with this unexpected revelation. "Marinette Cheng?"

A single red candle, never extinguished, resided in the sanctuary, symbolizing the eternal presence of Holy Spirit. Taking care not to drop Daredevil's—Marinette's—head, Father Everett reached out and hold of the candle by its polished silver holder. Without thinking, he brought the lighted candle closer to Marinette's eyes, which remained fixed and immobile, not dilating at all.

Of course not, the priest realized, shaking his head. How could he have forgotten her disability? He looked down into the younger woman's unseeing eyes, unsure how he would tell if life passed out of them. Dark venous blood leaked from Marinette's violated shoulder and torso, dripping onto the marble tiles; her breath came roughly and with obvious strain. Is she bleeding internally? Father Everett worried, putting down the candle to apply pressure to the untended wound. He had already administered last rites to one of his flock this evening, an eighty-year-old man succumbing to chronic emphysema, now he feared he might have to do the same to young Marinette.

They say your whole flashes before you when you die. Father Everett reflected, while Daredevil's lifeblood pooled beneath him. He shifted the injured woman's weight, hoping to ease her discomfort some small degree. Marinette's eyes gazed into nothingness. Is that true even for a blind woman?