Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(15)

Hell, they couldn’t even stand to look too long at the East End in their own damn city.

His mom knew that. Fought against that every day. He supposed his mom’s ball gowns and well-tailored suits were another kind of armor—that she, too, had masks she used to fight against the injustices of the world, especially as a black woman in the upper echelon of society. He wished he could tell her that. Wished he could explain that he was honored to follow in her footsteps, even if the fighting they did each night was different. Hers took place at galas and in boardrooms, winning over Gotham City’s richest to contribute to her charities with that charm and wit of hers. His fights, beyond those in the ring, were in places few dared to venture.

Luke picked a treadmill that enabled him to see anyone who entered the gym—another lesson from Bruce: always be on guard—and climbed on, punching in his preferred speed and incline. His body was a tool. A weapon. The same as any he’d fought with overseas.

And even as Luke launched into a run, even as sweat again slid down his body and his lungs burned in his broad chest…he still couldn’t feel it.

Himself.

As if his skin, his bones, were as distant as the high-tech suit he donned every night.

The sun began to rise over Gotham City, the wall of windows offering an unparalleled view of the city skyline.

Another day.

He’d make it count. For the friends who hadn’t made it home, for the people living in this city…He’d make it count.





Silence lay heavy throughout the Museum of Antiquities.

In the darkest hours of the night, the quiet that permeated the marble chambers was as tangible as the muggy heat outside the sprawling complex. Only the occasional whisper of the air conditioner or the jingle of a drowsy guard’s keys provided any interruption.

Certainly not Selina. Her black boots didn’t so much as scuff against the white floors as she crept through the wings and halls of the behemoth building, her helmet providing a steady read of the tangle of alarm sensors.

It was a puzzle—and not a particularly clever one.

Her helmet’s scanner gave her a constant stream of information, tailored to her specifics. The helmet’s ears, the overly large eyes…She’d taken one of the standard helmets—Death Masks, they called them—that the League of Assassins gave to all their acolytes, and modified it.

Kitten, they’d taunted her. Kitty-cat. Acolytes and assassins alike whispered and hissed and growled it during training sessions, in the eating hall, down the walkways. One look at the spots inked on her arms, and the taunts had begun. Her fists had done the talking at first—though all it had earned her was Nyssa’s disdain. Control is vital. Control is everything.

So Selina had taken control. Of the taunts, the hated nickname.

All while improving her Death Mask. Tinkering through the quietest hours of the night, deep in the science labs of the Sanctuary. She’d shocked herself a few times, sliced up her fingers while cutting the wires, but in the end Nyssa had given her a rare smile of approval when Selina had come to training one day wearing her modified helmet. The audio receptors shaped like cat ears. The large eyes. And the dagger-sharp claws at the tips of her black climbing gloves.

The taunting had stopped after that.

Especially when she’d ripped open the side of Tigris, one of Nyssa and Talia’s fiercest assassins and trainers, and settled things between them.

And that was before Nyssa had started letting her officially train with the bullwhip.

Head to toe in black, her breathing barely elevated, Selina paused before the entrance to the famed Egyptian Wing and surveyed the labyrinth of shimmering lasers.

It was outright cliché: the web of lasers nearly invisible to the naked eye.

Without the helmet, she might have resorted to an aerosol to reveal them. Even more cliché.

Yet despite the helmet’s map of the various pitfalls and suggested routes, Selina found herself studying the lasers. Gauging the angles, the landing space, the possible disasters.

The relic was displayed only fifty feet away. A straight shot down the arched marble corridor. Even at night, the small bronze cat statue was lit up in stunning relief, tribute to Bastet, the feline-headed goddess of warriors. Protector of children and cats.

No larger than a bottle of shampoo, the thirty-two-hundred-year-old statue was in flawless condition. That, along with the gems embedded in its collar, made it nearly priceless.

Nearly priceless. Someone had, in fact, slapped a price on it.

A price that made Selina smile beneath her helmet and begin.

Setting her weight onto her left leg, she lifted her right and eased it through the largest gap between the shimmering sensors.

Balance was key. The beam had been her best and favorite event in gymnastics. She had no idea why. Most of her teammates had dreaded it, feared it. She’d sometimes wondered if that fear had been a poison, making their balance worse.

Selina eased the rest of her body through the initial gap between the sensors, landing in a small island of open air. She’d tucked her bullwhip in tightly for this heist—had triple-checked that it wouldn’t fall loose from its place at her left hip while she moved.

The guards didn’t rotate into this wing for another ten minutes. It was all the time she needed. Especially when she’d taken the liberty of jamming the camera signals with a simple Computer Error: Contact Provider message. One with a fake phone number that would keep the guards on hold for a good fifteen minutes.