Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(24)

Life on the East End had been brutal—but there, at least most people had been real. None of the labyrinths of lies and illusions these people spun with words and sparkling wealth. Yes, there had been people just as untrustworthy, but…She’d still take the East Enders over these people any day of the week.

The CEO spun her, the world blending into a living band of color and glitter and marble. So different from how she’d first seen the grand hall of the museum, with its swooping staircases on either side, the mezzanine overlooking the entire space, the quiet, looming sense of mystery—of sacredness in every inch of this place.

She’d been here on a seventh-grade field trip and had focused more on keeping her growling stomach from being overheard in the whisper-filled galleries than on the art itself. Then, she’d been in clothes scrounged from the donation piles, not in a golden wrap dress that cost more than the poorest of Gotham City made in a year. With matching heels.

Those shoes now traveled across the parquet floors, the embroidered tulle and silk-crepe dress glinting in the lights of the chandeliers above and the countless candelabras throughout the packed space.

“You’ll be going to the Save the Children Gala, I presume?” The CEO wasn’t bad-looking—for a man old enough to be her father. Too bad everything about him, his life, repulsed her.

Selina forced her red-painted lips into a smile. “Only if you are.”

A gleam of interest in the man’s eyes—the same gleam that she’d spotted across the hall and then encouraged with frequent knowing glances. Until he strode up to her and asked for a dance.

Disgustingly easy. Ridiculously predictable.

The hand the CEO had braced on her waist shifted a little southward. It took every ounce of effort to keep smiling and not to rip that hand off her. “Oh, I’ll be there, Miss Vanderhees.”

She was beautiful, loaded, and young. Precisely this man’s type.

Too bad his two-hundred-thousand-dollar Rolex was more her type.

Picking him out of the crowd had been simple. No wedding ring, and he strutted around like he owned the place. He’d already known who she was, thanks to Holly’s frequent appearances at Gotham City’s finest restaurants and stores these past two weeks. And more than that: her own established source of income offered an automatic in.

The cliché of rich men marrying their secretaries or flight attendants is gone, Talia had drawled during those early lessons. The rich only trust the rich.

Nyssa taught her the blades and the discipline. And Talia taught her everything else. About society’s masks—about the rules. How to slip past them.

Rich men now want to marry their equals, Talia had explained. God, she’d loved to hear herself talk more than anything in the world. Other CEOs, heiresses. To consolidate power—amass more. So you must learn to play the part.

Selina had. And that training had been just as hard as Nyssa’s.

Nails, hair, skin, body, makeup—the first signifiers, Talia had ordered as they’d sat before her dressing table in the compound. She’d examined Selina’s short, rough nails. You will wear gloves while training and grow these out. Not too long, though. And no hangnails. She’d handed over a small pink-and-silver compact full of a pale rose cream. For the cuticles—and your lips. Apply morning and night.

Then had come the regimen of creams and gels and masks for her face. Her hair.

Makeup should be light but skilled. Not for the men but for the other women, who will notice immediately. Suspect you. It is to emphasize, not draw attention to yourself. If you go bold, do it sparingly. Lips or eyes—pick one.

A different sort of armor from the ones Talia’s half sister, Nyssa, had been showing her. A different way of breaking into locked rooms than a pick kit.

Nyssa and Talia: two sides of the same dark coin. One trained for bloodshed and battle, the other for politics and strategy. Together, they ran the League’s headquarters in Italy, overseeing the training of the young women they recruited.

These are the weapons and passports they use against each other, Talia had purred, dusting Selina’s face with golden highlighter. So we will use them as well.

Selina let the CEO’s hand drift a little lower, let a little corner of her mouth lift. So many eyes upon them now. Curious about the new socialite in their midst. The waltz rose, turning frenzied as it neared its end.

She knew his attention was focused on the location of his hand. She even arched her back a little bit, as if enjoying it—encouraging his inappropriate groping. Even while her stomach turned over, her blood simmering to a near boil.

You will learn to talk, walk, and dance like them. When you speak to the other acolytes in the dining hall, I expect you to use the same phrasings you would when speaking to a baron. When you walk to your lessons, I expect you to float as if you were in the midst of a ball.

And the dancing? Selina had asked.

Talia had taken her to Venice three nights later. To the Grand Masquerade Ball at Carnevale. Selina had brought a simple black gown whose back draped open dramatically. She’d also brought the black-and-gold mask Talia had given her. Just in case.

But Selina shoved the thought of that ball from her mind as this waltz drew to its close. As the CEO’s hand brushed even lower, her own hand grazed his thick wrist.

She held his gaze while she did it, allowed him to be too distracted by her heavy-lidded stare, her pert red mouth, to notice the watch she slid off his wrist as she pulled out of his touch. She said to the CEO, voice low and wicked, “I certainly hope I see you before then.”