Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(31)

“When the sun sets,” Nyssa went on in English, her accent lilting, “the temperature will drop below freezing. I have no plans to be here when it does.” But you will be, she didn’t need to add.

Then Nyssa launched into a sprint, her slim body eating up the rocky ground, black hair tied back in a tight braid from her face. Not a pretty face, not like Talia’s. Where Talia’s was marble-hewn in its perfection, Nyssa’s had been carved from granite.

And like the granite peaks around them, Nyssa’s stride never faltered, never showed any sign of emotion beyond that cool brutality. It was set in the same expression as she hurtled for the ravine ledge—and leapt.

No ropes, no equipment. Nothing beyond icy will.

The acolyte from Eastern Europe swore in some Slavic language. Serbian, perhaps. Recognizing the languages of the world: another course of instruction.

Nyssa soared over the gap, body arcing perfectly. The only bit of beauty the al Ghūl half sister would ever have, in the precision of her movements.

She made it look easy. Landed with a crunch of rock and a smooth roll that flowed into a standing position.

Selina couldn’t help the half smile that curved her mouth as Nyssa leaned against a boulder, crossed her arms—her battle-suit dusty from the landing—and waited.

Selina didn’t look at the other opponents, didn’t engage in the silent battle of who would go first, of whether it would be foolish to do so or if it would earn them a kernel of Nyssa’s respect. Or if the one who went last would be deemed cowardly or smart to study the others’ mistakes and learn from them.

Selina turned, stalking back to the exact point from which Nyssa had launched herself into that run. Gave herself a few more feet beyond it. She studied the faint path of footprints Nyssa had taken. The angle of the jump. Beside her, Anaya did the same.

And her sort-of ally murmured, too softly for the other girls to hear, “They might try to spook us when we run.”

She was right. Likely by shouting, maybe even stepping into their path. And no one would punish them for it. No, Nyssa would likely reward them. Another bit of training—not to lower your guard, Nyssa would say. They were all merely instruments to carry out the League’s mission. Better to weed out defective ones before sending them into the field.

Survival of the fittest. Biology had been one of her favorite classes. It seemed the League took Darwinism to another level.

Nyssa still waited, arms crossed over her chest. Someone had to make a move.

Even from the distance, Selina could have sworn the woman’s eyes met hers. Full of challenge. And invitation.

She’d jumped and run across rooftops with the Leopards, hauling TV sets and other stolen goods. Then, the drop had been thirty feet, not three hundred. But no less lethal.

And perhaps it was the thought of those Leopards she’d left behind a month ago, but Selina murmured to Anaya, “Go. Now. I’ll block for you.”

Warning flared in Anaya’s rich brown eyes, her long black hair fluttering in the fierce wind roaring through the peaks. A test of trust.

Selina only held the other girl’s gaze, steady and calm. “Now,” she repeated as the four acolytes began to approach, smiling faintly.

Yeah, they’d try to spook them. Trip them.

With a shallow nod, Anaya sucked in a breath and launched into a sprint.

A blond acolyte moved first. Scooped up a small rock to throw, discreet and tiny enough to go unseen as her arm cocked back—

Selina grabbed another stone, slinging it out. Slamming right into the blonde’s arm. Forcing her fingers to splay and drop the rock that had been aimed for Anaya.

Anaya hurtled down that narrow path. The acolyte from Serbia moved next. Lunging toward Anaya’s path, to force her to dodge sideways, to lose traction.

Selina was on her before Anaya could register the movement.

The Serbian acolyte let out a grunt of pain as Selina stomped down on her foot. The acolyte’s body arced downward, as if she’d grab her own foot, right into Selina’s awaiting elbow.

She’d done the move a thousand times in the fighting rings. Always followed by her next move: locking the Serbian acolyte’s arm and hurling her toward the other two approaching acolytes, as if they were no more than the ropes of the ring. Sending the three of them staggering back.

Selina didn’t wait. Didn’t give them a moment to recover as she whirled and ran.

Anaya soared through the mountain air, the breeze shoving her to the right—

But she landed, barely, and scrabbled her way onto the ledge, where Nyssa didn’t so much as look at her.

No, because Nyssa was watching Selina as she thundered down the narrow path toward the ravine as the acolytes recovered enough to realize her plan and look for retaliation.

She didn’t have as much space as Anaya had to make that jump. With the attack, she’d yielded twenty feet.

But Selina raced onward, the ledge nearing, the drop beyond beckoning.

Pain flared on the side of her head, a starburst of agony. She stumbled a step but kept going, kept going as more hurled rocks landed behind her. She didn’t care where the other acolytes had come from, but she knew where she’d been born. Where she’d been raised.

She wondered if the others knew, if Nyssa knew, that the pain was secondary. The pain was an old friend. Introduced long before those fights, before the Leopards. Introduced courtesy of her mother.