Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(32)

So the blow to the head did not stop her. It had never stopped her, that kind of pain.

And as Selina cleared the ledge and leapt, throwing herself a bit farther left to account for the gusting of the wind, she only heard the screaming air and the roughness of her breathing, only felt the bitter cold and the warmth of the blood trickling down the side of her face.

The opposite ledge was too far. Still too far.

Every nerve in her body came screaming awake as she slammed into the edge of the cliff, half on, half off. Gravity hauling her down—

Anaya lunged for her, but Nyssa held out an arm. Blocking her path.

Selina’s nails broke and screamed in agony as she dug them into the rock.

But where Nyssa had refused to help, Nature threw her a bone.

A rise in the stone with enough of a jutting lip that her hands latched on. And held.

And held.

Nyssa made no move to help Selina as she hauled herself up, arms trembling, head pounding.

And when Selina at last had solid ground beneath her, when her temple was dripping blood onto the gray stone as she crawled, panting, from the ledge toward Nyssa, she looked up at her instructor.

Nyssa glanced between her and Anaya.

And Selina could do nothing as Nyssa shoved Anaya over the cliff edge.

Anaya did not scream. There was only silence. And then a thud that echoed over the granite peaks.

Selina couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything other than stare at Nyssa, her dark eyes so cold.

Nyssa offered no explanation.

None.

Selina cleared the leap between buildings, claws finding purchase in the stone. Metal shrieked and sparked in their wake.

But she didn’t hear the thud of her body on the metal roof. She heard that thump and crack of Anaya on the ravine floor. And the police sirens were little more than the howling wind through the Dolomites.

She uncurled to her feet and looked back toward where Ivy watched, head angled. “Not bad for a cat,” Ivy called.

Selina just blew the dust off her claws.

She’d added them to her gloves after she’d returned to the League compound and had the blow to her head cleared by the physician. She’d gone right down to the lab, head still throbbing, insides still utterly numb and quiet, and helped herself to the assortment of blades and metals in the room. Left there for acolytes to tinker with.

Selina had selected the hardest steel she could find, and began to work.

Selina gestured to Ivy, reining in the thrill coursing through her. “Head down, limbs in as tight as you can get—”

But Ivy backed away a step, surprise and fear lighting her face. Selina whirled, hand going to her bullwhip.

Leaning against the roof doorway behind her, cloaked in shadows…

Selina smiled beneath her mask.

Ivy called from across the way, “Keep the painting.” She pointed to the man waiting behind Selina. “Good luck dealing with him…cat-woman.”

Then Ivy was gone. Running for the door that would lead her down through the building.

Selina’s Death Mask sized up the male before her.

Six-three. Jacked. Or at least his bluish-gray metal suit was.

And glowing across his broad chest, an emblem in the darkness…

A bat.

Selina inclined her head in greeting. “I was wondering when you’d show up, Batwing.”





Luke observed the woman standing before him.

Head-to-toe black suit, made from some high-tech material. Confident, athletic, skilled.

And with the helmet on…

Catwoman was a good way to describe her. The ears on the dark helmet, the oversized lenses, the claws that she’d just retracted after that spectacular jump…Even her steps toward him oozed feline grace.

The bullwhip, however, promised pain.

She was highly trained. He’d realized it from that jump, from what he’d seen when she escaped the museum guards with Poison Ivy. That was a pairing that made him wince. This stranger before him was bold. Fearless. Utterly unruffled by his appearance as he pushed off the wall and they stopped perhaps ten feet from each other.

The thief he’d been hunting for.

“Return the painting.” He pointed to the small satchel at her right hip.

“Say ‘please,’?” she crooned, that helmet of hers making her voice low, raspy.

His suit fed him the details: her suit was equipped with surprises. But cloaked—as if the material itself was built to avoid scanning. A stealth suit.

Only the bullwhip was made of natural materials, unequipped with anything but what met the eye.

A signature weapon, no doubt. Definitely no signs of any affiliation with Gotham City’s criminal organizations.

Luke braced his feet slightly farther apart, centering his weight better, before he demanded, “What’s your name?”

Her head angled. She remained silent.

“You clearly know mine,” he said, adding a hint of charm to the words. “I should know yours.”

She was slender but stood with a sturdiness that spoke of iron-hard muscle beneath. She’d made the jump without any assistance from her suit beyond those claws.

Metal-shredding claws. God.

“Let’s use Ivy’s little nickname,” she drawled, and Luke could have sworn he heard laughter in her voice. “Every good criminal in Gotham has a call sign. Let’s add this one to the mix.” She examined her claws as if she were looking over a manicure, her bullwhip swaying in the wind. “Catwoman. Has a nice ring to it.”