Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(45)

They were bombs strapped on her. Small, and likely not enough to bring down any major structure, but disruptive enough to cause some chaos.

To make a statement.

Selina smirked, irritation fading away. “I stand corrected.” She turned to Ivy. A utility belt hung at the waist of her emerald bodysuit, those vines again covering her hands. A larger vine of blooming orchids snaked across her middle, as if it were the sash on a beauty queen.

Selina lifted a brow beneath her mask. “No magic flowers tonight?”

Ivy ran a hand over the vine down her chest. “I thought I’d display them this time.”

Clever. A bandolier of the weapons, the botanical twin to Harley’s own ammo.

Selina hummed. “You got anything else to fight with?”

Ivy’s answering grin was the definition of wicked. “Maybe.”

“I don’t operate on maybe.”

Ivy muttered to Harley, “I feel like I’m being scolded by the principal.”

Harley snickered. Selina gritted her teeth, even if they couldn’t see it.

“Wouldn’t this whole plan be easier if I just gassed them?” Ivy asked, patting the vine across her torso.

“No.” Selina surveyed the pouch at Ivy’s hip. That seemed to move. “We want them to know who’s doing this.”

“Who is ‘them’?” Harley demanded.

“Everyone.” Selina stalked up to Ivy’s side. “What’s that?”

Ivy winked at her. “A little experiment.”

Harley grinned. “Killer vines.”

Selina lifted a brow. “For real?”

Ivy flipped open the pouch, revealing a swirling mass of green inside. Twining about itself like a snake. “Plants can remember—feel things.”

Ivy would know better than anyone, Selina supposed. Indeed, a touch of sadness seemed to soften Harley’s eyes. As if she realized it, too.

It faded as Ivy dipped her hand into the pouch and a tendril of green hemp-like vine wrapped around her forearm. Almost lovingly.

Holy crap.

“I raised this one from seedling to what it is now,” Ivy said, stroking a hand down the vine that curled up her forearm like some living bangle. “It works like that whip of yours.” A nod toward the bullwhip still gripped in Selina’s hand. “Except it likes to squeeze. Tightly.”

Harley stroked a finger down the vine, tracing its curls. Selina could have sworn both plant and Ivy shuddered—in pleasure.

What Nyssa and Talia would give for a weapon like that.

“Right,” Selina said, surveying the roof door. “You remember the plan?”

“Yes, Mom,” Harley quipped.

Selina ignored her. “Bags ready?”

Harley and Ivy held up matching duffels.

“All set?”

The flowers on Ivy’s bandolier seemed to shimmer in confirmation. But Harley reached into her duffel and pulled out two ribbons, one red, one black. With deft fingers she tied one to each braid.

“You matched the ribbons to the underwear?” Selina blurted.

“You’ve got the cat costume,” Harley drawled, adjusting the bows. “I’ve got my colors.”

Ivy chuckled. “Micromanage much, kitty?”

Selina chose to ignore that, too, and slung the whip over a shoulder. “Go for the watches over wallets. Jewels over purses.” Selina opened the roof door, rotating her wrist to limber it up.

Harley’s smile was a crooked slash of white beneath her red lipstick. “Talks like a lady, acts like a thug.”

She didn’t know the half of it.



* * *



—

Luke was about to fall asleep midconversation. The Landmarks Gala was the worst so far, the music and people and floral arrangements bleeding into all the other parties he’d been dragged to these past few weeks. He’d already searched the faces of every woman here for any hint of an injury, but nothing. No jewelry reported missing, no woman in a battle-suit.

He’d danced with all the young women who’d approached him, including his neighbor Holly, who’d been just as vapid as he remembered. Full of idle snobbery. But denying her a dance for a second time—not an option. She lived across the hall from him. He didn’t want to spend years of peeking into the hallway to make sure she wasn’t there before leaving. Not worth it.

Perhaps coming to this gala hadn’t been worth it, either. Hours in and no sign of Catwoman. Mark and Elise were off on a company fishing retreat in Vermont, and his parents hadn’t come tonight.

His mom had laughed—literally howled—at brunch when he’d said he’d accepted the invitation. You’re in for a night of architects boring you to tears, she’d said.

She was right.

Luke drained his water. He’d driven himself, and stayed away from the booze because of it—and to keep his senses alert. But even if he spotted nothing, had no need of the suit he’d hidden in a large gym bag at the coat check, he’d made sure his Porsche had been left out front by the valet. Perfect for a quick escape. Not from Catwoman, but from the socialites.

Like the two older-looking ladies who had just spotted him across the crowded space.

Luke tried to pretend he hadn’t seen them, twisting back toward the glass bar. The ballroom was on the second level of the Hotel Devon, its enormous windows overlooking the southern edge of Robinson Park.