Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(6)

Selina eyed her flip phone sitting on the coffee table she’d propped her feet on. Mika and the other Leopards knew not to call on Fridays. Knew tonight was the only night Selina wouldn’t show up, no matter the job or the threat.

But if Mika called right then, saying Falcone was hosting another fight and it’d pay big, she’d take it. She’d take three fights in a row.

Yet—no. She had to be smart about it. If she was hurt badly, the hospital social workers would come sniffing. Ask where their mother was, and likely recognize the tattoos inked down Selina’s arms. Tattoos she kept covered year-round with long sleeves. Even with Maggie, she made sure to dress in the bathroom and never to roll her sleeves up too high while washing her hands.

But in the ring…those tattoos were on full display for her opponents. Look how many have fallen, they snarled at all who saw them. You’re next.

The wall behind them thudded, rattling the two framed pictures. The bigger one: a photo of her and Maggie from two years ago—the frame stolen, the photo a cheap printout off the school library printer. They’d been sitting on a bench in the park on a glorious fall day, the trees bright as jewels around them, and Maggie had asked a passing businesswoman to take the picture on her phone. The quality of the image wasn’t great, but the light shining from Maggie’s face was still undeniable.

And the second: a photo of Selina five years ago, midair as she executed a perfect backflip on a balance beam. One of many gymnastics competitions she’d participated in. And won. Her instructor at the Y had tried to convince her to keep going after those initial three years, claiming that she was remarkably gifted. But Maggie’s illness had been getting worse, their mom had just bailed, and the time and money it would take to train and compete…Not an option. So Selina had stopped going to gymnastics class, had stopped picking up the coach’s calls. Even if she still used everything she’d learned in her fights.

The crowds loved it, too. Perhaps more than the bullwhip. Their favorite: a back handspring into a backflip—right onto her opponent’s shoulders. Where gravity and a squeeze of her legs around the throat did the work in bringing a man to his knees.

A string of curses shot through the apartment, and Maggie leaned forward to grab the remote off the table and punch up the volume. “This is the big number,” her sister explained, eyes fixed on the screen. “The most famous song in the musical.”

The controlling douchebag had indeed launched into a seemingly endless monologue.

“He’s just found out that his wife is pregnant, and he’s having a total freak-out.”

“I’m watching,” Selina said, brows lifting.

Maggie smiled, shaking her head. “You were listening to the neighbors.”

Guilty. Selina gave her sister a wince of apology, and focused again on the musical.

Musing and brooding and gloating about the son he’d have, utter macho nonsense. “They’re really putting this on at your school?”

Maggie hushed her with a waved hand. The song shifted, the jerk now mulling over what it’d be like with a daughter, more macho nonsense and misogynistic crap.

Selina slid her attention over to Maggie as the music shifted, rising. Her sister’s beautiful green eyes were wide and bright. “This is the part,” she whispered.

The music exploded, and her sister’s lips moved, mouthing every word.

Mouthing, because those failing lungs couldn’t hold enough air to make the sounds, and the latest infection in them had ripped away any chance of holding a note in key.

Maggie silently sang on, not missing a word.

Selina looked to the screen. To the crashing ocean and the man belting out every note, every dream to shelter and clothe and keep food on the table for his child. To attain money in any way he could, whether by theft or by making it honestly. His only alternative: die trying.

And for a moment, it seemed that even the neighbors quieted to hear it. The entire complex. All of the East End.

When Selina glanced back to her sister, Maggie was staring at her, mouth closed. Eyes bright with tears.

And it was the understanding on her sister’s face, the way Maggie’s damp eyes flicked to the bruises on Selina’s own…

Selina made herself stay seated for another minute. Two. Five. Ten.

Maggie went back to watching the movie. The neighbors went back to screaming and cursing.

Then Selina casually rose, gently setting Maggie’s blanket-wrapped feet on the couch before padding for the bathroom. She wondered if her sister saw her scoop up her phone.

Selina shut the bathroom door and ran the sink faucet on full blast.

She managed to close the lid on the toilet, at least, before she slumped onto it and covered her face with both hands, breathing hard between her fingers. The room pushed in, and she couldn’t get air down fast enough, deep enough—

Her hand slid to her chest, as if she’d somehow will her lungs to open up—her lungs, and Maggie’s lungs, wrecked and failing. There are countless other desperate patients waiting for lung transplants, the doctor had said this afternoon. I would not count on it as an option.

Unless you were rich enough to buy your way up that list. Or to buy yourself a pair on the black market.

Selina took gulping mouthfuls of air, hands shaking so badly she lowered them to her knees, gripping tight. They were fighting for twenty years at best. At worst…