Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(62)

Catwoman moved before he could pick. She charged right at Tigris.

The assassin braced her feet apart.

Catwoman feinted left, then bolted right. Right through the open door from the veranda. Avoiding the crash of glass that might send his parents or employees investigating.

Catwoman made it twenty feet onto the slate tiles of the veranda before Tigris was after her.

Luke sprinted outside and halted dead in his tracks as the assassin launched herself upon Catwoman.

It should have been over immediately.

But Catwoman did not go down.

They fought in a black whirlwind, no weapons. Just fists and feet and limbs. Neither went for the weapons on them; even Catwoman’s bullwhip hung untouched at her hip.

Fast. So damn fast he could barely track them.

Catwoman, even on the defensive…she held her own.

Where Tigris would have knocked her feet from under her, Catwoman nimbly dodged the blow. Where Tigris would have slammed her fist into Catwoman’s helmeted face, the punch was blocked. Strike, move, block—over and over.

Luke had no words for it.

He’d never seen anyone fight like that.

When Tigris landed a brutal blow to the ribs, she took it. Didn’t stumble. Kept moving. And the punches that Catwoman threw were deadly, like Tigris’s, but he’d seen that style before. Whatever training Catwoman had gone through, boxing had been a part of it. And no small amount of gymnastics, from the ease with which she bent and moved.

She danced on her feet, weaving beautifully. She’d taken whatever she’d learned in the ring and modified it. Amplified it. Luke stopped naming the techniques and maneuvers after he recognized six of them.

After Catwoman began to push back—again and again. Punch, jab, duck, kick—

They held nothing back.

And as Catwoman took the offensive, while Tigris was forced to yield step after step, he knew who was going to win.

Tigris fought beautifully, like a blade made flesh.

But Catwoman fought like she meant it. As if her fear of losing wasn’t death, but something else. Something that fueled her, focused her.

Luke saw it coming: the blow that would end it.

Tigris threw a punch—the strength behind it enough to shatter someone’s ribs—its form utter perfection.

Catwoman let her think the blow was going to land. And as it neared her stomach, she whirled.

One hand locked onto Tigris’s exposed arm. The other went around her back.

With a grunt that even Luke heard, she flipped the assassin right over her shoulder. Slammed Tigris onto the three steps leading down from the veranda.

Stone cracked; bone crunched.

Tigris lay there for a heartbeat—stunned. Or broken, Luke didn’t know.

Catwoman was on her instantly. And this time, a blade came out.

She’d pulled a short sword from a hidden sheath down her back. He hadn’t even known one was built into her suit. The blade glinted brightly in the moonlight as she lifted it.

Time to move. Luke fired a steel bolt from his suit’s arm.

And as that blade came down, his bolt met the center of her sword.

Catwoman cried out in surprise as her blade went flying into the grass. She whirled toward him, the lenses of her helmet seeming to glow with irritation.

Luke approached, realizing that Tigris wasn’t moving because Catwoman had broken her spine, and said, “Don’t.”

Catwoman remained where she was. “This doesn’t involve you.”

Luke pointed his next bolt toward Catwoman’s face. “She might have valuable information.”

“I’m sure she does,” Catwoman said. “But it doesn’t matter to me.”

“You’ll kill her for stepping on your territory?”

Tigris let out a low laugh. “You’re dead,” she said in a thick accent.

Catwoman turned back to the assassin, head angling in that way he knew meant trouble.

But faster than either Luke or Catwoman could move, Tigris brought her hand up to her mouth, grimacing in pain at the movement, and—

Poison.

Catwoman lunged, as if she’d rip the capsule from Tigris’s mouth—

The assassin’s chest rose and fell rapidly. “You’re a dead woman walking after what you stole.” She laughed at Catwoman.

Then—nothing.

Her dark eyes went still. Unseeing.

For a long moment, Catwoman stared at Tigris’s body. She was a body now. A corpse.

“Shit,” she breathed.

“You were about to kill her anyway,” Luke said coldly, his helmet deepening his voice.

Catwoman stood, pushing off Tigris’s broken, limp body, and retrieved her sword from the grass. A smooth motion had the blade again sheathed and hidden down the back of her suit. “I was going to give her an injury that would keep her out of my way for a while.”

“The broken spine wasn’t enough?”

He could have sworn she winced. “That was a mistake.”

He couldn’t quite process it. There was a corpse between them as Luke remained atop the steps, Catwoman in the grass.

Catwoman at his parents’ house, his childhood home. On the lawn where he and his parents had played soccer, where his mom had pitched him baseballs, where they’d had picnics and parties, where he’d gone sledding down to the pond.