Catwoman: Soulstealer

  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…

  The rate at which the disease has progressed and Maggie’s resistance to the drugs are cause for concern, the doctor had gone on, speaking more to his flock of interns than to them.

  Maggie hadn’t asked him if she could be in the musical. Her sister had known. She’d known that this thing that made her come alive with joy, that gave her whatever slim shred of hope. It didn’t matter how many fights Selina fought for her. How many stores she looted with the Leopards. The blood and the bruises and the cracked ribs could not buy her sister a new set of lungs or a cure for this disease or a chance to stand on that school stage and belt her heart out.

  Sobs threatened, shuddering beneath each breath.

  Selina covered her face again, as if she could hide it—the tears that rose up within her like a tidal wave, that she pushed back and back and back.

  Hands trembling, she grabbed the phone off the narrow sink counter, fingers shaking so wildly she could barely text Mika: I need another fight. ASAP.

  Mika replied a few minutes later, If you need cash, I’ve got you covered.

  Tempting, but too many complications. She wouldn’t be able to repay Mika. And though she trusted her Alpha, this was the East End. Everyone needed cash, and Mika might be ruthless in getting it returned to her.

  Fights are fine. Then, after a heartbeat, But thank you.

  Mika’s response came instantly: Anything I should be concerned about?

  Not because she cared, but because if it was something that threatened the Leopards, she needed to know.

  Just personal shit.

  Whether the Leopards knew her sister was sick, she wasn’t sure. She had never told them, and Mika wasn’t the type to ask.

  Mika replied, You healed enough from last night to do it?

  No. Yes.

  Selina blew out a breath, tears sinking back into her. Shutting off the faucet, she listened. The musical continued on—along with the neighbors’ fighting.

  She could steal the money, of course. Had done it in the past with the Leopards. Even enjoyed the puzzle that some burglaries offered: how to break inside a place, how to ease past the guards or security systems, how to avoid leaving a trace. But to go it alone…She hadn’t done that yet. Wouldn’t risk jail, not with fighting as a relatively safer option.

  Mika only said, I’ll ask Falcone.

  Selina flipped her phone shut and flushed the toilet. Mercifully, her hands had stopped shaking by the time she emerged into the living room, where her sister was still bundled on the couch.

  Maggie picked up the remote and paused the movie. Looking Selina over with eyes that missed nothing, not even the cell phone clenched in Selina’s hand, Maggie asked quietly, “Can’t you just ask for the money?”

  Selina didn’t care to guess how Maggie had figured it out as she slid her phone into her back pocket. “No.”

  She and the Leopards were often sent by Falcone to those in his debt. Either to remind them of the money owed or to exact punishment when the final warning had been ignored. It was ugly and dirty, and over her dead body would she be in his debt.

  “But—”

  “No.”

  Maggie opened her mouth again, green fire lighting her eyes, but a knock sounded on the door.

  They froze. Not good. At this hour.

  Another pounding knock. “Police!”

  Shit.

  Selina had cataloged every possible exit from this apartment. She looked toward the window at the other end of the room. Could her sister make it down the fire escape fast enough to slip away?

  She’d carry Maggie if she had to. Selina winced as she shot to her feet, lingering pain lashing through her body.

  Maggie threw the blanket off her legs as the door rattled again. “What do we do?” she breathed.

  If this was about the Leopards—

  “We’re looking for Maria Kyle,” the officer said.

  Selina blew out a breath that Maggie echoed. Thank God. They’d dealt with this in the past. Several times.

  Hide, Maggie mouthed. The cops would surely start asking questions if they saw her bruises. Selina shook her head. But Maggie stood and pointed to the bedroom in a silent order.

  Another pound on the door.

  Selina limped over and confirmed it was two thickly built GCPD officers standing there, one dark-haired and the other balding and mustached, before heading for the bedroom closet.

  A reliable hiding place in the past, a pocket of it tucked back far enough that she could remain hidden. Or put Maggie in there. Selina was just climbing in around the tightly packed clothes when Maggie opened the front door, locks clicking free.

  Ears straining, Selina heard her sister say quietly, the portrait of sleepy confusion, “My mom didn’t come home tonight.”

  One of the cops asked, “Can we come in?”

  “I’m not allowed to let in strangers,” her sister said. “Even cops.”

  A pause. Then a woman’s voice asked, “What about social workers, Maggie?”

  Selina’s heart stopped dead.

  There hadn’t been a woman outside when she looked, no mention of social services—

  Maggie stammered, “Why? M-my mother isn’t here.”

  “We know,” the woman said calmly but not gently. “She’s down at the precinct.”

  Hangers rattling, Selina shoved out of the closet, pain barking down her body as she stepped over neatly folded piles of clothes, the room now a minefield keeping her from getting to the hall.

  She stumbled into the living room, where Maggie stood before the open door, the two towering cops, and a small, fair woman in an ill-fitting suit. They all looked at her, the cops’ eyes narrowing as they beheld the bruises, the woman’s face tightening in disapproval.

  “Good. I’m glad you’re here, too” was all the social worker said.

  Maggie backed up to Selina’s side. The officers and the social worker pushed into the apartment, shutting the door behind them. Selina knew the neighbors were likely listening through the walls as the social worker went on. “We picked up your mom earlier tonight. She’s not in good shape.” A glance around the apartment. “But I’m sure you know that.”

  “We do,” Selina said evenly.

  “You’re not in good shape, either,” the woman added.

  “I’m fine. Just fell down the stairs yesterday.”

  “Must have been some
fall,” one of the cops said, crossing his thick arms. A gun, a billy club, and a Taser hung from his heavy belt.

  Selina said, “We can’t make her bail.”

  The social worker had the nerve to laugh quietly. “We’re not here for that.” A glance between her and Maggie. “We’re here to bring you two in.”

  “Maggie’s innocent,” Selina said, pushing her sister behind her.

  “And what about you?” the second cop said, brows rising on his meaty face.

  Selina ignored him, meeting the social worker’s stare. There was a grand stashed in the box taped under the kitchen sink. If they wanted to be paid off—

  “Neither of you is in trouble, Selina Kyle,” the social worker said, the embodiment of a bureaucratic, rule-abiding worker bee. “But as you’re both underage and living here alone”—a glance around the apartment said the woman was well aware they’d been on their own for years—“we need to find a better living arrangement for you both. There are two very nice spots in homes waiting for you right now.”

  Foster homes. Separate ones.

  The room, the sounds, her body…they all started to feel a bit distant.

  “This is our home,” Maggie said softly. “We’re fine here.”

  “State doesn’t think so,” one of the cops said, his sandy mustache yellow against his pasty skin. “Two little girls living alone in this building?” The man walked over to the kitchen and began opening cabinets.

  Selina’s heart pounded with every groan and thud of the wood. And her hands began to shake as he stooped, opening the sink cabinets, and peered in. A rip of tape, and he chuckled as he stood, cashbox in his hands.

  Flipping open the lid, he smiled at the money inside. Lifted the wad of bills and fanned them. His partner let out a low whistle of approval. “Been working on the side?” he asked Selina.

  The way his eyes raked over her, she knew what kind of work he thought she did. “No” was all she said.

  He’d known exactly where that box might be hidden. Perhaps he’d anticipated drugs instead. She should have been better at hiding it, figured out a smarter place for that money—

  The social worker said, “You have a record.”

  “It was from three years ago.” Selina’s voice came out surprisingly even.

  “You have two strikes,” the social worker continued. “No judge will let you stay here.” She gestured to their bedroom. “Go pack your bags. Bring enough stuff for a week or two.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I’m not going.”

  Selina watched as the mustached cop smiled at her and slid that grand into his pocket. Her stomach dropped to her feet, her pulse pounding through every battered inch of her.

  Two corrupt cops were in her apartment. And an unsympathetic social worker. Not good. Not safe.

  “Maggie,” she murmured to her sister, “go pack your bags.”

  Her sister refused to move.

  Selina turned to the woman, who had now crossed her slender arms. “My sister has a serious medical condition. A group home in some filthy house is not what she needs.”

  “Every foster home in our system is constantly inspected for cleanliness and safety. Any home she goes to will meet her needs.”

  Bullshit. She’d heard from girls in the Leopards that those homes were roach palaces at best.

  “And as for Maggie’s special needs,” the woman said, patience running thin as her words turned clipped, “living with a sister who has a criminal record does not seem so safe, either.”

  Maggie snapped, “You don’t know anything.”

  Selina shot her sister a warning look. “Go pack your bags.”

  Maggie shook her head, brown curls bouncing. “I’m not going.”

  “It’s nearly one in the morning,” the social worker coaxed. “Let’s get you settled somewhere safe.”

  “I’m safe here,” Maggie said, voice hitching.

  At the sound of it, the way Maggie’s voice broke with fear, Selina’s blood started roaring.

  Stay calm. Stay focused. Selina tried again. “If it’s so late, then why don’t we sleep here? You can pick us up in the morning.”

  “And come back to find you’ve skipped town?” asked the dark-haired cop who hadn’t pocketed her money. “Not a chance. Get your stuff. Now.”

  No options. No choices. No way to figure this out.

  Selina put a hand on Maggie’s too-skinny arm. Medications. Maggie would need to bring all her medications with her—

  The touch seemed to snap some leash in her sister.

  Maggie bolted.

  Not for the bedroom but for the apartment door.

  For a moment, the world slowed and bent.

  All Selina saw was her sister, so frail and small, sprinting past those cops, hair flying behind her. All she saw was the closest cop, the mustached one with their money in his pocket, lunging for Maggie, his enormous hand reaching for her delicate arm.

  And as that hand closed around Maggie’s arm, as her rasping inhale of breath, of pain at the tightness of that grip, filled the apartment, the world…

  Selina exploded.

  The dark-haired cop went down first. Uppercut to get his head up, then elbow to the nose to put him on the ground. He was unconscious before he hit the carpet.

  The social worker screeched, but Selina was already on the mustached cop, now whirling toward her, that meaty hand still on Maggie’s arm.

  Selina barreled into him. He dropped Maggie immediately, both of his hands grappling to shove Selina off as they slammed into the wall, cracking plaster.

  “You little—” His spat words were cut short as Selina ducked out of his grasp, dodged the fumble he made to grab her again, and her fist connected with his face.

  Her body sang in agony, wounds ripping open, bruises bleating.

  “Run,” she managed to say to Maggie.

  But her sister remained frozen. Gaping, terror draining the color from her face.

  Slim white hands wrapped around Maggie’s arm again. The social worker. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  And those hands, those hands and that cold, hateful face—

  Selina shoved the woman. Hard.

  Hard enough that the social worker went careening into the table, chairs scattering.

  Maggie screamed, and Selina whirled, fists up, knees bending.

  Too slow. The mustached cop had risen to his feet. She didn’t have time to try to dodge before volts of pain tore through her. Before his leering, bloody face smiled as he dug a Taser right into her neck.

  Agony barreled in—then the world tilted.

  Then nothing.

  * * *

  —

  The humming of the fluorescent lights was what awoke her.

  Her tongue was a dry, thick weight in her mouth, her head a pounding mess, her body…

  Sitting in a chair. Handcuffed to the metal table before her.

  Precinct room.

  Selina groaned quietly, surveying the space. Tiny. No one-way mirror. No speakers or cameras or anything.

  She tugged on the cuffs linked to the table to see if they were secured.

  They were.

  Maggie—

  The metal door hissed open, and Selina braced herself.

  It wasn’t the blond social worker in her cheap suit. Or the cop who looked at her a little too long.

  A tall, slim woman with night-black hair and skin like golden honey entered instead.

  Selina had seen enough of the various businessmen who Falcone liked to associate himself with to know that the white pantsuit was high quality. And from her work with Mika, she knew that the simple, elegant gold jewelry at her neck and ears was real and expensive. The manicured nails, the silky sheet of hair cut into stylish layers, the full mouth painted red, were all ma
rkers that screamed money.

  This was no social worker.

  Those crimson nails tapped against a thick file in her hands as she approached the table and the empty chair before it. Selina’s file.

  Not good.

  “Where’s Maggie?” The words were a low rasp. Water—she needed some water. And aspirin.

  “My name is Talia.”

  “Where. Is. Maggie.”

  Keeping her head upright took every bit of effort thanks to the Taser bruise that still radiated pain down her neck and spine.

  “Your name is Selina Kyle, and you are seventeen years old. Three weeks away from being eighteen.” A click of the tongue as she slid into the metal chair across the table, opened up that fat file, and began flipping through the pages. The table was too long for Selina to see what the woman examined. “For someone so young, you’ve certainly accomplished an impressive amount.” Flick, flap, hiss. “Illegal betting, assault, robbery.”

  Shame and pride warred through her. Shame for the fact that if Maggie ever heard this, the unvarnished truth of her crimes…Selina knew she couldn’t endure the look she’d see on her sister’s face. Pride for the fact that she had done this, had survived in the best way she could, had given her sister what she could as well.

  But Selina managed to keep her voice cool, bored, as she replied, “I was never convicted of the last two.”

  “No, but the charges are on here,” Talia countered, tapping a red nail on the paper. “What you will be convicted of in a matter of days is aggravated battery of two police officers and a state worker.”

  Selina just stared at the woman from beneath lowered brows. No way out of this room—this precinct. And even if she did make it, then she’d have to find Maggie. Which would be the first stop the cops would make, too.

  Talia smiled slightly, revealing too-white teeth. “Did the police give you those bruises?”

  Selina didn’t reply.

  Talia flicked through those papers again, scanning for something. “Or are those bruises and split knuckles from the fighting you do for Carmine Falcone?”

  Silence. Leopards didn’t talk. Selina hadn’t the first two times she’d been here. She wasn’t about to now.