hood and scarf over her mouth, and knew who she was.
Tigris.
One of the most notorious and deadly members of the League of Assassins.
A League member—a powerful one—had arrived in Gotham City. Luke had read Bruce’s file on Tigris, on all the known assassins for the League.
The woman had killed her way across the world—and those kills were often ugly.
The perfect representative of the League itself, the organization that was larger, wealthier, and far more dangerous than any of the criminals in Gotham City. Mercifully, the League had yet to try to expand into this city. Luke’s blood iced over at the thought of Tigris being just the start.
Catwoman rolled, claws gouging deep lines in the wood floors to steady herself as she jumped to her feet.
They stared at each other for a long moment; in her black hood, only Tigris’s eyes were visible.
Far bigger players are coming to Gotham, Catwoman had said. She’d warned him.
Worse things than the Joker and his cohorts. Worse things like the League of Assassins.
And if the League had set its sights on Gotham City after all these years…
His parents were in this house. Sleeping upstairs.
Luke had a heartbeat to decide: to warn them to get to their panic room, or to join the fight to stop Catwoman and Tigris.
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.”