Zip blinked.
Twelve.
“I can’t be beaten,” she assured Zip, never taking her eyes from his. “Not at anything.”
“Kind of takes the fun out of life, doesn’t it?” Zip said, dead-pan.
She flicked a glance over her shoulder. “Call your man,” she instructed him.
Zip did. The man she’d nearly shaved with the throwing star took a step forward.
“The black smudge on the far wall,” she suggested. The man threw his belt dagger. One of the daggers from her boot followed. Two good throws, but hers was clearly nearer the center of the mark. “Not at anything,” she repeated.
“So you have luck and skill,” Zip conceded. “That doesn’t mean squat against the
Riddler’s god-or his curse, or whatever it is.”
She rolled her eyes; a long sigh hissed between her teeth. “I’ll bet you another kiss,” she said at last. “You’ve played guess-the-number?” She waited for him to nod. “Go to the far end of the bar, take your knife, and carve any number between one and ten. No, wait. Let’s make it fun-between one and twenty-five.”
Mama Becho waddled up, her gray hair flying. “Oh, no, ye don’t!” she cried. “Yer not cuttin’ on my fine board, yer not. Not easy to come by good wood. An’ I’ve jus’ about enough of this spittin’ and breakin’ mugs an’-“
Chenaya pulled her purse free and upended it on the counter. Coins spilled everywhere. She dropped the empty leather bag on the top of the pile. “Mama,” she said softly, “shut up.”
“All right,” Zip announced from the other end, covering his scratching with one hand, flipping his knife nervously and catching it.