A shadow fell over Adrian. Gargoyle reached down and grasped the sides of his helmet, preparing to pull it off.
With a roar, Adrian bent his arm and fired a beam into Stingray’s tail. He gasped and jerked back, releasing his hold around Adrian’s throat enough that Adrian could slam his helmet back into Gargoyle’s stomach. Gargoyle grunted from the impact, his grip loosening. Adrian jumped to his feet and spun around, aiming a punch at the side of Gargoyle’s head. His cheek morphed moments before impact, and the clang of metal on stone reverberated through Adrian’s bones. He drew back and lifted his leg, instead, planting the bottom of his foot flat against Gargoyle’s chest and shoving him to the ground.
Adrian barely kept from falling again as Aftershock rumbled toward him. All around, the towers of shipping containers trembled and swayed, threatening to collapse on top of their entire group.
Adrian sprinted away from Aftershock. He was preparing to vault up to the top of one of the container stacks when a wall of icy spears shot upward from the ground, angled toward him. Adrian yelped. He couldn’t stop in time. He tripped and fell, smashing three of the spears beneath his weight.
A fourth pinioned up between the armored plates that protected his side and abdomen. The sharp point punctured him just beneath the ribs, and Adrian cried out, as much from surprise as the pain. Grunting, he wrapped both hands around the ice and levered himself off it.
He stumbled, panting. He was sweating and bleeding inside the suit, drops of it tracing the length of his spine, soaking through his shirt.
“So the suit isn’t invincible,” said Aftershock, lumbering closer to him. “That’s good to know.” He lifted his knee, prepared to send another earthquake ricocheting toward Adrian.
Bracing himself, Adrian gathered up his energy and launched upward. He landed on a stack of containers, four crates high. Clenching his fist, he started to prepare another concussive beam.
“Let Mack deal with him,” Frostbite yelled. “Gargoyle, we have a job to finish.”
Adrian climbed to his feet and aimed his glowing arm toward the group below. “Like I said, I’ll be finishing the job for you. Consider Hawthorn my prisoner now.”
Aftershock snarled and made to slam his foot down again, when Frostbite held up a hand, halting him. “Hold on. I think he should see this.”
Stingray snickered, though the sound was tired. He hadn’t fully recovered from the concussive beam yet. “Yeah, he should know what Agent N can do … because he’ll be next.”
But Frostbite shook her head. She was peering up at Adrian, her expression calculating. “No … I’ve changed my mind. We’re not going to neutralize Hawthorn. That would be a waste of resources, given that we found her this way.”
Adrian frowned. “What are you—”
“Aftershock, bring him down. Gargoyle … kill her.”
“What?” Adrian barked. He swiveled his arm toward Gargoyle, then heard the rumble of earth below. The stack shook beneath him and he fired, but the bolt of energy went wide, striking a crate behind them.
Adrian yelped and grabbed the edge of the container to keep from sliding off as it lurched to one side.
The metronome could barely be heard over the grating of clay and dirt, the splintering of buried rock.
He spotted Gargoyle and his eyes widened. In horror. In disbelief.
“No!” he yelled, as Gargoyle wrapped both hands around Hawthorn’s head. She started to scream. “You can’t—”
In one merciless motion, Gargoyle crushed her skull between his palms, silencing her.
The air left Adrian. White spots shimmered at the edges of his vision.
“Don’t be sad, Sentinel,” Frostbite yelled up toward him. “No one is going to miss her … just like no one will miss you.”
The earthquake reached a crescendo. The precarious stack under his feet began to topple.
Adrian forced himself to get up, urged on by adrenaline and rage. He ran. Down the full length of the container, leaping from it seconds before it collapsed under his feet. He landed hard on the roof of Hawthorn’s laboratory and kept running, racing from stack to stack. The whole world was trembling now. The shipyard was a shamble of falling containers, groaning metal, shuddering earth. Every time Adrian landed on a new stack, it immediately began to sway and buck beneath his feet.
He kept going, pounding his legs as hard and fast as he could force them to go, and as the last stack of crates began to fall, he sprang upward, stretching.
He barely caught the hook of one of the enormous cranes. His momentum swung him forward, over the docks of the port. Letting go, he rolled in the air and crashed down inside a fenced graveyard for rusted tractors. He ducked behind a large forklift and hunkered low, gulping for breath, his heart racing.
He could no longer hear the ticking of the metronome.
He could no longer hear Frostbite or her allies.
He didn’t move for a long time, waiting to see whether Aftershock would continue his pursuit. His skin was hot and sticky from sweat. Every muscle was shaking.
And every time he shut his eyes, he saw Gargoyle’s stone hands wrapped around Hawthorn’s head, and heard Frostbite’s ominous words.
Just like no one will miss you.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE VITALITY CHARM.
Nova had not been able to stop thinking about it since she had seen Adrian inside the quarantine, at least when she wasn’t ranting about her failure to obtain the helmet. Max’s ability to absorb other superpowers had not affected Adrian, and it was all because of a pendant on a necklace.
But it wasn’t in the vault—she had checked the rental paperwork several times over the last few days and Adrian had yet to return the medallion.
She needed it. Not to protect from Max, but to protect herself against Agent N. Specifically—Agent N in gas form. Leroy was on the verge of a breakthrough, she knew, and with the mist-missiles she’d since taken from the vault, she now knew exactly how to convert the weapons into a delivery system for the toxic vapor. Any prodigy who entered a five-foot radius of the device within the first three and a half minutes of its release (the time it would take for the vapor molecules to disperse to the point of ineffectiveness, according to Leroy’s calculations) would be neutralized. Their powers sapped away as surely as if the sludgy green concoction had been plunged straight into their hearts.
Finally, the Anarchists had a weapon they could use against the Renegades. Multiple Renegades at once, even.
But Nova did not want to risk her own ability, and no one else would want to take the chance either. In order to protect herself in the fight she knew was coming, a fight she expected sooner than later, she needed that medallion.
These were the thoughts churning in her head as she marked the six-mile path between the dingy row house she shared with the Anarchists and the nicest suburban neighborhood in Gatlon City limits.
She had known for years that Captain Chromium and the Dread Warden had taken up residence inside the old mayor’s mansion on Pickering Grove. When the Anarchists were suffering their existence in the subway tunnels, she had heard Honey gripe incessantly about the unfairness of it all. That their enemies should be surrounded by luxury, while she, a queen, was stuck in those grubby, smelly caves. Once Nova asked, if they knew where two of their greatest enemies lived, why didn’t they go there and attack? Leroy could fill it with poisonous fumes through the ductwork, or Ingrid could have simply blown the place up. Or Nova—thirteen years old and full of hubris at the time—could sneak in through a window and murder them both in their sleep, never mind that she’d never killed anyone at that point.
But Honey had sighed wistfully, while Leroy told Nova everything they knew about the mansion’s security systems, both technological and superpowered protective devices.
No. Captain Chromium and the Dread Warden would not be so easy to kill.
But Nova wasn’t planning on killing anyone tonight.
She just wanted to chat. A
nd maybe have a peek around.
That wasn’t a crime, was it?
Her footfalls began to slow from their determined pace as the homes surrounding her grew larger, the driveways leading to them stretched longer, and the trees lining the road became so old and established that in places their branches created a canopy over the whole street.
This neighborhood still bore the signs of destruction from the Age of Anarchy that had been felt by the rest of the city, and the number of boarded windows and unkempt yards suggested that many of these glorious homes remained abandoned. Nova wondered why so many of the apartments downtown were cramped and crowded to an almost unhealthy degree while such estates stood empty. Surely there was a better use for them than to let them rot and collapse from disrepair.
She couldn’t help but picture what life might have been like here, before the Age of Anarchy. How different to peer out your window and see a neatly manicured garden and children riding bikes down the street. How unlike anything she had ever known, to have neighborhood barbecues in the backyard and to spend the evening helping young Evie with her schoolwork while Mom and Papà made dinner in the kitchen—
Nova had to forcefully shake the fantasy away before she could risk tears coming into her eyes.
Thanks to whatever Callum did to her mind, thoughts like these had been creeping up all day. Little daydreams about the what-ifs that surrounded her. What if there was more to life than revenge and lies? What if the Anarchists and the Renegades didn’t have to be in constant war? What if Adrian Everhart wasn’t her enemy and his fathers hadn’t failed her, and her life could revolve around gossiping with Ruby and laughing at Oscar’s jokes and not being afraid of every butterfly she passed, and every time she felt her heart patter at the sight of Adrian it wouldn’t feel like a betrayal of everyone she cared about?
But that life would never come to pass. Not for her. Thanks to the Roaches, who had murdered her family, and the Renegades, who had failed to protect them. Thanks to all the people who had hated and abused prodigies for all those centuries. Thanks to the villain gangs who had taken advantage of Ace’s beautiful vision.
And thanks to Nova, herself. She knew she had a choice. She had seen goodness among the Renegades, no matter how much she wanted to pretend it wasn’t there. She could try to ignore their false promises, forget the lies they told the world. She could simply give up.
But Callum had wanted to remind Nova what it was she was fighting for, and it worked.
She was fighting to rid the world of the Renegades, so that no kid would ever again put their faith in superheroes who wouldn’t come. So no one else would have to suffer the heartbreak that she had.
And also, of course, for Ace. He had taken her in, protected her, cared for her.
She would not let him die without a fight.
Exhaling a steadying breath, she checked the faded numbers on the nearest mailbox. Her heart lurched. She’d been so caught up in her own head she’d almost walked right past it.
Her attention jumped from the mailbox to the wrought-iron gate to the long flagstone walkway to … the house.
The mansion.
The … palace, at least in comparison to every home Nova had ever had.
“You can’t be serious,” she muttered.
The entry gate was connected to an old brick wall that lined the estate. The walkway curved around a tiered fountain, which either no longer worked or had been turned off for the coming winter. The large arched windows were trimmed in pristine white moldings. A Greek-style portico framed the front porch and the grand double doors, which were painted a welcoming butter yellow. A series of chimneys erupted from various gables around the roof and the occasional bay window added visual interest to the brick.
Awe and disgust mingled together as she took it in, and she wasn’t sure which was more prominent. She wanted to jeer at how pretentious it all was, but she had to admit that wasn’t entirely true.
The home was … stately, to be sure. It had a subtle classicism to it, like it could have been built at any point in the past two hundred years.
Still, it was far more square footage than three people could possibly use.
Maybe she was just feeling defensive, though. She couldn’t help wondering what Adrian must have thought when he saw the decrepit row house on Wallowridge, when he was accustomed to this.
Gulping, Nova approached the gate. She reached for the handle, when a red light flickered on a device built into the nearest pillar. The light cascaded over Nova from head to foot, then came to rest on her wristband.
“Renegade credentials detected,” said a computerized voice from a speaker disguised in a lamppost. “You may approach the main entrance and present yourself. Warning: Straying from the path could result in loss of life or limb. Welcome to the Gatlon City Mayor’s Mansion!”
The red light blinked out at the same time a lock clunked inside the gate.
Nova pushed on the gate and it groaned and creaked, but once she was through, it swung back of its own accord. She heard the locking mechanism bolt again and buried a shudder.
“Stay on the path,” she said, scanning the flagstone. The vast green lawns to either side were tidy and quaint, like they were waiting for someone to roll out a game of croquet. “Duly noted.”
She made her way to the door and stepped into the shadow of the portico. Two topiaries stood on the steps, taking up residence in ancient stone urns. A knocker on the middle of the yellow door was shaped like a tusked elephant, with the knocker held in its looped trunk.
A small bronze plaque beside the door read:
GATLON CITY HISTORICAL MARKER
MAYOR’S MANSION
This house served as the home for Gatlon City mayors for more than a century prior to the twenty-year period known as the Age of Anarchy, during which Mayor Robert Hayes and his family and staff were murdered in this location.
Beneath this stoic plaque was a smaller, wooden one, with hand-painted words that read, EVERHART-WESTWOOD RESIDENCE: ALL SOLICITING, PICKETING, AND VILLAINOUS ANTICS STRICTLY PROHIBITED!
Before Nova could determine if she thought this was funny or not, one of the double doors swung open.
She jumped back. Her hand reached for her belt before she remembered she hadn’t brought it with her.
“Nova?” said Adrian, haloed by the light of the foyer behind him. “I thought the security system might be pulling a joke on me.” He almost, but not quite, smiled. “What are you doing here?”
A hundred little observations rushed into Nova’s mind at once, rendering her speechless. That the smell of cinnamon wafted from the doorway. That Adrian’s long-sleeved T-shirt seemed tighter than normal, and he was wearing paint-splattered jeans with tears in the knees. That there was a charcoal drawing on the wall behind him depicting the Stockton Bridge at night. That he was pressing a hand beneath his ribs in an odd way, and as soon as he noticed her noticing, the hand dropped to his side.
She picked what seemed to be the least problematic of her thoughts, and said, “You live in a mansion.”
Adrian blinked, then considered the entryway, as if it had been a long time since he’d stopped to really take in his surroundings. “The Mayor’s Mansion, yeah. You didn’t know that?”
“No, I did,” she said. “But I didn’t expect … I mean, it’s an actual, literal mansion.” She gestured at the lawn. “You have a fountain in your yard.”
A slow grin crept over Adrian’s face. “Don’t freak out, but there’s a carriage house in the back. Oh, and the attic used to be servant’s quarters. There’s even a bell system that connects to all these little buttons throughout the house, so if the mayor’s wife wanted a cup of tea, she’d just have to push one of the buttons and a servant would come and take her order.” His eyes twinkled. “Classy stuff, right?”
Nova gaped at him. “Tell me you don’t have servants.”
Laughing, Adrian stepped back. “No servants. Do you want to come in? I was warming up cinnamon rolls f
or dinner.”
“What, you don’t eat seven-course meals every night?”
“Only on Sundays. Is that a yes?”
“That’s a yes.” Nova held her breath as she crossed the threshold, her focus roving from the intricate crown moldings to the crystals dripping from the chandelier. She glanced at Adrian’s abdomen and could detect a squarish lump beneath his shirt. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Adrian said quickly, pressing a hand to the spot again, then waving the question away. “I was, uh … unpacking some boxes with a box cutter and it slipped and got me. You know how they always say to cut away from yourself? I finally understand why.”
He turned and she followed after him, frowning. Adrian was a lot of things, but clumsy wasn’t one of them. It was difficult to imagine him making such a mistake.
They passed an oak staircase that curved upward to the second floor and an arched doorway through which she could see a grouping of chairs and sofas and a piano in the corner, though even from here she could see a layer of dust on it.
“Is that a parlor?” said Nova.
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