“All right, Mini-Magpie,” he said, somewhat patronizing, “you’ve got three seconds before I send in a request to put you on probation. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure the janitorial crew has been needing some help lately…”
The girl huffed and stopped struggling. Her mask had begun to slip and was close to sliding off her brow. “I hate you,” she growled, then reached into a pocket. She pulled out her hand and held it toward Nova, who uncertainly extended her own.
A bracelet—her bracelet—dropped into her palm.
Nova looked at her wrist, where a faint tan line showed where the bracelet had been worn every day for years.
Ingrid’s voice rattled in her head. “What’s happening down there, Nightmare?”
Nova didn’t respond. Tightening her fist around the bracelet, she fixed a glare on the child, who only glared back.
The boy dropped her with little ceremony, but the girl rolled easily when she hit the pavement and had sprung back to her feet before Nova could blink.
“I’m not going to report this,” said the boy, “because I believe you are going to make better choices after this. Right, Magpie?”
The girl shot him a disgusted look. “You’re not my dad, Sketch,” she yelled, then turned and stomped off around the nearest corner.
Nova squinted at the boy. “She’s just going to rob someone else, you know.”
Ingrid’s voice buzzed in her ear. “Nightmare, who are you talking to? Who’s getting robbed?”
“—can hope it will make her rethink her options,” the boy was saying. His eyes met hers briefly, then dropped down to her closed fist. “Do you want help with that?”
Her fingers clenched tighter. “With what? The bracelet?”
He nodded and, before Nova realized what was happening, he had taken her hand and started peeling open her fingers. She was so stunned by the action that he had freed the bracelet from her grip before she thought to stop him. “When I was a kid,” he said, taking the copper-colored filigree into his fingers, “my mom used to always ask me to help with her brace—” He paused. “Oh. The clasp is broken.”
Nova, who had been scrutinizing his face with wary bewilderment, looked down at the bracelet. Her pulse skipped. “That little brat!”
“Nova?” crackled Ingrid’s voice. “Have you been compromised?”
Nova ignored her.
“It’s okay,” said the boy. “I can fix it.”
“Fix it?” She tried to snatch the bracelet away from him, but he pulled back. “You don’t understand. That bracelet, it isn’t … it’s…”
“No, trust me,” he said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a fine-tip black marker. “This wrist, right?” He wrapped the bracelet around Nova’s wrist, and again, the sensation of such a rare, unexpected touch made her freeze.
Holding the bracelet with one hand, he uncapped the marker with his teeth and bent over her wrist. He began to draw onto her skin, in the space between the two ends of the broken bracelet. Nova stared at the drawing—two small links connecting the filigree and, between them, a delicate clasp, surprisingly ornate for a drawing made in marker, and perfectly matched to the style of the bracelet.
When he had finished, the boy capped the pen using his teeth again, then brought her wrist up closer to his face. He blew—a soft, barely there breath across the inside of her wrist that sent goose bumps racing up her arm.
The drawing came to life, rising up out of her skin and taking physical shape. The links merged with the ends of the bracelet, until Nova could not tell where the real bracelet ended and the forged clasp began.
No—that wasn’t entirely true. On closer inspection, she could see that the clasp he’d made was not quite the same coppery-gold color, but had a hint of rosiness to it, and even a faint line of blue where the drawing had crossed over one of the veins beneath her skin.
“What about the stone?” the boy said, turning her hand over and tapping his marker against the empty spot once intended for a precious gem.
“That was already missing,” stammered Nova.
“Want me to draw one anyway?”
“No,” she said, yanking her hand away. Her eyes lifted just in time to catch a flash of surprise, and she hastily added, “No, thank you.”
The boy looked about ready to insist, but then he stopped himself and smiled. “Okay,” he said, tucking his marker into his back pocket again.
Nova twisted her hand back and forth. The clasp held.
The boy’s smile took on a subtle edge of pride.
Obviously a prodigy. But was he also …
“Renegade?” she asked, making little effort to keep the suspicion from her tone.
“Renegade?” cried Ingrid. “Who are you talking to, Nova? Why aren’t you—”
The crowd burst into a new frenzy of hollers and applause, drowning out Ingrid’s voice. A series of fireworks shot upward from the parade float that had just emerged, exploding and shimmering to furious cheers from the people below.
“Looks like the headliners have arrived,” said the boy, somewhat disinterested as he glanced over his shoulder toward the float.
Phobia’s voice crackled. “West station, Nightmare. West station.”
Purpose jolted down Nova’s spine. “Roger.”
The boy turned back to her, a small wrinkle forming over the bridge of his glasses. “Adrian, actually.”
She took a step back. “I have to go.” She turned on her heel and pushed her way through a group of costumed Renegade supporters.
“Renegade trials, next week!” one of them said, shoving a piece of paper at her. “Open to the public! Come one, come all!”
Nova crumpled the flyer in her hand without looking at it and crammed it into her pocket. Behind her, she heard the boy yelling, “You’re welcome!”
She didn’t look back.
“Target now passing Altcorp,” said Phobia as Nova ducked into the shadows of an alleyway. “What’s your status, Nightmare?”
Nova checked that the alley was empty before lifting the lid of a dumpster and hauling herself up onto its edge. Her duffel bag greeted her, resting at the top of the heap.
“Just grabbing my things,” she said, snatching up the bag. She dropped back to the ground. The dumpster lid crashed shut. “I’ll be on the roof in two minutes.”
“Make it one,” said Phobia. “You have a superhero to kill.”
CHAPTER TWO
NOVA SLUNG THE BAG over her shoulder and reached for one of the weighted ropes she’d set up in the alley the night before. She wrapped her arm around the rope and untied the sailor’s knot from the weights holding it to the ground.
The weights attached to the opposite end dropped, dragging it through the pulley on the rooftop above. Nova jerked upward, holding tight as the rope whistled past the building’s concrete wall.
The second set of weights crashed into the ground below.
She stopped with a shudder, her hand only a few inches shy of the pulley, her body swinging six stories in the air. Nova threw her bag onto the rooftop, then grabbed the ledge and hauled herself over. She dropped down into a crouch and riffled through the bag, pulling out the uniform she had designed with Queen Bee’s help. She slung the weaponry belt across her hips, where it hung comfortably, outfitted with specially crafted pockets and hooks for all of her favorite inventions. Next, the snug black hooded jacket: waterproof and flame-retardant, yet lightweight enough to keep from inhibiting her movements. She zipped it up to her neck and tugged the sleeves past her knuckles before pulling up the hood, where a couple of small weights stitched into the hem held it in place over her brow.
The mask came last. A hard metallic shell perfectly molded to the bridge of her nose that disappeared into the high collar of the jacket, disguising the lower half of her face.
Transformation complete, she stooped and pulled the rifle and a single poisoned dart from the bag.
“Where are you, Nightmare?” Phobia rasped.
“I’m here. Almost in position.” She approached the edge of the building and looked down on the celebration below. It was quieter up here—the noise of the crowd dulled beneath the whistle of the wind and the hum of rooftop generators. The street was a mess of confetti and color, balloons and costumes, laughter and music and cheers.
Nova loaded the dart into the gun’s chamber.
Ingrid had concocted the plan, and it was beautiful in its simplicity. When she’d told the group, Winston had griped about not being included, but Phobia had sagely pointed out that Winston, who most people knew as the Puppeteer, wasn’t capable of keeping anything simple.
So it was only the three of them on the field today. They didn’t need the others. Nova had one dart handcrafted by Leroy Flinn, their own poisons master. She only needed one. If she missed, she wouldn’t get a second chance.
But she wouldn’t miss.
She would kill the Captain.
Once he was hit, Ingrid, the Detonator, would emerge from hiding and hit the Council’s parade float with as many of her signature bombs—made from a fusion of gasses in the air—as she could launch. Phobia would focus on Thunderbird, as she usually took to the air during a battle, giving her a frustratingly unfair advantage. They’d heard that Thunderbird was deathly afraid of snakes, which was one of his specialties. They were banking on the rumors to be true. Worst-case scenario: Phobia startled her long enough for Nova or Ingrid to take her down. Best-case: He gave her a midflight heart attack.
And that was it. The Council—the five original Renegades—all eradicated at once.
But it started with Nova getting past Captain Chromium’s supposed invincibility.
“Say … Nightmare?”
“I’m here, Detonator. Relax.”
“Yeah, I can see you up there. But I’m pretty sure Phobia wanted you at the west station?”
Nova froze. She glanced at the rooftop behind her, then across the gap to the apartment building on the other side of the alleyway, where her second weighted rope sat waiting, unused. She squinted up into the midday sun and cursed.
Phobia drawled in her ear, “Tell me she didn’t get on the wrong building.”
“I was distracted,” she said through gritted teeth.
Phobia sighed heavily.
“She can’t hit the target from the west rooftop?” asked Detonator.
After a brief silence, Phobia said, “She might have a fair shot at Tsunami or Blacklight, but not Captain Chromium. The parade route will have them turning before she’s in alignment.” He hummed thoughtfully. “She can end one Council member, and we shall have to concern ourselves with the others at a later date.”
“Our priority was the Captain,” said Ingrid. “This entire mission was built around taking out the Captain.”
“One Renegade is better than none.”
“It still makes this mission a failure.”
Licking her lips, Nova looked across at the opposite rooftop, estimating the distance over the alley. “Everyone calm down. I can get to the other side. Phobia, how much time do I have?”
“Not enough.”
“How much?”
“Ten seconds before the float enters your prime target area, then perhaps forty-five to make the shot.”
Nova picked up the duffel bag and heaved it across the gap. It landed with a thud on the other rooftop.
Phobia’s voice crackled. “This seems inadvisable.”
“Let her try,” said Ingrid. “It will be her own fault if she falls.”
“I won’t fall,” Nova muttered. She slung the rifle onto her back and released a pair of gloves from a hoop on her belt. She shoved her hands into them and buckled the cuffs, securing them in place, then pressed her thumbs into the switches on her wrists. A jolt of electricity shot through the black fabric, forming pressurized suction cups on her fingertips and palms.
She reviewed the distance one more time. Paced back to the far edge of the building. Inhaled.
And ran.
Her boots thudded. Air whistled past her ears, knocking back her hood. She planted her right foot and leaped.
Her stomach hit the ledge of the brick wall on the other side of the alley. Pain jolted through her bones. She groaned and pressed her palms against the concrete to secure herself in place before she started to slip.
Ingrid whooped shrilly in her ear.
Phobia said nothing until Nova had hefted her body onto the east rooftop, and then merely, “Four seconds to visual.”
Nova switched the pressure on her gloves, letting the suction cups recede into the fabric, and pulled her hood over her face again. She slung the gun off her back as she walked past the building’s utility elevator, coming to stand at the edge as her pulse thrummed through her veins. Though she couldn’t see the Council’s float, she could tell from the increased excitement in the crowd that it was close.
Ignoring the throbbing pain where her stomach had hit the wall, she knelt onto one knee and propped the barrel of the gun on the rooftop ledge. She checked the loaded dart. “Ready.”
“Well done, Nightmare,” said Detonator.
“She hasn’t done anything yet,” said Phobia.
“I know, but isn’t it nice to have a shooter on the team again?”
“She hasn’t shot anything yet, either.”
“Would you both zip it?” Nova growled, peeling off the gloves and shoving them back through the hoop on her belt.
Below, the Council’s parade float rolled into view. It was an enormous tiered structure with five pedestals rising from a dark storm cloud. A literal thunder-and-lightning-filled storm cloud, like they thought they were gods or something.
Strike that. They definitely thought they were gods.
Thunderbird—the inimitable Tamaya Rae—stood on the first pedestal, her enormous black wings spanning the full width of the parade float and the wind catching in her long, dark hair, making her look like the proud mascot on the mast of a ship. She occasionally sent bolts of lightning to further ignite the cloud at her feet.
Not to be overshadowed, Blacklight was on the second tier shooting fireworks and flashing strobe lights into the air as the crowd gasped and squealed. With his red beard and tightly curled mustache, Nova had always thought Evander Wade looked more like a six-foot-tall leprechaun than a superhero, but supposedly he had a dedicated fan following, and the giddy shrieks from the crowd seemed to support the theory.
Above him, Kasumi Hasegawa might not have been aware she was in the middle of a parade at all. That’s how Tsunami always looked though—caught up in her own world, a cool, secretive smile on her lips. While she stood barely moving with her arms extended, the stream of fish-filled water she was manipulating moved around her like a ribbon in a mesmerizing dance. A jet of foam and spray and angelfish spinning, twirling, spiraling in all directions.
The fourth pedestal appeared, at first glance, to be empty, which meant that’s where Simon Westwood was standing. And sure enough, as Nova watched, the Dread Warden flickered into view, posing like the Thinking Man. A second later, he vanished again, only to reappear posed in a handstand, which then turned into a one-handed handstand. A second later, he went invisible again. The crowd roared in laughter when he reappeared, not on his own pedestal, but on the fifth and tallest platform on the float, using his fingers to give bunny ears to Captain Chromium.
Beside each other, they were like night and day. Simon Westwood had olive-toned skin, a close-trimmed beard, and dark, wavy hair, while Hugh Everhart, the city’s beloved Captain, was the picture of boyish charm, complete with golden hair and dimples.
Captain Chromium rolled his eyes and glanced at the Dread Warden over his shoulder. They shared a look that was disgustingly endearing.
Nova had been too young to notice if there was any shock or scandal when two of the original Renegades announced they were in love, or if there had been any announcement at all. Maybe they just were, from the start. Either way, she suspected the world had been dealing
with too much devastation to really care back then, and these days Captain Chromium and the Dread Warden were practically the world’s favorite sweethearts. The tabloids were forever going on about whether or not they were planning to adopt another child, or if they were going to retire from the Council and move to the tropics, or if a dark, hidden secret from the past was threatening to tear them apart.
From their smiles, though, Nova highly doubted there was much substance to those rumors, and it made her teeth grind.
Why should they have such happiness?
She eased herself into position, calculating the distance and angle as the gun warmed in her hand.
The Dread Warden disappeared again and returned to his own pedestal, leaving the Captain alone, a king before his doting subjects. He was as familiar to Nova as her own reflection. Yellow-blond hair curling against his forehead. Blue shoulder pads jutting out from a broad, muscled chest. A winning smile with teeth so white they gleamed in the sun.
Then, as the crowd’s cheers reached a deafening crescendo, he reached for the display stand at his side. His hand wrapped around a tall metal pike, and he lifted it overhead. One of Blacklight’s fireworks burst then, lighting them all in a hue of coppery gold.
Nova’s stomach dropped.
“Is that…?”
“Don’t dwell on it,” said Phobia.
“Dwell on what?” asked Ingrid.
Nova swallowed around the lump in her throat, unable to respond.
Captain Chromium, beloved superhero and adored Renegade, had Ace Anarchy’s helmet skewered at the top of his pike. It had been driven through the skull, fracturing the bronze-tinted material that had once been dragged from the air by her own father’s fingertips, years before Nova was born.
The Detonator’s voice came through the headset again, an understanding “Oh…” as the parade float entered her view. Nova barely heard her.
She was six years old again. Afraid. Devastated. Staring up into the eyes behind that helmet, throwing herself into his arms.