Renegades

  Nova clenched her jaw and pushed backward. He yelped but didn’t release her as his foot hit the low rail along the building’s ledge.

  With one more shove, Nova sent them both plummeting over the side. For a moment they were airborne, his arms locked around her.

  They hit the next roof with a jolt that reverberated through Nova’s bones. Something beneath them crunched and shattered.

  Though her body ached, she forced herself to roll off him, shoving his arms away from her as she collapsed, trembling, onto a rattan mat. Nova looked around. They were in a small rooftop garden, surrounded by wicker furniture and potted plants—one of which was now pinned beneath the Sentinel. A water fountain gurgled against the wall they had just fallen from.

  She caught a glimpse of the Puppeteer’s balloon drifting along the street. There were flashes of strobing red lights brightening the sides of the buildings along the main avenue. Blacklight, perhaps, trying to distract the Puppeteer with fireworks and flashes, or maybe Thunderbird throwing one of her lightning bolts in an attempt to take down the balloon … or electrocute the villain. Maybe both.

  The butterflies returned, forming a dark cloud overhead. The Sentinel had rolled onto his side and was attempting to push himself up.

  “Hey, Sentinel,” Nova said, tightening her grip on the dagger.

  He glanced up.

  She plunged the knife into the space between his chest and shoulder plates.

  The Sentinel roared and shoved her away. He crumpled, planting one palm on the ground, while the other lit up, suddenly engulfed in orange flames. He hauled the hand back.

  Nova ducked, pulling her hood down as a column of flames rushed over her back. She knew adding a flame-resistant coating to her uniform had been a good idea.

  A cry of pain hit her ears.

  Nova peered up from the shadow of her hood as the swarming butterflies converged back into the body of Monarch. The flames had hit a cluster of the orange insects, and the remaining wisps of ash seemed to melt into the girl’s left side, from her ribs to her hip. Her uniform was blackened and smoking, and the stench of burned flesh permeated the air.

  The fire escape rattled and clanked off the side of the building. Smokescreen appeared on the ladder, hooking his cane over the rooftop edge to help pull himself up. He was breathing heavily, his dark hair matted to his brow as he took in the scene. His eyes widened. “Monarch?”

  Something clattered at Nova’s feet. The ruby dagger, its blade darkened with blood.

  Nova didn’t bother to look back at any of them as she turned and ran again, scaling the burbling stone fountain and hauling herself back to the rooftop they had fallen from. Behind her, she could hear the Sentinel ordering Smokescreen to help Monarch, and an incredulous Smokescreen demanding, “Who the hell are you?”

  The Puppeteer’s wicker basket drifted back into view.

  “Catch!” Nova yelled.

  The Puppeteer glanced in her direction, but made no effort to catch the duffel bag as Nova tossed it into his basket.

  “Good afternoon, tiny Nightmare,” said Winston. “What a delightful surprise this is. I was just out for a little … float.” He tossed his head back and started to laugh, the marionette lines on his face making it even creepier than it already was.

  His hands were still held out over the crowd, golden gossamer strings toying with the helpless children below. Nova glanced down long enough to see a pigtailed girl chomp hard on the ankle of a gray-haired man … possibly her own grandfather.

  Grimacing, Nova climbed onto the ledge of the roof. “Toss me a rope.”

  The Puppeteer fell silent and peered at her with emotionless eyes. “You have a tagalong.”

  A hand grabbed her elbow, spinning her around. Fingers closed over her throat, tilting her backward, squeezing just tight enough to keep her from plummeting to the street below.

  “You tried to assassinate Captain Chromium,” the Sentinel growled. “Why? Who put you up to it? What else are they planning?” The visor of his helmet was a blank canvas, but his voice was furious. Nova imagined she could still feel the heat from his flames seeping through his glove.

  “You Renegades sure ask a lot of questions,” she said, white spots flashing in her eyes.

  He moved so close that his visor almost clicked against her own face mask. “You’d better start answering them.”

  “You think I’m afraid of a pompous neophyte in a toy suit?”

  The fingers at her throat seemed to loosen, just a bit. “Neophyte?”

  “It means amateur. You’re obviously new to this game.”

  “I know what it—” The Sentinel made an annoyed sound. “Look, I don’t really care whether or not you’re afraid of me, but I’m willing to bet you’re at least a little bit afraid of dying, like we all are.” The fingers tightened again, and Nova felt herself being forced backward. The change was minimal, but just enough so she could feel the shift in her balance, the slight pull of gravity.

  She fought off the need for air and forced out a laugh, though it came out more like a wheeze. “You know what they say … one cannot be brave who has no fear.”

  He jerked back as if she’d struck him. In the same moment, Nova reached forward and pressed her hand against his chest, digging her fingers into the sliced fabric where the knife had penetrated. It was hot and sticky with blood and it was all she needed. Flesh and tissue and a heartbeat that thundered underneath.

  “What did you just—”

  She drove her power into him, a sledgehammer into his chest.

  His breath hitched, and he stood immovable for a moment. Then the grip loosened around her throat. Nova cried out and grabbed his forearm, pulling her center of balance toward him as he fell backward, landing with a bone-jolting crash.

  Nova’s heart ricocheted inside her chest as she stared down at him, still feeling the drop in her stomach when, for a split second, she’d thought she was falling.

  “Niiiiiightmare…”

  Rubbing her throat, she turned in time to catch the shimmering gold threads the Puppeteer tossed to her. Though her legs had begun to shake, Nova forced herself to gather together any last shreds of strength. She wrapped the strings around her wrist and leaped, swinging out over the street, where people had scattered and a parade float had crashed into the side of a hair salon.

  She hauled herself up the ropes and into the basket, landing in a heap on its floor.

  “Thanks, Winston,” she gasped.

  He didn’t respond—already he was focused again on his puppets, his mad laughter shrieking over the noise of the propane burner above them.

  Once Nova had caught her breath, she wrapped her hands around the edge of the basket and forced herself to stand.

  The street below was in chaos. The Puppeteer’s gossamer strings littered the pavement, some still wrapped around children’s throats and wrists, though many of his puppets had been discarded and were crumpled against buildings or in the middle of the street. A number of onlookers were injured, their bodies sprawled out on the sidewalks and streaks of blood trailing behind them as they attempted to crawl to safety. Winston had four children still enthralled, the strings like nooses around their necks as they threw marching band instruments through shop windows, ripped parade floats to pieces, and hurled street food at the Council members who were trying to stop them without actually hurting them.

  The Dread Warden, of course, had gone invisible, while Tsunami kept trying to trap the puppets in a frothy tidal wave—except the spellbound children didn’t seem to care that they might drown as they plunged into the wall of water.

  Nova searched for Captain Chromium but couldn’t find him in the uproar.

  All the while, Winston’s grating cackle echoed through the city. He could have been at a circus for all his apparent glee.

  Nova reached behind her ear and turned on the transmitter. “Nightmare checking in. Detonator, Phobia, where are you?”

  Phobia’s voice came back to her, even
and dry. “Where have you been?”

  Nova glanced back to the rooftop, now half a block away as the balloon drifted along the street, but she could no longer see the Renegades or the Sentinel.

  “I made some new friends,” she said.

  A roar dragged Nova’s attention upward in time to see Thunderbird’s enormous black wings spread out against the blue sky. Her face was twisted with fury, one hand gripping a crackling white lightning bolt.

  Nova cursed.

  Winston giggled. “Hello, birdie bird!”

  Thunderbird lifted her free hand and thrust her palm toward the balloon. The air boomed, shoving the balloon backward. The basket crashed into an office building. Nova ricocheted off the side and landed on the floor again.

  Winston hoisted himself up, one hand gripping the upright bar as he pulled on the golden threads around his fingers, making the children below do who-knew-what.

  “Ah-ah-ah,” he said with a childish titter. “It isn’t polite to hit. You should say you’re sorry.”

  “Release those children now, Puppeteer,” growled Thunderbird, lifting the lightning bolt over her shoulder.

  Nova pulled open the duffel bag and grabbed the netting gun. Exhaling, she popped up over the edge, using the basket’s side to steady her aim, and fired.

  The ropes entwined around Thunderbird’s body. One side tangled around her left wing and she cried out in surprise. The lightning bolt struck a rope and the whole net lit up, crackling with electricity.

  Thunderbird screamed.

  Then she was falling, falling. Toward the street, toward the pavement—

  Right into Captain Chromium’s waiting arms.

  He set her down, then turned his blue eyes skyward. No longer was he smiling. No longer did he look like an overhyped imbecile on a gaudy parade float.

  His eyes met Nova’s, and she swallowed.

  “What’s happening down there, Detonator?” she said. “We could use some assistance.”

  “Puppeteer wasn’t a part of this operation,” came the dry response. “He wants to act on his own, he can die on his own.”

  Down below, the Captain grabbed the metal pike he’d been holding earlier. Nova watched as he ripped Ace Anarchy’s helmet from the top and tossed it away. The helmet rolled across the street, coming to rest in a storm drain.

  “It’s not just the Puppeteer now,” she said. “I’m up here, too!”

  “Good luck, Nightmare. This mission is over.”

  The faint crackle over the ear piece went silent.

  Captain Chromium hefted the pike over his head, holding it like a javelin, and threw.

  Though the balloon was hundreds of feet in the air, the pike did not waver as it soared straight for her.

  Nova ducked.

  The javelin struck the balloon’s heater with a deafening clang, disconnecting the propane line. The flame spluttered and went out. The pike ricocheted off the metal and fell back down to the street.

  The effect was instant. Though the balloon continued to drift from momentum, its upward course began to slow.

  Nova looked around. They would have cleared the next set of buildings easily, but with the change of propulsion, she doubted they could make it now. Without the heater warming the air in the balloon, they would soon be sinking, and then crashing, right into the hands of the Renegades.

  Winston cocked his head and peered down at Nova. “Uh-oh.”

  Nova held his gaze, considering.

  If they could lose some weight, they might still be able to clear the next block, gaining enough distance to make a getaway before the Renegades caught up with them.

  She turned her attention to the duffel bag, and all her weapons and inventions. All her efforts. All her work.

  Winston whined in sympathy. “Sacrifices must be made sometimes, mini-Anarchist.”

  Nova sighed. “You’re absolutely right.”

  Then she hooked her arm around Winston’s ankles and pulled. He yelped, arms flailing, and toppled over the edge.

  Nova didn’t wait for his screams to fade as she hauled herself up onto the uprights and inspected the heater. The balloon barely cleared the rooftop, giving her just enough time to reaffix the propane line. She toggled the lighter switch a few times, and the flame burst to life.

  The balloon drifted into the sky.

  Nova released a weary, relieved groan and dared to look down at the street.

  The Puppeteer had landed on a parade float. He was covered in confetti and flowers as Captain Chromium hauled him to the ground.

  Winston didn’t fight. His gaze lingered on Nova the whole time, his expression contorted into that same delirious grin.

  Nova lifted her arm and waved.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ADRIAN WOKE UP feeling like his head had been stuffed with wool. He groaned and tried to roll onto his side, only then remembering that he was still wearing the armored bodysuit. The hard material dug painfully into his back.

  Everything ached, but it was his shoulder that hurt the worst. Throbbing and burning and sticky with blood.

  He couldn’t believe she had actually stabbed him. He wasn’t sure why it was so surprising, except … that just wasn’t how prodigies fought. They fought with superpowers and extraordinary skills, but that had been a plain old dirty attack.

  He would have to remember for next time. Nightmare didn’t follow the same rules as the rest of them.

  But then, he supposed, neither did he. Not anymore. Not when he was the Sentinel.

  He managed to sit up. Though it was still daylight, the sky was darkening and the shadows from the next building had eclipsed the rooftop. He must have been unconscious for five or six hours. He was lucky she’d knocked him out up here, where it was unlikely anyone would find him. Though it was clear he’d been undisturbed, it made him uncomfortable to think of himself lying prone and vulnerable for such a long time.

  Prone and vulnerable and useless.

  Why hadn’t Oscar come looking for him?

  No—that was a stupid question. Why would he have? Oscar didn’t know Adrian was beneath the Sentinel’s armor, and besides … Danna had been injured, and maybe Ruby too. Oscar had other matters to deal with. They would have gone straight back to headquarters. Were probably there still.

  Adrian checked to be sure no one was peering down from any nearby windows, then pressed his fingers into the center of the suit’s chest piece.

  The armor clunked and hissed, folding in on itself like origami, rolling inward along his limbs until the suit was no bigger than a crushed aluminum can. He tucked it into the skin over his sternum and pulled up the zipper tattoo he had inked there more than a month ago.

  He started to button the front of his shirt, but his shoulder screamed at him to stop. He looked down. His shirt had a gash through the fabric, and though the compression of the suit seemed to have slowed the bleeding, one glance told him he had lost a lot of blood. His entire side was damp, the fabric of his shirt nearly black where the blood had congealed. He wondered if that was why his brain seemed to be struggling to function or if it was a result of being knocked out by Nightmare.

  Perhaps it was a combination of both.

  He cursed her every way he could think of as he peeled the fabric away from his skin, then cursed himself as he pulled the shirt over his head.

  That girl had a bunch of low-tech gadgets and a power that only worked through skin-to-skin contact. How had she beaten him?

  He grimaced, recognizing his own pathetic attempts to defend his pride. But who was he kidding? He had underestimated an opponent who should not have been underestimated. She was strong. She was clever. And most of the low-tech gadgets he’d seen her use were actually pretty impressive.

  Shaking his head, he started to laugh, wryly at first, but it quickly grew with real humor, even if it was at his own expense.

  So much for being the city’s next great superhero.

  “Next time,” he whispered to himself. A promise.

/>   He would keep training. He would get better. And there would be a next time.

  Pulling the marker from the back pocket of his jeans, he sketched a water faucet on the rooftop’s concrete ledge and pulled the drawing into three dimensions. With a twist of the knob, cool water gushed forward.

  He used the clean half of his shirt as a rag to wipe away as much of his blood as he could. The injury didn’t look quite so devastating once it was clean. His heart was still beating and his arm was working, so she couldn’t have hit anything too important.

  After close inspection of the wound, he placed the tip of the marker against his skin and drew a series of stitches, gathering the skin together. Once he was finished, he capped the marker and tucked it away, turned off the water, then sat tracking his thumb around the tattoo on his left forearm. A spiral of flame in bold black ink, its edges fading away into his own dark skin.

  Fire manipulation. Perhaps it wasn’t rare, but it still remained one of the most coveted powers among prodigies. Between that and the armored suit and the springs he’d inked into the soles of his feet, he’d been confident he could do anything, stop anyone.

  But Nightmare had barely bat an eye.

  Not just that. She’d mocked him.

  With a groan, he climbed to his feet and rallied the courage to look down onto the street where the parade had passed that morning. The celebration had been replaced with a sullen quiet as cleanup crews swept away the confetti and the food wrappers along with the broken glass and destroyed parade floats and looted merchandise left behind from the Puppeteer’s attack.

  Nightmare had asked the Puppeteer to throw her a rope. Were they working together? Was she an Anarchist?

  It made sense, in a way. They were one of the few villain gangs who hadn’t vanished completely over the past decade, and they despised the Renegades more than anyone, especially the Council.

  And that’s why she’d been up here, wasn’t it? She’d been going after the Council. She’d been going after the Captain.

  Adrian pressed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. On the street below, a little girl was being dragged from beneath a tour bus, where she must have been hiding all afternoon. She was sobbing hysterically, and even from so high above, Adrian could see a string of gold thread still tied around her throat. He wondered what the Puppeteer had made her do.