Nova wasn’t sure what had possessed the Council to accept the offer, when they could easily have rounded them up and put them in prison that day. Maybe whatever sense of righteousness driving them had faded as soon as they watched Captain Chromium emerge from the ruins of the cathedral with Ace Anarchy’s helmet on his pike. Maybe they pitied the Anarchists who had lost everything so suddenly—the battle, their leader, their home.
Or perhaps they simply figured that, without Ace, the Anarchists were no longer a threat.
The Renegades still visited them on occasion—raiding the tunnels to ensure they weren’t harboring illegal weaponry or “causing trouble,” but otherwise, they were more or less left alone.
Nova wondered how long that would last now, after Winston’s debacle at the parade. If it had just been her, the Renegades might never have traced the assault back to their group. She could have been working alone for all they knew. Of course, once Phobia and Ingrid had announced themselves, they would have given the Anarchists away, but by that point the Council would have been dead and it wouldn’t have mattered.
But the Council wasn’t dead, and while Nightmare’s alliances might still be a mystery, the Puppeteer’s involvement would lead the Renegades straight to them.
She shouldn’t have gotten into that balloon. That choice was just one more piece of evidence linking them together.
If it hadn’t been for that new guy … the Sentinel … things might have ended very differently.
Nova hit the bottom level of the subway station and made her way across the platform. Rats scuttered nearby as she jumped down to the tracks and headed into the tunnel. She sent the beam of her flashlight over the walls until she found the switch that she’d helped Ingrid install a few years ago. With a flick, a string of dim bulbs brightened and flickered along the ceiling, guiding her home.
Nova clicked off the flashlight and tossed it into her bag, which felt fifty pounds heavier than it had that morning. Her arms burned from exertion. Every muscle in her body was making itself known—each one sore and tired and voicing its complaints.
A few hundred feet down the tunnel, she found Ingrid on their central platform, loading crates of food and supplies into a rusty shopping cart.
Nova dropped the duffel bag on the rails. Ingrid spun around, eyes wide, but relaxed when she spotted Nova.
“You left me there,” said Nova, fisting a hand on her hip.
Ingrid flurried a hand toward her and turned back to their shelves, grabbing packs of sardines and cans of chili. “Help me load these up, will you?”
“Like you helped me?”
Groaning, Ingrid turned back and fixed a scowl on Nova. She was still wearing her Detonator uniform—tall boots, slim khaki pants, a blue cropped top, and those metallic blue armbands that spiraled across her dark brown skin, from shoulders to wrists. The only difference from her usual tough villainess look was that she’d tied back her coiled black hair beneath a rhinestone headband, no doubt stolen from Honey.
“Time to build a bridge and get over it, Nightmare,” said Ingrid. “You knew the risks of this mission, you knew there’d be no rescue attempts if things went haywire. But, look … you’re fine, I’m fine, Phobia’s”—she gave an exaggerated eye roll—“I don’t know, hosting a séance or something, the creepy deadbeat, but whatever, he’s fine, too. We’re all fine.”
“Winston’s not fine.”
“Winston deserves what he got. To stage an attack like that, right in the middle of downtown! He almost got us all killed. He’s the one you should be mad at right now.”
Nova’s lip curled. She was mad at Winston, too, but it was overshadowed by her guilt, knowing he was caught in part because of her.
“And now we have more pressing things to deal with than that cretin,” said Ingrid, “so stop sulking and take this cart down to the storeroom under the yellow line.” She started throwing goods into the cart again.
Nova hopped up onto the platform and tossed the duffel bag on top of the goods. “You think there will be a raid tonight?”
“Bet on it. The Renegades will be looking for trouble.” She set a few boxes of instant rice on the bottom rack of the cart. “There. They could light up the tunnels, but at least we won’t starve.”
A faint wailing reverberated off the walls. Nova turned her head. “Honey?”
Ingrid huffed. “Been like that since we got back. Not sure what she’s got to be so upset about. Maybe a drone died. I don’t know. Ignore her. Here, I’ll help you lower the cart down to the tracks.” She nudged the cart toward the edge of the platform, its tired, uneven wheels squealing in their ears. “I swear, there are days when I wonder what I’m still doing here with you has-beens. Honey’s a lost cause. Leroy’s killed off one too many brain cells with all those chemicals he’s always sniffing at. And Phobia—he gets weirder by the day, have you noticed that?” She hopped down onto the tracks and held up the front of the cart as Nova eased it toward her.
“Maybe,” said Nova, once the cart was secured below, “you stay here for me.”
Ingrid guffawed. “Oh, sweetie. You took a shot at the Captain himself today.” She clicked her tongue but, for the first time since Nova had come across her on the platform, her eyes did take on a hint of warmth. “You might just be the craziest of us all.”
“It was your idea.”
“Exactly.”
By the time Nova had dropped off the cart of supplies in the storehouse beneath the yellow line, which was overrun with cockroaches and usually went ignored during the Renegades’ visits, her arms were vibrating from pushing the cart’s wheels over the bumpy tracks. She was glad to finally make it to her own abandoned train car and drop off the duffel bag.
She took a moment to prepare a cup of tea with a small electric kettle. It was one of the rituals that regulated her days. Though the tea never put her to sleep or even seemed to do much to calm her mind, like it was supposed to, it still signaled to her body that the day was over and nighttime was about to begin. It gave her a suggestion of normalcy—something as simple and comforting as a bedtime routine, even if she skipped over the going-to-bed part.
With the mug in one hand, she headed back into the tunnels.
Honey’s wails grew louder as Nova approached her utility room, the crying offset only by the buzzing of her hives.
“Honey?” Nova said, nudging open the heavy steel door with her shoulder.
Honey Harper, the infamous Queen Bee, was in one of her moods. She had dolled herself up like she did when things got really bad, with thick, sparkling black eyeliner and blonde curls teased into a gravity-defying bob. She was in a slinky dress that cascaded over her generous curves as she stood in front of a full-length mirror, alternating between admiring herself appreciatively and sobbing into her hands.
She would have been a picture-perfect reflection of a long-ago movie starlet, all dramatic and flashy, bordering on the ridiculous … except for the bees.
Besides the room’s sparse furniture—a messy bed, vanity, antique wardrobe—every spare inch of space was taken up with hives and nests and the little creatures whose cumulative buzzing could be louder than a chainsaw. Sweet, chubby bumblebees and efficient, hardworking honeybees and hornets and wasps and yellow jackets, some as big as Nova’s thumb. Though they came and went from the tunnels, there were always thousands of them in here, working, building, producing. A few dozen were crawling along Honey’s dress and skin, and Nova could see that two had gotten caught in the sticky, hair-sprayed strands of her hair.
Nova had once pointed out to Honey that, scientifically speaking, hornets and wasps weren’t bees at all, and how was it that she could have dominion over them if her power was supposed to be all about bees. But Honey had just smiled and pet her cheek, murmuring, “It’s good to be queen.”
Nova had been only a child then—that was before they’d been run down into the tunnels.
When the Renegades had defeated them, Honey had taken it the hardest, feeling t
hat it was a personal assault to force her and her precious subjects into these dark, sunless caves. She truly had lived like a queen in those days, and often pretended she still did. Nova was fairly certain her adamant denial of their new reality had turned her delusional.
“Honey?” she asked again, louder now, to be heard over the buzzing.
Honey spun toward her, cheeks flushing. “What?” she snapped.
Her eye makeup was running, leaving dark tracks along her cheeks, but it didn’t make her less beautiful so much as it made her look like a distraught mess that needed fixing. The sort of woman that a lot of guys probably would attempt to fix if it wasn’t for the black wasp wandering over her cleavage.
Seeing Nova, she drew herself up to full height, so she could peer down her nose as she gathered herself. A phantom smile crossed her shiny lips. She never wore lipstick, only slathered them with honey—nature’s best moisturizer, she reminded Nova again and again, not so subtly suggesting that maybe Nova could use some herself.
“Apologies, darling,” Honey said with a sigh. She reached for a martini glass on her vanity, ignoring the bumblebee on the rim as she took a sip. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“It’s all right. Could I borrow—”
“I thought you were out. It’s been quiet around here today. Where has everyone gone?”
Nova pressed both hands into the sides of the mug. It was cold in the tunnels, and the warmth coming through the clay felt good on her fingers. “The parade?”
One heavily penciled eyebrow shot upward. “Was that today? How did it go?”
Nova opened her mouth to tell Honey what a failure the mission had been. She hesitated, though, and instead told her, “They had an actress portraying you on the villain float.”
Honey started. The bumblebee slipped into her drink and she reached in and plucked it out without looking, dropping the sodden creature onto the vanity.
“She was really pretty,” Nova added. “I mean, not quite on par with”—she gestured at Honey’s gown—“but still, she did a good job. Very classy. I don’t even think she got hit with any fruit.”
Honey looked down into her glass, her long, fake eyelashes brushing against her cheek, and for that moment she looked like a portrait. Sad and forlorn. A queen divided from her kingdom.
“Perhaps they haven’t forgotten me, after all.”
“Oh, come on,” said Nova, bobbing the bag of tea in the mug. “How could they forget about you?”
A faint smile climbed up Honey’s glistening lips, just as a yellow jacket made its way over them.
“On another note…” Nova held up the steaming mug. “Could I borrow some honey?”
Honey looked at her, eyes shining, and sighed.
The tea was already cooling when she left Honey’s room and headed for the fork in the tunnels. Nova passed another abandoned platform, a mural of chipped and grungy tiles marking the stop for Blackmire Station, and again she paused, considering.
The platform was set with three children-size circus tents, each one barely big enough to stand up in. Their wide stripes done in once-vibrant primary colors had been dulled with years of dirt and grime. The tents were connected through flaps torn into the fabric and stitched together with shreds of old sleeping bags and bedsheets, forming a sort of miniature tent-palace. The most striking change, though, was that their pennant flags had been replaced with skewered doll heads, one to each tent, their dull black eyes watching anyone who dared approach.
Nova set down the cup of tea and hauled herself up onto the platform. She peeled back the front flap of the tent and spent a moment letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, and her wrinkled nose adjust to the stark odor of Winston Pratt, who had never been particularly adept at self-hygiene.
Holding her breath, she stepped over the scattered remains of broken windup toys and dried-out paint sets, making her way to the second tent, where a child’s wooden kitchenette greeted her, overflowing with food both real and plastic.
She rummaged through the fake refrigerator and cabinets until she found a bag of kettle corn and a candy bar. She stuffed them both into her pockets.
Winston wouldn’t be back for them anytime soon.
By the time she reached Leroy’s train car, where a lantern was glinting in the window, the tea was lukewarm. Things never stayed hot for long in the damp tunnels.
Nova stepped up to the side door and knocked.
“Enter at your own risk,” came the familiar greeting.
Nova pried open the glass door, which had long ago been painted black, and stepped into the car. Leroy, or Cyanide, as the world knew him, was at his worktable, measuring a spoonful of green powder and dumping it into a vial full of yellowish liquid. The concoction crackled and hissed inside the tube.
He looked up at Nova and smiled, pushing his goggles to the top of his head. “You look terrible.”
“Just what I needed to hear, thanks.” She threw herself into a brown recliner. Though the cushion had once been home to a family of mice and the fake leather upholstery was torn in multiple spots, it still remained one of the most comfortable seats on the entire westbound line. “What are you working on?”
“Just a little experiment,” said Leroy. He was a pudgy man, with brown hair that was always matted to his forehead and a face that was a patchwork of scars and discolorations from a multitude of botched experiments over the years. He was missing three teeth and both eyebrows and always smelled of chemicals, but of all the Anarchists, he had always been Nova’s favorite.
“How was the parade?”
She shrugged. “We didn’t kill the Council. Or any Renegades, for that matter.”
“Shame.”
“I think I might have broken one of Thunderbird’s wings, though.”
Leroy’s eyes brightened, impressed, as he lifted the vial. The mixture inside had stopped bubbling. “Were you able to use the dart?”
Her frown deepened. “I tried. I missed.”
He hummed, unconcerned. “Maybe next time.”
Nova leaned back and the footrest jutted upward. “Winston showed up.”
“Oh?”
“He wasn’t supposed to.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Nova stared up at the metal bars stretching down the length of the car. The aged yellow maps of the city. The ceiling that had started to crack on one side.
“He was captured by the Renegades.” She took a sip of tea. “It might have been my fault.”
Leroy didn’t respond. Nova listened to the sounds of his work. Measuring, pouring, mixing.
She set her tea down on the floor, then reached an arm upward and folded it behind her head, trying to stretch out the muscles. “I probably could have saved us both, if I’d really tried.”
Leroy stoppered one of the vials and wrote out a label for it. “If he’d been stronger than the Renegades, he wouldn’t have fallen to them.”
It was logical. Anarchist logic. Comfortable, blameless logic.
“Anyway,” said Nova, switching to the other arm, “Ingrid thinks the Renegades will raid us tonight, in retaliation, or maybe to find out if any of us were involved.”
“I trust you’ll be well hidden when they arrive.”
“Yeah, but … maybe you should put some of this stuff away?”
Leroy’s lips quirked to one side, making half of his face go slack with disuse. “Believe it or not, everything I do here is perfectly legal.”
Nova couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Yeah, well … don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Warning duly noted, with my heartfelt appreciation.” He pulled an empty jar and a funnel from a nearby cabinet. “Were they advertising the trials at the parade?”
“Like it’s a national holiday,” Nova grumbled, then added mockingly, “Do you have what it takes to be a hero? Ugh. Stab me with an egg beater.”
She took the kettle corn from her pocket, the bag crinkling and squealing as she pried it open. She held it out to
ward Leroy, but he just shook his head.
“The world needs heroes,” he said, lowering the goggles again to transfer the concoction into the bottle. They made his eyes look three times bigger.
“That’s what they keep telling us.” Nova popped a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “But we both know the world would be better off without heroes. Without villains. Without any of us, getting in the way of normal, happy people and their normal, happy lives.”
Leroy’s lips lifted in a subtle smile. “Have you ever considered trying out?”
She laughed. “What, to be a Renegade?”
“They don’t know who you are, what you look like.” He turned the flame of a burner to low and set a glass jar on top. “You would make a promising spy.”
“Except there’s no way I could pretend to respect those righteous, arrogant, pretentious … heroes long enough to learn anything useful.”
Leroy shrugged. “You could, if you wanted to.”
“Not to mention getting through their background check,” she continued. “Not just anyone gets to join their clique, you know. You really think they’d let in a girl with the last name Artino?”
He waved a hand at her. “Minor obstacles. It’s easy enough to get forged paperwork in this city. Are we villains or not?”
“You’ve given this some thought.”
He glanced up. “Only since they started promoting the trials again. Ace always used to say that knowledge is power, and he was right. Unfortunately, these days the Renegades have all the knowledge and the power.”
Nova picked up her near-empty mug and stood. “In that case, sending me to the trials would be a perfect plan. If only I had a death wish.”
“Give yourself more credit, little nightmare,” said Leroy. “I know I do.”