Renegades (Renegades #1)(10)
Author: Marissa Meyer
“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?