Leroy drove them to the Barlow neighborhood and parked on the corner of East 16th and Skrein Avenue. Nova stepped onto the sidewalk and found herself inspecting barred windows that displayed an assortment of goods—a couple of electric guitars, a drill set, a vintage vinyl record player. A faded sign along the top of the building read, in enormous block letters, DAVE’S PAWNSHOP.

Nova took in the street, noting a nightclub closed for the night, a convenience store, and a few empty storefronts with FOR LEASE signs hanging in the windows. Judging from how the signs had yellowed around the edges, occupants hadn’t been there since the Age of Anarchy.

Her “uncle” jingled a key chain as he unlocked the door to the pawnshop, also outfitted with impressive metal bars.

“Are you Dave?” Nova asked as he and Leroy ushered her inside.

“Naw, Dave just lets us use the basement,” the man answered, bustling through the pawnshop. “For a price, that is. Anything to make a buck, right?”

The overhead lights were off, but a series of glass cases in the store had built-in lighting that cast a dim glow over the merchandise. Watches and costume jewelry in the cases, old cinema posters framed on the walls, shelves along the back stocked with computers, vacuums, and radios. There really wasn’t much in the way of household goods that Dave didn’t seem to have in stock, from practical electronics to pricey luxuries.

Pawnshops had been big business during the Age of Anarchy, when much of the financial system had collapsed and the world’s economy was largely replaced with a trade-and-barter system. These businesses had continued to do well even after the Renegades had taken over, as the economy stuttered and stammered to get going again and employment security remained virtually nonexistent. People still needed food, and sometimes the quickest and easiest way to get it was to pawn off your grandma’s antique hatpin collection for a fraction of its pre-Anarchy value.

They passed through the shop and into a back room, where utilitarian shelves were lined with more electronics and a random assortment of spare parts. It smelled of grease and must and moth-eaten clothing, which all served to remind Nova of the subway tunnels.

Leroy and the man grabbed a small worktable and together hoisted it off to the side.

A hidden door was cut out of the dingy linoleum flooring, illuminated with yellow light from below.

Grinning in a way that showed off his missing teeth, Leroy gestured for Nova to go first.

She squeezed the bundle of daisies Adrian had given her and, not sure what else to do, tucked them under one arm as she stepped onto the rungs of the ladder. The paper crinkled loudly as she lowered herself into the basement. Her boot had barely touched concrete when arms were wrapping around her and pulling her from the ladder.

“Nightmare, my darling!” Honey cooed, squeezing her from behind. “We’ve missed you so much!” She spun Nova around so she could cup her face between lacquered nails. Streaks of black eyeliner had dried and caked on her cheeks and she seemed to be covered in more of her bee friends than usual—nine or ten were caught in her blonde hair and Nova spied at least a dozen more wandering around her neck and shoulders. “If I believed in miracles, I would say we’ve accomplished one. You’re free!”

“I’m free,” Nova agreed, as Leroy dropped down beside them.

“And oh, flowers! Did Leroy think to bring you those? How thoughtful.”

Nova glanced at Leroy. Now that she was back in villain territory, the last thing she wanted to do was confess that, actually, the flowers were from Adrian Everhart.

Leroy winked at her and said nothing.

“I’ll find something to put them in,” said Honey, taking the bouquet from her. It was immediately set upon by a flurry of enthusiastic honeybees.

The pawnshop’s basement was not so much a basement as a bomb shelter, with thick concrete walls and a couple of hallways leading off in various directions. Nova surmised that the shelter must run nearly the full city block. In this central area there were some rickety folding chairs, worn rugs crisscrossing one another across the floor, and crates of food and supplies against one wall.

But what was more surprising to her than learning that her allies had taken up residence in the bomb shelter beneath Dave’s Pawnshop was learning that they were not alone.

Nova was greeted by at least thirty faces, almost all of them strangers, who stared back at her, largely expressionless. Nova recognized signs of inherent abilities. A girl a few years her senior had thick auburn hair that floated like seaweed in the air. One man had a growth of fungi covering his right arm. A boy who was probably thirteen or fourteen had gigantic eyes, with pupils shaped like six-pointed stars.

There were more subtle indicators, too. A tattoo of two arrows crossed on a paper scroll—a symbol of the Vandal Cartel, which had been the Librarian’s gang years ago. Two young boys dressed in shimmery gold robes, reminiscent of the Harbingers. Nova knew that some of the villain gangs that hadn’t been vanquished on the Day of Triumph had gone underground, still existing, still struggling to survive. They had been in hiding, stealing when they had to, fighting for their needs, existing in the shadows—many going through life hiding the fact that they were prodigies, so as not to draw the attention of the Renegades who would surely label them as villains.

But she’d never heard of them banding together into a unified group. Had this been happening without the Anarchists’ knowledge all this time?

She spotted Phobia lurking in a back corner, his scythe glinting over the heads of the crowd. Nova gulped. Adrian’s words, coursing with anger, came back to her.

One cannot be brave who has no fear … Those words were found on a slip of paper left on my mother’s body.

How many times had she heard Phobia say that? It was a phrase she had grown up with, one that had struck her as both truthful and encouraging. It was okay to be afraid sometimes, for only then could you choose to be brave.

But the words held a very different meaning for Adrian.

Had Phobia killed Lady Indomitable? Had he murdered Adrian’s mom?

Nova wondered whether she would ask him if ever given the chance. She wondered how much she really wanted to know.

Turning to Leroy, she asked, “Does someone want to explain to me what’s going on?”

But it was not Leroy who answered.

“Maybe we should start with the enormous thank-you you owe us.”

Nova spun around.

Narcissa Cronin was shoulder to shoulder with the star-eyed boy and an older woman who could have been anybody’s grandmother, except she was standing in this dingy room surrounded by villains. Narcissa’s arms were crossed and her face showed the same loathing it had the last time they’d crossed paths, when Narcissa had attacked Nova at her house and some unknown allies of hers had thrown a rock through the window.

“We did save your life,” said Narcissa, with a sour twist to her lips. It was still odd to see her fuming with anger, when she’d seemed so docile before. It was almost like she was wearing a mask.

Speaking of masks, Nova began to wonder where her costume was. Narcissa must have used it to impersonate Nightmare, but that meant that Leroy and Honey had given it to her willingly.

“Thank you,” Nova said, though it sounded a bit mechanical. “But I still don’t know what’s going on.”

“We had to save your life,” said Honey, who had found a plastic milk jug for the flowers and set them off in a corner. She put an arm around Nova and smooshed their heads together. “You’re our little Nightmare. We just aren’t the same without you.”

“Yeah, I’d hoped you might try to do something to get me out of there,” said Nova, “but who are all these people? What are we doing here?”

“These,” said Leroy, “are our new allies.” Unlike Nova, he seemed as relaxed as could be, his hands tucked into his pockets, a soft smile on his droopy lips.

Nova pointed at Narcissa. “The last time I saw her, she was trying to kill me.”

“I had time to reconsider some things,” Narcissa said. “After our conversation, it occurred to me that maybe our objectives aren’t so different after all.” Her tone suggested this was a painful admission for her to make. “I hate what the Detonator did to my family, to my grandfather and the library. And I did blame you for letting it happen. But then … well, you did kill the Detonator, and I figure that is worth something. Plus…” She hesitated and glanced at the elderly woman, who gave Narcissa an encouraging nod.

Nova realized with a start that she recognized the woman, though the last time she’d seen her, it had been aboard a tiny, cramped houseboat off the coastal highway. “Millie?”

“Hello again, Miss McLain,” Millie said, with a mirthful wink. As a psychometrist, Millie had the ability to see into the past of any object she touched, but it was her forgery skills that tended to be more highly valued by the villain gangs. She had, in fact, forged Nova’s documents for her application to the Renegades. In some ways, she had created Nova’s alter ego, giving her a new name, a new past, a new identity.

“Millie convinced me that the Anarchists could make good allies for us,” said Narcissa. “Given your presence in the Renegades, and the way you’ve managed to get so close to the Council, she thought it would be wise to give you another chance.”

“I was rather proud of that new identity I designed for you,” said Millie. “I’d hate to see it all go to waste when we’re so close to seeing their organization crumble.”

“So you pretended to be me,” said Nova, “so they would have to let me go.”

Narcissa nodded. “You’re welcome.”

It had been a risk—a huge risk—Nova knew. Narcissa had put herself in a lot of danger to go through with it.

But it had worked. Nova was free.

And now …

Now what?

Everyone was watching her, almost expectantly, but Nova was far too weary to figure out what they wanted. What they were waiting for.