“It’s about us,” she said, only half lying. “Your allies and friends. Your family. Look around. We’ve done enough today. Now, we need to take care of our own.”

Ace did look around, and Nova could only guess what he was seeing. The ravages of battle, the destruction he and his helmet had wrought, the bodies—so many bodies …

A loud hiss sent a shiver along her spine. Nova spun to see the boa constrictor rising up, its eerie white eyes meeting hers. Then the snake’s body melted into a sludgy liquid and Phobia emerged once more, his cloak shimmering briefly like snakeskin before solidifying around his body. The hood wavered from his raspy breaths, his nonexistent mouth.

Nova could feel his accusations before he spoke, and she didn’t want to hear them. She didn’t want Ace to hear them.

The truth.

She was terrified that Ace Anarchy would win this fight.

She lifted a hand toward Phobia, her lips curving into a snarl. “Not now,” she said, before fixing her attention back on her uncle. “Ace, please. We came here for you, and we succeeded. Remember your purpose. A world without persecution. A society with free will. We can achieve that. But not here. Not like this.”

As quickly as the fit of anger had come, Ace morphed back into a picture of quiet temperament. Muscles relaxing. Fingers spreading wide.

Everything still caught in his frozen cyclone came crashing down. Their allies slowly appeared from the rubble, emerging from their hiding places. Not only the Anarchists and the Rejects, but the prisoners, too.

Ace scanned them mutely, then allowed his gaze to linger a moment longer on Captain Chromium, the Dread Warden, and Adrian. There was a promise in his silence. A promise, and a threat.

Nova tried not to think about it.

Ace turned to the Cragmoor inmates, those still standing amid the chaos, and stretched out his fingers. The group of them grimaced and bent over simultaneously, their faces tight with pain. Nova winced, sure that Ace was hurting them, though she couldn’t imagine why.

And then one of the inmates—the same who had sat beside her in the cafeteria—reached for the collar of his jumpsuit and tore apart the flimsy fabric.

A small device clattered to the ground at his feet.

The tracker that had been buried in his skin, now slick with blood and covered with dust.

Ace released himself of the device, too, pulling it out of his skin and down his sleeve before dropping it into the dirt and crushing it beneath his heel.

Ace lured a wide concrete slab into their midst and stepped up onto it, gesturing for the others to follow. Nova felt a twinge of relief to see Honey alive, though bedraggled and stumbling, leaning on Leroy’s shoulders as they both limped toward Ace. Others followed—the Rejects, the inmates—gathering at Ace’s side in the midst of the battlefield. All except Phobia, who dissolved into a wisp of black smoke without another word.

Their dead were left behind, including Winston Pratt. Nova cast a sorrowful last look at his body and Callum’s, as Ace raised his palms and the concrete lifted into the air. It drifted slowly, smoothly over the arena’s field.

Kneeling to keep her balance, Nova forced herself to face Adrian, He was still standing, brave and defiant behind the shimmering wall that divided them. The wall that he had built to protect himself from her and her allies.

She was overcome with more emotions than she could name as their eyes met across the distance.

Then the villains cleared the destroyed roof of the arena and were gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

THEY DID NOT soar for long, though from the serenity and strength in Ace’s eyes, Nova believed he could have kept them in the air for a year if he’d wanted. He was not tired. He was not unsure.

Leroy was guiding Ace, and their time spent weightless after leaving the arena was too short. Nova wasn’t ready to face whatever was going to come next.

She was still reeling from the truth of what she had witnessed. Her brain kept replaying those last moments in the arena over and over again. The Sentinel was Adrian. Adrian was the Sentinel.

A hundred other realizations struck her in fast succession. The Sentinel’s uncanny ability to gain new powers each time she faced off against him. Adrian thinking he could use tattoos to increase his own abilities. How the Sentinel always seemed nearby when she and the rest of the team were there. How she’d never seen the two of them at the same place, at the same time. How the Sentinel had seemed murderous when he’d found her over Max’s unconscious body. How he’d once rescued her as the Cloven Cross Library burned around them.

Adrian. The Sentinel.

The Sentinel. Adrian.

She felt like the biggest fool in history for not having seen it sooner.

Adrian Everhart. Who had fixed her bracelet. Brought her childhood dream to life. Made it possible to have one night in which she could sleep, for once feeling safe and protected.

He was her enemy. He was the one who had been hunting her all this time. He was the one who had captured Ace. Adrian.

Her stomach grew tighter and wormier until she was sure she would be sick.

Ace changed their trajectory, lowering them toward the ground where Leroy indicated.

Nova choked back the sour bile that had filled her mouth. She would not think about it. Not Adrian. Not the Sentinel. Not Winston. Not Callum. Not those who had died, nor the hundreds of Renegades who were now powerless.

Not the fact that even the Anarchists had lied to her.

She had done what she’d set out to accomplish that day, and she would allow herself this moment to be proud. Though she had hoped for far less devastation, on both sides, what was done was done and there was no going back. She tried to find solace in knowing that the Anarchists were together again. Ace had his helmet. The Renegades could no longer threaten them with Agent N.

Things were not what she’d hoped, but at least she had not failed.

This was a good day.

Ace had set them down in the street outside Dave’s Pawnshop. A man smoking a cigarette near the side alley stood gawking at their ragtag group, with their muddied jumpsuits, blood-soaked clothes, Ace and his helmet. The man’s mouth hung agape as the cigarette burned, forgotten, down to his fingers.

Ace twitched, and the cigarette dropped to the ground, extinguishing itself in a puddle of standing water beneath the nearest street lamp.

The man let out a wail, shaky and terrified, then turned and ran. Soon the sound of his pounding footsteps fleeing down the alley was the only noise they could hear. That, and the electric zaps of the fluorescent CLOSED sign illuminated in the pawnshop window.

One of the Rejects cleared his throat and said, quietly, “So, that was Dave.”

No one else spoke for a long while. No one moved toward the store. Everyone seemed to be waiting for Ace to make the first move. When Nova dared to look at Ace, though, she could see disgust in the eyes behind the helmet.

Finally, Leroy explained, “There is room in the sublevels for us all. It isn’t much, but…”

“We are not staying here,” said Ace. “We will not be sent into hiding and secrecy like rats, not again. Not this time.”

He lifted his hand and the barred door of the pawnshop blew outward toward them, snapping the hinges, destroying the locks and bolts. A bell clattered but was quickly silenced as the door landed with a bang on the sidewalk.

The noise was so jarring and unexpected, the whole group jumped—except Ace, who strolled through the opening as if nothing had happened. “There are more allies here?” he said, scanning the shelves of electrics and household appliances, the cases of costume jewelry. “Inform them we’ve arrived, and it is time to leave.”

One of the Rejects started heading for the backroom, but it was unnecessary. Summoned by the commotion, it was mere seconds before Narcissa burst out into the store, brandishing a handgun.

She drew up short when she saw them, and Millie crashed into her from behind. Narcissa barely caught a nearby shelf. Soon, they were all there, fanning out around the cases, gaping slack-jawed at Ace Anarchy. His prison uniform covered in rips and blood. His skinny wrists bruised from shackles. But fearsome in the recognizable helmet, his posture erect and an undeniable sense of power that seemed to shimmer in the air around him, as if the world itself were electrified by his presence.

Ace allowed them to stare. Allowed them to catch their breaths. Allowed them to come to terms with his return.

Then, without introduction, he said, “I understand that you chose not to join the fight this evening. You opted to protect your own self-interests, rather than join my comrades in an attempt to secure my freedom. You chose your life over mine.”

Even in the dim lighting, Nova saw Narcissa going pale. Fear flashed through the expressions of the Rejects who had stayed away from the arena that night.

Nova opened her mouth, prepared to come to their defense. Ace should know that they had helped, even if they had not fought. But before she could speak, Ace started to laugh. A low, amused sound.

“You are Anarchists now. As such, you are permitted to always choose your life over anyone else’s. I commend you. And—I forgive you.”

No one moved. No one else dared to laugh, or even look relieved.

Ace waved his arm, as if shooing them away. “Get your belongings and any useful supplies. You have two minutes.”

Turning away, Ace gestured to a rack of clothing against the far wall. A long military jacket peeled off its hanger and flew to him, securing itself around his shoulders and covering the disgusting jumpsuit. As the gold buttons did up themselves, Ace marched back toward the street, as if he couldn’t stand to be surrounded by such mediocre junk for a second longer.

The villains exchanged looks, their bodies tense in the shadowed room. Some looks were elated and hopeful. Others were filled with doubt, even dread.

But there was no discussion. No questions asked. No stories told.

They got to work.

* * *

When the group descended from the sky a second time, their destination seemed, to Nova, no more hospitable than the pawnshop.

Ace had brought them back to the wasteland, where his cathedral had stood more than ten years before. The moment their feet touched the ground, Narcissa, clutching a backpack of hastily gathered belongings, shuddered in relief and collapsed against a toppled column.