Page 76 of Renegades

Her mind raced over the past few hours, struggling to sort through everything she’d learned, trying to discern how much of it was valuable and what she would need to gather more information on in the coming weeks. The elevator reached the ground floor. As she crossed the lobby of Renegade Headquarters and headed back onto the streets of Gatlon, she traced over her memories of the day.

She saw an underground training room full of powerful enemies.

She saw a woman in some sort of specialty hazard suit coming to collect samples from a boy they called dangerous and valuable.

She saw two Council members making their way through the lobby, laughing as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

She saw Adrian and that subtle shift of confidence, that hint of awkwardness as he watched the elevator doors close.

As she put more distance between herself and the headquarters, she began to feel the pressure of eyes following her. It was rare enough to spot a Renegade in the city that people stopped to gawk at her as she passed, and a few tourists even snapped her photo. Then there were the opposite reactions—the prodigy haters who sneered, or the ones who wouldn’t make eye contact out of fear or disgust.

Either way, admired or loathed, Nova became more eager with every step she took to get home and get out of her uniform as fast as possible.

She wasn’t a Renegade.

She was Nightmare.

And she did not like to be seen.

CHAPTER TWENTY

EASTNINETY-FOURTHANDWALLOWRIDGEwas an even crummier neighborhood than Nova had envisioned. It wasn’t that she was too proud, exactly, to have the Renegades thinking she lived there. It was just—if she was going to be given a fake home, couldn’t Millie have picked something a bit nicer? Maybe one of those abandoned mansions in the suburbs or a condo with a water view or, at the very least, a place that didn’t look borderline condemned?

The home that Nova McLain apparently shared with her uncle was a row house with a brick facade sandwiched between more row houses, each with peeling paint on their window trim and tiny yards overgrown with grasses and weeds. There was trash in the street gutters, empty beer bottles on her front step, and an old tire leaning against the wall. One of the upstairs windows appeared to have a bullet hole through it, and a couple of their neighbors had their doors and windows completely boarded up.

Standing on the sidewalk, she let her gaze travel up and down the street, taking in the graffiti on the walls, the cars on blocks. Itwas so still and quiet that she couldn’t be sure if anyone lived there at all. If they did, they were awful caretakers.

At least they live somewhere with daylight,a voice whispered in the back of her thoughts.

Nova frowned at her brain’s intrusion into her critique of the neighborhood, but then she thought about it, and her face softened.

Actually, sunlight was a definite plus.

And at night, there would be stars.

She climbed the short stairs and stepped over the beer bottles. A brass mail slot in the door had long ago been engraved with the single word:MCLAIN.

It was the first indication Nova had seen that her fake identity might actually be tethered to someone in the real world, contrary to what Millie had told them. It made her wonder what had become of the real McLains.

Nova tested the doorknob and found it unlocked. She shoved the door open, revealing a narrow sitting room and a collection of cobwebs. She was surprised to see furniture—two dated armchairs and an entertainment console, though whatever TV or radio had been there before was long gone, replaced with a thick layer of dust. The room had once been done up in a garish paisley wallpaper, though strips of it were starting to peel.

What gave her the most pause, though, were recent footprints left across the dusty hardwood floors, making a series of back-and-forth paths between the front door and the staircase that lay straight ahead.

Settling a hand on her belt, which still held the instruments she had brought with her to Renegade HQ that morning, she stepped inside. She passed a collection of framed photographs on the wall—the McLain family, perhaps—but did not bother to inspect their faces as she headed up the staircase. The wood groaned beneathher, shattering the still silence of the house. She froze and listened. When only the sound of her own breath could be heard, she turned the corner and proceeded up the rest of the staircase. On the second floor, there was a door to her left, barely cracked open, and an open living area to her right, with a bedroom beyond it.

Nova reached out her hand and nudged open the first door the rest of the way. Inside was a bed frame with no mattress and yellowed curtain panels hung over two tall windows, one of which was fluttering around the bullet hole.

Turning, she made her way to the second bedroom—the master, judging by the small tiled bathroom attached to the closet. There was no furniture in this room, though. Only a backpack, a paper grocery bag, and a green sleeping bag in the corner with a large form curled up inside it.

Nova paused in the doorway, staring at the form and hoping it wasn’t dead. A stranger’s dead body wasn’t exactly the sort of housewarming gift she’d been hoping for. After watching for a moment, she detected a subtle rising and falling of breath.

Sighing, Nova crossed the room. She spotted a handgun lying not far from the figure and, pressing her foot onto it, dragged it back out of reach. Then she cleared her throat.

The figure didn’t move.

“Hey.”

A quiet snuffle.

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