Page 54 of Archenemies

“But…,” said Simon, revealing a cardboard to-go box that had been invisible in his hand, “we brought you cheesecake.”

It felt like a small consolation, but Adrian took it.

He trudged down to his bedroom in the mansion’s basement, fork in one hand and dessert in the other. The basement was huge, though still mostly unfinished, as his dads’ efforts to restore the home had been focused on the upper floors. Adrian had dominion over what happened down here, which so far meant he’d put up a few shelves of old action figures and some of his favorite comic drawings, mostly from artists who had been prolific before the Age of Anarchy. There was also his bed, a small sofa, his desk, and an entertainment console with video games and a TV. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was his.

He threw himself onto the sofa. He didn’t know who he was more frustrated with. His dads, for not being willing to even consider that Nightmare might still be alive. Or Winston Pratt, for revealing a potentially fake and almost certainly useless bit of information. Or himself, for believing him. Forstillbelieving him, despite the logic of his dads’ words.

He shoveled a few bites of cheesecake into his mouth, but he wasn’t tasting it. His mind was going over the fight at the themepark again. The moment when the Detonator had thrown the bomb at Nightmare and Adrian had seen her try to dodge the blast.

Try—and fail? He wasn’t sure then, and he wasn’t sure now. What he did know was that they hadn’t found her body, or even bits of it, gruesome as the thought was.

Only her mask.

But what did it matter? Even if Winston was right and she was alive, Adrian was no closer to finding her. He had no more clues to investigate. No more leads to follow. He supposed he could dig through all that stuff from the subway tunnels, but just thinking about that gave him a headache. And if the investigators hadn’t found anything useful, why did he think he would do any better?

After tearing through half the slice of cake, Adrian stood up and marched to his desk. He rummaged around until he found a charcoal pencil.

He would sketch for a while. It always helped focus his thoughts, or at least quiet them.

Grabbing a spiral-bound book from the shelf, he sat down and found a blank page. He let the charcoal guide his fingers, scrawling hasty shapes and messy shadows across the paper, until an image began to take shape.

Overgrown ferns. A moss-covered staircase. A cloaked figure haunting the background.

A shiver shook Adrian so hard, the charcoal scratched a sharp line through the landscape, disrupting the vision. Adrian sat up straighter. The figure was turned away and for a moment, his subconscious returned images of the monster that had haunted his nightmares as a child. It had been years since he’d thought of those terrors, but telling Nova about them had stirred up feelings of powerlessness that he would have preferred to keep buried.

But when he took in the drawing in its entirety, he realized that it wasn’t the monster that he’d been drawing. It was the statue.

The statue at City Park.

This wasn’thisdream, it was Nova’s.

Adrian lowered the sketchbook, an idea sharpening in his thoughts. He stared at the closed door that divided his bedroom from the only other finished room in the basement, though “finished” was a subjective term. It had four walls and a ceiling, all covered with drywall, though not much else. No trim, no texture, not even windows.

He stood, clutching the sketchbook as he opened the door. Striding into the darkness, he waved his arm until his hand collided with a thin chain. With a tug, he turned on the bare light bulb in the center of the ceiling.

When they’d first moved in, Adrian had dubbed this space his “art studio,” somewhat ironically. He had drawn himself an easel and a second worktable and a bookshelf for storing his sketchbooks, which was, admittedly, a little crooked. Otherwise, the space remained barren and a bit on the forlorn side.

He turned in a full circle, inspecting the bare white walls.

His eyes returned to the drawing.

Then back up. White space. Emptiness. A canvas waiting to be filled.

He regarded the meager stash of art supplies he’d been hoarding for years, a vision filling his thoughts.

Turning, he strode back through his bedroom and up the creaky stairs. He found Hugh in front of the TV in the living room, having changed into sweats and an old triathlon T-shirt. (He had served as a commentator, not a contestant, which would have been supremely unfair.)

“No more talk about Nightmare tonight,” said Hugh, withoutlooking up from the TV. “Please.” He clicked through channels until he landed on the news.

Adrian scowled. “I wasn’t going to.”

Hugh shot him a disbelieving look.

“I just wanted to ask if it’s okay for me to paint my studio.”

“What studio?”

“You know, my art studio. That empty room downstairs, next to my bedroom.”

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