Archenemies (Renegades, #2)(30)
Leroy parked outside the gate. The ruins stood in the midst of a dead neighborhood. The battle had destroyed the surrounding city blocks. On top of that, some people worried that dangerous radiation and various toxins had leached into the ground as a result of so many colliding superpowers, leaving the area uninhabitable and feared by most of the populace. There was no one to see them. No one to wonder about the yellow car parked outside the wreckage or the mysterious figures trudging through the wasteland.
The night was overcast. With the nearest street lamp four blocks away, it was almost pitch-black as they stepped over the DANGER—DO NOT ENTER sign strung between two metal posts. Honey dug an industrial-size flashlight from her industrial-size handbag and went on ahead of them.
It was no longer safe for them to enter Ace’s catacombs through the subway tunnels, for fear they were being monitored by the Renegades, and it had taken a full day to clear away the rubble that had divided Ace’s sanctuary from the fallen cathedral since the Day of Triumph. But now they had a new secret entrance for their visits—a narrow staircase tucked between a crumbling archway and a fallen stone column, hidden by a muddle of splintered pews and toppled organ pipes.
As soon as Nova descended the first set of steps, it felt like stepping into a different universe. There were no hints of the city down here. No sirens or angry voices coming from apartment windows or the rumble of delivery trucks ambling down the streets. This was not Gatlon City. This was a place forgotten. This was a place without Renegades, without law, without consequences.
She sighed.
That wasn’t true. There were still consequences. There were always consequences, no matter which side she was on. No matter who she fought beside. There was always someone left disappointed.
Her hand went to her bare wrist. She’d gotten used to the feel of the Renegade wristband that she usually wore, and now felt strange without it. She had left it at the house, so that if anyone back at headquarters tracked her whereabouts, they wouldn’t notice anything suspicious about her location.
They reached the first crypt, overcrowded with stone sarcophagi, and Nova sensed Phobia’s presence, first by the shiver that coursed through her body and then by the way the shadows converged in one corner, solidifying into his tall, cloaked form.
Honey shone the flashlight straight into the overhang of his hood, where a face should have been but was, instead, only more darkness. Phobia shrank away slightly, blocking the light with the blade of his scythe.
“How nice to see you,” said Honey. “I was beginning to think someone might have conducted an exorcism and sent you back to the underworld.”
“You believe that’s where I’m from?” said Phobia, his raspy voice eerier than usual in the dank chamber.
Honey hummed to herself. “Well, I don’t think you’re from the suburbs.”
Phobia sauntered in their wake as they descended another stairwell, spiraling down into the earth. Faint light could be felt as much as seen, emanating from the deepest sublevel. Leaving the stairs behind, they passed through a chamber with vaulted stone ceilings and ancient pillars. The walls were lined with more coffins, many carved with the faces of knights and holy men, others chiseled with Latin proverbs. Beyond the chamber was an open door and the source of the light—a standing candelabra lit with nine taper candles. The ground beneath was covered in wax that had dripped into a series of small hillocks over the years, puddling and splattering across the stone floor.
Inside this final room, there was an old writing desk, teetering stacks of books, a stately four-poster bed, and bones. So many bones. Countless eye sockets watching from their hollow skulls. Femurs and rib cages stacked neatly across open shelves. Tiny finger and foot bones lined up side by side, as precisely as mosaic tiles.
And there was Ace, sitting in the room’s only chair, drinking a cup of tea while a small book of poetry hovered in front of his face. He took a sip from the porcelain cup at the same time one of the brittle yellow pages turned.
Ace Anarchy. The catalyst of a revolution. The world’s most feared villain. But also, Nova’s uncle. The man who had saved her. Raised her. Trusted her.
His gaze moved slowly across the worn yellow page of the book, and only when he had reached the end of the poem did he look up.
“Acey, darling,” Honey cooed, “you’re skinnier than half the skeletons down here! Haven’t you been eating?” She snapped her fingers. “Nova, there are a few jars of honey up in the car. Would you be a dear and go fetch them?”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Ace, his voice gravelly and tired, “but I have had enough honey to last several life times.”
“Nonsense. It’s food fit for gods.”
“Alas, I am a mere mortal, and I am quite content with my tea.”
Honey made a suit-yourself noise in her throat and sank onto the edge of a marble casket. She clicked off the flashlight, letting the warmth from the candelabras engulf them.
Nova never spoke outright about the state of Ace’s health. Honey had embraced the role of both his doting nurse and apparent beautician, and though Ace often complained about being fussed over, they had both fallen comfortably into the routine. Honey would comment on his appearance, his health, how worried she was for him. Ace would rebuke all concerns. Everyone would move on.
Nova did not think she could get away with pointing out Ace’s growing weakness like Honey did, but it didn’t stop her from worrying. Ten years in the catacombs had made him as pale as his skeletal companions, and almost as gaunt. He seemed to move slower every time she visited, each movement matched with crackling joints and flinches of pain, which he couldn’t always hide. And that was when he moved at all. Half the time he sat almost comatose in his chair, letting his mind fetch him his books and his food when his body refused to cooperate.