The Sentinel held a hand toward her. “I’m here to help.” He slowly got back to his feet. “You can trust me.”
She laughed—a mad, disbelieving sound. “I highly doubt that.”
Her eye caught on movement and she spotted Gene Cronin and Narcissa beside a large roof vent. Narcissa was clutching her grandfather’s arm, but he was still holding one of the old, delicate books from the library. Narcissa’s face was ashen, her braid mussed and her clothes streaked with soot. Cronin wasn’t faring much better, though he had already been so disheveled it didn’t make that much of a difference.
Another explosion roared from across the street and Nova spun around, imagining more bombs being lobbed at them. But this time, it wasn’t the Detonator who had caused the noise. It was the library, succumbing to the fire. The remaining beams and rafters had caved in, sending a roar of sparks and flames that engulfed what remained of the roof. Soon, all that would be left would be a few exterior stone walls. A skeleton of the structure they had housed.
Her heart squeezed.
Was Adrian still…？
No. No—he was strong and clever. He was a Renegade. Surely, he’d found a way out.
The Librarian let out a pained wail and fell to his knees. “My library … my books…”
Narcissa hovered over him, rubbing his back, but he did not seem to notice her beyond his devastation.
“Paper and ink,” drawled an angry voice.
Nova grimaced.
Ingrid appeared, stepping out from behind an old, rusting searchlight—what might have been used to promote a new movie premiere, back in a far-gone time. She already had a smirk on her face and a new explosive crackling between her palms.
“You’ll get over it,” she said. “It’s all those lost weapons that are the real tragedy.”
Cronin smiled wistfully. “The weapons might have supplied my livelihood, but those books … those were my life.”
Ingrid snorted. “Pathetic,” she said, turning her attention toward the Sentinel. She started to toss the sphere of energy up, catching it in one hand, before tossing it up again. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Renegades’ shiny new toy. Who would have thought you’d be involved in this little raid too?”
“Stand down, Detonator. You’ve caused enough damage today.” The Sentinel’s right hand began to glow, the gray-tinged metal turning white-hot from wrist to fingertips.
Nova stared in disbelief.
That was new.
Surely he didn’t have even more abilities that she hadn’t seen yet. How could it be possible?
“I know I have,” Ingrid said with a cheerful laugh. “And it feels so good. After nine years of smothering my power, feigning obedience to the Council’s demands … to finally remind the world what I can do. Great powers, it feels good!” She let out a hoot toward the sky, then started to laugh. “You know, my focus had been to take out that Everhart boy, but you … you might be even better. To take out the Council’s own lackey. Do you think your armor can withstand a direct hit? I have my doubts…”
“Council’s lackey?” said the Sentinel. “I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”
“Oh, I don’t,” Ingrid countered.
The Sentinel extended his glowing gauntlet in front of him, fisted tight. “I’m not here on the Council’s orders. I’m not here for anyone’s business but my own.”
Ingrid sighed. “Do you really—”
A narrow beam of white energy launched from a cylinder on the Sentinel’s forearm and slammed into Ingrid’s chest. She stumbled and fell back, gasping for breath.
Nova’s jaw was hanging open now, her mind momentarily shocked into silence.
The suit, the fire, the long-distance jumping, and now … what was that? Some sort of concussive energy beam?
How many abilities did this guy have?
The Sentinel lowered his arm. “Why is it that some villains get so obnoxiously chatty?”
“Is she dead?” said Nova.
The Sentinel turned to her. “Stunned.” He hesitated, glancing down at his arm, which had returned to the same dark gray color as the rest of the armor. “I think. I’ve never actually used that one before.”
Nova gaped at him. “What do you mean, you’ve never used it before?”
They were interrupted by Gene Cronin’s faintly dazed voice. “She did this.” He had made his way to the edge of the roof and was watching the library burn, its flames dancing in his sorrowful eyes. “She set up this trap. She threw those bombs. She destroyed everything.” He let out a small, humorless laugh. “What can one expect, from a woman who calls herself the Detonator? I should have known better … I should never have trusted an Anarchist…”