“Miss McLain?”
Her laugh turned into a yelp and she spun around. At first, she was faced with only an empty corridor, but then a form shimmered in the air and solidified.
The Dread Warden. He was not wearing his usual black cloak and domino mask, but blue jeans and a dress shirt. Nova’s emotions were wound so tight, from her recent shocks, from the discovery of the helmet to the discovery of its being an impostor and now to the arrival of one of her archenemies dressed like a completely normal person, that they all combined into another frazzled, slightly delirious laugh pouring out of her again.
Simon Westwood frowned and Nova had to tuck the helmet against her side with one arm and clamp the other hand over her mouth to try to halt the giggling. “Sorry,” she gasped. Gulped. Cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t … I was just…” She looked down at the helmet and realized that perhaps an alarm had gone off after all, only not one she could hear. Perhaps any tampering with artifacts in these offices was announced to members of the Council in a more discreet manner. She’d just been caught in the act of taking Ace Anarchy’s helmet—as far as anyone would know, she’d been trying to steal it.
She shook her head. “I wasn’t trying to take it, I swear.”
Simon’s expression remained more curious than alarmed, and though he said nothing, she could sense him urging her to go on.
So she did, her thoughts scrambling to prove her innocence, until it occurred to her that … she was, in fact, innocent. She wasn’t going to steal the helmet. For once, as far as the Renegades were concerned, she hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Other than perhaps leaving fingerprints smudged on what she could only ascertain was a completely worthless relic.
A fake.
“I heard you had some neat artifacts up here, so I came to see them. I was told that was okay? That anyone could come and look?”
Simon nodded, just slightly.
“Um … and when I saw the helmet … I got curious. I mean, it’s…” She barely refrained from laughing again. “It’s Ace Anarchy’s helmet. But then I got closer and … and it seemed … off.”
“Off?” said Simon.
She swallowed. “It’s a fake. This isn’t Ace Anarchy’s helmet.”
Simon’s dark eyes seemed to soften, just barely. “How could you tell?”
Nova looked down at the helmet. She gripped it in both hands again, holding it out so she could stare into the empty face. How could she tell?
“Every description I’ve ever heard, or read,” she started, “said that the helmet had a sort of … an internal glow. But this is just … metal. Normal metal.”
“Copper-plated aluminum,” said Simon, drawing her gaze back up to him. He now wore a wan smile. “I’d heard you were observant, Miss McLain, but I must say, I’m impressed. I don’t know that there’s been anyone that helmet hasn’t fooled yet.”
“But why? Why is there a fake?”
Simon stepped forward and took the helmet out of her hands. He inspected it himself for a second, his lips tight, as if he might be reliving painful memories. “This is what we use when we want to put it on display. It’s a great icon, you know—the defeat of humanity’s worst villain. It’s a visible reminder of how far we’ve come since the Day of Triumph, and how much we have to lose if we ever let humanity slide back to the way it was.”
“But it’s not real.”
Shrugging, he set the helmet back on its stand, adjusting it so that it balanced just right. “It doesn’t need to be.”
“But—” Nova huffed, not sure how he could be so calm about this. She couldn’t keep herself from sounding insistent when she asked, “But where’s the real one?”
“Ah,” said Simon, comprehension filtering through his expression. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
She frowned. “I’m not worried.”
Simon’s eyebrows lifted. Though his olive-toned skin was light compared with Adrian’s, everything else about him was dark. Thick, dark eyebrows. Thick, dark hair. Thick, dark beard. Somehow, it all served to make him seem more expressive, as if whole stories could be told with the curl of his lip or the crinkle of his eyes.
Nova didn’t like it. Standing so close to him, she felt on display herself, like he could see right through her. The thought made her uncomfortable, especially when faced with the oft-invisible man.