The Sentinel angled his head in her direction, and she couldn’t tell whether she imagined the way his chest expanded defensively.
“Friend of yours?” Monarch said, glancing at Nova.
She tightened her hands around the strap of the duffel bag. “I’m really not that friendly. Besides, he’s wearing your trademark.”
Monarch’s eyes narrowed as she took in the R on the Sentinel’s chest.
Losing interest in Monarch’s confusion, Nova heaved the bag at the Sentinel’s head, then reached behind her for the red dagger. She swung the blade toward Monarch’s abdomen but hit only air as she dispersed again into the swarm. Snarling in frustration, Nova swung again and again—finally slicing a single butterfly in half.
She let out a breath and glanced down at the faint brush of wing dust on the blade.
Two arms wrapped around her, securing her elbows at her sides. If Smokescreen had been strong, this guy was iron and steel.
Or perhaps it was the suit.
Nova clenched her jaw and pushed backward. He yelped but didn’t release her as his foot hit the low rail along the building’s ledge.
With one more shove, Nova sent them both plummeting over the side. For a moment they were airborne, his arms locked around her.
They hit the next roof with a jolt that reverberated through Nova’s bones. Something beneath them crunched and shattered.
Though her body ached, she forced herself to roll off him, shoving his arms away from her as she collapsed, trembling, onto a rattan mat. Nova looked around. They were in a small rooftop garden, surrounded by wicker furniture and potted plants—one of which was now pinned beneath the Sentinel. A water fountain gurgled against the wall they had just fallen from.
She caught a glimpse of the Puppeteer’s balloon drifting along the street. There were flashes of strobing red lights brightening the sides of the buildings along the main avenue. Blacklight, perhaps, trying to distract the Puppeteer with fireworks and flashes, or maybe Thunderbird throwing one of her lightning bolts in an attempt to take down the balloon … or electrocute the villain. Maybe both.
The butterflies returned, forming a dark cloud overhead. The Sentinel had rolled onto his side and was attempting to push himself up.
“Hey, Sentinel,” Nova said, tightening her grip on the dagger.
He glanced up.
She plunged the knife into the space between his chest and shoulder plates.
The Sentinel roared and shoved her away. He crumpled, planting one palm on the ground, while the other lit up, suddenly engulfed in orange flames. He hauled the hand back.
Nova ducked, pulling her hood down as a column of flames rushed over her back. She knew adding a flame-resistant coating to her uniform had been a good idea.
A cry of pain hit her ears.
Nova peered up from the shadow of her hood as the swarming butterflies converged back into the body of Monarch. The flames had hit a cluster of the orange insects, and the remaining wisps of ash seemed to melt into the girl’s left side, from her ribs to her hip. Her uniform was blackened and smoking, and the stench of burned flesh permeated the air.
The fire escape rattled and clanked off the side of the building. Smokescreen appeared on the ladder, hooking his cane over the rooftop edge to help pull himself up. He was breathing heavily, his dark hair matted to his brow as he took in the scene. His eyes widened. “Monarch?”
Something clattered at Nova’s feet. The ruby dagger, its blade darkened with blood.
Nova didn’t bother to look back at any of them as she turned and ran again, scaling the burbling stone fountain and hauling herself back to the rooftop they had fallen from. Behind her, she could hear the Sentinel ordering Smokescreen to help Monarch, and an incredulous Smokescreen demanding, “Who the hell are you?”
The Puppeteer’s wicker basket drifted back into view.
“Catch!” Nova yelled.
The Puppeteer glanced in her direction, but made no effort to catch the duffel bag as Nova tossed it into his basket.
“Good afternoon, tiny Nightmare,” said Winston. “What a delightful surprise this is. I was just out for a little … float.” He tossed his head back and started to laugh, the marionette lines on his face making it even creepier than it already was.
His hands were still held out over the crowd, golden gossamer strings toying with the helpless children below. Nova glanced down long enough to see a pigtailed girl chomp hard on the ankle of a gray-haired man … possibly her own grandfather.
Grimacing, Nova climbed onto the ledge of the roof. “Toss me a rope.”