“I’m not worried,” she insisted. “I just don’t understand why there’s a fake.”
He hummed, and she could tell he didn’t believe her. “The real helmet is kept under high security in the artifacts warehouse. We’ve never taken it out into public. It’s not exactly the sort of thing you’d want falling into the wrong hands.”
“Why not?” she said. “It’s useless, isn’t it? Captain Chromium destroyed it.”
“Eh…” Simon rocked his head to the side, squinting one eye as if to say this one minor detail might have been a bit of an oversight. “That part of the legend might have been a bit embellished. We did claim the helmet during the Battle for Gatlon. And Hugh did try to destroy it, but…” He shrugged.
“But … what?” said Nova, suddenly breathless. “It’s not destroyed?”
Simon gave her a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry. No one is ever going to use that helmet to torment the people of this city again. We’ll see to that.”
Her fingers grasped at the air, as if the real helmet might be there, waiting for her to grab it. “So … can people go see it?”
“Ace Anarchy’s helmet?
She nodded. “Renegades, I mean. Obviously not the public, but … if one of us wanted to see it, could we?”
The Dread Warden chuckled. “Maybe if you made a really great bribe to the people in weapons and artifacts. I hear Snapshot is a sucker for sour gummies. Hard to come by anymore, those are, but if you find some, she might let you take a peek.”
Nova frowned, unable to tell if he was joking or not.
It didn’t matter, though. She wanted more than just a peek, and he’d already given her so much more than she’d expected.
The helmet was intact. Ace’s helmet was not destroyed, and it was here, in this very building, somewhere beneath her very feet.
Her communicator chimed again. She glanced down automatically, scanning the new message from Adrian.
Seriously—you’re not actually passed out in a ditch, are you?
She shook her head, unable to tell if he was trying to be funny. If so, the humor was lost on her jumbled thoughts.
“Everything all right?” said Simon.
“Oh yeah.” She waved her hand, finding it a challenge to remain composed when it seemed that the foundation of everything she knew to be true had just shifted beneath her. “That’s just the, uh … healers, wondering where I went. I’m supposed to be in the med wing, but … I get restless being cooped up in one spot for too long.”
He nodded, as if this made perfect sense, and started heading back toward the central lobby. Sensing that she was intended to follow, Nova glanced one more time at the helmet then fell into step beside him.
“Adrian told us all about your run-in with Max. That was brave, what you did. I’m sorry you got hurt.”
“Max was the one that got hurt. I just passed out for a bit.”
Simon cast her a sideways look.
“Besides, I didn’t actually know what would happen if I went in there, so I’m not sure we can call it brave.”
His lips started to tick upward. “Would you prefer if I said it was reckless and dangerous?”
Nova held his gaze, unable to tell if he was teasing her or condemning her … or if this, too, was a compliment of sorts. Finally, she responded, “All in a day’s work, right?”
Then, to her endless dismay, Simon Westwood laughed. A true, boisterous laugh, warm and guttural.
That was when it occurred to her that she was chatting with the Dread Warden. She had just made him laugh.
And not once had it crossed her mind that perhaps she should be using this chance to contemplate the best way of killing him.
Which was savvy, she told herself. She had counted the cameras when she stepped off the elevator. She knew there was no way to murder someone here and get away with it.
But still … shouldn’t the thought at least have crossed her mind?
“Do you know how Max is doing?” she said, eager for a new topic of conversation.
“He’s going to be fine,” said Simon. “The amount of blood loss made the wound appear far worse than it really was. Of course, due to the nature of his gift we can’t tend to him with prodigy healers, but even the normal doctors say that he will recover quickly. Perhaps with a scar, but what young man doesn’t appreciate a new scar from time to time?”
They passed the painting of the Day of Triumph and Simon paused to look at it—not admiring so much as thoughtful.