But that had all been before Nightmare had taunted him with those words. That phrase that meant so much more to him than to anyone else. Had she known?
But … how could she have?
Adrian scanned the columns of the article until he found the paragraph he was looking for.
An autopsy revealed broken bones and a fractured skull consistent with having fallen seven stories to the concrete alleyway, and the coroner has stated that this is without doubt the cause of death. Though no additional signs of foul play on the body or at the crime scene have been found, the death being a potential suicide was quickly ruled out due to one piece of evidence: a plain white note card tucked into Lady Indomitable’s belt and printed with the ambiguous phrase: “One cannot be brave who has no fear.”
Adrian peeled his attention from the page and stared blankly at the back of the desk.
Someone had killed her. Almost certainly a villain, someone who had managed to circumvent her own superpower—because how does one fall seven stories to their death when they can fly?
He shut his eyes, and though it had been years since he’d had nightmares about his mother’s body, his imagination supplied the vision all over again. Broken bones. Fractured skull. Though this article didn’t mention it, he had heard rumors that when she’d been found, her eyes had been open, her face contorted in a silent scream.
A chill swept down his back.
One cannot be brave who has no fear …
What did it mean that Nightmare knew those words? She herself seemed far too young to have been involved with the murder, but was it possible the murderer was still alive? Did Nightmare know who it was? Was she in league with them?
But if she had really joined the Anarchists, then didn’t it make sense that his mother’s murderer might be one of them?
He shoved the album onto the floor and stood, rubbing the back of his head. His feet began to pace, his eyes unseeing as he padded back and forth across the office.
He knew the Council was sending someone to search the Anarchists’ stronghold for any signs that they were working with Nightmare, or that more of their members were involved in the attack on the parade. Maybe to arrest Cyanide as an accomplice. A patrol unit would be investigating them tonight, maybe even at this very moment. An “experienced team.”
But he was the only one who knew about this connection to a cold case. The ten-year-old murder of Lady Indomitable. An original Renegade. His mother.
If her killer was still alive, was still out there … then Adrian had to know. And as far as he could tell, the only person who might have that answer was Nightmare.
Swallowing, he brought his hand down to his sternum, where the zipper tattoo lived in secret beneath his T-shirt.
His feet stilled.
For Adrian Everhart to go against a direct order and investigate the Anarchists on his own would tempt far too many consequences—for him, and for his team. Sketch couldn’t go by himself, and he wouldn’t involve the others. Not until he had something more substantial than a single uttered phrase that no one else had been around to hear.
He knew it was dangerous, and maybe a little stupid. His first go-round as the Sentinel hadn’t exactly gone as planned. But he’d already tried asking for permission once; he knew there was no point in trying again.
He would tell the Council everything. About the Sentinel and his newfound abilities. About Nightmare and what she had said. He would tell them soon.
He would tell them the truth, after he had some answers of his own.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ONE THING Nova liked most about the tunnels was that there was no night or day down here. Nighttime could be lonely on the surface, when all the storefronts were closed and even the most serious of night owls finally gave in to the lure of sleep as the clock edged its way toward morning. Nova didn’t mind being alone, but she got bored sometimes, waiting for the world to wake up and return to its drab, miserable existence.
In the tunnels, the only reminder that Nova had eight more hours to spare than everyone else was whether or not she could hear Ingrid’s snores coming from the defunct elevator shaft she called a bedroom. Everything about Ingrid was loud—her bombs, her personality, and evidently, even her dreams.
Nova collected the darts from the target and walked back down the tunnel, setting herself up for practice again. She’d been at it all night. Usually she liked to divide her nighttime hours between tinkering with her newest batch of weaponry and inventions, or practicing meditation and martial arts, or going through a series of exercises to build up her strength and stamina—any skills she might need in her next encounter with the Renegades.