“Now, this is the clincher,” said Honey. “Whatever he says next, you laugh. Not too robustly, but just enough to let him know you think he’s charming, and you could listen to him speak all day. Ready?”
“What if he doesn’t say anything funny?”
Honey giggled and tapped Nova on the knee. It was a sweet chirp of a laugh that sent a tingle of pride through Nova’s chest, until she realized that Honey wasn’t laughing because she was amused, but was only trying to demonstrate what she was talking about.
Nova flushed. It was uncanny, the way Honey could pull someone into her orbit. Make them feel so important, so witty, so worthy, all with a few well-timed laughs and the faintest of touches.
She shook her head and stood up, kicking some of Honey’s discarded shoes to the side of the room.
“This is never going to work,” she said. “He’ll see right through me.”
“You worry too much,” said Honey, settling back on her palms. “If he can tell you’re trying to flirt with him, even if you’re terrible at it, he’ll be charmed by your attempts, and flattered all the same. Just like that, the flame will be rekindled and you’ll be back to your angst-riddled un-relationship before you can bat those pretty lashes at him.”
Nova scowled. “I think you’re underestimating his intelligence.”
“And I think you’re overestimating the egos of teenage boys everywhere. Trust me, little Nightmare. You can handle this. It isn’t chemical gastronomy or … whatever it is Leroy does.”
Nova scoffed. “I’d rather take my chances with the chemicals.” She rubbed her palms down the sides of her pants. They had started to sweat as she mulled over the possibility of looking at Adrian like Honey had looked at her. Touching him. Suggesting with every gesture, every glance, that she wanted him to try to kiss her again.
Her heart thumped as a bewildering thought occurred to her.
Sweet rot. What if it actually worked?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ADRIAN WAS BOTH nervous and exhausted as he reached the mezzanine floor over the main lobby of headquarters. He knew he should be catching up on sleep, as he had stayed awake painting the last few nights. The mural was starting to take shape, even if only in underlayers of shadows and light, general outlines and suggestions of the work still to come. The details still needed to be filled in, all those little highlights that would bring it to life.
He’d finally put the paintbrush down when his alarm reminded him that there was something else he wanted to do today, something far more important than his new art project. Even more important than his hunt for Nightmare or the Anarchists. An idea that had been growing in the back of his head since he’d left the artifacts warehouse, filled with equal parts intrigue and hope.
He crossed the sky bridge and paced around the glass wall of the quarantine. He could feel the weight of the Vitality Charm pressing against his chest, warm even through the fabric of his uniform.
He had spent hours reading about the medallion in the database and doing what research he could do on his own, though the charm’s history was not as well documented as some artifacts in the Renegades’ collection. It had been forged by a prodigy blacksmith during the Middle Ages. The blacksmith’s abilities were questionable, but he was evidently a healer of some sort, and the charm soon earned a reputation for being able to ward off the plague. That plague. Naturally, such a coveted object was eventually stolen and the blacksmith was hanged for crimes of witchcraft not long after, and so a duplicate was never made, so far as anyone knew.
The charm disappeared from the history books for a few centuries after that, eventually resurfacing during late 1700s, where it was purchased at auction by a superstitious and perhaps paranoid prince who would claim for the rest of his life that the charm protected him from the enemies who were always trying to poison him. That prince eventually died of （apparently） natural causes in old age, and the charm was passed down through generations of duchesses and barons until it was sold off to pay for a large amount of debt many years later. It disappeared from the public eye again, until eventually it was donated to a small prodigy-themed museum, the entire collection of which was given to the Renegades after the Day of Triumph.
Given to or confiscated … the details on how the Renegades had obtained many of the artifacts in the vault were rather vague.
It was believed that the charm could protect a person from poisoning, illness, and “any threats that would sap the physical strength or otherwise weaken the prodigious abilities of the wearer,” according to its description in the database. It was unclear how much this theory had been tested, but it gave Adrian an idea that he couldn’t shake.
Any threats.
That’s what the description said.
And what, or who, was more of a threat than Max?
Adrian wasn’t a fool. He knew that whoever had worn the Vitality Charm over the years had likely never encountered a threat quite like Max. He suspected his theory was untested, and it would be putting his powers at great risk to be the first.
Immunity from the Bandit wasn’t impossible. Captain Chromium was proof of that. And with every step Adrian took toward the quarantine, a voice whispered louder in the back of his head: What if it worked?
What if this small, unassuming medallion could actually protect him from Max’s power? What if it could allow him to get close to his little brother, maybe even give him an actual hug, for the first time in his life?
Though it was late, the massive lobby of HQ was still faintly lit by the flickering blue television screens stationed throughout the space, illuminating Max’s miniature glass city. It had mostly been put right since Max’s telekinetic attack—when he’d been practicing levitation and lost his concentration, putting a glass spire through his palm. His wound was healing, though prodigy healers were unable to work on him due to the nature of his powers. A civilian doctor had had to replace a tendon in Max’s finger with one taken from his forearm—a procedure that struck them all as vaguely antiquated. But it went well, and the doctor had promised that the only permanent side effect would be a gnarly scar.
Since recovering from the incident, Max had kept busy fitting the broken glass buildings back into place, using his own power of matter fusing for most of the repairs.
The glass city always looked so different at night. Usually the daylight that streamed in from the surplus of windows set the city aglow, reflecting off the glass spires in shades of orange and yellow. But now it appeared that twilight was falling over the structures, as if even this model city were preparing for a peaceful night’s sleep.
Not that the real Gatlon City was ever peaceful. In a lot of ways, Adrian sometimes thought he preferred this small glass city, closed off from the world. There was no crime, no destruction, no pain. No villains and no heroes.
Other than Max himself. The only prodigy in his small universe.
Except, as Adrian stopped beside the curved glass wall, he saw that Max wasn’t alone.
“Well, speak of a villain,” he said.
Inside the quarantine, Hugh peered up from a hand of cards. His face lit up. “Who are you calling a villain?”
“Just a phrase, Dad.”
Hugh tipped his head. “Nice to see you, Adrian.”