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.”

 

The Puppeteer fell silent and peered at her with emotionless eyes. “You have a tagalong.”

 

A hand grabbed her elbow, spinning her around. Fingers closed over her throat, tilting her backward, squeezing just tight enough to keep her from plummeting to the street below.

 

“You tried to assassinate Captain Chromium,” the Sentinel growled. “Why? Who put you up to it? What else are they planning?” The visor of his helmet was a blank canvas, but his voice was furious. Nova imagined she could still feel the heat from his flames seeping through his glove.

 

“You Renegades sure ask a lot of questions,” she said, white spots flashing in her eyes.

 

He moved so close that his visor almost clicked against her own face mask. “You’d better start answering them.”

 

“You think I’m afraid of a pompous neophyte in a toy suit?”

 

The fingers at her throat seemed to loosen, just a bit. “Neophyte?”

 

“It means amateur. You’re obviously new to this game.”

 

“I know what it—” The Sentinel made an annoyed sound. “Look, I don’t really care whether or not you’re afraid of me, but I’m willing to bet you’re at least a little bit afraid of dying, like we all are.” The fingers tightened again, and Nova felt herself being forced backward. The change was minimal, but just enough so she could feel the shift in her balance, the slight pull of gravity.

 

She fought off the need for air and forced out a laugh, though it came out more like a wheeze. “You know what they say … one cannot be brave who has no fear.”

 

He jerked back as if she’d struck him. In the same moment, Nova reached forward and pressed her hand against his chest, digging her fingers into the sliced fabric where the knife had penetrated. It was hot and sticky with blood and it was all she needed. Flesh and tissue and a heartbeat that thundered underneath.

 

“What did you just—”

 

She drove her power into him, a sledgehammer into his chest.

 

His breath hitched, and he stood immovable for a moment. Then the grip loosened around her throat. Nova cried out and grabbed his forearm, pulling her center of balance toward him as he fell backward, landing with a bone-jolting crash.

 

Nova’s heart ricocheted inside her chest as she stared down at him, still feeling the drop in her stomach when, for a split second, she’d thought she was falling.

 

“Niiiiiightmare…”

 

Rubbing her throat, she turned in time to catch the shimmering gold threads the Puppeteer tossed to her. Though her legs had begun to shake, Nova forced herself to gather together any last shreds of strength. She wrapped the strings around her wrist and leaped, swinging out over the street, where people had scattered and a parade float had crashed into the side of a hair salon.

 

She hauled herself up the ropes and into the basket, landing in a heap on its floor.

 

“Thanks, Winston,” she gasped.

 

He didn’t respond—already he was focused again on his puppets, his mad laughter shrieking over the noise of the propane burner above them.

 

Once Nova had caught her breath, she wrapped her hands around the edge of the basket and forced herself to stand.

 

The street below was in chaos. The Puppeteer’s gossamer strings littered the pavement, some still wrapped around children’s throats and wrists, though many of his puppets had been discarded and were crumpled against buildings or in the middle of the street. A number of onlookers were injured, their bodies sprawled out on the sidewalks and streaks of blood trailing behind them as they attempted to crawl to safety. Winston had four children still enthralled, the strings like nooses around their necks as they threw marching band instruments through shop windows, ripped parade floats to pieces, and hurled street food at the Council members who were trying to stop them without actually hurting them.

 

The Dread Warden, of course, had gone invisible, while Tsunami kept trying to trap the puppets in a frothy tidal wave—except the spellbound children didn’t seem to care that they might drown as they plunged into the wall of water.

 

Nova searched for Captain Chromium but couldn’t find him in the uproar.

 

All the while, Winston’s grating cackle echoed through the city. He could have been at a circus for all his apparent glee.

 

Nova reached behind her ear and turned on the transmitter. “Nightmare checking in. Detonator, Phobia, where are you?”

 

Phobia’s voice came back to her, even and dry. “Where have you been?”

 

Nova glanced back to the rooftop, now half a block away as the balloon drifted along the street, but she could no longer see the Renegades or the Sentinel.

 

“I made some new friends,” she said.

 

A roar dragged Nova’s attention upward in time to see Thunderbird’s enormous black wings spread out against the blue sky. Her face was twisted with fury, one hand gripping a crackling white lightning bolt.

 

Nova cursed.

 

Winston giggled. “Hello, birdie bird!”

 

Thunderbird lifted her free hand and thrust her palm toward the balloon. The air boomed, shoving the balloon backward. The basket crashed into an office building. Nova ricocheted off the side and landed on the floor again.

 

Winston hoisted himself up, one hand gripping the upright bar as he pulled on the golden threads around his fingers, making the children below do who-knew-what.