Ingrid sighed. “Do you really—”
A narrow beam of white energy launched from a cylinder on the Sentinel’s forearm and slammed into Ingrid’s chest. She stumbled and fell back, gasping for breath.
Nova’s jaw was hanging open now, her mind momentarily shocked into silence.
The suit, the fire, the long-distance jumping, and now … what was that? Some sort of concussive energy beam?
How many abilities did this guy have?
The Sentinel lowered his arm. “Why is it that some villains get so obnoxiously chatty?”
“Is she dead?” said Nova.
The Sentinel turned to her. “Stunned.” He hesitated, glancing down at his arm, which had returned to the same dark gray color as the rest of the armor. “I think. I’ve never actually used that one before.”
Nova gaped at him. “What do you mean, you’ve never used it before?”
They were interrupted by Gene Cronin’s faintly dazed voice. “She did this.” He had made his way to the edge of the roof and was watching the library burn, its flames dancing in his sorrowful eyes. “She set up this trap. She threw those bombs. She destroyed everything.” He let out a small, humorless laugh. “What can one expect, from a woman who calls herself the Detonator? I should have known better … I should never have trusted an Anarchist…”
He unfolded his arms and Nova saw that he was still clutching the leather book he’d had inside the rare books room. “But I remember everything,” he whispered. “Every single word. This knowledge. It will not be lost.” He shut his eyes and his face took on a look of exultation. Of deep, driven purpose. “This is why I was bestowed this gift. To preserve all those words, those stories and ideas. To rescue them from extinction. If it takes the rest of my years on this earth, I will record them all. It will be the great pride of my life.”
“Do you plan on doing that while you’re in a jail cell?” said the Sentinel. Cronin turned to him, as if surprised anyone else was still standing there. “Because the Renegades may or may not be willing to supply you with enough paper to replace”—he gestured at the library—“all of that.”
Cronin swallowed.
The Sentinel stepped closer, his voice lowering. “But my offer stands. I can get you and your granddaughter away from here. Just tell me what you know about Nightmare.”
“Sweet rot,” Nova muttered. “Is that all you care about?”
The Sentinel did not look at her … but the Librarian did.
Nova drew herself up, fixing him with the most threatening look she could manage.
“Nightmare,” said Cronin, and, suddenly, he started to laugh, as if it had just occurred to him what a hysterical situation this was. “Oh, Nightmare. Yes. I might know where you can find—”
A gunshot ricocheted through Nova’s ears. Gene Cronin’s head snapped back, an arc of blood spraying across the rooftop. His body seemed to sway, momentarily suspended, before he collapsed backward. The book he’d been holding tumbled opened beside him, its crisp yellow pages fluttering.
Narcissa screamed.
The world paused. Nova stared at the blood sprayed across the wall, and though she knew it was red, everything seemed suddenly awash in gray. Her lips were parted, but she might have stopped breathing. Her wide, disbelieving eyes swept toward Ingrid, landing on the gun in her hands.
Ingrid raised her chin. There was little to read on her face. Anger. Perhaps pride. But no remorse, so far as Nova could see.
In her bleary thoughts, Nova pictured them sitting around the subway platform later that night, listening to Ingrid tell of how she had taken out the Librarian moments before he could betray Nova’s identity. She imagined Ingrid laughing about it, and the others joining her.
But it didn’t seem so funny at the moment.
Nova knew Gene Cronin would have given up her secret. Whether now, to the Sentinel, or later to the Council. If he survived this night he would have eventually talked, even if merely to spite her and the Anarchists who had caused the destruction of his library. He had to die if she was to go on with this mission. If she was to have any hope of staying in the Renegades and working to remove them from power once and for all. He had to die. It was the only way.
Sometimes the weak must be sacrificed so that the strong may flourish.
But those thoughts seemed very far away and, she realized, she was hearing them not in her own voice, but in Ace’s.
As she watched Narcissa fall, sobbing, over her grandfather’s body, Nova knew that she could not have killed him. Not even to protect herself.
What sort of villain did that make her?
Lips pulling into a sneer, Ingrid raised the gun toward Narcissa. The second liability.
A bolt of blinding energy struck Ingrid in her side, knocking her off her feet again. The gun flew out of her hand. A second blast followed almost immediately, sending her rolling a few times until her shoulder struck the rusted spotlight.
The Sentinel stormed toward her, his arm glowing, preparing to fire again—when a flash of blue struck the rooftop at his feet. The explosion sent him soaring through the air and over the rooftop’s ledge and left a crater of cracked concrete where he had stood.
“Stop it!” Nova yelled. “Stop blowing things up! Just stop!”
Ingrid sat up, gripping the side of the spotlight with one hand and preparing another bomb in the other. “We can’t let her go,” she said. “You know that.”
Nova stared at her, the words swimming meaninglessly in her head for a long time before she realized Ingrid was talking about Narcissa.
Setting her jaw, Nova marched forward and picked up the fallen gun.
“Go ahead,” said Ingrid, letting the blue sphere extinguish, evaporating back into the air. “It should be you. Why should I do all the heavy-lifting when it comes to protecting your identity?”