Archenemies (Renegades #2)(106)

If only a little.

But his memory was unreliable. Nova—kissing—and … credits.

He must have been more tired than he’d realized after the fight with Frostbite’s team, on top of so many late nights spent working on the mural.

At least she was still going to be his date to the gala. He hadn’t ruined it—whatever it was. This new terrifying, wonderful thing.

Standing before a mirror in the restroom, his dress shirt left unbuttoned, Adrian peeled the bandaging from his chest to check on the newest tattoo. It was still weeping spots of blood and there was mottled bruising staggered across the left side of his chest. He was becoming used to the healing process and knew that it would get worse before it got better. Soon, the tattoo would enter the scabby peeling stage, complete with a relentless itch that would make him want to attack it with sandpaper. That was always the worst part. At least the tattooing itself—the constant pricks of the needle into his skin—only lasted about an hour. The itching went on for days.

He started to bend over the sink to wash away the spots of blood, but the movement sent a jolt of pain through his side. He flinched and pressed his hand to the place beneath his ribs where he’d been punctured by one of Genissa’s ice spears. The wound wasn’t deep—his armor had taken the brunt of it—but without the aid of the Renegade healers he knew it would be sore for a while. He had done the best he could to dress the wound, drawing in his own stitches and regularly applying ointment to fend off infection.

He sighed, pressing his fingers lightly against the bandage. The hardest part, as he had discovered since becoming the Sentinel, was simply hiding the fact that he was hurt. Not grimacing when someone nudged him in the side. Disguising his stiff movements when climbing out of a car or moving up a set of stairs. Smiling through the pain when all he wanted to do was take a couple of painkillers and spend the afternoon reclined on a sofa watching television.

Or kissing Nova again. That had certainly taken his mind off his injury.

He finished cleaning the tattoo and patted it dry with a paper towel from the dispenser, then fumbled with the buttons on his white shirt.

He hoped Oscar knew how to knot a bow tie so he wouldn’t have to ask one of his dads—or worse, Blacklight.

Adrian wasn’t used to feeling this anxious. Sure, he got nervous sometimes. Had, in fact, felt nervous a lot more often since the day Nova McLain had strolled into his life. But he wasn’t used to this twitchy, edgy, stomach-twistingly anxious feeling and he was ready for it to go away.

It was going to go away. Wasn’t it?

He pulled on his tuxedo jacket at the same moment the door swung open. “What’s taking so long in here?” said Oscar, his cane clicking against the floor, which was laid with so many black-and-white octagonal tiles it made Adrian dizzy to look at. “Are you drawing your tuxedo on or something?”

Adrian glanced at Oscar’s reflection and smiled. “Actually, that’s a great idea.” He dug through the pile of clothes he had been wearing before and found his marker.

“I was joking,” Oscar said hastily. “Please don’t strip down and start drawing on new clothes.”

Ignoring him, Adrian doodled onto the fabric of his shirt. When he was finished, a crisp, white bow tie rested against the base of his throat.

Oscar huffed. “Cheater.”

“We can’t all be as naturally dapper as Oscar Silva.”

Oscar did, in fact, look extra dapper in a light gray dress shirt cuffed to show off his muscled forearms and a slim red vest. Plus, he was already wearing a perfectly knotted matching red bow tie.

“Is that a clip-on?”

Oscar snorted. “Please. Only villains wear clip-ons.”

When they emerged from the bathroom, Adrian was surprised to see that the gala was already filling with guests—lots of Renegades, along with their family members and spouses. He scanned the room but didn’t see Nova in the crowd.

A new bout of nervousness struck him.

The space looked great. Massive columns held up the expansive ceiling, and the stained-glass dome at its center had miraculously survived the Age of Anarchy, though the large clock against the wall had to be reconstructed from old pictures.

There were no ticket booths, no boards updating the train schedules, no luggage carts or periodical stands. In their place now stood circular tables draped with crimson tablecloths and glittering glassware. There were lights that bobbed overhead like buoys on an invisible ocean, each cycling through a variety of rich jewel tones and splattering the room in shades of emerald and turquoise. There were levitating trays carrying champagne flutes and tiny hors d’oeuvre, and a stage where a string quartet was playing in front of an empty dance floor.

A high whistle drew his attention toward the coat check, where Ruby was handing over her jacket. “You clean up nice, Sketch,” she said, taking her claim ticket and putting it in a small jeweled bag. She was wearing an unembellished red cocktail dress, but its simplicity was offset by the gem she always wore on her wrist, and now a necklace of red rubies too. Her own creation, no doubt. Her hair, a mix of bleach white and dyed black, was pulled into a messy up-do that reminded Adrian of a white tiger. Cuddly, yet fierce.

“He drew on his bow tie,” said Oscar. “I’m not sure it counts.”

Ruby gave him a sideways look. “You clean up nice too.”