Archenemies (Renegades #2)(51)

But according to Prism, Captain Chromium and the Dread Warden were out to dinner with the commissioner of Gatlon City food security and they were not expected back in the office until tomorrow. Though Adrian pressed, she refused to tell him where they had gone—it would not be appropriate to divulge that information, even to him, she said, forcefully apologetic.

So he headed home, teeth grinding the whole way.

Winston Pratt had refused to say more, no matter how Adrian cajoled, or how many of the Anarchists’ belongings he offered as bribes, to the growing annoyance of his counselor. Pratt was not swayed. He had given the information he intended to give, and his lips were now sealed. He’d even made a zipper motion across them to prove his point.

It was so infuriating. To know that he had more information, but was refusing to share it. Adrian definitely would have smacked Pratt on the side of the head a few times if he’d thought the counselor would allow it.

Nightmare was alive.

He had known. Somehow, he had known. She hadn’t been killed by that explosion. She’d sneaked away while they were distracted by the bombs going off in the park. She was still at large.

And there was a chance that he could find her. There was a chance he could find out her connection to his mother’s murderer.

He had been pacing inside the dining room for nearly two hours when the front door finally opened and Hugh’s boisterous laugh echoed through the house. Adrian charged into the foyer. Both of his dads were grinning, but the looks faded when their eyes landed on him.

“Nightmare is alive,” he blurted. “Winston Pratt confirmed it. She wasn’t killed by the Detonator. She’s still out there!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Hugh, holding up his hands. “Slow down.”

Adrian paused to take a deep breath. His dads shrugged out of their jackets as he started again. “When I spoke to Winston Pratt the other day, we made a deal. If I brought him this puppet of his, he would answer one of my questions.”

“Yes, we know,” said Simon. “We had to approve the incentive.”

“Right,” said Adrian. “Well, I got the puppet and today he told me that Nightmare isn’t dead. She tricked us!”

They both stared at him, wool jackets draped over their arms.

“And,” Simon started, “how, exactly, does he know that?”

Adrian rubbed a hand over his hair. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t say anything else, but he seemed certain.”

“He’s been in jail for months,” said Hugh, “with no outside contact. He couldn’t possibly know whether or not Nightmare is alive.”

“I’m sorry, Adrian, but Hugh’s right. He’s just trying to distract you—to distract us. Classic villain technique. Get us looking for one thing over here, while they make plans to attack us over there. We need to stay focused on finding Hawthorn and the remaining Anarchists, not chasing after a ghost.”

“No, but…” Adrian trailed off. His eyes darted between them, and he felt the sudden sting of pity. He rocked back on his heels. He didn’t want to believe them, but he couldn’t explain why he was convinced that Winston Pratt was telling the truth.

Because you want it to be the truth, a voice whispered. His own annoying subconscious.

If it wasn’t true, then the trail to find his mother’s killer was cold again, nothing more than a vague hope that maybe, maybe, one of the other Anarchists might know something. If they were ever found again.

And it would mean that he’d been fooled by a lousy villain. He’d gone to the tunnels, he’d searched through the artifacts warehouse. Could it have been a staged mission, with no prize to gain at all?

“I’m sorry,” Hugh started, but Adrian cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t be. I … I probably should have thought of all that before I let him get to me. I just…”

“You wanted it to be true,” Hugh said. “We get it.”

“Yeah, well—” Adrian cleared his throat. “How was your dinner?”

Hugh thumped Adrian on the back as he headed for the staircase. “Long.”

“But…,” said Simon, revealing a cardboard to-go box that had been invisible in his hand, “we brought you cheesecake.”

It felt like a small consolation, but Adrian took it.

He trudged down to his bedroom in the mansion’s basement, fork in one hand and dessert in the other. The basement was huge, though still mostly unfinished, as his dads’ efforts to restore the home had been focused on the upper floors. Adrian had dominion over what happened down here, which so far meant he’d put up a few shelves of old action figures and some of his favorite comic drawings, mostly from artists who had been prolific before the Age of Anarchy. There was also his bed, a small sofa, his desk, and an entertainment console with video games and a TV. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was his.

He threw himself onto the sofa. He didn’t know who he was more frustrated with. His dads, for not being willing to even consider that Nightmare might still be alive. Or Winston Pratt, for revealing a potentially fake and almost certainly useless bit of information. Or himself, for believing him. For still believing him, despite the logic of his dads’ words.

He shoveled a few bites of cheesecake into his mouth, but he wasn’t tasting it. His mind was going over the fight at the theme park again. The moment when the Detonator had thrown the bomb at Nightmare and Adrian had seen her try to dodge the blast.