Archenemies (Renegades #2)(63)

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.”

Adrian waved, trying to disguise his disappointment. It wasn’t unusual for Hugh to visit Max, and he knew it was good for the kid to have some human interaction that didn’t involve syringes and hazmat suits.

Still. The medallion was heavy around his neck and he was eager to test his theory.

“Hold on,” said Max, lifting a finger in Adrian’s direction. “I’m about to kick his ass.”

Hugh looked back at him, aghast. “Don’t say ass.”

“Fine. I’m about to kick your donkey.” Max laid down one card, then shook out his shaggy hair. They were sitting cross-legged in the middle of City Park, and Max, who was already small for his age, looked downright infinitesimal next to the Captain, whose effortless muscles had long served as inspiration for superhero comic artists everywhere.

Hugh laid down two cards. “You know, you’re not supposed to let your opponent know that you have a good hand.”

“Maybe I’m bluffing,” said Max.

Hugh eyed him. “That’s not really how bluffing works.”

“Are you sure?” said Max, taking the new card he was dealt.

Hugh met Max’s bet, throwing a couple pieces of candy into a pile that sat between them. They showed their cards—Max won with two pairs. Hugh had nothing at all.

Max sighed, almost as if disappointed in the exchange as he pushed the pile of candy toward the park’s carousel. He looked up at Adrian, shaking his head. “He can’t resist seeing a good hand, even if he knows he can’t beat it. I think it could be a diagnosable disorder. Like a psychological need for closure, along with an aversion to ambiguity and an authoritarian demeanor.”