Page 130 of Archenemies

Two miles later, he wished he had stopped by the house to put on different shoes.

The buildings changed from glass-and-steel office buildings to strip malls and warehouses to crammed-together apartments. Most of the trek was uphill and as the elevation rose, so too did theaffluence of the neighborhood. It wasn’t quite the row of mansions that he lived on, but the streets held the memory of quiet suburbia. He could tell people still lived in some of the homes—some even had recently mowed lawns—though like most neighborhoods in the city, it showed signs of abandonment and neglect. Fences needing a fresh coat of paint. Broken windows hastily boarded up. Roofs covered in moss and pine needles from unkempt trees.

The butterfly never flew ahead so far that he couldn’t keep up, and it frequently had to pause and wait for him. He racked his brain to think of a reason why Danna wouldn’t transform back into her human form, and where the rest of her swarm could be. The only explanation was that the rest of her butterflies were trapped somewhere, preventing her from reforming. Maybe that’s what this was about. Was she leading him to her location so he could set her free? If so, maybe this wasn’t as ominous as he’d initially thought. Maybe one of her butterflies had gotten sucked into a vacuum bag, or had been captured by a kid and stuck in an empty juice carton for a well-intentioned science project.

But then the hill became steeper, and the neighborhood turned desolate, and he realized where she was taking him.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

He started to notice signs of a long-ago battle and the destruction it had wrought. Scorch marks on the pavement. Holes smashed through brick walls. An entire building with the windows blown out.

And then there were no buildings at all.

Adrian left the crumbling homes and apartments behind and stood at the edge of the wasteland. The Battle for Gatlon had leveled almost an entire square mile of civilization, and the debris had never been cleaned up. A chain-link fence had been erected aroundthe perimeter, warning of possible radiation poisoning, which was enough to keep most tourists away.

In the center of the wasteland stood the ruins of the cathedral that Ace Anarchy had claimed as his home—his headquarters, of sorts. The bell tower was mostly standing, along with parts of the cloister and the northern part of the structure. But the rest had been demolished.

Adrian’s fingers twitched, itching to unbutton the top of his dress shirt and open the zipper tattoo that would transform him into the Sentinel.

But even now, he didn’t want to risk Danna finding out his secret.

The butterfly flew over the fence, and Adrian saw a place where someone had taken wire clippers to the metal links and pulled it back, just wide enough to slip through.

Curious tourists, he thought. Or some kids acting on a dare.

But he couldn’t be sure of that. He had no idea who would come here. This place had been left abandoned since the defeat of Ace Anarchy.

Why had Danna brought himhere?

Gripping his marker, Adrian ducked through the opening. The metal scratched at his jacket and he felt a piece snag on his shoulder, ripping a hole in the seam. As soon as he was on the other side, he wriggled his arms out of the sleeves and left the jacket draped over the fence so it would be easy to find the opening again.

The butterfly headed toward the cathedral, dipping in and out of the ruins. A second fence had fallen into disrepair, and Adrian passed aDANGER: DO NOT ENTERsign. The butterfly alighted briefly on the sign, then took off again.

“Okay, Danna,” Adrian murmured, pausing as he watched thebutterfly’s wings swooping around the debris, catching the moonlight. “This would be a good time to indicate whether or not I should call for backup.”

But the butterfly didn’t answer, of course. She couldn’t understand him anyway.

He gnawed on the inside of his cheek. Indecision clawed at him. Should he call for backup? And if so—should he call his team, or his dads?

Or should he transform into the Sentinel and see what he was dealing with first?

The butterfly waited on a fallen pillar, its wings beating impatiently.

Adrian gulped.

If he had been with the others when he’d gone after Hawthorn, then things might have gone much differently.

There is no I in hero.

“Fine,” he muttered, lifting his wrist to his mouth. “Send team communication. Calling for immediate backup at—”

A sudden wind blew around Adrian’s ankles, kicking up a cloud of dust. The butterfly was caught in the draft and sent whirring into the overhang over a collapsed arch.

Adrian’s words dried on his tongue. The dust converged. Darkened. Solidified.

A figure stood in a fluttering black cloak, its hood eclipsing the deep shadows where a face should have been, the hooked blade of a scythe cutting across the sky.

Phobia.

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