THE OAK DOORS SLAMMED SHUT behind them and Adrian found himself engulfed by stale air and the aroma of leather and brittle pages. He paused in the vestibule, taking in the entryway and the lobby beyond. He had never been to this library before, and now he was wishing he would have come inside when he’d scouted out the area before. He wouldn’t have felt quite so vulnerable now, to be going into a place completely blind, having very little knowledge of its floor plan or exits. He could have come inside during business hours, attempted to be discreet …
The problem with that was, thanks to his dads, it was too likely he would be recognized.
So, he took the time now to observe what he could. Inside the entrance hall, two alcoves stood to either side, each containing a marble statue. To his left, a noble scholar held an open book in one hand, the other raised up in a gesture of brilliance, as if the book had just revealed to him the secrets of the universe. In the other alcove, a scribe noted his thoughts into a journal with a long, feathered pen.
Worn wooden floorboards stretched ahead into a central lobby, where a silhouette on the floor indicated where the old administration desk had once been bolted down. A cheap banquet table stood off in one corner, framed by dark wainscoting on the wall and a large antique mirror that reflected what little daylight reached this central room. The beams of light that did enter through a couple of smartly placed upper windows illuminated drifts of thick dust circulating through the space.
Adrian moved forward, one hand taking the marker from his back pocket and clutching it instinctively. Beside him, Nova gave his hand a curious look, before meeting his gaze with something almost like teasing.
He looked away. It may not be a gun or a knife, but it was still the most effective weapon he had.
Tattoos notwithstanding.
His jaw tensed as he approached the table, where the lobby’s only occupant sat on a stool entranced by what appeared to be a romance novel. The girl was perhaps a year or two younger than him, with ginger hair braided thickly over one shoulder.
“Excuse me,” Adrian said, sounding ridiculously polite even in his own head.
The girl, though, did not even look up. Just reached across the desk and slid a clipboard toward him—a form for checking out books.
He cleared his throat and, this time, tried to sound not like a concerned citizen, but like a Renegade. A superhero. “We’re here for the Detonator.”
The girl’s head shot upward. She blinked at Adrian, then took in the others, her gaze lingering longest on Nova, long pale eyelashes fluttering over grayish eyes. Her lips parted as she turned back to Adrian and squeaked, “I beg your pardon?”
“The Detonator,” Adrian said again. “We saw her come in here, not ten minutes ago. Where is she?”
The girl’s mouth opened. Closed. Her eyes darted once more to Nova, then back. “You … Aren’t you…” She looked at Nova again, dumbfounded. “Are they Renegades?”
It wasn’t really a question. Adrian wasn’t sure how she could tell without the uniforms—maybe she recognized some of them from the media. Maybe they simply had a look to them. He liked to think so.
What was odd, though, was the way she was staring at Nova, almost like she recognized her.
“We sure are,” said Nova, her voice run through with assertive pride. “Renegades. All of us. Bold, valiant, and … um…”
“Just,” whispered Ruby.
Nova nodded. “That’s the one. Now tell us where—”
“Are we in trouble?” the girl said, slamming shut her book and clutching it against her stomach, mostly covering the depiction of a shirtless swashbuckler on the cover. “We haven’t done anything, I swear. Is this because we’ve been stocking that cookbook again? Because we were told it was within our rights to—”
“The Detonator,” Adrian said, more forcefully now. “Stop stalling and tell us where she is.”
The girl hesitated. Looked once more at Nova, and this time Adrian frowned and followed the look. Nova turned to him and shrugged, apparently as baffled as he was.
“I … I don’t know who that is,” the girl stammered. Her face was red as a cherry now, and Adrian doubted it had much to do with her reading material. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
“A woman, about this tall,” Adrian deadpanned, indicating her height. “Wears lots of armbands and can make explosives appear out of thin air. Sound familiar?”
The girl gave a weak, apologetic smile. “Not really?”
“How about the Librarian,” said Oscar, stepping closer to the desk. “Where’s he?”
“He’s in the … uh … the back,” the girl said, her attention darting over all four of them again. “Cataloging new … reference … materials.”
“Take us to him,” said Adrian. “Now.”
“Oh, you can’t go back there,” the girl said. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
Adrian’s teeth gritted. He could feel the ticking of time, like the steady drum of his own heart. Every second a chance for the Detonator to get away, for Gene Cronin to hide whatever had brought the villain here in the first place. “Disturb him anyway.”
The girl opened her mouth, poised to refuse, then looked at Nova again and hesitated.
She cleared her throat and nodded. “Right away.”
Slipping off the stool, she turned and walked—not around the table or toward one of the doors or even the staircase that stood a few feet away—but to the large mirror hung on the wall behind her. She pressed her fingers against the surface and the glass rippled outward as if she had just touched a vertical pond. Then, without fanfare, she stepped into the mirror and was gone.
They all stood there, staring at their own mystified reflections for a long moment.
Oscar, of course, was the first to break the silence. “That,” he said, pointing, “is a cool trick.” He walked around the desk and rapped his knuckles against the mirror, then pulled it away from the wall and looked behind it to ensure there wasn’t a secret passageway of sorts. “Neat.”
“I remember hearing about her once,” said Ruby. “A girl who can travel through mirrors. I remember wondering why she wouldn’t apply to be a Renegade, and eventually I figured it was probably just a rumor.”
“The problem,” Adrian said, tapping the end of his marker against the table, “is now we have no idea where she went, or if she’s really going to get the Librarian, or if they’re both about to make a run for it.” Frowning, he looked around.
From the main lobby, he could see a reading room to his right, the tables interspersed with short bookshelves and magazine racks. More bookshelves stretched the full length of the wall, broken up by the occasional rolling ladder or broad, dirt-covered window. To his left were the stacks—row upon row of tall, slender shelves. From that direction he could hear the occasional giggles of children.
“Ruby, Nova, let’s start staking out the exits,” he said, turning to inspect the staircase that led up to the second floor. Though the stairs were carpeted, in places that carpet had been worn through nearly to the wood steps beneath. “The Librarian or the Detonator might be trying to escape right now.”
“Escape?” came a wary, broguish voice. “Have I been witlessly drawn into a trap that must be escaped from?”
Adrian turned to see a stooped man standing in the doorway to the reading room. He had a pointed white beard and scraggly white hair, he wore socks with holes in them and no shoes, his trousers and cardigan were wrinkled and baggy on his slim frame, and his skin was so pale it looked as though he had never met the sun.
Adrian stood straighter. “Are you the Librarian?”
“I am … a librarian.”
“Are you Gene Cronin?”
The man peered at him, uncertainty making the corners of his lips twitch, as if he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to smile or not. “My granddaughter said there were Renegades who wanted a word with me.” He laughed, but it was an uncomfortable sound. “I thought she must be playing a practical joke. But here you are. I should have known better. Narcissa likes jokes about as much as I do.” His lips gave up the fight and settled downward in a concerned frown. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Minutes ago we witnessed the Detonator, a known Anarchist, entering this library,” said Adrian, “and we have reason to believe your dealings with her aren’t of an entirely lawful nature.”
“The Detonator!” barked the Librarian, his eyes darting away from Adrian to scan the others. “The Anarchists? I haven’t had anything to do with them for … well, close to ten years now, isn’t it?” He reached up and spent a moment smoothing down a patch of unruly hair, though it popped right back up as soon as he let his hand fall to his side again. It hung awkwardly at his side before he reached out and pressed his palm against the doorway, knuckles turning white against the wood. “It pains me to think that, even now, the Renegades refuse to trust me. I pay the Council’s taxes. I follow the Council’s rules. And on top of all that, I provide a great service to this community.” He gestured around the lobby. “Do you know there are only nine functioning public libraries currently open within Gatlon city limits? There used to be well over a hundred. And all nine of those are thanks to the selfless efforts of people like me, who have made it our lives’ work to continue the free distribution and sharing of knowledge and wisdom. To make sure that the people have access to this … to books. Meanwhile, what has your beloved Council done to respect the work of scholars of years past? To further the enlightenment of society?”
Adrian furrowed his brow, not sure at first that the Librarian wanted an answer. “They reopened schools,” he supplied, thinking that should have been obvious. “Whereas you spent decades selling guns to villains who would just as soon keep the people ignorant and helpless.”
Beside him, Nova stiffened. He glanced at her and saw a flash of something cross her features—annoyance, or denial. But it was gone as fast as it had come.
“Insomnia?” he asked.
She kept her gaze trained to the Librarian as she said darkly, “Are you telling us you have nothing to hide?”
Gene Cronin pursed his lips until they started to turn as white as his beard. Then he huffed. “Of course I have nothing to hide. During the Age of Anarchy, I did what I had to do in order to survive. Now, I am content to make my living through more peaceful means.”
“And that includes hosting private meetings with villains like the Detonator?” said Adrian.
“You are mistaken,” said Cronin. “I have not seen the Detonator, or any Anarchist…” His gaze swiveled back to Nova. “… in a long, long time.”
“Then you won’t mind if we look around?” said Adrian.
“This is a public library,” said Cronin. “Browsing is always encouraged.”
Adrian’s fingers tightened around the marker. “Maybe you’d be willing to give us a tour of the areas that aren’t open the public. If you really don’t have anything to hide, like you say.”
Cronin inclined his head. “It would be my pleasure.” He crossed the lobby to the staircase and had gone up three steps when Adrian stopped him.
“Not that way,” he said.
Cronin glanced back.
“This building has a basement, right? Let’s start there.”
The Librarian’s face went blank. “There is nothing in the basement but the furnace and outdated stacks.”
“Then it will be a quick tour,” said Adrian.
Nostrils flaring around his mustache, Cronin abandoned the staircase and headed toward the east room. They followed him through a pair of tall bookcases and down an aisle of desks. In the far corner, Adrian spotted a stone fireplace, though there was no fire currently lit. A young man was seated cross-legged on the floor, reading a picture book to the children scattered around him.
The sight made Adrian’s blood cool. He glanced at the others, and saw the same apprehension mirrored on Ruby’s and Oscar’s faces, though Nova had her gaze intently latched to the Librarian’s back.
There was no reason yet to alarm anyone, he told himself. But still …
“Smokescreen,” he whispered, “you stay up here. Clear the library at the first sign of trouble.”
Oscar glanced at him, and if he was annoyed to be excluded, it didn’t show. Nodding, he stepped back into one of the rows of bookshelves, disappearing from view.
Cronin led them to a door labeled STAFF ONLY and spent a moment fishing around in his pockets for a key. Once he had opened the door, they descended a narrow staircase into the basement, where the air was mustier and thicker, permeated with the stench of molding paper.
Cronin cleared his throat and stepped aside when he reached the bottom of the staircase, allowing them to spill into the room and look around. More bookshelves took up the space, though they were spaced more tightly together than those above, some allowing barely enough room to pass between them. Every spare inch was taken up with books. When a shelf could hold no more, the books were piled up on top of the books that were already there, causing some of the shelves to sag under their weight. There were books piled up in corners like snowdrifts. Books stacked under and over desks. Books with broken spines and bent pages tossed haphazardly into a pile that overflowed into the walkway.
A single desk had been shoved against the far wall, its surface littered with takeout boxes and paper files. On the floor beside it stood a plain full-length mirror, like something that would be found in the dressing room of a cheap department store. Though the mirror walker—Narcissa, he’d said—was nowhere in sight.
Not far away, a short concrete stairwell led up to a door marked with an EXIT sign—probably, Adrian thought, the side door that led to the alley they’d been watching all night.
“And there you have it,” said the Librarian, picking a book off the discarded pile and lovingly unfolding its bent pages. “Anything else I can do for you? Perhaps you’d care to take back a book on political science for the Council to peruse in their spare time? I think it might benefit them.” He placed the book onto a shelf, tenderly stroking its spine like a pet.
Ruby groaned. “Do you think we’re idiots? We saw the Detonator come in here. Just tell us where she is, and things will go a lot easier for you!”
Cronin drew himself upward, uncurling the slump of his spine. “I am sorry, but you seem to be suffering from an overactive imagination.”
Ruby cast Adrian a frustrated look. He knew the feeling. This had all taken up so much more time than he’d expected it to, and he found himself regretting his decision to enter the library, rather than wait for backup like they were supposed to. Already he could see the error of his decision. If his team had merely blocked out the library’s exits, they would have known if the Detonator had tried to leave. They would have been able to stop her. Instead, she could have gone out through the back door ages ago.
He felt like an idiot. He felt like his dads had been right to doubt his ability to handle this, and that angered him as much as anything.
But it was too late now to change direction. What would an experienced team do in this situation, to make up for the mistakes he’d already made? Should they threaten Cronin if he didn’t give up the Detonator’s location? Arrest him? Start punching holes in the walls, looking for secret alcoves that held illegal contraband?
“So,” said the Librarian, heading back toward the stairwell, “if you’d like, we can continue the tour upstairs. We have a marvelous collection of rare books and first editions on the second floor—”
A loud clunk made him freeze.
Adrian spun, glancing at the wall the sound had come from. It was yet another wall sporting floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, no different from the others. But as he stared, the books began to tremble, and the wall began to move outward, scraping loudly against the floor.
“No…,” Cronin murmured. “What is she … no!”
Adrian took a step toward the bookshelf. Ruby twisted her wrist, unraveling the wire that held her bloodstone. Nova settled a hand on her belt.
The wall of books swung outward, though what lay beyond was too dark for Adrian to see. Then there was a quiet click, and a single desk lamp flooded the space with dim, green-tinted light.
They were staring into a room not much bigger than the office cubicle they had spent the night in. There was a single desk in the room’s center, holding nothing on it but the lamp. A woman sat in the rolling chair behind the desk, her boots kicked up on its surface as she tipped back in the seat.
Ingrid Thompson. The Detonator.
But this was not an office.
This was an armory.
The three surrounding walls were lined with shelves and display cases and neatly labeled cabinets, only this room was not full of books, but weapons. Boxes of bullets and cartridges. Rifles, shotguns, handguns, pistols, bandoliers stocked with ammunition, lethal-looking darts, crossbows, hunting knives, and what he suspected was a box of hand grenades.
“Oh, for all the diabolical schemes,” Nova murmured from behind him. “This is why we can never win.”
The Detonator smirked. “Took you long enough, Renegades. I was beginning to think I’d have to come find you myself.”