Trust that you’ll know which ones.
This, on the other hand? I’m not so sure. Not trusting Agent Darnelle makes perfect sense. But I need to know what to expect this coming week. I think I know who I can ask, too.
I put on the tea kettle. While the water boils, I rummage in the pantry. From there, I pull out the tinctures and extracts my mother concocted every autumn. Nothing feels sore, and it’s doubtful the Screamers broke any skin. Still, after an encounter, my mother and I always brewed and then drank a pot of specially enhanced tea.
I take the tea, my laptop, and my phone and head upstairs to my bedroom. Once there, I message my two best friends, Mortimer Connolly and Jack Ling, in our group chat.
Henry Darnelle is here for my field agent examination.
Jack tags my text with an exclamation point. A moment later, Mortimer sends a request for a video call. I accept, and Mort comes into view. His thick blond hair is swept back from his forehead like he’s just emerged from a shower. His skin is ruddy, either from steam or sunburn. In the dim light, it’s hard to tell.
“Let me add Jack,” he says.
“Where are you?”
Head down, he doesn’t answer. Mort’s assignments take him all over the world. He could be in any hotel on any continent. Behind him, I catch a glimpse of a king-sized bed draped with an elegant crimson and gold quilt and piled with at least ten pillows. Velvety curtains frame a door to the balcony. Pinpricks of light sparkle, inviting you to step outside. A vase of fresh-cut flowers graces the nightstand.
Only Mortimer. The room is opulent in the extreme. This is hardly Enclave standard fare.
“So, you’re where?” I try again. “Versailles?” Really, the space is giving off let them eat cake vibes.
Mort laughs. “Close enough. You could do laps in the hot tub. If only Jack were here.”
“Well, I’m not, buddy.”
The screen splits, and Jack appears, black-haired, willow-thin, and tall, serious in his dark, horn-rimmed glasses. Jack Ling was my only friend at the Academy that first year, both of us the odd ones out. We clung to each other—initially out of necessity, then because we preferred it that way. We were our own tiny alliance until Mort stepped in. You could say he brought us both into the fold. But sometimes, even now, I suspect he was only interested in Jack.
And Jack wouldn’t go anywhere without me.
“Hey,” Mort says, and it’s a soft, seductive thing.
“Hey, yourself.” There’s an edge to Jack’s voice, and I can taste the tension between them. Mort and Jack have been on-again and off-again since they fell in love, right here in King’s End, over a long Thanksgiving weekend when we were all seventeen.
If they were in the room with me, I might be able to discern which way they were headed. Has Mort done something—yet again—to upset Jack? Mort has a way of trampling other people’s feelings, but he also has the sort of charm that makes you forgive him. It’s a combination for constant heartbreak.
“Why the hell haven’t you had your examination?” Mort says now. “It’s been five effing years since we graduated.”
Instead of answering, I reach for my teacup and take a sip.
“Did you get hit today?” Jack pulls off his glasses, wipes them on his shirt, and then replaces them. He leans closer to the camera. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Just a skirmish.”
“It’s never just a skirmish in King’s End,” Mort mutters.
Behind Jack, I notice the dull gray panels of a cubicle farm. “What are you doing at work? It’s Saturday.”
He gives me a look and then rolls his eyes. Yes, I know. The Enclave never takes weekends. Still. He works at headquarters, and they get more time off than field agents do.
“Speaking of Henry Darnelle,” Jack says. “He’s the reason I’m at work. He brought a crap-ton of data back from the Sahara. We’re still shifting through it.”
Another thing our umbrellas do: collect information. They’re loaded with sensors and a GPS. Every time we repair a fissure or fight off some Screamers, we send data to the Enclave’s headquarters for analysts like Jack to study.
“That’s your problem, buddy,” Mort says, his tone making me think they are headed for off-again territory. “Not Pansy’s.”
“Do I have a problem?” I ask, not only to change the subject, but I need to know. Is Henry Darnelle coming in all hard-ass? Or is it just a front, and he’s actually a big softy who’ll check all the boxes and be on his way. I’m hoping for the latter.
“You might. He’s strictly by the book. Never met a rule he didn’t want to follow.” Mort makes a face, lips twisting in disgust. And yes, Mort’s never met a rule he didn’t want to break. “Plus, Darnelle has an umbrella shoved so far up his?—”
