It’s only then that I notice he’s using one hand to mend the fissure. In the other? Tucked against his chest?
A single Screamer.
All is quiet now except for the pitiful mew coming from the creature trapped in Mortimer’s grip. He holds the thing gently, the way one might an injured dove. Above us, the brilliant blue sky has returned. The other Screamers have fled, leaving this one to its fate.
“Are you okay?” I ask. Not only is catching a Screamer ill-advised, it’s also a good way to end up wounded.
“Not a scratch. And they’re harmless like this.” He secures the Screamer with both hands now. It strains against his grip, but the effort is halfhearted, as if it already knows there’s no going back.
Mort lifts his chin, gaze scanning the development, eyes narrow, assessing. “It doesn’t taste like they’ll counterattack, but?—”
“This is King’s End.” So, yes, they absolutely could.
He gestures toward his umbrella. “Mind managing both?”
“Not at all.”
Mort’s umbrella is a kinder version of its owner. The two of ours have always had a big brother, little sister vibe. In fact, mine is currently fluttering her ruffles in a way that speaks to an unburdening of the past week or, perhaps, months.
On the other hand, Mort and I don’t talk until we’ve cleared the gates of Camelot Lots. I release a sigh. He chuckles at the sound but immediately sobers.
“We need to get back to that incredibly awkward situation in your house?—”
I start to protest, but he cuts me off.
“Incredibly awkward. What the hell is going on between you and Darnelle?”
“I thought we established that nothing was going on.”
“No, we established that he isn’t being a creeper or a dick. What we haven’t addressed is why everything is so effing awkward in your house.”
“Because of what happened yesterday?” I suggest.
“It’s more than that.”
I take a few steps forward, hoping I can outrun this conversation. I have no way of explaining anything to Mortimer, not without the whole situation unraveling around me. I want to get back to Henry, see if he’s managed to capture any of the data I sent. Mostly, though, I want to make sure he’s okay, still drinking tea, still healing.
“There’s another side to this,” Mort adds. “One you’re not going to like.”
The warning in his tone halts me.
“First, you might want to do something about the blood.”
I sag. He’s right. Normally, of course, I wouldn’t worry. But with Gwyneth in my house? I can’t risk anyone else knowing about the Sight, and certainly not a Worthington-Wells. My mother always said ambition, avarice, and malice applied double to them.
I ease the field pack from my shoulders and pull out some towelettes. Their chemical scent always brings a wave of nausea, but I scrub my skin with more force and determination than necessary.
“Second—”
“I was hoping you were done.”
“Not a chance. Second, let’s assume Darnelle isn’t a dick.”
I frown at the blood beneath my fingernails rather than at Mort. “He’s not.”
“Debatable. There could be another problem with your exam results.”
“And that is?”
