“Pansy, what happened?”
“No time,” Henry says. “We need to leave the housing development before dark.”
“Shit, you’re right.” Jack takes my hand and starts pulling me toward the entrance. His slate and silver umbrella flutters a chaotic greeting.
Henry catches up to us, yanking on his makeshift toga and securing my hand in his.
“I think the way is clear,” he whispers. “I don’t see anyone else, no evidence of an advance party.” His words are cautious and quiet, and I barely hear him over Jack’s frantic narration.
“When we discovered you were gone … I found your packs and umbrellas … Mort’s being an asshole. I think he might be hiding something. Do you feel it?” With this last, he spares me a look, and I try to nod. But he’s off again, relating the last several hours.
Henry joins the fray, adding his own narration, trying to convince Jack to let me go. His tone is coaxing, if urgent, full of the authority of a principal field agent.
But Jack is frazzled, utterly convinced of something, imploring both of us. His words blend with Henry’s until my ears buzz. Loud. So loud. My vision clouds and then clears, but each time I see less and less, like my world is slowly but inexorably collapsing. Every few steps, I forget how to walk, or so it seems.
“Jack, listen to me,” Henry says. “Pansy needs medical attention. She needs Rose’s remedies.” He glances at me, blanches, and then swears.
With a corner of his makeshift toga, he dabs beneath my nose. Haltingly, we inch forward and through the gate. Even then, Jack won’t pause. I don’t think he can. He’s pulling us toward something, something that feels predestined. The notion punches through the buzzing in my ears and sends shivers across the exposed skin of my legs. The day is still warm, but I’m freezing.
When we reach the shade of the Camelot Lots sign, I freeze completely. I’m a block of ice, cold, unmoving. Someone will have to carry me. I’m hoping that someone is Henry and that he’ll turn back around and head for the showcase home.
Because our blood. Our blood. Jack’s frazzled words finally penetrate. He performed some sort of ritual and thinks it worked. Whether it did or not, I don’t know.
What matters is, it didn’t end the world.
What matters is, Botten won’t have our blood.
This must be why the Sight has clamped down my entire body, why my nose won’t stop bleeding.
“Pansy?” Jack tugs at my hand, but I’m stiff-legged, an ice sculpture.
I feel as if my feet have gained a hundred pounds each. My limbs refuse to cooperate, and I’m still so cold that the rush of blood across my upper lip burns.
“Henry,” I whisper. “Jack used our blood.”
He continues to dab, but understanding and astonishment light his gaze. Henry swings around, secures the toga, and steps between me and Jack, at last prying his grip from mine.
“Agent Ling, this is important. How many vials of blood did you use for the ritual?”
At first, Jack squares off, looks as if he’s planning a left hook, then hesitates. Even in a toga, Henry can hold his own. But that glazed expression hasn’t faded from Jack’s eyes. With strange deliberation, he pulls two empty vials of blood from his pocket, and they clink in the palm of his hand.
Henry shuts his eyes, a look of pain crossing his face. Two vials, which means two must remain, somewhere, still untouched. That last bit of hope slips away from me. That full-blown fantasy of returning to the showcase home evaporates. It would’ve worked. The Sight insists that it would have, and marvelously so. Even as it insists this, I have to wonder.
Why won’t it let me move?
That’s when I notice the rumble beneath my feet and the dust cloud rising in the wake of an SUV, one that’s headed straight for us.
Mort springs from the passenger door before the vehicle comes to a complete stop. He charges across the gravel, feet kicking up rocks. Head down, he rams his shoulder straight into Henry.
The two men crash to the ground, all elbows and fists and knees.
“You son of a bitch,” Mort grinds out, jaw clenched, hand tightening the sheet wrapped around Henry’s neck. “I’m ending your career over this. By the time Botten’s through with you?—”
My throat aches from shouting, but at least my feet are lighter. I’m at Mort’s side, yanking on his shirt. His skin is ruddy, an unhealthy, aggressive pink. He spares me a glance and then goes absolutely, dangerously still.
“What did you do to her?” This is directed at Henry with cold, deliberate venom.
“He didn’t do any?—”
