I should’ve brought my umbrella.
Not far from the bridge, those pockets of discontent have coalesced into something far more dangerous. I’m the only one who can see the gathering storm. It’s my task to dispatch it before it can strike.
My job is both delicate and difficult, challenging, and yet not. You could say I was born to it, as all of us in the Enclave are. As my mother was, even though she gave up her globe-trotting ways and settled in King’s End as a permanent post agent decades ago.
Our mission, those of us in the Enclave, is to keep the world safe from things most people can’t see. This is harder than you might imagine. You try pulling someone away from an invisible-to-them onslaught—without getting arrested.
Really, it’s even trickier than it sounds.
What’s gathering near the King’s End Rose Walk is a tempest. It resembles a storm—at least to me—and tastes like static against my tongue. But what is it, exactly? Frankly, no one in the Enclave truly knows, despite all the hypotheses. A force leaks into our reality, something tangible, something fierce, something that doesn’t belong—and it knows it. The textbook definition is temporal disturbances. But even that isn’t certain.
What is, though? In the moments before an attack, that something screams.
The sound reverberates against my skin and scorches my eardrums, although I’m the only one who can hear it. This is no job for bare hands. With a panicked glance, I find The King’s Larder. The owner, Milo, has set the umbrella stand beneath the awning. I run, fingers outstretched. The biggest, baddest umbrella of the lot is canted to one side, as if volunteering. I grab it and sprint toward the couple.
Halfway there, I stumble. My fingers tingle, and curiosity sparks in my mind. This is no store-bought umbrella. The last time I saw it? The jade handle was looped on the arm of that well-dressed man.
Oh, no. He really is one of my problems. But not the most immediate. And while this behemoth isn’t my umbrella, it’s far more helpful than an ordinary one.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
I get the sense of a nod in return, correct, polite, with a hint of something else, something I can’t name but want to call recognition.
Together, we take up the run. Images in my mind flash: the awful ones of the breakup, the ring tumbling down the bank and into the river, someone falling and breaking an ankle. This adds fuel to my sprint across the green and toward the bridge.
I wonder if the Screamers—we’re not supposed to call them that, but since they scream, it makes sense—have been saving this little encounter as a welcome back. That would be just like them.
There’s no love lost between me and the Screamers of King’s End.
My thigh muscles strain as I pick up speed, like I can outrun this forgone conclusion. Nothing’s certain until it is, so I press on. The umbrella in my hands wants this fight as much as I do. Really, it’s itching for it. Not in a disturbing manner, but more of a valiant, justice-for-all kind of way. I have no idea about its owner, but I’m starting to like his umbrella.
We find the heart of the tempest not far from the foot of the bridge, on the edge of the green. It shimmers, distorts the air, visible to only me. Pedestrian traffic is lighter here. A good thing, since I tuck, roll, and stab the center of the tempest with that sharp and deadly umbrella point.
The umbrella adds its own flourish, a shockwave that pulses through the air, thoroughly dispatching the discontent that’s been brewing.
Another cry goes up, a screech, really. The Screamers disperse in a flurry of what looks like crows of many colors—obsidian and emerald, sapphire and ruby, all transparent and fleeting. Static clogs my throat. Sweat coats my brow. My T-shirt sticks to my back, and my favorite trashed jeans have acquired a new, somewhat impressive hole along with grass stains that will never fade.
But in the distance, under the hue of pink roses, someone has taken a knee and pulled a velvet-covered box from their pocket. That resounding YES echoes. I catch the smiles of passersby and a smattering of applause.
With a grateful exhale, I flop onto my back, umbrella at my side, and stare at the brilliant blue sky. I swipe my palm beneath my nose and catch the last trickle of blood.
I’m on my back, basking in a job well done, when a shadow blocks the brilliant blue sky. I squint at a pair of pinstriped trousers, the creases so crisp, I cringe. The man towers over me, a glower gathering on his brow. He removes the hat, pushes a hand through his dark hair, and heaves a sigh as if he’s the one who just dispatched some nasty Screamers.
“I believe, Agent Little,” he says, his tone resonating with disapproval, “that you have my umbrella.”
Oh, no. He is from the Enclave. And he’s staring down at me like I’m some odious chore he’s yet to complete. The sky reappears behind him, less brilliant. Then again, maybe that’s just me.
We weren’t in the same class at the Academy, that much is certain. True, the Enclave is small, but other than summers at the training academy, I’ve never ventured farther than Minneapolis. I know names but certainly not faces. While his is familiar, I can’t place the name.
“I’m Agent Darnelle,” he says by way of introduction.
Wait. The Henry Darnelle? The man who, mere weeks ago, braved the Sahara and single-handedly tamed a Screamer-fueled sandstorm? Why would the Enclave send a field agent of his caliber to a backwater like King’s End?
“It’s time for your field agent examination.”
Oh. That’s why.
“And, incidentally.” His hand shoots out. “You still have my umbrella.”
