Together, Pansy and her umbrella climb the embankment and set their sights on Henry again. Before they rejoin the battle, Pansy raises her chin, her gaze on nothing and everything.
“Thank you.”
She sprints toward Henry and the fray, the determination in her expression enough to chase the Screamers from her path.
Back in Seattle, Ophelia’s cheeks are damp. Her heart rate, her breathing, both are normal. The healthcare aide is no doubt dozing, the nurse possibly reading a novel. Ophelia is alone, for once, except for the soft whisper of her umbrella, tucked away in the doll house. And since she’s alone, for once?
She lets herself cry.
Chapter 29
Henry
King’s End, Minnesota
Tuesday, July 11
What reassured him more? Pansy back at his side? Or the palpable relief that flowed through his umbrella? He couldn’t say, but at this moment, it didn’t matter. In front of them, the funnel cloud wavered, colors splintering. They could fight this battle of attrition—that’s all it was now—or they could have a little fun.
Henry opted for fun.
“Follow my lead,” he said, close enough to her ear that a few strands of hair slipped against his lips. He caught a coppery hint in the air. While her blouse was blood-splattered, her nose, at least, wasn’t actively bleeding. Henry took that as a good sign.
Casually, he collapsed his umbrella and stepped away from Pansy, as if he were tired of this fight. The Screamers, sensing an opening, streamed past. He feigned a stumble and let the hat topple from his head.
The hat tumbled over itself and landed several feet away with a solid thump. He nodded toward it in silent command.
Pansy’s eyes were wide, but she didn’t hesitate, and followed the hat’s trajectory. When she was clear, Henry stood up straight and popped the collar of his suit coat for extra protection. Now he absolutely had the attention of every last Screamer in the vicinity.
Their screech reverberated through the air, made the ground tremble beneath them. He lumbered forward, sending out that pulse, adding a limp, allowing a few hits. After all, a predator doesn’t expect impervious prey. Show some weakness. Let the Screamers drive you to your knees. You might be big, but you’re weak-minded—the best kind of prey. Bring them in close. Even closer. Yes, like that. Now, hold out your hand for mercy.
Not that the Screamers ever allowed for mercy. He was on the ground now, grass against his cheek, the earth damp beneath him, hand outstretched. Waiting, waiting, waiting for the right moment, waiting for Pansy.
Then, it came. A whirring sliced through the air and cleaved the congregation of Screamers. He couldn’t help but smile. Pansy’s timing was uncanny. A second later, he caught his hat with that outstretched hand.
He rebounded to his feet, flinging the hat from him frisbee-style. The hat spun and sent out a pulse that acted like rotors. Pansy leaped, caught the hat, and sent it back his way. They continued the game, each pass decimating the horde until the very last Screamer vanished into the ether.
From across the green, Pansy smiled at him, her hair billowing about her, the blood on her face more triumphant than grim. Henry could taste the sweetness of the air after a storm, the flavor that meant everything was safe and secure.
So he wasn’t all that concerned when the ground met his knees, even less when he rolled onto his back. He stared up at the brilliant blue sky and decided to bask in a job well done.
Henry wasn’t quite certain when or how Pansy came to be at his side. Or, more accurately, resting next to him, her head on his chest, his hand in her hair, a slow caress of strands through his fingers. Perhaps she’d scooted there so they could talk more easily. Perhaps he inched closer, wove his fingers through her hair to coax the last vestiges of the Sight from her mind. For those were there, just under the surface, although certainly not as intense as they’d been earlier that morning.
But however it happened, he wasn’t about to give up that delicious weight and warmth on his chest and the hair that slid like silk against his skin. This was not, admittedly, the most professional of after-action reviews. It was, however, one of the more enjoyable.
“I heard something. No, someone,” she was saying in answer to his question. He’d been curious about what had occurred, not accusatory, and Pansy hadn’t taken it that way. “It was the strangest thing, like someone was talking to me.”
“The Sight?”
“Not exactly. Not my Sight, anyway.”
Not her Sight. Interesting. “Do you remember what they said?”
“They called you a pain in the ass.”
Henry coughed out a laugh. Only Ophelia ever called him that, to his face, at least.
Only Ophelia. He wanted to dismiss that as a coincidence, because certainly it was. And yet? He shut his eyes against the bright blue, tried to focus, but his thoughts scattered. King’s End was too real: the grass tickling the back of his neck, the scent of earth, of sweat, and something sweet, perhaps Pansy’s shampoo.
