She always tries. It’s the one thing she can do.
Even if, in the end, nothing changes. The sun is eclipsed by a Screamer onslaught, the sky fracturing with color before everything turns a dull, ice gray—as if the world truly will end with a whimper rather than a bang.
But it starts with the ominous scrape of chair legs, with Henry standing, confronting the voice. Henry, protective son and big brother, who walks into sandstorms. Henry, who would do anything to save the world.
Only Ophelia knows that he will die trying.
Chapter 3
Henry
Seattle, Washington
Friday, July 7 (one day prior)
Henry waited until he cleared the bedroom door before releasing a frustrated sigh. If the newcomer heard? So be it. Henry didn’t have time for anyone other than Ophelia and their mother. He’d just returned from four months abroad, a fact everyone at Enclave headquarters knew. He needed to see his sister, who had been in a coma for ten months. Something else everyone at headquarters knew.
Then again, no one at headquarters gave a damn.
“My boy, it’s good to see you home.” Professor Reginald Botten was a man who wore his degrees and his position on the High Council with gravitas and gaiety, as if he were still a working field agent who’d stumbled into good fortune.
According to rumors, there was no stumbling about it.
“How are you? And your sister?” Botten strained to peer into Ophelia’s bedroom, but Henry was already inching him down the hallway and toward the landing of the main staircase.
“Stable.”
“Excellent news.”
It wasn’t news at all. Ophelia had remained stable for the duration of this coma, one that was most likely Sight induced, given the brain activity. But, of course, no one knew for certain.
“I’m sorry to interrupt this little family reunion, my boy, but I have need of you.”
Yes, Botten was here for a reason, no doubt using the GPS in Henry’s umbrella to track him down. He’d switched it on after his flight, clearly a mistake. Henry opened his mouth to protest. All that emerged was another frustrated sigh.
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t both a crucial and delicate situation, not something I could propose over the phone.”
Oh? Not routine, then. Not grunt work. All things considered, he might be willing. He nodded once to let Botten know he was both listening and interested. In that moment, the connection he’d once had with this man rekindled.
During his first summer at the Academy, he’d been so proud to earn the professor’s good opinion and make the Botten’s Best List—unheard of, really, for a first-year cadet. With chagrin, Henry recalled the hand on his shoulder, the confidential way Botten had declared, “You’re a special breed, my boy.”
But that was long before a string of broken promises and before Henry’s father—a man slow to speak and to judge—had remarked, almost casually:
“He is a man I do not admire.”
Now, Henry was cautious. But he’d listen to what Botten had on offer.
“Is there somewhere we might speak more privately?” Botten asked, a hand on Henry’s arm as if to lead him to that private space.
Soft light bathed the stairwell landing, electric, of course. If you squinted, you could pretend to be in a bygone era of gas lamps and candles. The runner was a rich emerald green—his mother’s favorite color—and the wood gleamed. The air held the scent of cut roses and lemon furniture polish. Even in a crisis, his mother was meticulous about such things.
Henry eased from Botten’s grip, tucked his hands behind his back, and simply said, “Here’s good.”
Here was clearly not good, but Botten didn’t persist.
“Very well. You recall, of course, the class you helped evaluate at the Academy?”
Wait. What? Henry scoffed, exhaling a dismissive breath. He should’ve known. This was routine. This was grunt work. “There can’t be anyone left?—”
