Pansy’s eyes are open, and she’s running blades of grass through her fingers. Ophelia can almost taste the soil against her tongue, feel the damp earth against her skin, sense the dull ache in her chest. For one instant, it is almost like being fully herself again. She spins in abject wonder. Are these even her sensations? Or is she channeling Pansy?
She eases in front of Pansy and stares into her sorrow-tinged eyes.
If you’re ready, you should leave. Actually, even if you’re not ready, you should leave. They’re coming for you, and they won’t be kind.
Pansy’s eyes light with recognition, and she stares into the space Ophelia occupies. “Ophelia?”
Her name is little more than a whisper. Ophelia nods, which is ridiculous. Or perhaps not. She feels seen, the sensation foreign, disconcerting, after having been invisible for so long.
“When?” Pansy asks, the word more air than question.
Any minute now.
Pansy glances over her shoulder at Henry, still dedicated to the task at hand. “What should we do?”
Ophelia isn’t entirely certain. Always, the Screamers arrive en masse, coating the cemetery so thickly that day turns to night. Both Henry and Pansy are beaten ragged. The Screamers manage to soften them up nicely for the Enclave.
Get out in front of them.
Whether this is good advice or not, Ophelia can’t say. If that scenario exists, the Sight hasn’t deigned to show it to her. But getting caught unaware in the cemetery has never ended well.
Pansy peers over her shoulder again, not at Henry but beyond him. She springs to her feet, frees her umbrella from the quick-release strap, and braces for the onslaught—all before the Screamers can converge. Even Ophelia hasn’t sensed them yet, and she knows to search for them, knows each one of their trajectories.
Today’s trajectory happens to be right where Pansy is aiming her umbrella. She sends out a tree-rattling pulse before tugging Henry to the ground. It’s a near miss, the Screamers shrieking past, skimming their umbrellas, shaking the canopies in their wake.
Ophelia has witnessed this attack before, of course. She’s seen that mass of Screamers clip Henry, watch them gouge that noble brow and strong jaw, carving a permanent scar across the left side of his face.
Now, though, he escapes without a scratch. Now, he’s on his feet, bringing Pansy with him; now, he’s ready and more than willing to fight.
But not here. And not now. Ophelia channels every last bit of her strength. She focuses all her intention, every last drop of willpower, on both Pansy and Henry. She concentrates on one crucial message.
Run!
To her immense relief, they do.
Chapter 39
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Thursday, July 13
I’ve never seen this many Screamers in King’s End. Not even when I returned home from my last summer at the Academy were they this bad. They were insidious, yes. If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s Screamers being insidious. And yes, my mother was broken. But she was still fighting them, still mending the fence, often with Adele as lookout, shielding her while my mother did the slow work of weaving the chain link together again.
Back then, the Screamers were that odd blend of angry and gleeful. It took me a full weekend to beat them, although we both knew I eventually would.
This is nothing like that. This isn’t a game; this is war. And we’re outnumbered.
They push us farther into the cemetery. On purpose? After all, I know this space. I wouldn’t say it’s an unfair advantage, but it’s one of the few we have.
I slip beneath Henry’s arm to take the lead, to steer us around half-hidden markers jutting from the earth. We don’t have much of a choice. We’re going wherever they’re herding us. But we don’t need to add a broken ankle to that.
The sensation of needles erupts along my back. I think I’ve been hit, and then the same slap strikes my face. Rain. Too cold, too sharp for July. It’s a late October sort of rain, full of wet, rotting leaves and decay.
I dart a glance skyward but only catch that brilliant blue above us.
Wind and rain lash the leaves and drench the grass. I slip, and then Henry does. But together, we counter-balance each other. The Screamers are pushing us ever deeper into the cemetery, toward the fence that borders the housing development. Their intent is so strong I can taste it, full of salt and bile and terror.
