Page 104 of The Pansy Paradox
“You are … full of surprises … Agent Little.”
“Can you walk?”
Could he? Perhaps. If he focused on his feet, on how his muscles should move. “I think so.”
He tried not to collapse against her, like an umbrella himself. His legs were unsteady, and his head swam with their first steps. They weren’t that far from the main entrance, and he marked each footfall. Main gate. The shadow of the Camelot Lots sign. The gravel road that led to the sidewalk.
Henry wasn’t the least bit surprised when a bear appeared on that sidewalk. The creature loomed. Pansy flinched, her sharp intake of breath a warning. Then she relaxed. After that, the bear, the creature, the man slipped his shoulder under Henry’s.
“There we go,” the bear-man said. “I got you.”
Henry’s world receded until all he saw was a single pinpoint of light, and then that, too, blinked out.
Chapter 44
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Thursday, July 13
“My car’s faster than 911.” My neighbor, Guy Gunderson, steers us in the direction of his house and the EV that’s charging in the garage.
He’s so substantial that I can’t fight against him. I’m caught in the current, and since he’s shouldering most of Henry’s weight, I don’t have an option but to follow.
“No hospital.” I trip over my feet, then Henry’s, and stumble a few steps. “No urgent care. Help me get him home. Please, Guy.”
“He’s barely conscious.” Guy considers me, his gaze calculating and critical. “And you’re not much better.”
Physically, both Henry and I are battered. My hip aches from when he crashed into me, or rather, the landing after he crashed into me. But our main issues are Screamer related: the toxins, the build-up, the wounds no ER doctor could detect, never mind treat. I need to brew a huge pot of tea. I need to swallow back some of my mother’s emergency tinctures and force Henry to do the same.
What I don’t need to do is talk my way out of the ER under the scrutiny of some sharp-eyed nurse.
I’ve never spoken with Guy about the Enclave, not like Adele. But he’s in all those old photos; he attended all those parties. I think of that grocery delivery with Henry’s favorite scotch. Maybe Guy knows something, and maybe he doesn’t, but he does know someone.
“He can’t go to the hospital,” I manage between panting breaths. “Because he really is Harry Darnelle’s son.”
Guy freezes in our trek up the sidewalk. I use his hesitation to pull a full inhale. The morning sun touches my forehead, but my clothes are soaked, and the warmth can’t chase away the chill. Guy’s expression is incredulous, then understanding lights in his eyes.
“Really? Harry’s son?” He breathes the words, his voice full of awe. His gaze scans Henry, no doubt evaluating that noble brow and firm jaw, those cheekbones. “I mean, we thought, or maybe guessed. Milo was sure, but I wasn’t totally convinced. Seemed like a?—”
“Coincidence,” I finish.
Guy nods. “But yes, I can see it now. He’s Harry’s son, absolutely.”
“And I need to take care of him.”
With a mighty huff, Guy switches directions, and we head for my house.
I shed most of my muddy layers on the porch and rush inside. Tinctures first, tea second. The next half an hour is chaotic. I knock back one of the nastier of my mother’s concoctions, and between Guy and myself, we force Henry to do the same. He shudders and coughs the way I wish I had time to.
“Find him something dry,” Guy says to me.
I take the stairs by twos, barge into the room where Henry is staying, and glance around.
The space is so tidy, it hurts. Items are lined up carefully on the dresser. A thick book on the nightstand with a ribbon bookmark. On the bed, tucked beneath the pillow, are a pair of pajama bottoms and a matching T-shirt. The material is silky soft between my fingers, and a hint of that spicy vanilla reaches me. I’m relieved, actually. Part of me suspected Henry Darnelle slept in a three-piece suit along with tie and ridiculous hat.
Guy cleans up Henry while I brew tea. I bring out my mother’s entire arsenal, consult her notes, running my finger down the checklist of items and adding ingredients as I go. A few years into my Academy training, I asked her why we needed so many emergency supplies. The Screamers are nasty and certainly have their tricks, but back then, even on their worst days, they were nothing like this.
