Page 107 of The Pansy Paradox
“Not nearly as foul.”
My tea tastes floral, like sugared petals. His should, too, assuming no injuries. But I let him eat, which he does, two huge platefuls of hotdish.
“That was quite extraordinary,” he says as I clear the dishes. “I admit to being skeptical, especially since I’ve never had tater tots before.”
“No. You must have.”
He shakes his head.
“Not even at school?” Then I remember he went to a fancy boarding school and that his family had an actual butler. So no, tater tots weren’t on the menu.
“I rather like them,” he adds.
“I’ll be sure to tell Guy.”
I heft the tray with all its rattling dishes and head for the kitchen. When I return, I’m lugging the bin with all my mother’s first aid supplies, or at least the ones we use for a direct hit. I set it and then myself on the coffee table. Elbows on knees, chin on fists, I stare at him.
I’m good at this. The only person I can’t stare down is—or was—my mother. But Jack? He folds immediately. Mort? He’ll invent a reason to glance away. Never mind the tea, the telltale winces, or that tic near his left eye. I have the Sight. I know Henry’s injured.
Still, I may have met my match with Henry Darnelle. He returns my gaze, seemingly content, as if a standoff is normal after-dinner behavior. He’s not giving an inch. If I don’t, the wound is only going to fester.
So there it is: I break first.
“I know you’re hurt,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re wounded, and it won’t resolve on its own, so let me treat it.” I pat the Tupperware next to me. “Unless you have something in your own field kit I should use. That balm, maybe?”
He shakes his head.
“Won’t it work?”
“The issue is that it perhaps works too well. Do you remember how it made you feel?”
“It was amazing. Like I could charge out the door and take on more Screamers.”
He raises that schoolmaster eyebrow.
“Oh.” The problem hits me, a sharp stab of worry. “And in your condition, you shouldn’t charge out the door and take on more Screamers.”
“Exactly. It’s not addictive, not technically. But its uses are limited. The worse the wound, the more discretion is warranted.”
“So, what you’re really saying is you are wounded, and we should do something about it.”
He tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling. “Yes, I suppose we should, Agent Little.”
“I thought we agreed to first names.”
The barest hint of a stealth smile touches his lips. Then he sits up and pulls the T-shirt over his head. And I can’t speak. I’m not sure I can even breathe. I’ve seen my share of Screamer wounds. My mother had several when I returned from the Academy. Adele was doing her best to heal them, but there are reasons the Enclave treats its own, and this is one of them.
This wound needs treatment. Honestly, I should’ve insisted on seeing it before we both fell asleep. It’s not the jagged gash left in the wake of most direct hits. Instead, the wound is perfectly round. A swollen, angry circle sits on the spot above where his heart is. The bruising radiates outward, red and purple and nearly black.
I’m afraid to touch it.
“What happened?”
“Trousers, cargo pocket, right-hand side.”
