Page 126 of The Pansy Paradox
Because Henry was fairly certain King’s End was more than a level five hot spot that contained a two-point juncture. Those created the sort of fissures that might swallow up an agent or spit out a traveler. But a three-point juncture? The sort the silo, the covered bridge, and the housing development created?
That was an actual gateway, a door into another dimension, one that might allow two-way travel, with the right technology. Which, as far as Henry knew, the Enclave hadn’t developed. At least, not yet.
Had Rose Little discovered this gateway? Had she trusted both his father and Reginald Botten with the secret? The power contained in a gateway was vast, unmanageable, and, more often than not, dormant. The Enclave did not tangle with gateways. They had a tendency to swallow up task forces and towns. When one was discovered, the Enclave swooped in, evacuated the local populace, and spent years mending the fissures. A long, slow, dangerous slog that no field agent wanted on their résumé.
But as folklore went, in the past, the Enclave—or at least some of its members—had attempted to command that unmanageable power with predictably disastrous results. That didn’t keep the ambitious from trying. In theory, if you could control that sort of power?
You could rule the world.
His umbrella continued the data feed. The information flowed by too quickly for Henry to absorb it. Still, bits and pieces jumped out. Not enough, not yet, to confirm his hypothesis, but he was getting a sense of the whole. Mortimer Connolly was no doubt conducting a perimeter scan. The information was taking shape, and yet, at the same time, the scans were all-encompassing. It was a scatter-shot search, and a notion lit in Henry’s mind.
“Like mother, like daughter. So very clever.”
Again, his umbrella shook with agreement, its demeanor entirely too smug.
“Yes, I know. I was wrong, and you were right.”
Henry continued to watch the download, his attention trained so fully that the sudden spike of data sent his heart racing. That looked like an attack. Before he could review this new information, a clattering came from the kitchen, the sound of heels on the floor. He gauged whether those heels were approaching. He gauged the input flowing across his screen and held on to the hope that since Pansy’s umbrella was still sending data, then Pansy herself was unharmed.
The footfalls advanced, a rapid-fire click down the hallway. With a sigh of regret, Henry closed his laptop and secured it in the couch cushions once again. He shoved his legs back beneath the throw, tucked his umbrella next to him, and managed one quick whisper.
“Hold on to as much as you can.”
He had just closed his eyes when Gwyneth cleared the threshold.
Chapter 53
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Friday, July 14
I do not see Mortimer on the flip side. Instead, that gaping maw opens in the fence, the chain-link curling back, the jagged edges like fangs. There’s no running forward and mending this particular hole. The air rushes through the development as if that gap is the mouth of some enormous creature, and it’s inhaling for all it’s worth.
Then, with another violent gust, Mort comes spewing out. It’s almost as if the housing development has decided he tastes quite awful. He tumbles down the center of the development, missing saplings and structures in a way that speaks of luck rather than skill. His umbrella unfurls and is caught by both the wind and a contingent of barely-there Screamers.
My legs are already moving when Mort’s shout echoes behind me. I race after his umbrella. The cobalt blue canopy flutters in the eddies and streams of the air. Light fractures, and I know with undeniable clarity where the Screamers are taking it. I don’t even pause to swipe the blood coating my upper lip.
Mort’s shouts grow more frantic as I swerve. He’s in command mode, ordering me in the opposite direction. No time to reassure him. No time to explain. Hardly time to stop what I fear is inevitable. My thigh muscles ache with the strain. My hip renews its complaints, loudly. But I run, my aim the showcase home, that basement egress window, and the fissure I’m certain has opened up once again.
I skid across the muddy grass seconds before Mort’s umbrella comes cartwheeling toward the window. I shoot my hand out and catch the strap. For a moment, the umbrella hangs over that abyss. It’s narrow—the perfect size for swallowing an umbrella—but vast. The churning gray is endless, without bottom.
I’m flat against the earth, but I pull Mort’s umbrella toward me, clutch it close, and it quakes with relief. Before I can move, blood drips from my nose, slips from my lip, and falls not on the ground but into that fracture in the earth.
Colors swirl in that endless gray expanse, knitting it together, healing it, in a way. I should push from the ground. I should look away. I can’t do either. All I can do is witness.
By the time Mort reaches me, the fissure has mostly mended itself. He spares me a glance before planting a palm on the soil to finish the task.
“You okay, Pansy-Girl?”
“Yeah.” The word is soft and absorbed by the grass, but he nods as if he’s heard me loud and clear.
“The Sight?”
It’s not really a question. My upper lip and chin are tacky with blood. Rivulets are snaking down my neck, making the skin itch. I’ve gone from nearly presentable to unkempt in a matter of five minutes.
“I should’ve trusted you,” he adds, “and I’m grateful. Thank you.” Mort sounds unusually contrite, as if this encounter has sucked all the wind from his sails or at least deflated his ego a bit. “But the good news is, I have a surprise.”
