Page 51 of The Pansy Paradox
This is an Enclave funeral, possibly for someone from the High Council. Granted, I’ve never attended an Enclave graveside service, but the mood is heavy with the sort of gravitas you’d expect from a state funeral. No one particularly wants to be here, but the air is clogged with obligation.
For a moment, I wonder if I’ve flashed forward, that I’m witnessing the end result—or one possible end result—of informing the Enclave of my mother’s “death.” But I can’t fathom a scenario where I disinter my mother’s fake ashes and bring them to Seattle for this sort of pomp and circumstance.
Although I suppose there might be a reality where I do, and the Sight is taking perverse pleasure in showing me that.
Then movement catches my eye. Screamers are coming in with alarming speed and unerring precision. I wave my arms, trying to alert the agents stationed around the perimeter. Occasionally, these sorts of antics—the arm waving, jumping up and down, shouting—appear to work. I don’t know if I can make contact like that or if it’s merely coincidences that make me believe I can.
I dash around, first to one agent and then the next. None of them have detected the Screamers. Oddly, no one has. Certainly, there are several high-caliber agents here. They should be shooting to their feet, arming their umbrellas, getting ready to fight so the family can mourn in peace. But no one moves.
Except for one person in the front row.
He stands, shoulders broad, umbrella at the ready. When he turns my way, I find myself staring into the eyes of Henry Darnelle. He looks stricken, beyond bereft, as if his whole world has cratered.
The knowledge slices into me: sharp and hot and full of that perverse glee. This is just like the Sight to show me Harrison Darnelle’s funeral.
The Screamers go zipping past me, intent on Henry now that he’s acknowledged them. A few break off to harass me, but since I’m technically not here, their strikes don’t penetrate. Although I can certainly feel the sting. Again, the Sight is perverse this way.
With his umbrella, he sends a single pulse and snaps the canopy closed. Then? He runs. Eager and rapt, the Screamers follow. He’s like the Pied Piper, leading them away not only from his father’s funeral but the cemetery in general.
In the quiet aftermath, I prowl the rows of folding chairs. A few people shiver, someone frowns, someone else rubs their arms.
“It’s like a goose just walked over my grave,” someone whispers as I scoot past. Her companion shushes her immediately.
Absolutely the wrong occasion for that comparison. But, from what I know, accurate. The caress of an icy finger against the back of your neck. I’ve felt it from time to time, and I wonder who from the future, or the past, is spying on me.
There’s some rustling of canopies, some throat clearing. A sonorous voice from near the front announces that the service will continue once Henry Darnelle returns. In the meantime, everyone will apparently sit here and not do a damn thing to help.
I continue to weave my way through the mourners. Strands of gossip curl through the air, tendrils reaching my ears.
… this is why you don’t mentor your own child … you heard about Ophelia, didn’t you … hundred bucks says he burns out in the next six months …
The voices grate inside my mind, and I want to tune them out. My mother always said that everything at Enclave headquarters was steeped in ambition, avarice, and malice. This funeral is no different. Hardly anyone is here to mourn. The thought makes my heart clench.
I’m moving toward the front when I spy Mortimer, in an aisle seat, parked in a cluster of Connollys. His cobalt-blue umbrella shelters him from rain that’s starting to pick up. He is surreptitiously checking his phone. I think he’s texting.
For the love of—I get right up into his face, inches away. I lean close, hands braced on my knees.
“Why are you sitting on your ass? You’re one of the best agents here. Get up and help him.”
So, fine, Mortimer doesn’t like Henry Darnelle. I’m certain the feeling is mutual. But it’s a funeral. The cemetery is infested with Screamers. All he has to do is stand at the perimeter and send out a pulse.
“Get. Off. Your. Ass.”
Nothing. I glance around, but Jack isn’t here. His family lives in Portland, and while they’ve been in the Enclave for decades, they’re not considered an old family. They maybe sent a representative, but that’s it.
I try a different approach. I let my fingers hover over Mort’s umbrella. I’m ghost-like here, so this is a delicate maneuver. Near enough that my skin tingles in anticipation of feeling the umbrella’s fabric, but not so close that my fingers shoot straight through it.
Get him to do the right thing.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s the fact that Mort’s umbrella is far more sensitive and sympathetic than he is. But that cobalt-blue canopy shudders in response. Mort glances up, annoyed. But he puts his phone away and lumbers to his feet. With impatient stabs of his umbrella, he directs the hapless agents on the perimeter into better positions.
By the time Agent Darnelle returns, the site is secured. He gives Mortimer a single, terse nod. Yes, these two do not like each other, but there’s gratitude in the gesture.
Henry himself delivers the eulogy, his voice raw from exertion and emotion. I can’t hear what he says. Everything swirls like watercolor. The trees, the umbrellas, the patter of rain, and his voice blend together until I settle back into my own reality.
I know it’s my reality because I can feel my umbrella in my grip. Her whole being trembles with relief. I’m not ready to open my eyes and confront this world. Everything right now is so serene. I’m warm inside a fleece throw. My umbrella is by my side. Someone strokes my brow and my face with bone-melting caresses, someone who knows what they’re doing.
I brace for the post-attack nausea, the headache that will send spikes of agony through my skull.
