Page 52 of The Pansy Paradox
Nothing. Or rather, nothing but bliss. I want to know who’s granted me this reprieve, so I bat my eyelashes open.
Above me, his expression filled with concern, is Henry Darnelle. This close, I notice tiny flecks of gold in his irises. A smile blooms across his face, popping two dimples and deepening the crinkles around his eyes.
“Well, Agent Little, it’s very good to see you.”
Chapter 23
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Tuesday, July 11
His fingers still, and then Agent Darnelle lifts his hands from my face. The sudden absence makes me cry out. I want nothing more than to lounge here and let him caress the last of the Sight from my mind.
“Are you all right, Agent Little?” His voice is filled with alarm. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. It’s just … I mean, you can keep?—”
“Do I have your consent to continue?”
“Yes. Please.” The fingers return, and I shut my eyes, overcome by that pure bliss. “If you’re not tired, that is.”
“I’m not.” The alarm drains from his voice. His tone is nothing but tender, a match for those fingers traveling across my skin and skull. “But I suspect you might be.”
“Sort of.”
“Been a while since a major attack?”
“Couple of years,” I admit. At this point, there’s no reason to lie about my Sight.
“Really!” The exclamation comes with a huff of admiration. “Your ability to lock down the Sight is extraordinary.”
“I sometimes pay the price.”
That last time, though, I’d merely been foolish, during the birthday bash in Minneapolis. I hadn’t been drinking, per se, but I’d been taking sips, sampling the truly outrageous cocktails Mort and Jack were ordering. Yes, the Sight and alcohol don’t mix. Mort slung me over his shoulder and carried me back to our shared hotel room. Not that I remember any of that.
“Yes,” Henry says. “I can sense the build-up.”
Oh, he must know someone with the Sight. His technique is just too good, and he has the intimate knowledge to match. True, they train everyone in this technique at the Academy, but it’s right up there with CPR. You could go your whole career without ever using the skill.
“That bad?” Locking down the Sight is a handy, practical trick. But there’s a cost; with the Sight, there always is. The build-up is like a sticky, mental residue.
“There was a lot. I’m surprised you went so long between attacks.”
The only other person who could read the build-up was—is—my mother. “What’s it like?” I ask, because she would never say. “Does it hurt you?” I always suspected her silence meant that it does.
“It’s more informative than painful.”
I have no idea what that means, and my non-response must tell him so, because he breathes out a soft laugh.
“It’s hard to explain,” he adds. “I can’t see what you saw, obviously. I can’t tell how many times you’ve locked down the Sight, but I can sense the toll it takes, if that makes sense. It’s thick and heavy. There’s no other way to describe it.”
Oh. No wonder my mother never spoke of it. He must absolutely be related to someone with the Sight. I want to ask. And yet? I don’t want to intrude. Before I can make up my mind, his posture shifts. He reaches for something on the coffee table.
“Now that you’re awake, I can stop the recording.”
Wait. Recording. Oh, no. I grope the floor, but my hands are tangled in the fleece blanket. Besides, I’m still in the newborn kitten phase of recovery. I’m not sitting up quite yet. I try, though.
