Page 66 of The Pansy Paradox
Maybe not today or even tomorrow, but some day this signature move will end Henry Darnelle.
Chapter 28
Ophelia
King’s End, Minnesota
Tuesday, July 11
Blood, Ophelia thinks, somewhat sourly, only makes Pansy Little look fierce. Ophelia’s own bloody noses cause her eyes to water. Between the tears and the blood, she has all the presence of a big crybaby after someone’s bopped her on the nose.
Not Pansy Little. She races after Henry and the mass of Screamers intent on his destruction. Her foolish, foolish big brother who can draw the Screamers to him and away from everyone else. Only his skill as a fighter has kept him alive this long. He savors the fight with a relish that borders on addiction. Does he know how close he came to that in the Sahara?
He leads the Screamers to a remote part of the green, well away from the families huddled in the bandstand and the few couples hunkering down beneath the bridge. He’d lead them away from Pansy as well, even raising a hand as if to send her back to safety, but she’s having none of that.
Instead, Pansy tucks, rolls, and then stabs the main column, fracturing the Screamers into two smaller funnel clouds. One for each of them, Ophelia thinks. How egalitarian.
This time, when Henry holds out his hand, it’s to help Pansy to her feet. She whirls around so they stand back-to-back in a defensive posture, sheltered by the protective bubble their umbrellas create.
She twirls her umbrella, and the ruffles splinter a counterattack into tiny shards. These Screamers hobble away from the melee like crows with clipped wings until they shatter into mist. But those two columns merge again. And again, they’re intent on Henry.
The Screamers whirl, picking up bits of leaves and grass, painting the air a livid green. Anyone watching might think an actual tornado has targeted her brother, and they wouldn’t be wrong, not entirely.
He’s still sending out that pulse. Above the roar of wind and the shriek of the Screamers comes Pansy’s voice.
“Stop it!”
He won’t. Ophelia isn’t sure her brother can stop it, or himself. He’s a born protector, and denying him this would be to deny him his very essence. Pansy pushes a palm across her cheek, smearing more blood. If this fight weren’t so dire, the Screamers so insistent, her aggrieved expression might make Ophelia laugh.
I know. He’s a pain in the ass sometimes.
Pansy blinks, her gaze canvassing the area, ear turned toward where Ophelia is hovering. It’s at that moment the Screamers see their advantage and stream through a momentary gap between the two umbrellas. The force throws Pansy wide. She goes tumbling across the green. The wind picks up her umbrella, still unfurled, and spirits it away.
Damn, damn, damn.
Despite the tiny triumph bubbling inside Ophelia—Pansy heard her, she’s certain—she’s made things worse. Pansy must chase after her umbrella; she has no choice. This is not an attack to counter with bare hands. She grabs fistfuls of muddy grass and pulls herself to her feet.
She glances back at Henry, who stands in the middle of the green, legs braced, umbrella open, shielding everyone from the onslaught.
Go. You can’t help him otherwise.
This time, Pansy doesn’t even blink. She dashes after her umbrella, racing for the embankment near the bridge, chasing a group of Screamers as they batter the umbrella so hard the polka dots blur.
The river, of course, is their destination. Ophelia’s heart seizes. Her pulse skitters, and her breathing becomes erratic. What has she done? What can she do except witness her mistake? Once the water grabs Pansy’s umbrella, it’s over.
And while, in theory, an agent can function without their umbrella, Pansy’s heart will break. They’ll need to contact the Enclave. And keeping the Enclave as far away for as long as possible is the goal in all this.
Ophelia is ethereal here, insubstantial. At least, she’s always assumed she is. An observer, not a participant. And yet? Pansy heard her. And earlier, back in her bedroom, Henry’s umbrella heard her as well. Ophelia is certain.
So now she focuses all her attention on that clever little pink and white umbrella.
Stop. Fight back. She needs you.
The umbrella tumbles, spilling over the edge of the river walk. With a puff, the canopy folds. The next time the Screamers crash into it, that clever and cunning little umbrella uses the momentum to shove her point into the sand on the river’s bank.
And sticks the landing.
Pansy scrambles to the water’s edge, feet slipping on sand, and scoops up her umbrella. She holds it to her chest. Now there are tears, just a few. And yes, they only serve to make her look even fiercer.
