“Do you know who this someone is?” Mort challenges.
“I don’t. My uncle didn’t say. He was on the debriefing team, though, and needed an outlet.”
This, Ophelia understands. Like his nephew, George Ling has a sense for connections. Never mind emotional dysregulation; for someone like him or Jack, the buildup can overwhelm. Of course, in her case, it can send you straight into a coma.
“Right. So what you have are rumors and nothing else.”
Jack ignores Mort and turns to Gwyneth, pleading in his eyes, his voice. “We need to move now, tonight, at sunset. I know what to do, but I need their blood to do it.”
“Botten won’t like—” Mort begins.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about Botten, especially after what happened with Ophelia.”
Her name brings Ophelia up short. She hadn’t realized others in the Enclave might suspect foul play with her coma, other than her mother, but judging by the expression on Jack’s face, he certainly does.
“Hasn’t Henry sacrificed enough?” Jack returns that beseeching gaze to Gwyneth, his eyes dark and soulful and absolutely sincere. “Don’t you want him back?”
The nod is barely there, but it is a nod. Gwyneth is still and silent, but something plays behind her eyes. Her thoughts are churning with calculation.
“The task force is set to roll in,” Mort says in warning.
“They won’t. I saw the advance party downtown. It’s too busy. They’ll have to wait until dark, and I’m sure they’re telling Botten that right now.”
Yes, the equipment—communications vans, the porta-potties, the tents—needed for even a small, elite task force might alarm the locals, catch the attention of the police and the town council. The Enclave never wants attention. Especially if this is an unauthorized task force, and Ophelia suspects it must be.
“They will deploy.” Mort’s words sound like a threat.
And if Jack is there in the housing development, spilling the blood that Botten had the response team so carefully collect? To quote Mortimer: heads will roll. Ophelia knows that much.
“Delay them until after sunset.”
“Find me the epicenter, and I will.”
The two men stare at each other, expressions unyielding. Jack won’t give an inch, but then Mortimer doesn’t plan to, either. There’s a reason he’s nipping at Henry’s heels. No, he won’t make principal field agent before twenty-five, but it won’t be long after.
Assuming they don’t end the world before then.
“All right.” Jack continues to glare at Mortimer, but something has shifted in his expression. He wants Pansy back too much. Without another word, he turns from both Mort and Gwyneth and leaves the house.
Outside, he turns right toward where the sidewalk ends. Ophelia doesn’t follow. Instead, she hovers by the doorway. She’s still there when Mort’s shadow eclipses her. His presence is unaccountably and undeniably cold.
“Fairy tales, buddy,” he says, voice full of pity. “Nothing but fairy tales.”
Chapter 69
Henry
“You understand that it needs to be you.”
Max Monroe’s hand was heavy on Henry’s shoulder. The man’s voice was low, the words meant for Henry alone. And yes, Henry understood a great deal, including why, if it came to it, he would need to be the sacrifice.
“I do, and I will,” Henry said. “But I’d appreciate?—”
“Oh, here it comes,” Max muttered.
“Information on why you ended up in King’s End to begin with.”
“Not how, Darnelle? Don’t you want to travel dimensions and amass advanced tech, untold power, and?—?”
