Ernest Tate. Advanced Crypto Techniques instructor extraordinaire. Somehow, he’d gone from pale, awkward, total geek to astonishingly chic since the last time I’d seen him. And yet, his physical transformation was not the most alarming thing. The fact that he was standing here at all was a miracle. Literally. An actual miracle.
Last school year, Talia had come to school to uncover the person who’d betrayed her to the Coalition. That was when I met her. She’d been a guest instructor in one of my classes and, for some reason I’d never understand, had taken me on as her charity case. Apparently, Ernest’s name had made the short of potential Coalition spies within TOXIC. And Talia had been ordered to psychically interrogate all of the suspects. From what I understood, she lost control while questioning Ernest. She accidentally erased his mind. By all accounts, including what I’d been told from Talia herself, the genius man became a vegetable with no hope of reclamation.
So how is he here? Why is he here?
Ernest turned to order another drink just as our trio passed close by the bar. While he waited, he rolled his head from side to side. As he rolled his neck, I caught sight of a black ink design just below the base of his skull, previously hidden by the collar of his shirt. In the instant it was visible, I squinted for a better look. What I saw was both intriguing and disconcerting.
Three interlocking circles with an eye in the center were tattooed on my former instructor’s neck.
It was the same symbol I’d seen on that TOXIC facility. The one in the background of the press conference, when Dana Duval had peppered Victoria Walburton with questions about UNITED’s future plans.
What the hell did that mean? And where else had I seen that damned symbol before? I’d completely forgotten about it in light of everything else happening, but knowing the answer to the second question felt important.
Unfortunately, you do not have time for this right now. Just add it to the long list of problems for another time. Focus on escape. Worry about strange tattoos and miraculous medical recoveries once you’re no longer shackled.
Pint was practically glued to my right hip at this point. So when I slowed to study Ernest’s tattoo, she noticed.
“Keep moving,” she hissed in my ear, yanking my arm so forcefully that I seriously worried that my shoulder had dislocated.
Suddenly she laughed that high-pitched, tinkling laughter of hers. Every time I heard it, my nerves felt like a cheese grater ran down them, my ears on the verge of spouting blood. She pointed to the enormous wallscreen at the front, still cycling through the desperate Talents they had locked up.
“Why look at that! That’s your mate, is it not? Take a good look. Surely this is the last time you’ll see her.”
All thoughts of Ernest and his tattoo were forgotten. My mental planning and assessing abruptly halted. Because the screen was trifold, the image on it was in triplicate. Anguish personified, broadcasted for the scum of the earth to assess evaluate.
Three Francies. Standing on the platform in a display box. Cheeks flushed to match the color of the dresses we all wore. Eyes red and swollen, brimming with unshed tears and quiet panic. No lingering trace of the fighting spirit she’d displayed downstairs in the prep room. She was utterly terrified. Stunned. Desperate. Broken.
Oh my God. Francie. No. No…no…no…. What did they do to you? Why are you even here?
My heartache spun into rage before I could even process the emotion. Everything changed in that instant. I was no longer focused entirely on our escape. That was just the first step. Then and there, I vowed to get even. These people would pay, dearly.
For Francie.
For James.
For every other Talent locked in a glass cube.
OUT OF NOWHERE, hot, thick fingers pinched my chin. With an adamant tug, my gaze was forced away from my best friend’s image, to the face of a man several inches shorter than me. I sucked in a breath as I stared down into soulless black eyes. The man’s hold was steadfast, his ironclad grip causing pain to reverberate up my jawbone. As though I weren’t an actual human being, he tilted my head forcefully to the left, right, down, and finally upwards, carefully examining my face from every angle possible.
Initially, I was too startled to react to the manhandling. Then those sausage-like fingers found my waist and began to roam, as the other hand slid the strap of my gown down over my shoulder. I instantly snapped out of my shock. Enraged by the violation, I jerked my knee up, intending to introduce it to his groin.
“Who the f—”
Mole jerked me backwards before I made contact, adding to my fury. I was seething, ready to bite off the next finger that came near me.
The groper threw his head back and let out a loud, barking laugh.
“Mon dieux! Elle est animée, c'est bon! J’aime les filles fougueuses.”
I have no clue what he’s babbling about, but I’ll show him exactly how funny it is, I thought, looking for vulnerabilities within my reach. He’s seriously going to regret that.
“Frrreeeskee! I laheek zat!” he exclaimed to Pint in heavily accented English.
“Brilliant,” Pint replied. “But, sir, I must insist that you not touch the sale items. This here is one of our upmarket pieces. If you are keen to bid on her, I suggest you clear assets with the auction master in advance. Unfortunately, until you win the bid, our policy is ‘look but do not touch’.” Pint’s words were chastising, but there was no disapproval in her voice.
The chiding wasn’t for my sake, of course. She certainly had no reservations about serving me up to be mauled by the devil’s spawn. That much was obvious. It was only so that she didn’t have to explain to her superiors why their cash cow was bruised and disheveled, with sweaty palm prints on her torn silk gown.
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” the groper replied, giving Pint a little bow and a whole lot of respect she didn’t deserve. “Mye apallogeez.”
Turning to his companion, a bald man built like a fireplug, he began speaking in rapid French.
Every year since I started at the McDonough School, we’d spent an hour each day on world languages. The focus hadn’t been in-depth, but breadth. I was trained to recognize key words and phrases in over thirty languages, which was how I understood the gist of the Frenchmen’s conversation. Grabby hands wanted to know if prospective buyers were still allowed to test-drive the merchandise.
Still? Still? That was something they did? I thought, panic threatening to overtake my anger.
Thankfully his companion answered in the negative before I could get to full-on hysteria. Baldie also added something about the house’s disallowance, something that both disgusted and frightened me: devaluing the goods for the eventual buyer.
Wait, people buy Talents for that? As if slavery isn’t bad enough?
For some reason, surely naïveté fueled by some degree of denial, the thought hadn’t occurred to me.
Don’t panic. It will never come to that. Don’t let them see you’re rattled.
The thought of Pint’s sick game overtook my mental wanderings. Which is exactly why I was playing it with her.
Compose yourself. She’s obviously doing this to freak you out. Don’t let her win.
Pint stared at the blank mask of indifference that I slipped on. I clung to it, imploring my features to hide the revulsion and fury building within me. To some extent, she must’ve known it was a farce. Of course what they were saying freaked me out. But she was noticeably irritated that I’d been able to conjure a façade at all. That icy smirk settled over her features and my heart sank.
“Perhaps I should sanction an exception in your case. After all, your true value lies with your Created status alone, not your….” Her dark eyes traveled from my head to my toes and back up again. “Certainly no would pay top Globes simply for your looks.”
A girlish giggle—or the closest approximation she could make of one—escaped her lips, punctuating exactly how preposterous she found the idea.
Don’t flinch. She
wants to watch you squirm. There’s no way she’d really let that awful little man touch you. Not when you’re a gold mine to the Duke.
Somewhere in the mass of people, a voice rang out over the hum of conversations.
“Take it off! That’s not what I want to see!”
Without warning, the crowd took up the chant.
“Take it off! Take it off!”
On and on they went, more and more people chiming in.
It took me a moment to grasp what was happening. They were pointing to the wallscreen as they yelled. Squeezing my eyes shut tightly, I dared to pray that the masses were actually protesting. That someone had finally been young and pitiful enough for them to demand the Poachers take them off the screen. Obviously I didn’t want anyone young or pitiful to have to experience this. Nonetheless, almost anything was worth a change of heart. Supply wouldn’t be necessary without demand. We needed to eradicate the demand.
I sent up another prayer, this one for the person on screen. Given the crowd and the way they’d all been acting earlier, I was a little scared to peek at who could finally pluck their heartstrings. Who’d gotten them to draw the line, to say enough was enough?
Just as I opened my eyes, it dawned on me. The chanting didn’t sound irate. Or upset. Or affronted.
It’s excitement….
Francie was still the main feature.
My mouth fell open in shock. It was surprising in and of itself that I could still feel the emotion, especially so overwhelmingly, after the day I’d had. Yet I was stunned, all the same.
She was sixteen. These were the wealthiest, most powerful, most influential humans on the planet. Together they controlled every facet of the world, from pop culture and entertainment to politics and the justice system. Many of the men were old enough to be our grandfathers. Possibly even great-grandfathers. They were celebrated for their lifetimes of achievement.
And they were cheering for a sixteen year old girl to take her top off.
Pigs. All of them. Revolting repulsive repugnant pigs.
Before I could even conjure the first imaginative way to destroy their lives and torture their souls, five digit numbers were scrolling down the side of the screen to the right of Francie’s despondent face. Shouts and cheers fell away, as if someone muted the volume. Silence enveloped me.
It was happening. Sale prices were being proposed. To purchase the ownership of a human. My sweet Francie. The only noise that penetrated was the hammering of my heart. After exactly twelve thumps, the offers for her jumped to six digits. Everyone’s attention was suddenly on Francie.
My heart stopped beating. I forgot how to breathe.
“Pre-bids,” Pint whispered in my ear.
My rigidly tense body slackened. My sigh of relief was audible.
No, I wasn’t relieved that they were bidding on my best friend. But this was still preliminary. Not the actual auction. No one could drag her away just yet. I still had time to figure us a way out of here. Not much. But some. No matter what, that was better than none at all.
The feeling of hot breath on my shoulder alerted me that Pint was up on her tip toes again for another whispered attack. My skin crawled from her proximity.
Hasn’t she ever heard of boundaries? Personal space?
Despite my best efforts, Mole was still holding me tightly. I was helpless to move away. Steeling myself for Pint’s next assault, I tried to think reassuring thoughts. Thankfully—in a sadly contradictory way, obviously, not because I was actually grateful for the misery—Pint would be hard-pressed to show or tell me anything more horrifying than the numbers steadily increasing as people tried to buy my best friend. We were reaching the absolute peak of the emotional pain scale. Every possible scenario at this level was so horrific, it was as unlikely to occur as it was unfathomable.
Of course, by having a thought like that—that things really couldn’t be any worse—I was essentially daring the universe to prove me wrong.
Naturally, it did.
“That’s the fit sort of body that buyers will pay top Globe for,” Pint whispered. “Tell me, what do you think those men are fancying as they offer so much money for her?”
Her words were nearly my undoing. All of the atrocities taking place in the arena slammed into me at once. It was simply too much for me to handle. In truth, I was ready for the sweet bliss of oblivion again, actually longing for Pint to slam a tranquilizer dart into my neck.
I knew it was cowardly and would effectively obliterate my remaining hopes for escape. But parading me across the arena, through a crowd of people who thought I was only an object to be bought and sold, was a form of psychological torture. And it was working. My psyche felt as fragile as spun glass. One more hit and I might shatter completely.
Hysterical laughter bubbled inside my stomach, exiting my lips as a strangled yelp. It was undeniable—I was cracking.
Hearing the sound, Pint whirled to face me, interest piqued.
Breathe, I ordered myself. Calm. Hold it together, just a little while longer. Breaking down is what she wants. What the Duke and the rest of the Monroes want. Don’t give them the satisfaction.
But taking in a breath was like inhaling the thick air of a hot, too-humid day. The excitement in the air was suffocating. The lavish atmosphere. Elegant gowns. Acrobats. Display boxes holding Talents. My friends. My colleagues. All of us kindred souls. Too much. Too much.
“Seen enough?” Pint asked, her voice bright. The expectant gleam in her eye had grown into a victorious beam of delight and satisfaction. In her eyes, she’d won.
Thanks, tiny terror. I needed that.
At the sight of her grin, every oversaturated strand of emotion wove into an all-consuming rage. My first thought was to rip the arms holding me back off of Mole and beat Pint to death with them. Whoa, take it down a notch, the sensible part of my brain advised. Use it. Several calming inhales and slow exhales later, my nerves steadied. The frenzy tempered.
The Monroes would gravely regret forcing me to walk through the crowd. And Pint would definitely regret making me stand in the thick of it, bearing witness to Francie’s humiliation while being gawked at myself.
Working as quickly and effectively as possible, I studied the people in the arena, memorizing the face of every buyer my gaze landed upon. Mercifully, Francie was no longer on the big screen, allowing me to focus entirely on the task at hand. The ability to recall them all later was a valuable gift in general, but priceless in this situation. I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to catalogue the scumbags who kept the auctions in business. I would put my fury to good use. Store it up, make—
A commotion in the crowd drew my attention. Just ahead, to my right. Almost at the edge of the arena. More rowdy men. Big surprise. A few were the same skeazy chanters from earlier. They were shaking their fists in the air, but were facing away from the wallscreen. Following their stares, I looked up.
Just ten feet above the heads of the men, in the lowest ring of display windows, was Francie’s viewing booth. Somehow, in the vast sea of glass cubes, they’d found hers. Watching Francie sob while rich assholes heckled her from the arena floor was a lit match held close to explosives.
Hold on to the anger until the right time. It will give you strength. Must be smart. Don’t do anything rash. Now is not the time. You’re completely outnumbered. Get James. Get Francie. Get out. We’ll come back for these relentless bastards.
Forcing my gaze away from my friend, I went back to scanning the attendees, making a special point to carefully examine each of the men in front of her. Every single face I could see went into a file. Just as the Duke had promised, the buyers in the room were from society’s upper echelon. Bringing down an organization of this magnitude, with endless power behind it…it wouldn’t be easy. Nor difficult. It would be damned near impossible.
I welcomed the challenge.
AFTER THE ALTERCATION with the grabby Frenchman, Pint and Mole didn’t seem to want to take any more chances with me.
Once we began winding through the crush of bodies again, both the tiny Poacher and the Viking guard moved with impressive speed, no longer catering to the would-be buyers who thought it their right to touch or ogle me for longer than a passing glance. Mole took the lead this time, practically bowling through groups of people to clear our path.
Lewd suggestions were unceremoniously tossed in my direction, like candy thrown from a parade float, as my captors ushered me across the arena. Despite the wide berth the Viking left in her wake, many of the patrons—both male and female, young and old—reached out to touch me when I passed, as if my powers could be disseminated through physical contact. Pint admonished everyone who came within arm’s reach of me. Mole’s tactics were more aggressive, lightly swatting roving hands with her baton.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, we reached the opposite edge of the arena. Guards blocked the exit archway. Evidently, only very select individuals were permitted to pass. With Mole leading the way, we breezed past the sentries without stopping and continued to the end of the short hallway beyond them. Our trio came to a halt at a six-car elevator bank.
Pint scanned her palm at yet another biometric lock and the middle set of doors on the right slid open. Mole shoved me inside. The silence in the car was a balm to my auditory senses. Finally, I could really breathe again. Oddly, I wasn’t the only to have this reaction. For all their bravado, Pint and Mole both appeared relieved to be out of the melee.
Five floors later, I was ushered into a curved hallway with doors lining one side and guards against the other. Other than the reinforced metal doorframes, the wall on the right was made of frosted glass, opaque and impenetrable to the eye. Having been in the arena, I was willing to wager on what lay on the other side of the glass.
Exiled: Kenly's Story (Talented Saga Book 5) Page 30
