by Sophie Davis
Like the voyeur she’d accused me of being the night before, I watched my girlfriend play kissy-face with Henri’s boyfriend. Weird was an understatement. Frederick was a natural, probably from his years as a conductor on the Underground, where he ferreted the Talented outside of TOXIC’s rule, across the border into Coalition territory. Had I not known better, I would have believed the adoring gaze he bestowed upon Talia was genuine.
Hell, I did know better and still my blood began to boil when he touched her. Even reminding myself that it was all an act did little to quell the jealousy. She was mine to love. No one, not even a gay friend of mine, touched her and got to keep his hand.
Talia, on the other hand, was a horrible actress. She shied away from Frederick’s touch, making it obvious to any closely watching eyes that she was uncomfortable with her companion. Each time she smiled, the gesture looked faker than the one before it. Yeah, undercover work was not my girlfriend’s forte.
Penny’s voice inside Talia’s head—super weird—made both of us, Talia and me, gasp. Kenly. Penny found Kenly, I thought.
At which point I jumped from Talia’s head to her best friend’s for a better look.
Kenly Baker was shackled like the prisoner that she was. But that wasn’t the most messed up part—Kenly looked like some sort of living doll. Her light brown hair was twisted and wound around her head in a complicated pattern of interlocking braids. Heavy coats of mascara weighed down her long lashes to the point it was an impressive feat that she was able to hold the lids open. She wore a silky red dress that clung to her thin body. Except, she didn’t look hot like Talia did when she put on fancy clothes. Kenly just looked…wrong.
A low hissing sound, like steak on a grill, interrupted my vision. Followed by a loud pop and the acrid odor of melting plastic. Suddenly, my knuckles smarted.
“’Ey, Kelley, calm yourself, boy!” the pilot, Agent Miles DeSanto, exclaimed. “Even if we don’t need to fight, this hunk of metal still needs to fly us out of here.”
I blinked several times to get my bearings. The cockpit of a UNITED H340 came into focus. Smoke wafted up from the copilot control panel in front of me. Sunlight danced off the shards of glass covering both the dashboard and my pants. The fifteen-inch radar screen had a fist-sized hole through the center.
“Sorry, Miles,” I mumbled, brushing the glass from my lap before tending to the pieces embedded between my knuckles.
“Look, kid,” Miles began, shifting in his seat to face me. Agent DeSanto was only like ten years older than I was, but seemed to believe that his prematurely gray hair gave him the right to call me “kid”. It seemed to be a common occurrence these days, referring to me that way.
“The Poachers piss me the hell off, too,” he continued. “I’ve wanted a shot at these prigs for years. And for me,” Miles cocked a thumb towards his chest, “it’s personal, mate. They took my sister, Lilibet, when she was just fifteen. Not a clue what’s become of her. But you best believe, if we get a chance to fight today, I’m gonna find out.”
Damn. Now I did feel like a kid. Here I was, breaking electronics because guilt over Kenly’s current predicament had my anger hovering too close to the surface, and this guy’s sister had actually been sold into slavery. At least Kenly was going to leave that auction house a free girl. Even if it was only to then be placed in containment. But containment had to be better than whatever the Poachers’ clients had in mind for her.
I slunk down in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the bloody evidence of my tantrum.
“Miles, man, I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Don’t apologize, kid. I’m just saying that all our blood is running hot, you know? But you’re a UNITED agent now. You gotta distance yourself, or you won’t get through this with your sanity intact.”
I huffed. Sanity. I wasn’t sure I still had mine, but there was no need to let Miles know that. Already others, besides Talia, were starting to wonder. It was the real reason Victoria hadn’t wanted me as part of the undercover team. She hadn’t come out and said it, not exactly. But when we’d spoken after the morning briefing, the councilwoman had expressed concern for my mental state. Which was definitely not a great thing.
Opening up all the channels in my mind, I let Miles’ emotions wash over me. Grief mingled with guilt and fear nearly smothered me. Losing his sister to the Poachers weighed heavily on his mind. Revenge whispered in his every waking moment, a constant reminder of the real reason he’d joined UNITED. My thoughts immediately drifted to how I would feel if one of my brothers or, God forbid, Talia was ever kidnapped and sold as a plaything.
Stop it, stop it, stop it, I chastised myself. Head in the game, Kelley.
From the seat behind me, Janelle placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. I patted her fingers in thanks and smiled at her over my shoulder.
“What’s happening in there?” she asked, her way of gently guiding me back on track.
I closed my eyes and tried to tune back in to Talia and what was happening inside the auction house. But now that I’d opened myself up to Miles, I was having a hard time blocking his thoughts. So, instead, I decided to pump the guy for information.
“So you’ve known about the Poachers for a while?” I asked Miles.
“My whole life,” he replied.
My brow furrowed. His whole life? The guy didn’t have an accent, which suggested he was American. But the McDonough School hadn’t offered a class in arrogant-assholes-who-think-they’re-better-than-everyone-else-and-can-therefore-sell-Talents, so where had Miles learned about the Poachers?
Sensing my confusion, Miles explained.
“My parents are American. But we moved to Germany when I was three for my mother’s job. Lilibet was born in Hamburg five years later.”
“Where did you go to school?” I asked, actually curious.
“Boy’s school, Whallings, in London. It wasn’t a Talented school. Just a regular one. Got recruited by UNITED a couple of times, but didn’t take them up on it until after Lilibet was taken. It’s been about ten years now.”
“And you have no idea where she is now?” Janelle asked softly from the back.
“Nope. Got a couple of ideas. I think maybe a collector has her. She’s like you.”
I opened my eyes to find Miles staring pointedly at me. In my experience, whenever anyone uses the words “like you” when referring to me, it’s not a positive comparison.
Sitting up straighter and already feeling defensive, I shot back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Miles smiled wryly, seemingly immune to my snarky tone.
“They warned me about you. Said you’re volatile. I believe the exact phrase was ‘an unstable bomb set to explode’. I reckon they weren’t far off.”
He paused then, gauging my reaction as if I might actually spontaneously combust beside him. When flames didn’t shoot from my ears, he continued.
“What I meant, though, was that Lilibet is a Mimic. That’s your natural-born gift, is it not?”
Shocked into silence, I nodded mutely. Mimics aren’t like other Talents. We don’t give off brain patterns that identify us as Talented, let alone ones specific to our gift. Even Talia, who is more sensitive to other Talents than anyone else I’ve ever encountered, hadn’t known what I was when we first met.
Janelle voiced my question, sounding just as suspicious as I felt.
“How’d you know Erik was a Mimic?”
“Mimics are really rare. People in this organization talk. Besides, before I agreed to get on a hover with a Created, I wanted to know what I was agreeing to. So, I read your file. The way I understand it, you being a Mimic is why that drug worked so well on you,” Miles replied.
I hated being labeled as a Created. It was a stigma that clung to me like a skunk’s spray. The other agents judged me, gossiped behind my back, and suggested Victoria contain me before I killed someone. All that gossip did was tempt me to flip my shit and show them how freak
ing dangerous I actually really was.
But Miles seemed interested, rather than judgmental. He was genuinely curious about the rare genetic anomaly that had made me—and Penny, for that matter—the perfect hosts for the Creation drug. So perfect that it was our blood, Mimic blood, that had finally allowed the Creation drug to be effective. Prior to that discovery, the drug had worn off in a matter of weeks, at best months, in most people. In rare cases, like Talia’s, the drug stayed in the host’s system much longer, without the levels decreasing. But for most, repeated injections were needed in order for the Created Talent to sustain his manufactured powers.
“Collectors love rare gifts,” Miles continued, either oblivious or unconcerned with whether he’d offended me.
“What’s a collector?” Janelle asked, as if the name wasn’t self-explanatory.
Apparently Miles agreed with me.
“Just as the name implies, darling. They collect Talents. Simply because they can. Collectors don’t use the Talents they acquire to gain an advantage in business or political dealings. They don’t put them to work in their nightclubs and sideshows. They have them just to have them.”
“That’s disgusting,” I spat.
Electricity crackled in the air, causing Miles’s hair to stand on end. He looked like he’d stuck his finger in a light socket and, as inappropriate as the reaction was, I laughed. Miles scooted farther towards his side of the cockpit and Janelle slid back in her seat.
This time, Miles didn’t need to warn me to watch my temper. I gritted my teeth and reined in the anger all on my own.
“It is. But the alternatives are worse,” Miles said, when he was sure my temper tantrum was over.
“What exactly are the alternatives?” Janelle asked.
Fortunately, since I had zero desire to hear Miles enumerate the atrocities the Poachers were committing, we were interrupted. Brand’s voice came through both the comm unit in my ear and the speakers in the cockpit.
“Auction is starting,” Brand announced, at the same time Talia echoed his words inside my head.
HENRI HADN’T SEEN a ghost. Not exactly. Because Ernest Tate had never officially died.
Brain-dead was the not-terribly-specific medical diagnosis TOXIC’s doctors decreed, after I’d fried his mind. Ernest’s condition was supposedly permanent, according to those same doctors. Yet, somehow, the brain-dead Higher Reasoning Talent was standing in an auction house in England, with a cocktail in one hand and communicator in the other. As if all of that wasn’t peculiar enough, Ernest was using said communicator to bid against us. It was a tossup as to what was more shocking: Ernest’s miraculous recovery or that he was continually trumping our bids.
The auction had begun. Bidding was underway for the first unfortunate soul. My horror at seeing the fiasco in action was dulled slightly by Ernest’s presence. In a way, seeing him there was a blessing. It gave me a new problem to focus on, allowing the outrage over the proceedings as a whole to find a home behind the forefront of my mind.
Pain shot through my hand and I looked down. The champagne flute was now in two pieces, cracked along the stem. Jagged glass had cut a small slice in my palm. Okay, so maybe that outrage wasn’t locked away quite so well.
Delicate fingers pried mine loose from the broken glass. Frederick handed it off to a passing waiter, grumbling about the shoddy glasses they were using. When the man rushed forward with apologies, Frederick simply took the napkins he was offering, and waved him off to fetch another drink. Blood welled up in a crimson line on my skin, but the cut didn’t appear too deep. Engrossed in the auction, no one was paying attention to me and Frederick.
“I’m fine,” I snapped in response to my fake boyfriend’s quizzical gaze. Frederick’s jaw stiffened at my harsh tone and I immediately felt bad for being an ass. In a softer voice, I added, “Really, I’m fine.”
Our group had decided to disperse within the crowd to remain inconspicuous and hopefully make it slightly less obvious that we were only bidding on Created. Penny and Brand were standing just behind the VIP area, approximately twenty feet in front of Frederick and me. Henri was standing off to one side, near a bar, with Angus shadowing his every move. Agent Canary’s team was scattered throughout the arena, reporting details and observations over the comm units.
After Penny’s failed attempt to buy Kenly before the auction started, I’d tasked Riley with figuring out where she was being held. He was also trying to locate the holding area for “purchased” merchandise. If everyone, both Talented and Created, were in the same place, there was still a chance of freeing them all without, technically, violating Victoria’s orders.
“The current bid is 500,000 Globes to bidder 2641,” the auctioneer announced. Our master of ceremonies was a severe looking woman who radiated about as much warmth as a snow pile.
Penny was bidder 2641. The “item” she was bidding on was Francie Owens, a girl I recognized from my time at the McDonough School. I was also pretty sure she was a friend of Kenly’s. From the specs the auctioneer read off prior to calling for bids, everyone in the auction house assumed Francie was Created, both because of her numerous Talents and her American heritage. And the globe amounts being offered up confirmed that people were willing to pay obscene amounts of money for the privilege of owning such a rare creature.
“Bidder 3519, do I have five and half?” Ernest Tate was bidder 3519, a fact evidenced by his image, which kept flashing on the trifold wallscreen behind the stage. “Marvelous,” the auctioneer cooed excitedly. “And six and a half from 2641. Now seven from 3519. Bid is back to you 2641. Brilliant, just brilliant. Seven and a half.” The auctioneer smiled expectantly at a specific point in the crowd. “Do I hear 800,000 Globes 3519?”
“How much higher do I go, Tal?” Penny sent.
Even though I had nothing more than a clear view of the back of Penny’s head, I could imagine her worrying her lower lip, thumbs poised over her communicator to place another bid.
“As high as you need to,” I sent back. “We aren’t leaving her here.”
Our budget was endless, but Victoria and the council had not envisioned the bids going so high so fast. Buying only the Created was already suspicious, should anyone look too closely at our collective purchase histories, but paying such exorbitant rates for each one was definitely going to draw attention. And yet, seeing a sixteen-year-old girl shackled to a freaking platform, mascara rivers running down her cheeks as she shook with silent sobs, I didn’t give a damn. She deserved better. And while I may not have agreed with containment one hundred percent, nothing could be worse than the humiliation taking place before my eyes. I’d bankrupt UNITED sooner than leave Francie Owens, or anyone else, behind.
Ernest flashed on the wallscreen again. He scratched the back of his neck, just below the collar of his shirt, exposing a small flash of black ink. A tattoo, maybe? I squinted for a better look, as if that would help the fact I was at an inconvenient vantage point.
“Henri, get in closer to Ernest. Look at the back of his neck, I think there’s a tattoo or something. Ernest didn’t have anything there before, so I want to know what it is,” I said over the comm unit.
“On it,” Henri replied immediately.
“Lyons,” Catherine snapped in my ear. “Off-plan.”
Because she was right, sending Henri to spy on Ernest was not part of the mission, I had no better reply then, “I’ll deal with Victoria if it becomes an issue, Catherine.”
On screen, Ernest shook his head, indicating that he was not going to place another bid.
“Any further bids? No? Final call for bids on this item…,” the auctioneer paused for dramatic effect. Hearing no further bids, she cried, “Sold! For 750,000 Globes to bidder 2641. Bidder number 2641, you may claim your purchase in the Lady Lucinda suite at your leisure.”
Bingo. We had a location.
“Riley? Did you hear that?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. The Lady Lucinda suite. I’m headed there now. What
am I supposed to do once I get there?” he replied.
“Nothing,” Brand cut in.
I shot a glare towards the front of the arena, knowing full-well Brand couldn’t see me.
“Monitor the area. I want details on the layout of the surrounding hallways. Points of ingress and egress. Proximity to an exit,” I doled out the orders before Brand had a chance to usurp my authority again.
Was it his fault that my annoyance turned to appreciation and bounced back again on a whim? Absolutely not. But that didn’t change the fact that, right now, I was calling the shots.
“Yes, ma’am,” Riley repeated.
And I decided I liked being called “ma’am”.
“That’s my girl, using big words and taking charge,” Erik teased mentally.
I smiled. He’d been quiet for a while and I’d begun to worry he was no longer with me. Erik had his own assignment to worry about, but having him inside my head, knowing he was with me, always made life better.
“Thanks,” I sent back. “For a minute there, I thought you’d abandoned me.”
“Never,” Erik replied, the one word carrying more weight than it should have.
The image on the wallscreen changed from Francie to an older man in his thirties. Both relieved and dismayed that he was unfamiliar, I listened while the auctioneer began her spiel for the second time. The relief came from knowing that I wouldn’t have to watch the Poachers parade another acquaintance of mine in front of the cameras. But it also meant, this poor man was unlikely to receive the benefit of UNITED’s aid. Sure enough, an instant later, the auctioneer confirmed that the man on the screen was not Created.
Heart heavy, I turned to Frederick.
“Make a low, perfunctory, bid, will you?”
