by Sophie Davis
Exiled
Copyright © 2014 by Sophie Davis
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author.
Printed in the United States of America
Learn more information at: www.sophiedavisbooks.com
Cover design by Robin Ludwig Designs
Formatting by Inkstain Interior Book Designing
Talented (Talented Saga #1)
Caged (Talented Saga #2)
Hunted (Talented Saga #3)
Captivated (A Talented Novella) (Talented Saga #3.5)
Created (Talented Saga #4)
Exiled: Kenly’s Story (Talented Saga #5)
Marked (Talented Saga #6)
Privileged (Talented Saga #7)
Fated (Talented Saga #8)
Pawn (Nightmares Trilogy #1)
Sacrifice (Nightmares Trilogy #2)
Checkmate (Nightmares Trilogy #3)
Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy #1)
Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)
Vacant Voices (Blind Barriers Trilogy #3)
The Syndicate (Timewaves Series #1)
Atlic (Timewaves Series #2)
THE DRIZZLING RAIN made the worn, cobblestoned streets slick. My hood was pulled tightly around my face, but the drops still clung to my cheeks and eyelashes. Wiping my hand over my face for what felt like the tenth time in sixty seconds, I quickened my pace as much as I dared. Running called too much attention, but a casual evening stroll in the rain felt odd. Even if I threw caution to the wind and jogged, knowing my luck and the tread on my sneakers, I’d probably wipe out and hurt myself. Given the number of people who’d gladly injure me, I didn’t want to do my enemies any favors.
Through the steam and stench hovering over the sidewalk in this area of London, I casually turned down the next street on my left. Hopefully, to any bystander, it would appear as if I was wandering aimlessly, without any particular destination in mind. It should seem that way, given the precautions I’d taken. After meandering around for an hour, I was finally nearing my journey’s end; a street that was only a twenty minute walk away from where I’d started.
My body began to relax, almost reflexively.
That reflex might prove to be deadly one of these days, I admonished myself.
Already starting in on a mental lecture, I forced myself to walk even slower as punishment. Even though I’d taken a different route than yesterday, there was no such thing as being too safe anymore. I couldn’t ever, not for a moment, let my guard down. The only way to stay alive was to be exceptionally cautious, and cautious people didn’t relax.
Despite the fact my senses naturally pulled in more details than those of an average human, a vaguely familiar voice in my head urged me to cycle through them, expanding each one further, so as not to miss even the tiniest facet of my surroundings. As I covered the last hundred feet, I practiced using my peripheral vision while still staring straight ahead. While appearing overtly casual. And not cross-eyed. I hoped.
Finally, I was close enough to make out the details of a door covered in chipping, forest green paint. A small window framed the crude painting of a giraffe, just discernable through the unending lines of block text in the background. On my first visit, the newspapers taped over the inside of the glass had made me nervous. After several visits, I’d come to appreciate the small layer of protection. While some didn’t like the fact that they couldn’t see who was outside, the regulars were far more comfortable being hidden on the inside.
Pulling open the door, bells overhead announced my arrival with a high, melodic tinkle. The cool air coming off of the stone walls and the delicious scent of baked bread enveloped my senses all at once, and I sighed. The homey ambiance and inviting atmosphere was a welcome departure from the callous world outside. Plus, my eyeballs were aching from constantly expanding my vision. In here, I could see the whole space without any extra effort.
Here was the Flying Giraffe Pub.
Located six blocks west of one of London’s famous parks, the Flying Giraffe was known for two things. One was its shady clientele. Hence the covered window. The other was a dish called Tugboat Stew—a delicious mixture of gamey meat, carrots, celery, and potatoes in thick brown gravy. The stew had been my sole daily meal for nearly two weeks running.
Back home, I would’ve balked at eating just once a day. It wasn’t like my awkwardly skinny frame benefitted aesthetically from limited caloric intake. And yet, things might have been far worse if not for a stroke of luck on my journey across the pond. I’d spent the four-hour flight from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania to London, England huddled in the freezing-cold cargo hold of a commercial hoverplane. Though it was hard to recollect feeling cold after walking through the steam garden outside, I’d been miserable.
Fortunately, the cargo hold was a veritable treasure trove for the supplies I’d been desperately lacking. I passed the time by rooting through checked luggage for clothes, cash, and other basic necessities. In a bright pink suitcase, covered in stickers advertising bands, I struck gold: jeans, t-shirts, sweaters, all in my size. There was even a pair of tennis shoes, only half a size too small. The girl’s wallet hadn’t been among her belongings, but a large roll of Global Currency—the monetary system used everywhere in the world, which we called Globes for short—had been stuffed inside of a lone sock. Stealing wasn’t normally my M.O., but being on the run from an international agency hell-bent on making me their prisoner made for relaxed morals. Everything normal was out the window; survival was king.
So far, the only light in the bleakness of all of this running and surviving was my daily trip to the Giraffe, which included a big bowl of the Tugboat Stew.
I was starving.
Starving, but vigilant. As I crossed through the pub’s entrance, I gave the area a quick sweep while barely moving my head. The hustling people in the rain seemed no more aware of me than they were of the individual stones beneath their feet. I was blending. Luckily, my eyes were light brown, not any of the obscure colors that immediately identified some as being Talented. It would’ve made this whole flying-under-the-radar thing much more problematic.
Tug, the owner of the Flying Giraffe, was in his usual spot behind the bar. He raised one arthritic hand and waved.
“Aye, Miss Kenly,” the elderly man called, his Irish accent lyrical and soothing. “’Tis a wet one out there, isn’t it?”
“Sure is, Tug,” I replied, crossing the scuffed planking of the floor and trying not to roll my sore eyes. So far, every day was a wet one in London. Yet, everyone seemed to comment on the weather.
Back in western Maryland, where my old school—The McDonough School for the Talented—was located, the weather was hot and dry this time of year. The thought brought a bittersweet memory to the forefront of my mind. As clear as if she stood in front of me, I could picture Alana Stillwater, my roommate and best friend, lifting her long dark hair with one hand and fanning her flushed cheeks with the other. “Ugh. It is so hot. I’ll have to sleep naked tonight, just to keep from sweating to death,” she would say. All the boys would then get dreamy expressions as they imagined Alana nude.
“Will ye have the usual, then?” Tug’s lilting accent recaptured my attention as I reached one of the suitable tables. The usual was a heavy bowl of stew and a chipped mug of piping hot black tea.
“You must be reading my mind, Tug. Thanks. Stew would be great.” I tossed a rare smile his way. There wasn’t much for me to smile about these days, and I knew my expression was a shadow of what it once was.
Tug dis
appeared into the back, leaving my mind free to return to the past and Alana.
A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I had no idea where she was now. Did she survive the attack on D.C.? If so, was she in hiding, like me? Or had our enemies caught her?
Don’t think about that now. Your survival, your freedom—that’s what is important.
No matter how many times I said those same words, the heartache and worry over Alana’s fate remained. It wasn’t even just her I was worried about. I didn’t know what had happened to any of my friends and classmates.
I shrugged out of my navy raincoat and hung it on a hook next to the table in the back corner of the pub, next to a short hallway leading to the bathrooms. This was one of only two tables that served my purposes, something I’d determined the first time I ate here.
The Giraffe had three points of entry and exit: one in the front, one in the kitchen, and a third—a fire door—by the women’s restroom. From this table and the one beside it, I could see all three, without leaving my back vulnerable. These small details were vital to my survival and status as a free woman. Thus far luck had been on my side and I had yet to encounter any UNITED agents, but I wasn’t so naïve as to believe that they were no longer hunting me. One day, they would catch up with me. Even though I was far from helpless, I was greatly appreciative of any assistance fate threw my way.
And not just with keeping me off of the radar; I felt fortunate to have found this place where people were kind and accepting, but didn’t ask too many questions. In only a few short weeks, the Giraffe had become a second home for me. With everything else going on, the ever-present kindness from Tug and the break from watching my own back were the highlights of my days. In fact, relegating it to second best probably wasn’t even accurate; the pub felt much more like home than where I laid my head at night.
Tug emerged from the kitchen area. “Willa’s got the kettle goin’ now. Yer tea will be out straight away, Miss Kenly,” he assured me, hobbling back behind the bar to resume whatever activity my arrival had interrupted.
“Thanks, Tug,” I called back.
Droplets of water plinked softly on the floorboards below where my coat was hanging. It would still be wet when I was ready to leave if I left it on the hook. Slipping around the table, I laid my coat on the wooden dowels stretching between the supporting legs of one of Tug’s homemade drying racks. Taking care to spread the fabric out completely, I left no wrinkles for pockets of water to linger in.
Returning to my table, I couldn’t help but consider how different my life now was from everything I’d ever known back home. Day and night. Black and white. Left and right. I’d never imagined that one of my greatest challenges in life would be staying dry. After four days of soggy sneakers, drenched sweaters, and dripping hair, I’d realized that particular problem wasn’t going to go away. Using some of the money I’d borrowed on the hoverplane, I purchased both the coat and my ever-present rain boots. Luckily, this area of London—known as the Slums, ever since the Contamination drove the wealthier residents from the center of the city—had abundant secondhand clothing stores. The items were sorely outdated, but well-made for the most part, and cheap. With limited funds, cheap was imperative.
I settled back in my seat. Though my mind was already whirring, I took a deep breath and prepared for a surge in brain activity. Bracing myself, I opened my mind and gave in to my Talents.
YEARS OF TRAINING had taught me to account for every eye and every ear in a room. But it was one of my Talents that allowed me to fully analyze potential threats. As a Higher Reasoning Talent—or a Brain as I was called back in school—my mind processed data faster than the latest, greatest, most expensive computers that money could buy. The McDonough School had taught me how to use that ability.
Even before Danbury McDonough had taken me under his wing, no matter how much information my mind was already taking in and processing, it could always accept more. Now, after the Director of the Agency had helped me achieve my full potential, I had no limitations at all. Having an unconfined, boundless mind was exhilarating. I was full of ideas, conjectures, and opinions on everything; endless thoughts and information flowed within my mind constantly. The only trouble was that, with data constantly gushing in and being analyzed—even the most infinitesimal details of the world around me were scrutinized and filed away for future referencing—it was really hard not to live entirely within my aching head.
The crowd was thin tonight, thank goodness. Sometimes I could really use a mental break, but I had no idea how to get one with my amped up capabilities.
Two men in fingerless gloves—one pair fraying brown, the other a tattered mismatched set—were playing chess at a table in the back. The ivory set of pieces was within two moves of checkmate. The black team could avoid the endgame by moving the only remaining knight to take out an ivory rook. Given the lackadaisical body language each man exhibited, and the smell of whiskey emanating from both, neither would see their most advantageous move. The game would continue for some time.
Beside them, seated on stools at the bar, two men drank pints of Guinness. Empty glasses sat between them, ignored by Tug in his attentiveness to a soccer match playing on the wallscreen above the bar. I’d seen the two men several times before, and I quickly recalled my initial assessment of each, and the combination of both together. I’d ruled them harmless then, and still believed that to be true. As usual, they were arguing good-naturedly, never raising their voices extensively, nor exhibiting any telltale signs of true hostility. In the past their squabbles had revolved around football players, teams, and games. Tonight was no different. Even with the count of those empty pint glasses standing at six apiece, I judged the men, once again, harmless.
Moving on.
I studied Tug. He was leaning against the shelf of stacked liquor bottles behind the bar, arms crossed over his chest, an uncharacteristically serious set to his jaw, and a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t ordinarily present. A warning bell pinged in my head. Tug was my barometer, his mood gave me an overall impression of the general atmosphere in the bar. When he was tense, it usually meant there was discord among his patrons.
A quick check of Tug’s facial tells and the level of rigidity in his wrinkled neck and I relaxed. The stiff stance was not one of anger or defensiveness. It was irritation. The soccer game—nope, that wasn’t right. The football match was tied at one-to-one, and a guy in a red jersey had just missed a penalty kick.
I’d previously determined that Tug had secrets unknown to me. No big surprise since we were more of passing acquaintances than true friends, and therefore weren’t on a braid-each-other’s-hair-and-spill-our-deepest-darkest-secrets level. Still, I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t curious about the Giraffe’s owner. Besides the stew, that curiosity was what kept me coming back in day after day.
With no further evaluation of Tug required—multiple in depth appraisals on numerous occasions had all concluded that he was harmless, and tonight’s appraisal had been the same—my mind continued on its linear track to the final patron.
Seated at the end of the bar opposite the two bickering men was a teenage boy. The tips of his spiky blonde hair were dyed a bright blue-green. This being a first sighting, I was immediately wary. With his back to me, it was difficult to ascertain much information about him, a fact that made my heart rate increase.
A pint glass sat in front of the boy, three-quarters full of amber-colored liquid. No hint of frothy foam remained at the top, and the bubbles of carbonation were few and far between. He was nursing the beer, not drinking with the speed and regularity of a guy looking to get drunk. It appeared he was there to hang out. His attention seemed to be on the telescreen—the British name for wallscreens—on the game, just like the others. But he wasn’t fooling me. There was a two second delay between when Tug and the two men cheered and booed for the plays, and when the boy did. Further data was needed to make a credible assessment. I’d keep an eye on him.
&nbs
p; The wallscreen with the game playing was mounted above a window designed to pass things through from the front of the pub to the kitchen and vice versa. Beyond the opening, I could see Willa, Tug’s granddaughter, manning the grill. She was a little older than me—twenty by my estimation—and worked nights at the Giraffe to help out her grandfather, a fact I’d learned by eavesdropping. Like Tug, she’d already been measured and decided upon. Non-hazardous was my official conclusion.
Willa glanced up from the grill as if she could feel me looking at her. A bit of sautéed onion flew from the spatula in her hand as waved to me.
“Hey, Kenly! Bucketing out, isn’t? Hope the stew’s not the only reason you ventured out,” Willa called, smearing white mush across her dark skin as she tried to wipe away what appeared to be a glob of potato.
Not a leading statement. Not an attempt to ascertain classified information. Idle chitchat from a person not quite a friend but more than a passing acquaintance.
“I came for the company, too.” I winked as I said it, even though, sadly, the statement was true.
Pathetic as it was, hiding in a foreign country, thousands of miles away from everyone I’d ever known, was extremely lonely. Willa and her grandfather were the closest I had to friends in London, and seeing them on a daily basis lessened the homesickness that gave me a constant ache in my gut. They were also the only link I had to the world outside of my head. Luckily, Willa and Tug treated all of the regulars like family. And in a way, I was sort of included in that. It was clear they understood how I felt and why I continued to show up every day; they always made an effort to be extra kind to me.
Willa laughed while looking around, playing at examining the company I’d supposedly come for.
“You’ve gone mad, missy. A bunch of sloshed wankers, they are. You’d be better off looking in the sewers for mates.” Willa dismissed the patrons with an over-exaggerated scowl and a wave of her hand. Yet, the fondness in her eyes told a different story than her words.
