Exiled_Kenly's Story

by Sophie Davis

  “Natalia Lyons, do you know her?” Libby repeated, louder this time.

  “Um, yeah, I do,” I said. “Wait, I don’t want James to stay here. I want him returned to London, to the Slums.”

  “Where is she now?” Libby asked, ignoring my request about James.

  “Depending on what you tell us, I may be persuaded to allow Mr. Wellington to return to his former life,” the Duke interjected.

  Best offer you’re going to get. Seventy-eight percent chance he’s lying. Need to take the risk. James will be sold tonight if you don’t.

  “Don’t, Kenly. Please, I’m not worth it. Look at me, please, Kenly, just look at me,” James insisted.

  You are worth so much more to me.

  Once again I refused to look at him, afraid that if I did I might start crying.

  “Where is Natalia Lyons now?” Libby repeated, clearly losing her patience.

  I shrugged.

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  The sound of knuckles hitting flesh was followed by a deep grunt. White hot pain exploded in my brain at the same instant. It felt like a machete was cleaving it in two. I screamed and covered my ears, as if to prevent gray matter from leaking out. As quickly as the pain had come, it was gone.

  “Wrong answer, Kenly.” Libby’s voice sounded very far away. “Let us try again. Where is Natalia Lyons?”

  “I don’t know,” I said through clenched teeth.

  The pain was worse the second time. I doubled over, clutching my head and praying for an end to the agony. Something hot and sticky slid down my cheek, off my chin, and onto the gray smock. In the distance James grunted again and swore loudly.

  “UNITED!” I shouted. “She’s working for UNITED!”

  The pain subsided, but I was shaking all over. Cold clammy fingers were kneading my brain like dough.

  Everything clicked in to place.

  And also like my Libby, Anabel Monroe was a powerful Telepath.

  The door slamming after she’d first entered the study.

  Libby was both telepathic and telekinetic. Plus, of course, the brain-splitting sensation. Libby Monroe was a full-on Mind Manipulator, just like Talia.

  Mental Manipulators could either quietly ease knowledge out of your mind or tear the place apart looking for it, ripping information from the passages of your brain and leaving behind a muddled mess. The other alternative was to inflict the sort of pain that could only come from the nerve center of the brain, torturing it out of you. No matter the method, psychic interrogation was unpleasant at best and excruciating at worst. Libby was a sadist, apparently, and preferred the latter.

  “Good girl. Next question. Where is she stationed?”

  This I really didn’t know. I glanced at James through clumps of drying hair. A thin smear of blood ran from one corner of his mouth and he was trying hard not to grimace. I sucked in a shaky breath. Plausible lie. I needed a plausible lie. James shook his head, a quick side to side motion that told me to keep my mouth shut.

  I sat up straight and faced Libby, Jaylen, and Nigel Monroe. In a surprisingly clear voice, I told the truth.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Talia in almost a month. Not since she helped UNITED defeat TOXIC.”

  Libby squinted her eyes, concentrating hard. I clenched my teeth and waited for pain that never came.

  “Okay. Moving on. What do you know of the boy?”

  “Boy?” I asked, confused. Erik Kelley was a little old to be called a boy.

  “The child,” Libby corrected. “Natalia Lyons has a child, a boy. What do you know about him?”

  Talia didn’t have a son…that I knew of. Was it possible Talia she had a child that she’d never said anything about? Quickly doing the math in my head, I concluded that it was impossible. At least not one who was old enough to be called a boy instead of a baby. No, no way.

  “Could you be any more daft? Not her child. She watches over him. I suppose one might call him her ward.” Libby gave a dramatic eye roll.

  Wait—how did…

  Great. Libby was in my head, reading my thoughts as quickly as I could think them.

  That was the nagging I’d felt at the mention of Talia’s name, I realized. My brain was trying to warn me to protect myself from the implantation of ideas.

  Since I’d never experienced the sensation I hadn’t noticed as she seamlessly supplanted my thoughts with her own. Except, I absolutely should have detected it. Chromes. With that one word, Libby had given herself away. I never thought of Talents as Chromes.

  Help your fellow Chromes. Agree to work for the Duke. Only Chromes who are in captivity will survive after the Treaty is overturned.

  GET OUT OF MY HEAD.

  Picturing Libby playing my mind like a piano—which was precisely what she was doing—gave me the rage and strength to fight Libby’s mental intrusions. She’d underestimated me. Underestimated my training. However the Monroes knew about Talia, about my connection to her, their research was lacking. Combat skills were not the only lessons I’d received from Talia. With Donavon’s help, the duo had also instructed me on blocking mental attacks. Even though I wasn’t great at building the conceptual walls, I was willing to gamble that Libby wasn’t great at knocking them down either. Luckily, this defense didn’t require the use of my Talents. Especially since I still couldn’t touch the power.

  While keeping my expression neutral, I imagined thick steel walls dropping down to enclose my brain, creating an impenetrable fortress that housed my private thoughts.

  Libby pounded her fist against her thigh and a very unlady-like groan slipped through her pursed lips. I couldn’t help the smile that slipped out. The barriers worked.

  Unfortunately, my mental walls did nothing to stop James’s attackers from physically assailing him. Seeing Libby nodding angrily, I turned just in time to see James’s head snap to the side, a mixture of blood and saliva flew from his cut lip and sprayed the coffee table.

  “No!” I screamed, too late.

  Pimple-face buried his fist in James’s abdomen.

  “You think you are just too clever, don’t you?” Libby growled. She was on her feet now, stomping one foot repeatedly until the spiked heel split up the middle. “Someone taught you a bit of blocking and now you’re acting all smug and superior. Fine, don’t let me you in. But don’t think for a second that you can keep me out. Impudent little twit.”

  James took a knee to the stomach, followed by an uppercut to his chin. The two thugs were alternating turns, trading blows, each attempting to outshine the other. I couldn’t stand another moment of it.

  “Leave him alone!” I shouted. “This has nothing to do with him.”

  “Shut up,” Pint snapped, thrusting the end of the gun directly against my temple.

  “Be reasonable, Kenly,” Jaylen said, speaking up for the first time. “So you don’t agree that we are simply matching Chromes with protectors. Fine. But helping us will save Wellington. He’s the only one paying the price for your stubbornness.”

  “I don’t know anything about a boy Talia is taking care of! I’ve never seen her with a little boy! Honestly, I haven’t seen Talia in a month. And the last time I did see her, she and her boyfriend were picking off TOXIC operatives right and left and she definitely didn’t have a kid with her,” I spat, the words tumbling from my mouth in a single breath.

  “Now, now, dearest,” the Duke said soothingly. “I believe you. Truly, I do. However, your lack of knowledge does nothing to further my search for the child. Therefore, I cannot allow Mr. Wellington to return to London.” The Duke shook his head sadly, as if he was actually sorry for me and my lack of useful information. “I’ve always been a sporting man. To prove just how generous I really am, I shall amend the terms of my original offer. Join my employ, and I will allow Mr. Wellington to remain at Andrew’s Rock with you. How does that sound?”

  “So your goon squad can use him as a punching bag every time you want something from me? No way. No deal,” I snap
ped back, tired of all the bullshit and nonsense. Regret for my harsh tone only came once I remembered that James was suffering every time I stepped out of line. It was past time to look out for him instead of giving in to impulse.

  Holding my breath, I silently apologized to James for the beating that was about to come, knowing that saying sorry was nowhere close to adequate. For some reason, neither goon raised so much as a finger, nor did the Duke give the order to punish him on my behalf. I sagged with relief.

  Nigel Monroe’s patience had finally reached a breaking point, however. His golden eyes became cold, hard, and terrifying. Under his piercing gaze, I shrunk back involuntarily.

  “I had hoped this negotiation would be more civilized, that we would amicably reach an agreement beneficial to us all. Unfortunately, that appears impossible, and I do detest when my time is wasted,” the Duke said coolly.

  Tense silence filled the study, so thick an axe wouldn’t have made a dent. An uncomfortable pressure bore down on my skull as Libby pushed on my mental walls with all of her strength. Thankfully, she got nowhere. The effort of keeping her out of my mind was taking its toll, though. Sweat was beading across my brow and my breathing was labored. Too much longer and I’d cave under the pressure.

  Nigel stood and put a gentle hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

  “Do not bother, Elizabeth. The girl has made up her mind. We shall let her see the consequences of her refusal. Once she has a taste of the alternative, I am of the mind she will soften to our cause.” He turned his golden eyes on me but spoke to Pint. “Take Miss Baker downstairs. Prepare her for sale.”

  PINT DID NOT take me back to the holding cells after the meeting with the Monroes. Instead, I was whisked back down the elevator, to another set of frosted glass doors. Above the entrance was a sign that read “Prep Room.” Inside, old women waited to torture me in an entirely different fashion than the mind filleting I’d just endured.

  Four cubicles sat on either side of a wide center hallway, partitioned off with sliding doors made of the same frosted glass as every other wall I’d encountered downstairs. Each partitioned area was a small workspace. One wall was lined with metal shelves holding scary-looking beauty instruments, another had a rack of crimson silk dresses, and the third had chains attached to the floor and ceiling. A single female guard was stationed by each door, ready to shut down anyone showing the slightest sign of resistance.

  Three of the cubicles were occupied, two with girls that I didn’t know but felt an immediate kinship with. The sight of the third girl, however, made me gasp. Stopping in my tracks, not even the feel of Pint’s gun lodged between my shoulder blades made me move forward. Her name was on the tip of my tongue, a whispered plea when it left my lips. As soon as I uttered the two syllables, I regretted the slip-up. Exposing our friendship would put her in a worse position than she already was—if that was possible. Only the reality of my situation and what they might do to her if they knew of our connection caused me to finally move forward. When Pint peered around to look at me, I did my best to appear weak, mentally urging her to believe that I’d stopped to catch my breath.

  Francie Owens. My other best friend from school. What the hell was she doing here? Had she been in London this entire time? Had she really been so close to me? So close that we could’ve helped each other, watched out for each other? Worse, did she know about Alana’s capture?

  Shock was quickly replaced by horror. My eyes filled with the tears I’d been holding back for what felt like years. My knees wobbled, and all the fight left me. Watching the Monroe’s thugs beat James because of me had been horrific. Seeing Francie, her ankles chained to the floor, her arms suspended over her head, while two women painted her face with garish makeup and yanked her frizzy brown hair into submission was heartbreaking.

  As I passed Francie’s cubicle, our eyes locked and surprise registered in her gaze. Moving as little as possible, I shook my head, silently warning her not to acknowledge our friendship. Never great with nonverbal cues, Francie’s lips parted and she mouthed my name. She began to struggle, as if seeing me brought new life into her tired body. Squirming and twisting like an eel, she tried, fruitlessly, to break free. The guard outside Francie’s cube pressed her palm to the sensor by the door and rushed in, tranquilizer gun drawn and aimed at my best friend’s chest.

  Neon caution signs flashed inside my head and my overly analytical brain warned me against getting involved. Intervening would only make the situation worse.

  I ignored the warnings.

  This was Francie we were talking about. Being thousands of miles across the Atlantic, I’d been unable to do anything to prevent Alana’s capture. Then I’d sat helplessly by, watching James being pummeled. I was beyond tired of feeling so damned useless. And so I was reckless, instead.

  The guards in the room moved as one, surrounding me before I’d even made it through the door to Francie’s cell. Suddenly, I was the one being sedated. Pint fired the dart into my neck, the chemicals raced through my veins, and I was falling forward into the waiting arms of a guard. Just before I lost consciousness, I sought out Francie, intending to say how sorry I was for not being able to help her. But the mumbled words that actually came out weren’t what I’d meant to utter.

  “I’m so sorry, James.”

  “Much easier when they’re asleep, ain’t it?” a wobbly female voice croaked.

  “Don’t know why they don’t simply tranq them all to begin with,” a second woman said.

  Blinking my eyes open, I found my mirror image staring back at me in the glass door. Behind me, her reflection barely taller than my own, I could just make out the stooped silhouette of a woman holding my head between her hands. In front of me stood a fossil of a woman. Shoulders rounded, a large hump four inches beneath the back of her skull. Dull green eyes, cloudy with cataracts. Shaggy auburn hair had probably once been lush and beautiful, but time had thinned to the point that her milk-white scalp was visible between the strands. Makeup brushes were clutched in her gnarled hands as she painted glittery red lipstick on my mouth. I tried to pull away, only to have hands tighten around my head and hold it in place.

  “Hold still, ducks, we’re nearly done,” the old woman said, frowning as she licked her thumb and wiped a smear of lipstick off my cheek.

  Without meaning to, I shuddered when her warm, wet skin made contact with mine.

  My shoulders and head ached. I felt weak all over, like I’d come down with the flu or something. The skin around my eyes and on my forehead felt stretched, as if my hair had been pulled up too tightly. When I tried to rub my temples, I found my hands were chained above my head, metal bracelets digging into my wrists.

  Unable to bear the sight of my restraints, I looked down. My toenails, painted a brash crimson with gold flecks, stuck out from underneath the hem of a silk gown, precisely the same shade as the nail polish. For the first time since my capture, the reality of the situation slammed in to me.

  Until that point, I hadn’t fully appreciated what it meant to be sold at auction. It would’ve been less demeaning if the Poachers had simply slapped a price tag on my forehead. Instead, they’d stripped me, power-washed me like a hovercar, and drugged me. Adding insult to injury, two old hags were now playing dress up with me.

  From what I could see of my reflection in the door, the result was a cross between an elegant china doll and a slutty streetwalker working the corner of Tiber. The silk dress was too small, apparently designed to create curves where some of us had none, and made me feel cheap, every inch of skin on display. Nothing short of a chisel and hammer would remove the thick layers of makeup. And the elaborately styled up-do was a disaster, with every single wisp of brown twisted, braided, curled, and wound around my head. I was meant for display, made to look as aesthetically pleasing—in the Poachers’ eyes anyway—as possible to maximize the price the buyers were willing to pay. It wasn’t hard to imagine what type of client would pay a premium for their “asset” to look like this
.

  Nausea rolled over me at the thought. In that moment, the Duke’s offer was tempting. No matter the other pitfalls of the job, I surely would be spared certain indignities by staying with the Monroes.

  No! You cannot give in. You will not. Remember: if you break, the Vision comes true. James will be held prisoner and tortured indefinitely. Denying the Duke wiped the slate clean—the future has been altered, all of those things won’t happen. Don’t change it back. If you find a way out of here, maybe just maybe you can do something to stop the massacre at Anabel’s Pier.

  Wishful thinking.

  “There!” the old woman exclaimed, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Pretty as a picture.”

  I actually considered spitting on her, but my mouth was too dry. Besides, the act was beneath me.

  The woman holding my head finally released it and walked around to join her coworker. She too was ancient, with grass-green eyes identical to her comrade and multiple white stripes in her auburn hair. The close resemblance between the two women suggested a familial relationship—sisters maybe.

  “Lovely, just lovely,” the second woman agreed. She reached out and stroked my cheek with one arthritic finger.

  Recoiling from her touch, I seriously reconsidered what acts were and were not beneath me.

  “The dress fits nicely,” the first one said. “Though there are no curves, like a boy.”

  “Some like that,” the second said, bobbing her head up and down knowingly.

  The two women were so creepy that I was almost relieved when Pint appeared on the other side of the glass. Pint pressed her palm to the biometric scanner and the door slid open. The tiny terror entered with Mole the Viking on her heels.