Unleashed (TalentBorn Book 4)

by C. S. Churton

  While I’m still struck by this revelation, she drops on top of him, hammering our fists into him. The door! She’s wasting time, the door’s open, we need to get out of it. Not so fast, she purrs inside my head. I can feel her fury and her feral delight coursing through me as she pummels the barely conscious man. She doesn’t touch his face – she wants to see his pain. She’s going to kill him, I realise with a jolt. Get up! Get up, dammit, there isn’t time for this! We need to run! The time for running is over. Kill. Kill Scott. Kill Pearce. Kill.

  Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick. I try to wrest control from her before she blows this completely, but my limbs refuse to obey. I can’t let her hurt the doc, and I can’t let her waste time killing the traitor. She’s going to throw away our only chance of freedom.

  Freedom has to be taken.

  I see it then. She’s incapable of rational thought. She’ll just keep killing and killing until she’s the last one standing. There’s a reason I keep her locked up along with the...other. I’ve been thinking of her as a weapon, but she’s not. She’s a weakness. I try again to take control and shove her back in her cage.

  NO MORE CAGES!

  Her roar deafens me, bouncing around inside my skull until I think my eardrums are going to burst. It’s my body. I won’t let her keep it.

  It’s only been a few seconds since we landed the first elbow strike, though it feels like minutes. Scott is a bloodied mess beneath me, groaning in pain as the Savage ruthlessly exploits his damaged ribs. She drops our forearm across his neck, cutting off his air supply. A creak comes from the doorway. By the time the sound has registered with me she’s already halfway across the room. Our eyes lock onto the figure standing there, taser in hand and pointing right at us. His finger tightens and twin prongs shoot from the end, attaching themselves to my skin. Electricity courses through me, chased by agony as every muscle goes into convulsion. We drop to the floor mid-leap, helpless and convulsing, and then everything goes mercifully black.

  Chapter Eight

  Scott

  Scott held an ice pack to his ribs, while Joe shone a torch in his eye. They were in their makeshift med wing – which consisted of a bed, two chairs, and a table with a first aid kit on it. Scott blinked irritably and twitched away.

  “Hold still,” Joe said, reaching out for Scott’s eyelid again. Scott jerked away from the latex glove again, then pushed Joe’s arm aside and got to his feet. He grunted with pain as he stood upright, then tossed the ice pack on the table. Joe clicked off the torch and dropped his arm, watching him with a resigned expression as he started to pace.

  “I need a better way to get through to her,” Scott said.

  “You need to sit down and let me check if you’ve got a concussion.”

  “Later,” Scott waved him off. “I just need to get her to listen to me.”

  “What about Helen?” Joe said, tossing the torch aside. “Maybe she can calm Anna down long enough for you to talk to her?”

  Scott shook his head, and then winced, touching a hand to his temple and coming away with blood on his fingers.

  “Her talent doesn’t work on Anna anymore.”

  A hand rapped on the open door, and Duncan stepped through holding a steaming bowl of something that’s odour made Scott’s stomach churn.

  “Grub’s up, lad,” he said in his soft Scottish burr. Scott shook his head, more tentatively this time.

  “Yeah, I didnae think so,” Duncan said, setting the bowl aside. “Yer not missing much, Rohan cannae cook. Yer shouldda brought a chef with ye on this mission.”

  Scott’s lips curved into a half-hearted smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “What are ye going tae do with the lass?”

  “Fix her,” Scott growled, then winced as the movement tore open a partially-scabbed split on his lip. He hadn’t gone through all of this just to give up on her. He would never give up on her. It had taken Pearce months to break her, and if it took him years to fix her again, so be it. He leaned back against the wall with a sigh. He hoped to God it wouldn’t be years. Being with her, but not with her, hurt more than any of the injuries she’d inflicted on him.

  “She did a good job on ye,” Duncan observed.

  “It’s my fault,” Scott said, smearing the blood from his face. “I pushed her too far. I’ll go slower next time.”

  “You can’t go back in there with her,” Joe said, staring at him. “She’ll kill you.”

  “I’ll do what the hell I please,” Scott said, shoving himself off the wall he’d been leaning against, and then curling round his ribs with a gasp. He didn’t protest when Joe steered him back to the chair and dumped him in it, thrusting the ice pack into his hands. There was no point arguing with a mind reader.

  “Yeah, and don’t forget it. Now, can I finish cleaning you up?”

  When he didn’t bother to answer, Joe picked up an antiseptic wipe from their rudimentary first aid kit and started cleaning the cut to his temple.

  “Duncan could go in with her,” he said after a moment.

  “Excuse me?” the Scotsman objected. “Did I do something tae upset you, lad? I know the soup smells bad, but that’s a bit harsh, don’t ye think?”

  “Not ‘in with her’ in with her,” Scott clarified.

  Duncan looked at Joe with a frown.

  “Does he have a concussion?”

  “I mean,” Scott clarified, “you could use your talent.”

  “Ah. That’s not such a good idea. I wantae help Anna as much as anyone, but yer remember what happened last time?”

  Scott eased the ice pack from his side and looked up at the illusionist. Yes, he did remember what happened last time. She’d threatened to kill Duncan, and none of them – not even Duncan – knew what would happen if he died in his illusionary world. That was the last time he’d visited her in Pearce’s basement. Months ago.

  He winced as Joe clamped the ice pack in his hand back over his probably-broken ribs. Ice was hardly going to knit them back together. Joe coughed and raised an eyebrow. Right. Mind reader. And also medic.

  “Try to remember that. You need to bring the swelling down. Keep the ice there or I’ll strap it on.”

  Scott fired off a mock salute that send a fresh wave of agony through his ribs, and decided it was probably best to keep the ice in place. He turned away from Joe’s smug face and looked across to Duncan.

  “It’s a lot to ask,” Scott said.

  “But yer still asking,” Duncan said, holding his eye.

  “I am.”

  Duncan sighed, and walked up and down the confines of the small room. Scott watched him in silence. Few things scared the big man, but Anna evidently was one of them. After seeing her display in the alley, Scott couldn’t blame him. If her control inside the illusion was even half as good as Duncan had said, then what he was asking the Scotsman to do was dangerous.

  “Forget it. You’re right, it’s too much to ask. I’ll go back in myself.”

  “No,” Joe and Duncan both said. Duncan ran his hand through his short hair, leaving it in disarray.

  “I’ll do it,” he said eventually. “I know how much she means tae yer lad, and I owe ye. Who knows what those bastards would have done tae me if ye hadn’t showed up first.”

  Scott shook his head. He would have gotten up and clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, but the look Joe was giving him told him that getting up was going to earn him another lecture, and probably just get him shoved back into the chair again.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “You risked everything visiting Anna before.”

  The Scotsman grinned at him, but there was steel in his eyes.

  “Aye, well what’s life without a little risk?”

  Chapter Nine

  Anna

  When I come round, I’m lying on the uncomfortably soft bed. I listen to my thoughts, but it’s just me. Savage Anna is back inside her cage. I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. She’s not the only one stuck
in a cage – she just blew our only shot at freedom. I doubt even they would be stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. So neither will I: next time Savage Anna will stay in her cage, at least until I’ve spoken to the doc. I can’t afford to have her running all over the country in my body, killing anyone who catches her eye.

  As I watch, the ceiling takes on a shimmering quality – just for a moment. If I blinked I’d have missed it. Slowly, I roll my head to the side. I already know what I’m going to see.

  “Hello, Anna.” The soft Scots burr announces Duncan’s arrival – or at least, his appearance in this illusion he’s conjured. I narrow my eyes but don’t bother to reply. I’m exhausted after fighting the Savage, not to mention the aftereffects of the taser.

  “I’m sorry they had tae do that to yer. None of us wanted that.”

  None of them wanted that? Well one of them sure as hell did, or they wouldn’t have had the taser to begin with. I force myself upright on the bed and grind out:

  “What do you want?”

  “Easy lass, I just want a wee chat with yer.”

  I don’t miss the way his accent thickens. I still make him nervous. Good. I should. I don’t know how much control I can take of this illusion, but I know it’s more than I should be able to. We found that out last time he came harassing me back in my basement. I warned him off before I could find out how much more. I wonder which of us is stronger. Savage Anna hisses at me but I ignore her. I can afford nothing less than absolute focus inside Duncan’s illusionary world.

  “I’m not interested in talking,” I tell him, locking my eyes onto his. “Let me go.”

  “Sure,” he says lightly. “I’ll take ye anywhere you want, lass.”

  “Don’t play games with me, illusionist.” I push myself to my feet. To his credit, he doesn’t step back. “Let. Me. Go.”

  He shakes his head with a sad smile.

  “Sorry Anna, I cannae do that.”

  “Then I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  I focus, and a wall appears in front of him. For a moment nothing happens, then the wall starts to shimmer, and he steps through it. I roll my eyes.

  “That is so cliché.”

  He taps the once-more solid wall with a knuckle.

  “Do the words pot and kettle mean anything to ye, lass?”

  I purse my lips, conceding the point.

  “Well, what do you want?” I ask after a moment’s silence. “I don’t have all day. Oh, wait...”

  “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour. Mind if I sit?” Without waiting for me to reply, he pulls an old leather armchair into existence and drops down into it.

  “Make yourself at home,” I mutter, slumping onto the bed. That damned word triggers the same confusion I was feeling back in the alley, and I push the feeling aside irritably before it can manifest into something physical. Apparently, I’m not fast enough, though. That, or he doesn’t miss the way my voice catches when I say it.

  “Do you miss home, lass?”

  “Say that word again and we’re done here.”

  He raises his hands in a mollifying gesture.

  “I miss mine. I’ve nae been back... where I grew up in months. Didnae want t’ bring trouble to ma door. And you English haven’t exactly been the most welcoming lot, either.”

  “Maybe that’s because you’re working for the wrong side.”

  “Aye, maybe, though I dare say yer fella would disagree with you on that one.”

  “He’s not mine,” I snap.

  “Fair enough,” he says. A steaming mug appears in his hands, and he takes a sip, pointedly ignoring me.

  “Is he okay?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and then I frown, wondering why I cared enough to ask. The only reason I was trying to hold Savage Anna back was so she didn’t ruin my escape bid, and that ship has sailed.

  He looks at me over the rim of his mug, and his eyes soften just a little.

  “Yer did quite a number on him, but he doesnae hold it against y’.”

  “I don’t care what he thinks.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  My hands are trembling and I’m not sure why. Probably just the effort of not strangling this smug prick. Brings me back to my musings from his last visit, when I was still with the doc: if I kill him in here, does he die for real? The room darkens – a literal manifestation of my ‘dark thoughts’ and I let it go. Plenty of time to ponder that later, when the ambient lighting won’t give me away.

  “Having a hard time holding on to yer temper there, lass,” Duncan observes.

  “I’m having a bad day,” I say snarkily. “Sue me.”

  “I know it seems like that now,” he says, his voice loaded with enough sympathy to turn my stomach.

  “You know nothing.”

  “Alright Ygritte,” he says, and the reference throws me for a moment, before my mind floods with images of a TV show I used to love. He sets his cup down on a table that’s appeared beside his chair – it’s getting crowded in my cell. “So tell me.”

  “I’m tired,” I say, looking away and crossing my arms in front of my chest. “Let me out of your illusion.”

  That’s the rub – I can sense I’m in the illusion, shape it how I want, even wield enough power to make Duncan cautious, but I’m stuck here until he decides to let me out. It’s a bitter pill to swallow. A thought stirs at the back of my mind, but I quickly bury it. Now’s not the time.

  “Alright lass, we’ll pick this up later. Scott says to tell you he loves you.”

  Duncan vanishes and the illusion fades before I can tell him the feeling is not mutual.

  I’m lying on the bed – which is disorientating because a split second ago I was perched on its edge – and my arm is throbbing. I glance around the room, making sure I’m alone – I am – before sitting up and checking the offending limb. There’s a bandage wrapped around it, so I pull it back, uncovering a tidy row of fresh stitches. A shudder runs through me. I don’t like the idea of them anywhere near my body while my mind’s trapped in Duncan’s alternate version of reality. All things considered though, it’s probably the least of my concerns right now. They obviously have no intention of coming anywhere near me while I’m conscious. My little failed escape attempt has well and truly cocked that up. Thanks, Savage. She hisses back at me and I ignore her.

  Worst case scenario I’ll just have to wait for the doc to come and find me. I’ve become very good at waiting. Still, I don’t like the idea of having to be rescued. Snow White would never let me live it down.

  I look around the room, searching for weaknesses, but I already know there aren’t any. The photos have been taped back to the wall, I note with disinterest. Except one. The lone image is beside me on the bed. I expect it to be the traitor, but it’s not. It’s the one I was holding earlier. Iain Drake. Weird. What’s your game, Logan?

  “You’d better be, Logan. I have plans for us tonight.”

  I’m in the Ishmaelian base, and Scott is holding my hand in his. The memory is so real I can almost feel his body against mine. It’s the last night we spent together on that base, the last night we would be together before he’s infected by the MDRF-21 virus, though of course neither of us knows it. He’s leaving, dispatched on a mission by Ephraim, the Ishmaelian leader, and about to walk into a trap. He’s telling me he’ll be back before I know it. He’s wrong. I tell him I have plans for us, and he says he wouldn’t miss it for the world. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me to him, and his lips close over mine. My heart races and I melt against him, not wanting to let him go, until he breaks away and gives me a wry grin and I–

  I blink and shake my head, clearing the unwelcome images. My heart’s still racing, and I curl my lip in disgust. I will never touch him again. I stare at his image on the wall and fight the urge to pull it down. There’s no point, they’ll only put them up again. Waste of perfectly good energy. Just because they’re there doesn’
t mean I have to look at them. I could look away right... now. Or... now. Dammit. There’s one photo in particular that keeps drawing my eye. I’m windswept, I look a mess. He’s camera ready, and we’re both grinning like idiots. I was an idiot back then. What’s his excuse? I grunt in disgust and roll onto my side, staring at the blank wall on the other side of my bed.

  Chapter Ten

  Iain Drake

  Iain shoved his arms through the sleeves of his coat and snagged his keys from the rusty hook on the wall. He eyed the two suitcases stacked by the door, then took hold of them. It wasn’t much to show for the last year – two cases of clothes and an aging leather jacket. There wasn’t anything else he needed. If all went to plan, then he wouldn’t be coming back here. There’d never been much trace of him inside these four walls, anyway. It was just a place to sleep in between working, and in the last few months, searching for Anna. He’d even taken leave from the station so he could spend more of his time tracking down leads. He’d had to do something – Ephraim and the rest of the Ishmaelians had made it clear they’d washed their hands of Anna. Her group of friends – the former AbGen agents – had kept searching for her, of course, in between running Ephraim’s errands. But Iain wasn’t tied down the way they were. Sure, he was still a fully paid up member of team Ishmaelian, but he wasn’t talented, or gifted, or whatever they wanted to call it. His only job was to report in anything suspicious. He didn’t have to show up in between.

  He picked up the suitcases and tossed them into the back of his car. The good thing about Ephraim only asking him to check in every few weeks was that he could take off without anyone asking too many questions. Sure, he probably should have told the Ishmaelian leader where he was going, maybe even ask if there was any update on the search for Anna – but he was tired of banging his head against that particular wall. He was following up this lead on his own. If something came of it, he’d call the others for backup. If not – well, all his worldly possessions were in the back of the car. He’d keep going until he found her. That bastard Pearce couldn’t hide her forever.