Exiled: Kenly's Story (A Talented Novel) (12 page)

The day after my injection, I caught the
barest of glimpses into the future. It was like looking through a
dirty window, covered by a gauzy curtain, on a foggy morning when
the sun had yet to rise. Ghostly silhouettes floated across a
canvas that had been washed way too many times.

Dr. Thistler, the head of TOXIC’s Medical
Division, later told me that the Vision had lasted for sixty
seconds. It felt much shorter. The whole experience was nothing
like I’d expected; it felt like an obscured image that I was given
three seconds to view and memorize. After it was over, with the
Director and his wife watching in anticipation, Thistler asked me
to describe the Vision for a sketch artist. When I finished, the
white screen of the artist’s electronic pad had only a handful of
faint black scratches. They were twisted into creature-like shapes
from the dark fairytales my mom had read to me when I was
little.

That was the first time the Director let his
iron mask slip in front of me. Though not the last. I’d
disappointed him. That realization had left me empty inside, as if
his approval gave me life. Even now, weeks after his death, I
yearned to make him proud. He’d given me everything—a home
surrounded by my peers, a place my Talents were not only accepted,
but embraced and nurtured. A life where I wanted for nothing. And
then he’d given me even more—abilities and power that most people
didn’t even dare to dream of. I wanted to prove that I was worthy
of the extraordinary gifts that he’d bestowed upon me.

As I laid in my new bed in the London flat,
an ocean away from the clinical room with its sterile white walls,
beeping monitors, and acrid odors, with Dr. Thistler and her
lackeys, Director McDonough and his formidable wife…the Vision
seized hold of me. Anger, resentment, despondency, heartache, all
fell away like layers of peeling paint, exposing the images hidden
underneath. It was like flying down a spiral stairway in my mind,
my feet barely skimming the boards of the winding steps. I
considered grabbing the handrail, slowing my descent, and pulling
myself back to the present. Instead, I did the mental equivalent of
throwing myself over the railing, into the bottomless black chasm
in the center. I let go, allowing the darkness to swallow me
whole.

I was a third-party observer to my own
future. Weird was an understatement. As if I was standing off to
the side of the room, I could see both the other version of me—my
Vision-self—and her surroundings through my own eyes. But only my
mind was there; I couldn’t see my body at all. As if I’d left it
behind. Which, I guess, made perfect sense. My physical body was
lying on a bed, in a flat in the Slums. Only my consciousness had
journeyed into the future.

Vision-Kenly sat on a green and gold floral
print couch. A round coffee table, with three brass feet shaped
like eagle talons, was in front of her. Matching armchairs sat on
either side of the couch, both unoccupied. Cathedral ceilings
created a draft, but the electric fire burning in the fireplace was
meant to chase away the chill in the air. Over the mantel hung a
larger-than-life painting of a man who seemed to belong in a
different era. He looked like a king with his dark green sash, and
the bands of gold and jewels hanging round his neck. There was even
a thin crown of gold leaves resting atop his head. Something about
his eyes, so alive in the oil painting, stirred a memory that I
couldn’t quite place.

Despite the fire, Vision-Kenly was hugging
herself, teeth chattering violently. She wore a thin, smock-style
garment, like the gowns worn by medical patients. The orange flames
illuminated her ashen face, accentuating her dry, cracked lips and
the dark shadows beneath her somber eyes.

“
Have you reconsidered my
proposal?” a booming voice called from the shadows.

The voice was male with a distinctive
British accent. Not like the brogue of my new friends, or people I
heard around the Giraffe and the hostel. More eloquent and melodic.
I could have listened to him speak all day.

Vision-Kenly stared straight ahead, feverish
brown eyes fixed on the fire. I, however, searched for the speaker.
His silhouette was all I could make out. He stood in a doorway to
the right of the girl on the couch, his arms crossed, shoulder
rested against the doorframe. The room abounded with puddles of
darkness. He lingered in one of the deepest.

“
It really in your best
interests. You seemed to be of the same mind when you first agreed.
Pardon my asking, but what has changed? I have satisfied my end of
the arrangement, have I not?”

“
By treating me like a
prisoner?” Vision-Kenly replied, her voice painfully flat and
apathetic. The laugh that followed was brittle and devoid of all
humor. “This life—,” she waved one painfully thin arm in a gesture
meant to encompass the vast room “—this life is no life at all. I’d
be better off with them.”

The speaker took several steps into the
parlor, just far enough for me to see a flash of golden hair but
nothing more.

“
You think so, do you?
Your room—”

“
Cell,” she corrected
him.

“
Your
room
has a telescreen. Surely you
have seen the news.” He paused, but it was obvious she wasn’t going
to answer. “No? Allow me to enlighten you, Miss Baker. The Created,
your kind, are being massacred in the streets. The lucky ones who
aren’t killed are being arrested and incarcerated. Have you ever
seen a London prison? Heard what it’s like there? Even the rats
here at Andrew’s Rock live under better conditions than those
locked up in our fine city’s prisons.”

She shrugged as if this information did not
concern her. I had a hard time believing her disinterest was
genuine; the man’s words terrified me.

“
I offered you a way to
help your people, Miss Baker. I was under the impression you
understood.”

At this, Vision-Kenly leapt to her feet in
outrage. When she spoke, her voice had lost the air of detachment
from just a moment before.

“
Help
? You honestly think that you’re
helping
people? You’re inhuman. Or
maybe delusional. Either way, what you’re doing, it’s degrading,
humiliating, heartless.” Vision-Kenly was now shouting, her angry
words bouncing off the walls and reverberating around the room. She
laughed bitterly. “I’m so stupid. Why is it that I always pick the
wrong people to trust? First the Director. Now you. You lied to me.
You
lied
to
me.”

“
No, Miss Baker,” the man
said calmly. “You lied to yourself. I was quite upfront regarding
the terms. You heard what you wanted to hear.”

“
Whatever.” It wasn’t the
most eloquent reply, but my future-self seemed too tired to
continue the verbal spat.

“
Your time and my patience
are running out. Either you will honor our agreement, or I will
drop you in the center of London and watch as the mongrels rip you
to shreds.”

The speaker finally emerged from the
shadows. He was a dead-ringer for the man in the oil painting above
the hearth. But his immaculately tailored navy suit and glittering
golden eyes also reminded me of someone else.

As if on cue, his emergence caused the scene
to fade to black. Darkness swept in from every corner of the room,
settling over the two occupants and the parlor’s furnishings, until
nothing but a pinprick of light remained. The audio switched off as
I rose back up the spiral staircase at a dizzying speed. Nausea had
my stomach roiling and I fought to keep the sickness down. And
then, my eyes popped open with a jolt that left me breathless and
frightened.

For a moment, disorientation and confusion
were all I knew. I blinked rapidly and tried to slow my racing
pulse. Several hurried heartbeats passed before the unfamiliar
surroundings came into focus and I remembered that I was in my new
bed, in my new apartment.

Below me, Honora’s even breathing told me
she was either a heavy sleeper or I hadn’t cried out during my
Vision as I’d feared. Good. Instead of trying to figure out what it
all meant—the room, my appearance, the man—I just wanted to sleep.
I was beyond exhausted, and my brain was starting to hurt from the
constant incoming data. Focused on matching Honora’s slow inhales
and exhales, I attempted to calm my pulse and turn off my mind. I
tossed and turned, trying to think pleasant thoughts.

But everything that used to
bring a smile to my face—thoughts of my mother, Alana, Francie,
Donavon—now only brought pain. There was a good chance I’d never
see my mom again. Alana was locked away, contained in some UNITED
facility. Francie…well, I had no idea where she was. Her name
hadn’t been among the list of casualties from D.C. I hoped that
meant she was alive. Which was more than could be said for Donavon
McDonough, who’d died defending
her
.

The familiar hatred began to bubble in my
gut. Only, it didn’t feel as strong as usual. The all-consuming
want to make Talia suffer wasn’t there. More than anything, I
wanted to ask her why? Why did she help our enemies? Why was she
working for them now? And why had she kept Erik from killing
me?

Agitated and antsy, I decided sleep wasn’t
coming any time soon. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I
eased my body soundlessly to the floor. Honora sighed in her sleep
but didn’t wake. On tip-toes, I crept to the door and gently pushed
it open. The hinges were in need of oil and groaned as I slipped
through the opening. I held my breath, ready to apologize to Honora
if she woke up.

Definitely a heavy
sleeper
, I decided as she continued her
even breathing.

Moving out into the main space was like
entering a sensory deprivation chamber. The flat was pitch black,
the heavy curtains blocking the street lights outside the windows.
Deafening silence met my sensitive ears. Even my fingers tingled as
I blindly felt along the wall for a switch.

“
Difficulty sleeping,
Chief?”

His voice scared the crap out of me. I
whirled, unable to pinpoint the speaker’s location, and smacked my
elbow against the wall. I swore loudly as the pain shot up my
arm.

“
I imagine it’s quite
difficult after what you’ve seen. What you’ve been through.” The
speaker continued, not waiting for my reply or bothering to ask if
I was okay. His tone wasn’t sympathetic or gentle or even
intrigued. It was flat, expressionless like he was reading the time
from his communicator.

James,
I thought bitterly.
The speaker must
be James.

“
Excuse me?” I said,
straightening and glaring in what I thought was his general
direction based on the faint lines that had begun to materialize in
the darkness.

“
War. Death. The
destruction of a once powerful city. People don’t forget those
things.”

“
You don’t know me, James.
You don’t know what I have or haven’t seen.”

Wooden slats creaked as he shifted on the
futon, then a lamp in the corner of the room came to life. I
blinked as spots danced before my eyes. James, wearing only a pair
of black gym shorts, was sitting on the futon, hands clasped
between his knees. His hair appeared darker blond at the moment
instead of the light brown of earlier; obviously the shade depended
on the light. It was disheveled, giving him a more youthful
appearance and softening his hard edges. His platinum eyes were
alert, accessing, and I felt him studying me.

“
No,” he said at last. “I
don’t know you. But I do know what you are, Chief.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, a shield
against his accusations.

“
And what am I?” I
demanded.

James gave me a smug smile. “Created.”

I swallowed hard and tried not to show my
discomfort.

“
We all know it already,
Chief. No point denying it,” he continued. “Old Tug knew you were
Talented from the moment you stepped into the Giraffe. Only after
you opened your mouth did he suspect there was more to
it.”

“
Just because I’m
American—” I started.

“
Save it,” James said
sharply. “Riley’s a Sensitive. A strong one. He estimates you have
three, maybe four, skills.”

I stared long and hard at James across the
small living room, debating whether to admit the truth. He was so
confident, so satisfied with himself for knowing my secret that I
wanted to lie just to take him down a notch, to tell him he was
wrong.

Don’t be stupid. He’s baiting you. He knows
nothing.

“
What’s a Sensitive?” I
asked, stalling for time.

“
Someone who feels other
Chromes, Talents, whatever. You don’t have them in the States?” It
was less a question and more an accusation.

“
We do,” I shot back
defensively. “We just don’t have a name for them,” I added lamely.
“I know a girl who can pinpoint our kind a mile away, and she can
tell exactly what type of Talent the person is, too.”

It was true. Talia could do
that. Why I brought
her
into the conversation, I’ll never know.

“
Impressive,” James said
drolly.

Our eyes locked, and I saw the tiniest spark
of an emotion that wasn’t anger—a first in our short acquaintance.
It may have been curiosity. It may have been respect. It may have
been amusement. It may have been attraction. I wasn’t really sure,
but it was definitely unnerving.