Awakening (TalentBorn Book 1)

by C. S. Churton

  I stop and think for a minute, then delete my search and slowly type in 'police weapons, blackouts'. I know it doesn't make any sense, I know that the police in this country don't carry weapons – but then what about this does make sense? As I read through the first-hand accounts of people who have been tasered and sprayed with PAVA I start to wonder if there is more to this than I first thought. Maybe the guy in the suit did do something. I mean, why wasn’t he waiting here for me when I got? Not that I’m not grateful to still have my freedom, but I was caught red-handed. He had me cornered, and he had the ring, and he, what, just walked away without either? Seems like a stretch.

  Or maybe it's something in the ring that's causing my blackouts. After all, none of this started until after I first touched it. But I quickly rule that out, because it's probably the most ridiculous thing I've come up with so far, and besides, I wasn't even touching it when I blacked out the second time.

  I sigh and lean back in my chair. Conspiracy theories are one thing, but this is bordering on insanity. I switch off the computer before I can drive myself completely mad, and start to pace around the flat. I pass the fridge and realise I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon. Maybe that explains my sudden onset of insanity. I'm not one of these girls who can skip meals without serious consequences. Usually it's just crankiness though. I pull open the fridge door and have a rummage, but it's a lost cause.

  I decide to get some food at the restaurant. Lloyd will let me scrounge a meal and pay later, and the walk will do me good.

  I'm a bit calmer when I get to The Glasshouse. It's pretty much deserted – Brendon’s shift doesn't start until this evening, and most of our regulars know his work schedule. I nod to Lucy, the new girl Lloyd's taken on to work Sundays, and claim a quiet seat in the corner.

  I pick up the menu and stare at it blankly, wondering if the day chef is actually capable of cooking any of this. Brendon redesigned the entire menu when Lloyd took him on, and I'm not sure some fresh out of catering school kid can pull off any of his creations. On the other hand, it's pretty much guaranteed to be better than anything I could concoct from the meagre contents of my fridge.

  I hear the chair opposite me creak, and I lower my menu to treat my unwanted companion to my fiercest frown.

  “This table's...” I stop mid-sentence as I recognise the man sitting across the table. It's the suit from this morning – Scott Logan – smiling benignly as though he hasn't come to tear my life apart. I stand abruptly, casting a glance at the exit, sending my chair tumbling onto its side.

  “Whoa, take it easy,” he says, raising his hands.

  “Take it easy?” I demand, stunned by his gall. But he hasn't made any move to stop me leaving, which is… unexpected. Like anything about this week is panning out the way I expected.

  “I just want to talk to you,” he promises, lowering his hands onto the table, and keeping them there, palms down. “Why don't you sit down?”

  He nods at my toppled chair. I hesitate. On the one hand, I need some answers. On the other, bad things happen when this guy shows up. Keeping my eyes firmly fixed on him, I right the chair, but don't sit on it. He raises an eyebrow, apparently amused by my caution.

  “Last time you showed up, I blacked out. I don't feel like sitting.”

  “You...” His forehead wrinkles above concerned blue eyes. Either he's genuinely confused or he's one hell of an actor. Or a sociopath. “Wait, you don't know what you're doing?”

  “What I'm doing?” I hiss. “I want to know what you did to me, you bastard. I woke–” I glance around and lower my voice. “I woke up with a pounding headache, lying in an alleyway God knows where.”

  “I didn't do that.” He seems sincere, but then again, so do sociopaths.

  “No? Then who did?”

  “You.”

  I stare at him, searching his eyes and trying to work out what he's getting at.

  “You mean I'm... passing out.”

  “You're doing a little more than that.” He gestures at the chair. “Please, sit.”

  Slowly I pull out the chair and perch on the edge of it. I've never noticed how uncomfortable The Glasshouse’s chairs are before. If I want to hear what he's got to say – and I think I do – then I need to play along. His hands are back on the table; if he reaches for a weapon, a taser or whatever, then I should have plenty of warning. In theory.

  “I'm sitting. Now tell me what's going on.”

  “You really don't know?”

  “Know what?” I demand, my frustration getting the better of me. I realise that I've clenched my hands into fists, and force them to relax.

  “That you're shifting.”

  “Shifting?”

  “Or phasing, teleporting, whatever you want to call it. So far as I can tell.”

  I pause, waiting for the punchline. He’s serious.

  “You're crazy.” I can feel myself shaking as I get to my feet, my chair scraping loudly across the floor.

  “Anna, calm down. Just hear me out.”

  “You're crazy,” I repeat. “Stay away from me.”

  I start backing away, and then turn towards the exit. Walking towards me is the Good Samaritan from this morning. He nods a greeting to the suit behind me. I gasp. How does he... how do they–? What do they want with me? I've got to get out of here. I've got to get away from them. I've got to–

  Chapter Four

  I know I'm alive because being dead can't possibly hurt this much. My head is literally exploding. Well, okay, probably not literally, but I'd have to move to check that, and I'm pretty sure that's not an option right now. I lie still, eyes closed, and take a mental inventory. Arms and legs feel okay, fingers and toes wiggle. Head feels like it's split in half. I'm on my back, and it's damp. I rub my fingers along the floor. Grass. I'm lying on damp grass.

  I force my eyes open to stare up at the grey expanse above me, and immediately start to gag. I roll onto my side and retch a couple of times, but my stomach has nothing to cough up. Small mercies and all that. I roll back flat and close my eyes again, focussing on the sensation of air entering and leaving my lungs. I tried meditation once, years ago, but I never had the patience. All that ‘feel the air moving through your body, breathe your connection to the earth’ stuff wasn't up my street. It doesn't seem so bad now, though. After a minute or two of just breathing, the pain in my head subsides to the point I can think.

  These blackouts are coming way too frequently for my comfort. What was it Scott had called it? Shifting? But shifting what? Shifting where? From the restaurant to here – wherever here is? I groan, from frustration and not pain this time. I've got even more questions than before I spoke to him. Like my Good Samaritan from this morning. They obviously know each other, but I'm not quite sure what that means. I am sure it can't be a good thing, though. Like maybe he's following me or something. And now I sound crazy and paranoid. Great.

  I forget about the second guy for the moment. He's making my head hurt worse than it already was, and I've got enough on my plate without worrying about him.

  I sit up slowly and open my eyes, relieved that this time I don't have the urge to vomit. I know this place. It's a playing field about two miles from my flat. Usually it's filled with kids kicking footballs about, and dog walkers yelling at their unruly charges, but luckily for me it's deserted, probably thanks to the foul weather. I'm not up to dealing with any more knights in shining armour, planted or otherwise.

  I try to put what Scott said from my mind. He's obviously a few pennies short of a pound. Except... well, much as I hate to admit it, it makes more sense than anything I've come up with. The medical stuff on Google could account for the blackouts and the memory loss, but it couldn't even come close to explaining how I managed to escape two cops who had me cornered, and get out of my flat when Scott was standing between me and the only exit. At least his theory could explain that.

  I can't believe I'm actually considering this nonsense. Maybe I hit my head when I blacked out. Ei
ther way, it strikes me that the middle of a damp field probably isn't the best place to think things through.

  I push myself up off the damp ground for the second time today and check my phone. Two thirty. I've been out for nearly two hours. I shuffle out of the park through the painted green metal gate and start heading towards home. Not that it's going to be home for much longer if I can't convince Mike to buy the ring for a decent amount. My impending arrest and possible descent into insanity haven’t changed the fact that I still have the same problems I had yesterday morning. If I can't raise the rent money, I'll be out on the streets come tomorrow night.

  I pause. Has it seriously only been a day since all of this started? I run back through everything that's happened and conclude that, yes, it really has been less than twenty-four hours since I stole the ring. And I've spent a large amount of that time unconscious.

  I thrust my hands into my pockets and carry on shuffling along the street. It's in one of the nicer parts of town – the wide pavements are clean and well maintained, and lined with spacious two-up, two-down houses, each with a small but immaculate front garden, two cars and a garage.

  It's hard to miss the sliding scale of disrepair as I keep moving. The gravelled driveways and freshly painted facades are replaced by crumbling paving stones and aged brickwork. By the time I'm home, the only trace of paint is the illegible graffiti, the street lamps are few and far between, and the air is heavy with a pungent mix of fox urine and rotting waste.

  I open the door to my block and trudge up the two flights of concrete steps. I pause outside my front door and rummage through my bag for the key, whilst making a mental note to either remove some of the junk from it or buy a bigger bag. But I like this bag. It goes with, like, ninety percent of my wardrobe. And I need all the stuff I’ve got inside it. I mean, I’m not sure exactly what’s in its depths, but I’m sure I put it all there for a reason.

  I finally get through the door, and close it with my foot as I drop the key back in my bag. I look up and yelp, the bag falling from my grasp. There's a man standing in the corner. I open my mouth to scream, and then recognise him as the suit. Scott. I watch him as I fumble for the door handle behind my back. I haven't ruled out screaming yet either.

  “Don't be afraid,” he says, raising his hands like he's trying to calm a wild animal.

  “Don't be afraid?” I snap, aware that my voice is shaking almost as much as my hands. “You've broken into my home! How do you expect me to feel?”

  “I'm not here to hurt you,” he promises in that all too sincere voice. “I'm not carrying a weapon.” He slowly takes off his suit jacket, holds it out the side and lets it drop on the floor, then untucks his shirt and turns slowly in a circle so I can see he's telling the truth. Which means nothing, because we both know he could overpower me if he wanted. He sees I'm not impressed and nods with a thoughtful expression.

  “I'm going to sit down, okay?”

  I purse my lips but release my grip on the door handle. Scott attempts to lower himself to the floor while keeping his hands raised. If I wasn't so scared I'd probably laugh, but I am, and I don’t.

  “I know,” he says, flashing me a boyish smile. “About as graceful as a three-legged elephant with an inner ear infection. And getting back up isn't going to be any prettier.” The smile fades and his eyes hold mine.

  “I just want to talk to you Anna, I promise. Tell me what I need to do to show you I’m on your side.”

  “Not breaking into my home would be a good start.”

  “Okay, well, if it helps, I didn't break in. I picked the lock.”

  I shake my head in disbelief.

  “No, that doesn't help. How would that help?”

  My voice is bordering on hysterical. I turn away and take a deep breath, and then realise I have my back to him. I spin back around and see his eyes sparkle with amusement.

  “Just tell me what you want and leave, before I call the cops.”

  “You might want to get rid of that ring before you call the boys in blue,” he says, nodding his head at the cause of all my troubles, still sitting on the table where I'd left it.

  “So I was right then. You're not a cop.”

  He stares at me for a moment, and I stare back, trying to decipher his expression. I've never been much good at reading people, although I wish I was – half of me wants to hear him out, and the other half is screaming at me to run full pelt into the nearest police station. I'm pretty sure that whatever the sentence is for stealing a ring, this guy is capable of far worse.

  “That was smart,” he acknowledges with a note of respect in his voice. “You're right, I'm not. I work for... well, we'll get to that.”

  He lowers his hands, apparently content that I'm done freaking out. I'm not so sure. I glance at the door, double checking I haven't put the security chain on, in case I need to leave in a hurry.

  “We've got a lot to talk about,” he says softly. “Why don't you sit? I'll stay right here.”

  It seems like every time I see this guy he's asking me to sit down. I'm starting to get an idea how it feels to be a dog. But my legs are feeling weak, and if I'm not going to run, sitting is probably a good idea. I take a tentative step to the sofa – the seat that's closest to the door – and perch on the edge.

  “I'm listening.” My voice is a hoarse whisper that I barely recognise.

  “Let me ask you something,” he starts. “Do you really believe you're just blacking out?”

  “Yes.” No. I'm torn between thinking he's the one doing this to me, and believing what he said in the restaurant. But his theories are so crazy, I don't want to say them out loud. Apparently, though, he has no such reservations.

  “I'm not a hundred percent sure what you're doing, but twice today you've disappeared right in front of my eyes.”

  “That's...” I grope for the right word, and realise there isn't one. “You're insane.”

  “As insane as blacking out in your flat and waking up in an alleyway? What do you think, that you're sleep-walking? Suffering from amnesia?”

  My cheeks colour. Somehow he's made my leading theory sound more ridiculous than vanishing into thin air.

  “The first time you blacked out – that we know of – you managed to get away from two police officers who were right on top of you. If you'd just passed out, don't you think you'd have woken up in a cell?”

  “That was the first time,” I confirm quietly, not wanting to address his other question. Because he's right, of course. It was one of the first things I thought of when I came around, and what I’ve been trying not to think about ever since.

  He sighs.

  “Yeah, I thought that might be why you were so spooked. Okay, look, it's not my job to convince you that you're doing this. You'll figure that out for yourself soon enough.”

  “So what is your job?” I ask, because if he’s not a cop, and not a sociopath – although let’s not be too hasty in writing that one off – I’d like to know what the hell he is.

  “I work for the government, for the Abnormal Genetics Research Department. AbGen.” He's watching me carefully in case I freak out. And I won't lie, the only reason I haven’t run away screaming is because my legs have turned to jelly. The government? When has that ever been a good thing? And “Research Department”? Those words alone conjure some pretty terrifying images of being chained up in some underground lab out in the country. I must have glanced at the door again, because he says,

  “Don't run out on me just yet. I can help you. You're having some pretty bad side effects right now. What if we can help you stop the black outs?”

  “You can stop them?” The words pop out of my mouth before I can decide if I want to ask them. Scott raises one hand slightly in a steadying gesture.

  “I don't want to make any promises I can't keep. We might be able to help you stop them. But don't you think it's worth finding out? My colleague tells me you were in a pretty bad state this morning.”

  He's right, again.
It’s only been a day, but already there's not much I wouldn't do to stop these black outs, or whatever they are.

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Come in with me,” he says. “Have a chat with our guys. Any time you want to leave, you can.”

  “Any time?” I say, not that I’m really considering it. I’d have to be crazy to consider it.

  “Any time,” he agrees with a nod. “And it's not like we could stop you, if you did your shifting thing, right?”

  I glance at the clock on the wall, and remember my meet with Mike. I want to get to the bottom of these black outs, but I also very much want not to get evicted.

  “I can't. I have to meet a guy and get some money to pay the rent.” I play the words back in my head and hope they didn't sound as bad as I think they did. Scott at least didn't seem to notice. Instead, he moves his hand slowly to his pocket, and pulls something out. He holds it up so I can see it's a phone.

  “Don't panic on me, okay?” he says with a smile, and then dials a number. He waits for someone to answer – I wonder if it's the Good Samaritan – and then speaks curtly.

  “Yeah, go ahead and transfer the money.”

  He waits another moment and then cuts the connection, and carefully places the phone on the floor where I can see it.

  “It's done.”

  “What's done?”

  “Your rent's paid up for the next three months.”

  “You've... paid my landlord?”

  “You can call him and check if you want,” Scott offers. I shake my head mutely. After a moment, I gather my wits.

  “And all I have to do is go with you?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “No, Anna, this isn't a bribe. The money's yours, whatever you decide to do, but I hope you'll come with me. I want to help you. I know you don't think it right now, but we are the good guys.”