Exiled: Kenly's Story (Talented Saga Book 5)

by Davis, Sophie

  “Dunkin, Priya, authorized for entry to Female Ward,” the melodic voice said.

  So Pint’s real name was Priya. I filed that piece of information away for later. Dunkin. Dunkin, Dunkin, Dunkin…. Where had I heard that name before? Ali. The sketchy guy in the Giraffe. He’d said the Dunkins were the ones out hunting for their upcoming auction.

  So Pint didn’t just work for one of the Poaching families. She was one of them. Whether that was significant or not, I wasn’t sure yet, but it was one more detail for my mental Pint file. The deference the other Poachers had showed towards her at the park also made a lot more sense now.

  The doors slid apart and Pint returned to her spot behind my wheelchair. Mole-the-Viking, led the way into the next room—a long rectangle with no windows and one set of doors at each end. Blue tiling covered the floors, walls, and ceiling. Glass partitions stood approximately seven feet high on either side of a conveyor belt, which ran nearly the entire length of the room. The air was cool and damp and reminded me of the communal showers in my dorm back at school, only way scarier and with much less privacy.

  I started to sweat despite the chill. So when Pint said ‘cleanup,’ the words had been literal. The indecency of what was about to happen struck me and had my pulse racing. I may not be modest, but there was no way I was stripping down and getting naked in front of these two.

  “Mole here is going to remove your restraints,” Pint said. “If you raise a finger or try to use your powers, I will shoot you. This time, they won’t be darts. One less bit of merchandise won’t have a bearing at this point. Do you understand?”

  I nodded my head and glared daggers at Pint. Though the gun she had drawn looked just like the gun she’d shot me with earlier, I wasn’t about to test that theory.

  “Say it,” Pint demanded. “‘I understand.’ Open your gob and say the words.”

  It was a pivotal moment. Throughout everything with the Poachers, I hadn’t spoken. They still didn’t know I was from the U.S. As soon as I said it, they’d know. And they’d know exactly what that meant.

  Briefly, I contemplated using my fake accent. But, really, what was the use? The Poachers had me. If even one of them who was at the park had half a brain, they already knew I possessed at least two Talents. If they’d somehow managed to miss that glaring fact there, I’d used both downstairs with Pint and tattoo-neck, as well. And no matter what, unless I came up with an escape strategy, they were going to sell me.

  Oh my God. They’re going to sell you. Put you up on a—

  I immediately silenced my thoughts before slipping into that ocean of despair. There would be no emerging again once I plunged in. That would be the end of me. And I really wasn’t ready for the end. For the time being, I had to hold it together. I owed it to James.

  No, do not think of James.

  Firm and steady.

  Keep your head clear, keep it together.

  Cool, calm, and collected.

  You’re Created. The very tip top of the food chain. These people will pay, just bide your time.

  Dangerous and terrifying.

  That’s it! Now intimidate these bitches.

  Might as well put a little fear into Pint and Mole while I had the chance.

  “I understand,” I said coldly, enunciating the words so there was no mistaking it.

  Mole was bending down, unfastening my ankle cuffs. She froze, then whipped her head around to look at Pint. Pint kept her eyes trained on me and smiled.

  “So, you’re an American, are you?” Pint said.

  “Created,” I countered evenly, matching her stare.

  “Pint?” Mole asked uncertainly, drawing out the word. The distress in her voice was hugely satisfying.

  “Go on then, uncuff her,” Pint said to the Viking, not breaking eye contact with me.

  “What’s your name?”

  Lie? Truth? Did it matter?

  “Kenly. Kenly Baker.”

  Pint’s smile was icy, but I thought I detected a flicker of fear in her dark gaze. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, but I hoped not.

  My leg restraints were off and I rotated my ankles to restore circulation. Mole moved on to the cuffs holding my wrists to the wheelchair. Seconds later, I was free. I didn’t try to tap into my powers. Not because I’d promised Pint that I wouldn’t, but because the likelihood of escaping from here was not great. I had no doubt that Pint would shoot me before I moved a muscle. She might pay dearly when her family found out she’d killed a Created, but I wouldn’t be around to enjoy it.

  “Go and fetch Elizabeth. Have her come round to the cells,” Pint directed Mole. The other woman scurried out through the same doors we’d come in through.

  No scan needed going out through the doors, only to get in. Good to know.

  Pint turned back to me.

  “You. Stand. Get on there,” she said, motioning to the belt with her gun.

  Head held high, spine ramrod straight, I stood and did as I was told. Though she’d already taken a lot from me, and would continue to do so, my dignity was the one thing Pint Dunkin couldn’t have. I hoped. At least, not yet.

  “Face forward!” she called.

  Once both feet were on the conveyor belt, it began to move. Not quickly enough to make me lose my balance, but enough to cause another adrenaline spike. My eyes darted from side to side, seeing only the tall glass walls inches away, holding me prisoner. Pint’s silhouette was visible through the right side. She was keeping pace with the conveyor belt. The barrel of the gun was still pointed at my head.

  It was all suddenly too much. My natural fight or flight instincts took over and my heart began to pound harder and harder until the sensation became painful. Every thump hammered brutally. Standing still became agonizing. My entire body abruptly felt as if the muscles were pulled too tautly. With my arm still at my side, I stretched it as much as I could. My hand clenched into a fist that I slowly rotated, trying to remedy the way my insides were feeling. I repeated the process with the other arm, moving as little as possible so Pint wouldn’t think I was trying to pull anything. My whole body was tensing violently in spasms.

  Breathe, breathe, breathe. Deep breaths. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. Relax. Breathe.

  Just as I was working myself into a rhythm of deep inhales and calming exhales, heat shot up one side of my body and down the other. It was more surprising than painful and I yelped before I could stop myself. Blue beams of light were crisscrossing my body. Without warning, my blouse and jeans fell away in pieces. Frantically, I tried to hold the scraps in place. The maneuver worked for a minute. But then, as if I’d entered a wind tunnel, a blast of cool air hit me with such force that my eyes filled with tears and strands of hair whipped my cheeks. The clothes I’d been desperately trying to hold on to were blown away. I let loose an inhuman, rage-fueled scream. Even over the sound of air rushing in my ears, I thought I heard Pint laugh.

  Sadistic bitch.

  The cold air left me shaking from head to toe, goosebumps covering my icy naked skin. All at once, streams of water pelted me from above, soaking my hair and causing me to sputter as it collected in my open mouth. The conveyor belt slowed to a standstill, keeping me motionless under the cascade of cold water.

  Seriously? The assholes couldn’t even give us the grace of using warm water?

  I pursed my lips, both to keep the water out and my screams in. My eyes were open, though, blinking rapidly in an attempt to keep my bearings. Struggling was futile, but I pounded on the glass wall to my right anyway, desperate to release the white-hot fury that was building up inside of me. The belt started moving forward again and I fell to my knees. Twin bolts of pain shot down my shins and I pounded harder. Pint’s silhouette cocked its head to one side.

  “Get to your feet, Miss Baker!” she shouted.

  As much as I wanted to rebel against the diminutive dictator, the humiliation of crouching on that conveyor belt was too great. I scrambled to my feet, just as streams of pink
scented foam shot out from nozzles on both walls. A glob landed in my eye and I wiped it away with the back of my hand, but not before some of the foam had worked its way under the lid, stinging my eyeball.

  The next assault came from below. Hot geysers erupted beneath my feet. It was obviously ironic, when I’d just been praying for warmth, but the water must have been heated in a volcano. The pain was all-consuming, every inch of my skin set ablaze all at once. Nearly knocked off-balance again by the force of the spray, I tried to use my Telekinesis to keep me upright. The power wouldn’t come.

  Not good, not good.

  Instead, I relied on my natural reflexes, barely managing to stay on my feet.

  There was a brief intermission between acts, giving me just enough time to catch my breath. It also gave me time to glimpse the next obstacle looming between me and the end of the tunnel. A ten by ten grid of nozzles hung from the ceiling, mirroring the grid underneath the belt. Identical grids were on both glass walls as well. Once they turned on, there wouldn’t be just a wall of water. There would be a cube of it, ten feet square.

  They’re going to drown me, I thought frantically.

  I turned and ran backwards. Much like a fish attempting to swim upstream, I got nowhere fast. Before I knew it, the belt was carrying me through the liquid death. The water was neither hot nor cold, but somewhere in between. Which would’ve been an improvement, if not for the jets themselves. It was almost as if they’d sought out ways to torture at every single stage. Needle-sharp streams stung my exposed skin, as if a horde of angry bees were attacking from every direction. I felt battered and bruised and desperately in need of oxygen.

  And just like every other time, as if they’d genuinely designed it that way, the old adage came to mind: be careful what you wish for. In the next instant, there was too much air. Hot blasts of steam that made my lungs burn and my flesh feel like it was being flayed. It was too much, I couldn’t breathe. Spots exploded in my vision and I fought to remain conscious. There was no way I was going to pass out naked. It was the ultimate indignity.

  The air eventually stopped, as did the conveyor belt. I was left standing on shaking legs at the end of the tunnel. Pint was there, dark hair frizzy from humidity, gun in one hand, a smock-looking thing in the other, and a beam of delight on her face. She threw the smock at me.

  “Put this on,” Pint ordered.

  I slipped it over my head, rivulets of water still running down my body and creating puddles around my feet. Pint reached for a pair of cuffs at her waist and gestured towards my hands with her gun. Compliance was my only option for the time being. Disobedience would result in instant death. Glaring, I held my wrists together in front of me and let her snap on the cuffs.

  The ordeal was the single most humbling and mortifying experience I’d ever lived through. Which, I understood, was precisely the point. It was meant to strip the prisoner of all humanity and wash away the old life in preparation for a new one. It was a first step in asserting control, a not-so-subtle way of introducing the dichotomy between captor and captive. The psychoanalysis helped me distance myself from the nightmare, as if it had only taken place in theory and not reality.

  Pint led me through a set of double doors.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, not really expecting a response. To my surprise, she answered.

  “A holding cell, for now. Elizabeth will meet us there.”

  “Who’s Elizabeth?” I asked, deciding to push my luck and hope she was feeling talkative.

  Pint turned her head and grinned over at me, a full set of gleaming white teeth on display and a twinkle of excitement in her dark eyes.

  “You’ll see,” she sing-songed.

  I shivered. Anyone who made Pint this happy was not someone I wanted to meet.

  We entered a cavernous room with six by eight foot cages, stacked two stories high, lining both sides of a wide cement walkway. Overhead, guards patrolled the area from a metal gangplank that ran the length of the prison block. The main area was brightly lit by fluorescent bulbs with the cells seeped in darkness. Soft sobbing drifted out from the shadows and made my heart hurt.

  Would that soon be me? So far I’d done a decent job of holding the fear inside. Would that change once I was alone, locked behind bars with nothing to distract my mind from forecasting future horrors?

  No. Stay strong. That’s what they want, to break you. Don’t let that happen. Even if just to spite Pint. Remember what James said about anger keeping him sane. It’s time to stop holding the fury back. Get livid.

  As we passed the cells, I tried to catch a glimpse of the prisoners inside. Pint kept forcing me forward, though. Every time I turned my head to look she would pinch my arm, giving the wad of skin a hard twist for good measure. I’d never hated someone as much as I hated Pint Dunkin. Not even Jaylen Monroe, who I loathed. I now understood just how deep James’s rage for Monroe truly ran. It was a bottomless cavern that sank into a black hole. Someday we would drop the two of them in it, smiling as their screams faded into the abyss.

  We finally stopped at the last cell on the left. Pint pressed her hand to a black box in the center of the bars and the gate slid open.

  The communicator on Pint’s belt dinged with an incoming message. She glanced down quickly and swore.

  “Well then, change of plans. Seems you’re all the rage. The Duke himself wants to make your acquaintance.”

  Pint’s smirk was smug, as if this news should inspire fear, cause me to quake in my nonexistent boots. Sadly for her, my knowledge of British aristocracy was extremely limited. I had no clue what a Duke was or where they ranked in the hierarchy, let alone why I should be afraid of one.

  “Come on then,” Pint said, slamming the cell door closed. “The Duke gets a bit cross when he’s put off.”

  Pint led me through the set of doors at the end of the cellblock, which opened into yet another elevator car. Pint jabbed a button marked “S” with the muzzle of the gun and the car shot upward. When the doors opened again, we exited into a spacious study with high ceilings, leather furniture, and a fireplace.

  I froze, paralyzed by the sight in front of me. My breath caught in my throat and I wanted to cry. I’d been inside this room once before, in my Vision. The present and the future were finally meeting. I wasn’t going to escape this hellhole. I was destined to be a prisoner, to watch James be tortured, to witness the brutal collapse of the Talented on a wallscreen, unable to do anything to help.

  A loud click thundered inside my head, like a deadbolt being slammed into place, locking away the hope I’d been holding onto.

  “OUT OF THE lift,” Pint snapped, the muzzle of her gun creating an imprint between my shoulder blades. Her irritation grew by leaps and bounds when my feet still refused to carry me forward.

  “Gone deaf have you? This loud enough for you?” Suddenly the gun was next to my ear, hammer cocked, and—

  BANG.

  I let loose an ear-piercing scream.

  She really did it. That pint-sized whackjob shot me.

  Tremors rocketed through my body, causing my knees to buckle. Next I knew, I was a shaking puddle on the elevator floor.

  Wait. Okay. You’re okay. Not dead. You’re alive. You’re alive. Crazy bitch!

  Pint crouched in front of me, casually tossing a bullet into the air with her free hand.

  “Next time this will be in the chamber.” The slug was nearly touching my nose when she held it between her thumb and forefinger for emphasis. “Now, are we ready to follow orders?” she asked in the tone that adults use when speaking to very young children.

  I hated that I couldn’t stop shaking and that my skin likely resembled wax paper. I also hated how she said ‘we’ in that condescending way. I wanted to respond with a witty quip. To show her that it was going to take a lot more than cruel tricks to break me. But words seemed to fail me at that moment. And even if I’d thought up an intelligent comeback, my lips were too numb to move. It was probably for the best. I di
dn’t exactly want to be pistol-whipped, and Pint obviously had masses of underlying rage seeking an outlet. Instead, I nodded, hating myself for being so weak.

  “Aces. I’m so pleased we’ve come round to an understanding.” Pint looped her arm through mine and pulled me to my feet.

  Oh, we’ve reached an understanding alright. I understand that you’re a lunatic.

  “Sit,” Pint demanded once we’d crossed the study, to where a sofa and two armchairs were arranged in front of the fireplace.

  I sat perched on the edge of the cushion. Pint took one of the armchairs, her feet dangling several inches from the floors. Crossing her short legs, she rested the gun on top of her knee, finger still on the trigger.

  Several minutes of tense silence passed.

  My Talents were still dormant. At least, my Telekinesis and Light Manipulation were. My Higher Reasoning abilities seemed to be working just fine, allowing me to catalogue every detail of the room with one sweep of my eyes.

  Elevator leads back to the cells below. Other exits: door to right of seating area, door in the far left corner behind desk, picture window covered by heavy drapes. Red and white roses visible through part in curtains—we’re on the ground floor. Should survive a jump unharmed.

  The task was completed in seconds, leaving me desperate for a new way to occupy my mind.

  My Vision—that was something. I stared into the unlit fireplace and allowed my mind to wander back to the scene that had taken place in this very room. A lump formed in my throat. The hysteria that had overtaken me in the elevator was on the verge of a repeat performance.

  Hold it together. Vision is important. Can’t fall to pieces every time you think about it.

  The old man had been the only person in the room with me. The fireplace had been lit, a roaring fire. Pint’s presence and the absence of the vibrant flames meant that I wasn’t about to live out the scene from my first Vision. But that knowledge didn’t put my mind at ease. All it meant was that I was destined to remain here. Wherever here was. And so was James.