Ensnared (Enchained Trilogy Book 2)

by Janet McNulty

  “Continue eating,” I tell him.

  He glances at me while holding his fork in midair encased in noodles as bits of white sauce drip from them, landing on the beige tablecloth. No words escape his mouth. No semblance of surprise fills his eyes as the intelligence behind them studies me, more bemused than anything else. “I was wondering when you would find me,” he says, placing the pasta in his mouth and speaking around it. “I had expected you before my lunch arrived. You’d think arbiters would be better trained.”

  He was expecting me! “How…” I begin, but he cuts me off.

  “You’re not as good at hiding as you think you are.”

  I glare at him.

  “Actually, I saw your shadow. When the sun is at a certain point in the sky, even when you think you are well-hidden in that alley, it will cast a faint shadow on the wall across from my door. Don’t worry. I’m the only one who knows about it.”

  Despite the smugness of his response, and how much it irks me, I reign in my annoyance and anger at having been made a fool of and try to find the words to tell him about the planned raid, wondering how best to inform him, before realizing that there is no good way to say it, but before I can, a waiter rushes up to the table and places a glass of water on it, asking for my order. My mind goes blank. I have no idea what they serve here and the stale air carries no aroma of spices or tanginess, not like what Sigal’s place had where my mouth salivated the moment I walked through the door. I have to order something. If I do not, it will look suspicious. “Whatever I am allowed to eat,” I say, holding up my wrist, allowing the man to scan the thin band around it, thus deleting funds from my allotment and cursing the fact that he showed up and can bear witness to my talking with the man across from me.

  “Do you want the zucchini or asparagus.”

  “Surprise me,” I say in a dry tone, indicating that I want to be left alone.

  Insulted, but knowing it is not wise to upset an arbiter, the waiter holds his tablet to his stomach, bows, and leaves.

  “That wasn’t…” begins the man.

  “They’re raiding your place tonight,” I blurt out, while keeping my voice low.

  The man puts his fork down, allowing it to sink into the bed of half-eaten noodles. “When?”

  “Midnight. They don’t believe that you didn’t know anything about your daughter’s secret life—”

  “You mean smuggling people out of Arel.”

  “—but are too afraid to just arrest you.”

  “That,” replies the man, “is because of what I do for them.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I’m an engineer.”

  Confusion must have filled my face because he chuckles just a bit.

  “I don’t wear the red uniform because I am not that kind of engineer. I build weapons for them, the ones the help you arbiters protect us all from those who live outside.”

  “Not all of them are hospitable,” I say, remembering the time my convoy had been attacked by barbarians.

  “My dear, I am not so foolish as to think that they are. Some of them are just as our leaders describe them as: barbaric, cruel individuals who thirst for war, but some are the opposite, and something tells me you already knew that.” He looks into my eyes, the way he did the night he prevented me from being caught out after curfew. “So, the killer now suffers from pity and doubt.”

  “I didn’t come here…”

  “Why did you come here?” asks the man.

  “You saved my life that night. You could have turned me in.”

  “I’m afraid that was not possible. If I had, they would have searched my place for certain and found those banned books, among other things.”

  “Are you always this snarky?”

  “A trait my late wife always complained about. Call it a bad habit if you will. Midnight you say?”

  “Yes, and you can consider us even.”

  “I never entertained the thought of you owing me. I ‘m not sure how I am to get rid of all that contraband.”

  “I suggest you find a way.”

  The man frowns at my statement.

  “There is one other thing,” I say as the conversation from the night in the presidents’ home enters my mind, “Mora is dead. They never sent her to the crematorium. They fed her to the dogs.”

  The man’s cheeks twitch as he holds in the emotions whirling within him, willing his anger to remain confined, instead of bursting forth and making its presence known for all to see, but his eyes conceal nothing, and I read the pain written within them as he struggles to keep his composure. He stands up, taking one last sip of his drink, before speaking again. “Do try the pasta. It’s not bad for a last meal, but nothing compares to the linguine that Sigal served. How unfortunate that his place has been shut down due to health concerns.”

  I watch as the man disappears. Of course, Arelian officials used a cover story for Sigal’s place being closed. It wouldn’t do to let everyone know that he chose to leave the city and had succeeded in being smuggled out.

  The waiter appears with my plate, smiling at a particular waitress as he exits the kitchen, giving her a flirtatious wink and giving me an idea as I know that I must do something to encourage him to remain silent about my presence here, because if he talks, I’ll be sent to the crematorium and all record of my existence will be erased. He puts a ceramic plate with green edging encircling it in front of me with three bean salad, asparagus, and meatloaf, all in their own section on the plate and each a single serving, making me miss Sigal’s overflowing platters of goodness, but before the waiter can step away, I snatch the collar of his shirt and yank him close, until my lips are against his earlobe. “If you tell anyone anything other than I ate alone, I will make certain that your life is a living hell, starting with that waitress over there.”

  His frightened eyes flicker over to the woman he had flirted with moments before, and judging by the quickening of his breaths, I know I have touched the correct pressure point.

  “Do we have an understanding?” I ask.

  He nods, and I release him, allowing him to run away and hide in the kitchen, leaving me alone with my meal, while a hollow void fills my stomach as my conscience chastises me for my actions: I have become Molers.

  Chapter 4

  Midnight

  A lone lamp flickers in my room, casting eerie shadows on the wall, each one circling the one my body creates—monsters threatening to consume me—as I stand in front of the square window, looking out at the wall beyond, a pastime that has become all too common for me these days. Dark figures amble across it, making their rounds as they protect us from any attacks that might happen, and I remember the times I have spent on the wall, each one during an attack, and wonder if Chase is sitting up, right now, looking back at Arel, thinking of me the way I am thinking of him. Melancholy fills my heart as I remember that it was me who sent him to his current predicament (Will Gwen ever forgive me?) and I snatch a handful of bobby pins from the black, oval-shaped bowl on my desk as I wrap my hair up, twisting the long strands into a bun, securing them. A quick glance in the mirror and I know that I look every bit the arbiter I am supposed to, but my eyes appear soft, worried, not hard or unforgiving like so many of my colleagues. My lamp flickers again, telling me that I will have to change the bulb soon, but as it dims and brightens in succession, its yellow glow makes my walnut-colored skin appear darker than it is, as shadows cross my eyes, giving me the appearance of a racoon, a thief in the night about to steal a man’s life. But what choice do I have? I glance at the time: 25 minutes until midnight. The others will be waiting for me and I mustn’t delay them. I snatch my belt, the same one Commander Vye had given me upon my arrival here, and wrap it around my waist, making sure that the baton is in its hold. A door in the hallway opens and closes, followed by another, and I know it is time for me to go. Taking a deep breath, I leave my room, walk down the hallway, and stomp down the stairs, taking my place with the others who have been chosen to go o
n this mission.

  “All right,” says Commander Vye, “you all know the drill. We will hit our target swiftly and leave nothing untouched. Our target is suspected of having conspired with a known traitor to Arel, but the council has decided that we need some proof of his treachery before we can proceed.”

  “And what if we find nothing?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice unemotional.

  “Considering the nature of this case, if we do not find any evidence of him having conspired against Arel, we will have to let him go, so be thorough in your search.”

  A few murmurs of “yes, ma’am” spread throughout those of us gathered.

  I hear a small squeak next to me and glance in its direction, finding the door to the plebeian quarters opened just a little with Sheila peeking through the slit, wondering what we are up to. She locks eyes with me and I shake my head just a little, hoping that she understands my message, pleased when she closes to the door.

  “Noni,” Commander Vye says, jerking my attention to her, “you will be taking point on this.”

  What? I am still a newbie, having only been an official arbiter for just shy of a year. This has to be another test, to prove, not just my loyalty, but to see how much I have learned, and if I will be capable of handling tough missions on my own, without her lead, or the help of any higher-ranking officer. “Ma’am?” I say, not wanting this honor.

  “This will be your mission to lead.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, garnering a few odd glances from the surrounding arbiters, and I notice Anan’s envious gaze as he glares at me, wishing me harm, while Renal’s encouraging gaze gives me the courage to step forward and do what is expected of me. I pace to the front of the room and look out at my fellow arbiters, all the color of night and each looking sharp in their black uniforms, each of them waiting for me to give the order, and I find myself thrown back to the day of the gauntlet, wondering if this is how we had all looked to Molers: hopeful, yet uncertain. “We have our orders,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  The door to the outside opens as we all pass through it and I watch as arbiters, each standing erect with their shoulders squared as they stare straight ahead with no emotion, no ounce of uncertainty on their faces, marches out into the night air, blending in with the darkness, while my mind argues with itself in an effort to come to terms with my part in this raid. No sounds greet us as we march two by two through the damp streets of the eastern sector: no crickets, locusts, or grasshoppers; not even the dripping of water from the rooftops due to the shower we had minutes before we left accompany us during our march. Pounding feet—that is all we have. I glance at Commander Vye in the front, silhouetted by the pale amber lights of the lamps on this moonless night, before craning my neck to catch a quick glimpse of the stars dotting the dark sky, twinkling as though they are curious about our excursion. Renal clears his throat, jerking me back to my mission, and I snap my eyes forward, keeping my face stern, emotionless, and robotic. This is not the time for admiring anything.

  We turn a corner, taking a more direct path to the man’s home—I still do not know his name—than the one that led me there while escaping the drones and arbiters on duty the night I had snuck out. A small whine fills my ears, and I turn in its direction, finding a drone hovering next to us. Odd. We did not have one the last time we raided a citizen’s home. Resuming my march, my mind ponders the drone’s presence, jumping from possibility to possibility as I grapple with this change, wondering what it means and what will follow afterward. Commander Vye holds up her hand and we all stop, taking our places, prepared to do what we must to ensure the safety and security of Arel.

  “Noni.”

  Commander Vye’s voice slices through the still night, reminding me of how a hot knife cuts through butter, and I rush to her side, taking me place, knowing what she wants me to do as words are not needed. Obdurate eyes watch me, each unyielding, each void of a soul, and all waiting for me to do what is expected, what is my duty. I know what awaits me if I fail, if I refuse, and I feel Commander Vye’s sharp gaze boiling my skin, causing sweat to form under my collar and beneath the waistband of my pants, as my internal temperature rises from all the pressure being pushed on me to complete one of Arel’s most basic tasks for an arbiter: rooting out traitors. The thudding of my pulse in my ears and neck almost drowns out the high-pitched squeal of the drone hovering next to me as it also awaits my command, ready to broadcast it back to the command division. Steeling myself as moisture beads on the sleeves of my jacket, I wave the two carrying the battering ram over and signal for them to break down the door.

  They rush over, holding the iron battering ram between them and position themselves in front of the door, remaining silent as they lift the battering ram into the air and swing it at the door, causing it to burst open as it smashes into the wall behind it, creating an ear-splitting noise that reverberates around us, striking fear into any who hear it. Arbiters pour into the room. I remain outside, waiting for them to do their duty and search the place for any contraband, and indication that the man knew of his daughter’s intentions and treachery. Once enough time has passed, I move from my spot and step through the door, finding myself surrounded by arbiters hurrying from one end of the room to the next, throwing books, pictures, shelves, knickknacks, and papers (they’re really just foldable electronic screens that look like paper, an illusion that people respond to in a more favorable manner) to the floor, coating the rug in their disarray. Copying Commander Vye’s stringent movements, my feet lead me through the melee as things crash next to them, while dust bunnies fly in the air, bombarding me, enticing me to sneeze.

  “What is the meaning of this!” yells an irate voice as the man storms down the stairs from the upper level and into the chaos that has consumed his home as we do to it what we will, not caring if a trinket gets broken or if a framed picture is ruined by muddy boots stomping on it.

  Commander Vye remains silent, directing her gaze toward me, telling me that this is my show and my responsibility to subdue any who challenge us.

  “Seize him!” I say, and a couple of arbiters snatch the man, yanking him off the steps and over the railing, not caring if they harm him as they throw him to the floor facedown, restraining him.

  “Mr.…” I allow my voice to trail off because no one told me the man’s name.

  “Luther,” Commander Vye says, the first time she has spoken since leaving the manor.

  “Mr. Luther.”

  “I prefer Luther.”

  “Luther,” I continue, clearing my throat and doing my best to sound as though I am in control, “we have reason to believe that you conspired with your daughter, Mora, in helping people to leave Arel, thus violating our laws and the safety of the Arelian people.”

  “Violated?” Luther looks at me, craning his neck so as to stare me in the eyes from his position on the floor. “I have just received word of my daughter’s death and you accuse me of treason?”

  For the first time, I spot the rolled-up notice in his hand, and I reach down, snatching it from his grip and unrolling it as words appear on the flexible screen, and I run my index finger down it, scrolling through it while scanning the words. It is a consolation letter from Arel, regretting to inform him that his daughter has passed due to unforeseen circumstances; it is a polite way of saying that she was executed. I toss the notice to the floor, allowing it to skid a little when it hits the hard surface and melts into the scattered items around it.

  “So, you knew nothing of her activities?” I ask, maintaining my role as inquisitor.

  “No.”

  “We shall see,” I reply, using a phrase I have heard Molers use, and my tone reminds me of him, making me quiver inside as it seems that with each passing day, I become more like him.

  Arbiters continue to ravage the place, knocking over a bookcase and ripping open cabinets while chucking anything they find onto the floor, stepping on books,—the screen of one flickers at me, and I pick it up, opening the flap so that I
can view the screen better while wondering what happened to the archaic volumes, ones with actual pages that had surrounded me during my first visit here—cookware, pottery, and pillows that had been torn down the center so that their stuffing poked out, all unconcerned that what had been a warm and inviting home has been transformed into a garbage heap. I chuck the book to the side and the crunch of broken glass meets my ears as it lands on the shattered surface of a coffee table. I wander the room, taking in every detail, every act of the arbiters around me, noting how Anan seems to be enjoying himself a bit too much, all while wondering what happened to the inflammatory books I had seen that night I was out after curfew. Did he suspect this would happen when he threw me out of his home and into the lonesome night? A few arbiters stomp down the metal stairs, having run up to the second floor after Luther had been subdued, shaking their heads, meaning that they found nothing that could be used to convict him.

  Not sure when this fiasco will end, I meander to a corner of the room where a lone desk sits, covered in blueprints, pencils, and rulers that has not been touched yet and realize why he has not just been arrested. Picking up one of the blueprints, and remarking at the detail of the drawing, I recognize the presidential seal. I scoop up another one: it is a scale drawing of the council chambers. The more I rummage through them, them more I am convinced that Luther is the chief architect for the executive district, putting him in a position where he cannot just be gotten rid of, and if also designs weapons for Arel, as he told me earlier, it makes him almost untouchable. As I look over some of his blueprints, noting how accomplished of an engineer Luther must be, something catches my attention on the shelves next to. I take a quick glance around the room, but no one watches me, too consumed in their own ordeal; not even the drone is focused on me. Reaching over, I tug on the item that has caught my notice and almost gasp when I see it: it’s a book, not the electronic ones like at the manor that are dressed up to look like leather bound volumes, but an actual book with pages (yellowed and stained) made of paper. My mind races with possibilities of how I can prevent this from being discovered, but I have mere seconds, not enough time to think of a plan, unless…