Exiled: Kenly's Story (A Talented Novel)

by Davis, Sophie

  “All done, aunties?” Pint asked.

  Evidence of our earlier fight was even more noticeable on Pint’s alabaster skin than the last time I’d seen her. I smiled despite my dismal surroundings, way more satisfied that I should have been, considering Pint was walking free and I was in chains.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she Priya?” one ‘auntie’ asked, grinning like a fool.

  Other than the voice that came from the door, it was the first time I’d heard Pint addressed by her real name.

  “A real knockout,” Pint said dryly.

  “That I am,” I said, my voice hoarse. “How’s your eye?”

  Behind Pint, Mole let loose a snort of laughter. It quickly morphed into a cough when Pint turned angry eyes in her direction.

  Pint seethed, and I wondered if she was going to shoot me full of sedatives again. She was awfully trigger happy, after all.

  “Shut up,” she snapped at me. “Don’t speak. Your accent annoys me.”

  The fact that I was getting to Pint was like a ray of sunshine in this dark hell. And I intended on basking in it for as long as possible.

  “The buyers are beginning to arrive. Time to put this beautiful piece of merchandise on display.” Pint’s tone could have frozen lava.

  The old women clapped, confirming my suspicion that they were completely insane. Pint jerked her head in my direction, apparently commanding Mole to unchain me. The large female guard freed me from my ankle cuffs and unhooked my hands from the chains hanging from the ceiling, leaving the wrist cuffs on.

  Flanked by the small and the tall, while the crazy aunties watched expectantly, I exited the prep room.

  I was terrified.

  I was humiliated.

  I was furious.

  Most of all, I was determined.

  THE CORRIDOR THAT lay beyond appeared endless. Other than our odd trio, the sterile white walls and the stench of disinfectant, the walkway was empty. Given that I had no idea where we were and who or what was nearby, I plodded along between my captors, biding my time. Had I been alone, I might have resigned myself to a life of slavery by that point. But James and Francie were both here, likely nearby. And they needed my strength and focus if we were all going to make it out of here alive and free.

  Pint and Mole gossiped about people I didn’t know and hoped to never meet, seemingly unconcerned by my eavesdropping ears. Some were fellow Poachers. Others were Talents who’d passed through the same hall before me. And some were buyers.

  Those names I saved in my mental hard drive, under a file labeled ‘payback’. If—no, when—I escaped, I was going to expose every single politician, celebrity, and billionaire for who they were: slave owners. Maybe most of the world’s population wouldn’t give a damn. We were, after all, lesser citizens in the eyes of many, undeserving to walk the street among the masses. But others would though, even if they didn’t believe in Talent equality. They’d care simply because slavery was wrong. If even one politician was removed from office, one celebrity lost an endorsement deal, or one billionaire’s stock quotes took a hit, I’d feel as though I’d accomplished something.

  Along with names and identifying details, data on security camera placement, floor layout, and guard stations was also catalogued for later use. Every square inch of the corridor was under surveillance. It was a safe assumption that any area with prisoners would be, too. Unless my Light Manipulation resurfaced soon, odds were that freedom was not in my immediate future. But I would never give up, no matter how long it took.

  After what felt like the longest walk in history—in reality it was only seven minutes and three turns—the passageway dead-ended at an elevator. Inner turmoil yanked my desires back and forth until I was no longer sure of what I hoped for when the doors opened once more. I simultaneously wanted to know where Pint and Mole were taking me and dreaded finding out.

  Fidgety with anxiety and in need of a distraction from my thoughts, I was unable to keep my mouth shut any longer.

  “Are we going to the auction now? Or to another holding cell?” I blurted out once the metal box was traveling upwards. My voice came out low and wobbly, and I immediately regretted speaking.

  Pint was turned so she could see both me and the doors in front of her. The one side of her mouth that I could see curved upwards in satisfaction when she heard my distress.

  “Shut your gob, will you? No one gave you permission to speak.”

  Mole remained silent.

  The short ride, up two levels, was over too quickly. When the doors slid apart, I would have done anything, agreed to anything at all, to stay on that elevator forever.

  Until that moment, the day I’d fled the Hamilton Hotel in D.C. was the absolute worst time in my life, hands down. I’d figured that it always would be, too.

  The battle between TOXIC and UNITED had still been going strong as I bolted through the city. Smoke so thick that it obscured my vision. As I ran, I’d tripped over the bodies of my friends and enemies alike.

  Simply recalling the memory always made me cough.

  A Morpher—his teeth exactly like those of a beast I’d seen in history books about the Jurassic age—bit his opponent clean in two as I sprinted past. I remembered wanting to help somehow, but being too frightened to stop running. It wasn’t clear to me who I should’ve been helping, anyway. Obviously the Morpher was Created, so technically on my side, but no one deserved to face a monster like that.

  Another guy—this one had a serious overbite and sat at the computer next to mine in Advanced Cryptology—was mowed down by UNITED gunfire. Spasms rocked his body with each bullet. Tears sprang to my eyes when I couldn’t recall his name. It wasn’t until I was thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean that I remembered. Dave Sanchez. I’d never forget it again.

  I’d also seen a girl whose test answers Alana used to copy in our younger years. In a café on Wisconsin Avenue, her head sat in a display beside the cash register. Though I desperately hadn’t wanted to, I’d taken shelter behind the counter, stuffing a bag full of stale bagels, questionable lunchmeat, and chocolate chip cookies while trying to block reality from my mind. Unsuccessful, I’d vomited until my sides ached when I saw her lifeless hazel eyes staring out of the gelato case.

  Despite all of those atrocities and so many more, nothing was as horrific as the scene that lay before me.

  “Welcome to the Auction House at Andrew’s Rock,” Pint said with a wicked smile, shouting to be heard over the deafening roar from the massive crowd.

  The Auction House was enormous and round, like an indoor sporting arena. I counted five levels above me, stretching to a domed ceiling made of stained glass. The entire front section of the arena was raised—a stage. A VIP section of fifty velvet covered chairs was cordoned off with thick gold rope directly in front of the dais. Apparently, everyone else was made to stand. Demonstrated by the thousands of people milling around, directly in front of us.

  Pint leaned close to speak in my ear.

  “Admittance fees vary depending on who you are and whether you want to sit. Those front row seats pay 1,500 Globes just for the pleasure of being close to the merchandise. Of course, we deduct the fee from sale price, should a purchase occur. But you wouldn’t believe how many come just to gawk at your kind.”

  Pint obviously derived great pleasure from causing me distress. She made a game of studying my reactions to her taunts and barbs, her victories commiserate with how distraught I became.

  Point for you, Pint. I’m definitely rattled.

  “See the display booths up there? They allow the buyers to inspect the goods,” Pint declared with glee, pointing.

  Each level above us was comprised of hundreds of ten-by-ten glass panes sitting side-by-side, forming rings around the arena. From the dim lighting behind most of them, I concluded that the windows were actually one side of an all-glass cube.

  Some of these boxes had bright spotlights turned on within, shining down on a small, round platform in the very cen
ter of the glass prison. Standing upon the raised areas were Talents, illuminated by the light.

  Never before had I witnessed such degradation.

  I felt all the blood drain from my face. Pressure built behind my eyes.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

  Swallowing over the gigantic lump that formed in my throat, I blinked back the tears and glared at Pint. For a fleeting second, shock registered in her dark eyes. Evidently, she’d anticipated a stronger reaction than my brief lapse in composure. Even though the small sociopath and her complete lack of empathy disgusted me, playing along gave me something to focus on other than my nightmare-like reality.

  Point for me.

  Taking a different tactic, Pint quieted, allowing me to absorb the spectacle. A jumbo, trifold wallscreen hung over the stage. The images on-screen rotated in twenty second intervals, showing close-ups of each cube in turn. An ID number was placed over the bottom left corner of the view, with various specs and the individual’s Talent on the right.

  As I stared in disbelief, the terrified face of a girl with chipmunk cheeks and blonde pigtails gazed out over the crowd. The superimposed data proclaimed that she was only nine years old. Her crimson dress was the same color as mine, but in a style that was appropriate for her age.

  “Collectors usually snatch up the young ones,” Pint said.

  Ninety-five percent sure I was going to be sick, I swallowed repeatedly. Don’t do it, don’t do it, I told myself, imagining the glee on Pint’s face if I did. That alone was enough to keep my stomach contents in place.

  With the screen’s next rotation, the chubby-cheeked girl gave way to a guy with a split lip, hate-filled platinum eyes, and a trademark pissed-off sneer. James. Even battered and bruised, he was the most gorgeous guy I’d ever laid eyes on.

  I bit my bottom lip and wished that I could turn back the clock to our time in the alley after fleeing the King’s Pub. The kiss-that-almost-was would have been our first, and probably our last. Now I’d never know what his lips felt like on mine.

  Don’t think like that. Don’t give up hope. Be patient. Be alert. An opportunity will arise. Just keep believing.

  I will escape. I will escape. I will escape. I will escape. I will escape.

  Keeping my eyes glued to the wallscreen until James’s image disappeared, I memorized every detail of his perfect features.

  Just in case.

  “SMILE FOR YOUR potential owners,” Pint hissed in my ear, yanking me into the swarm of buyers milling around the arena floor.

  Digging my feet in, I resisted moving forward. Both my revulsion and my rage held me back; whether I got sick from their proximity or I started throwing punches at the savages around me, I only knew that entering the crowd was a terrifying prospect. Shouldn’t there be some back way to take me to my display box? Surely they didn’t parade all of the Talents in through the crowds.

  The answer was evident. Pint’s delighted expression as she bruised my ribs with her gun told me that this was an experience reserved for a special few of us.

  Men and women dressed in black-tie were suddenly all around me, blocking off any semblance of an escape. Whether it was Pint’s intention or not, the experience was a foreboding metaphor for my future if I wasn’t able to escape. Congregated in small groups, the dapper crowd was joking and laughing with one another as if they were all old friends at a cocktail party. Some watched the wallscreen and scribbled occasionally on comm tablets, ostensibly noting the Talents that they were interested in purchasing. Guards in black suits and clear earpieces mingled among the buyers, as did costumed waiters carrying bite-sized appetizers and flutes of pink champagne. Acrobats spun and twirled on scarf ropes hanging from the ceiling, giving the arena a carnival-like feel. The fact that the aerial entertainers were Talented was not lost on me.

  Once I began moving, desperate to make it through to the other side of the throng, Mole served as both my jailer and my bodyguard. Keeping a tight hold on my arm, she fended off grabby buyers who, for some reason, seemed desperate to touch me. Pint walked a step ahead of us, clearing a path.

  A woman wearing a bright yellow slip dress and black heels that laced up her thin calves stumbled drunkenly into the space between Mole and me and Pint. The slit in her dress ran to mid-thigh, catching every eye in the surrounding crowd. Coordination impaired by the alcohol, her feet became tangled together and she knocked into me before Mole could stop her. Using my shoulder as a crutch, the woman giggled and managed to regain her footing.

  “Oopsy daisy! Champagne totally goes straight to my head,” she tittered.

  My ears perked up instantly. The woman was American.

  “Miss, please release the merchandise,” Mole said stiffly.

  “I like this one!” the woman slurred. “She’s cute as a button.” She hiccupped and lightly pinched my cheek between her thumb and forefinger. “What can she do? How much does she cost?”

  There was something very familiar about the new president of my fan club. Not her wine-colored hair or spray tanned golden complexion, though. It was the voice that I recognized. And the glittering lime-green eyes. They were too alert, too appraising, too knowing, and entirely too sober. I searched my mental hard drive for some memory that would confirm her identity. Despite running through every file twice, I couldn’t place her.

  “The auction has not yet started,” Pint answered her, having doubled back when she’d noticed we were no longer following her.

  “One hundred thousand Globes!” the woman exclaimed exuberantly.

  Although her arm was still propped on my shoulder, I was actually supporting very little of her weight. Using the other hand, she reached into her delicate beaded clutch and withdrew a bulky roll of ten thousand note Globes. It was the first time I’d seen the denomination; I didn’t even know they went up that high.

  “You are welcome to place an advance bid, Miss,” Pint said stiffly. “But, regrettably, all merchandise must be placed on display. We must allow the same opportunity for all buyers to evaluate the pieces before a sale is made.”

  “But I want her now,” the woman pouted. “I’ll pay whatever you like. You can bend the rules just this one little time, can’t you?”

  How do I know her? From school? No, she’s too old for us to have been there at the same time. My mom’s neighborhood? Possible, but not probable. Anyone with that much money wouldn’t live in our middle class neighborhood. The eyes…. Here in London? Techno Hut? Maybe? Those eyes…. I know I’ve seen those eyes before. Where? Think, Kenly. Why is she pretending to be drunk? What could she possibly gain from it?

  An attractive man in a black tuxedo hurried to her side, evidently overhearing the exchange.

  “And you will have her, my love. Be patient,” he assured her, slipping an arm around her waist and drawing her into his side.

  He was also American, but nothing about him triggered a memory.

  “Promise, darling?” She drew out the word, then hiccupped again.

  “Anything for you, love,” he cooed.

  The affection between the two was genuine. There were several tells, but the way she relaxed against him was a dead giveaway. They were definitely in love. And yet, they didn’t seem altogether comfortable with the terms of endearment they were swapping. Evidently, the pair was unaccustomed to speaking to each other in such a lovey-dovey manner.

  What sort of game were they playing?

  The woman turned to face me.

  “Don’t worry, my pet. You’ll be coming home with me tonight,” she said with a wink.

  Oddly, as creepy as her words were, they didn’t give me chills or cause my stomach to turnover. I should’ve been overwhelmingly terrified, on the verge of an anxiety attack. A woman had just staked her claim to my person, declaring that she’d own me before the night was over. But I didn’t feel anything of the sort. Even her use of ‘pet’ didn’t come across as degrading. If anything, the encounter left me feeling relaxed. Agai
nst all reason and logic, I sort of welcomed the idea of this strange woman buying me.

  The man wrapped an arm around green eyes and steered her into the throng of onlookers. They disappeared in an instant. Only after they were gone did I notice how many people had stopped to watch the spectacle. Suddenly countless eyes were on me with interested, appraising looks. Which was why the man had intervened, I realized. For some reason—and I had a feeling that it had nothing to do with embarrassment—the man had not wanted the woman to draw so much attention.

  Weird.

  “You see? I told you that bringing her this way was a poor decision,” Mole hissed as the crowd began to disperse.

  Pint glared up at the guard.

  “And I told you to keep your opinions to yourself. These orders came directly from the Duke, so we are following them.”

  Pint and Mole continued to bicker as we wove our way from one side of the arena to the other, our speed considerably slower than before as more and more buyers arrived. Since neither Poacher was paying attention to me, I searched for the woman in the yellow dress, intent on getting another look at her face. Hopefully, without the distractions, seeing her again would jog my memory. Between the rich purple hair and sunshine yellow dress, she should have been easy to spot, even in a horde as dense as the one we were in. But she was nowhere to be seen, as if she really had been swallowed by the whale of a crowd.

  Shockingly, my gaze did snag on a familiar face, but it wasn’t hers. I actually did a double-take, certain my eyes had to be playing tricks on me.

  No way. Impossible. He’s supposed to be brain dead.

  I blinked several times, figuring the drugs were still wreaking havoc on my mind. Surprisingly, even after mentally shoving off the remnants of the fog and dispatching all of my energy to my sight, he was still leaning against the corner bar, martini glass in hand, each time I opened my eyes.

  The translucent skin that’d earned him the nickname ‘Casper’ among his students—the result of spending day after day staring at computing screens—now had a hint of color. In the past, his stringy blond hair had always looked in need of washing. Now it was combed neatly back from his face with just a hint of styling gel. Still thin but no longer gangly, it was surprising how nicely he filled out the white tuxedo.