Spinning to face the new threat, the baton already raised over her head—
“’Ey! Chrome!”
She paused mid-strike. We both swiveled to see the speaker, a teenage boy with messy ginger hair and a ring as wide as my thumb threaded through one nostril. My already racing heart began to pound faster when I saw the crumpled figure lying at the boy’s feet. Willa, dark hair fanned out around her head, shielding her pretty features, was not moving. The boy had a small caliber handgun aimed at the back of her skull, his jittery finger on the trigger.
“Yeah, you! You filthy abomination, I’m talking to you. Hurt my mother and I’ll spray this dog’s brains all over the street.”
The girl glanced between the woman cowering in front of her and Willa’s still form. Because it was me, I knew the thoughts running through Vision-Kenly’s mind. She’d no doubt noticed the boy’s unsteady hands, and the facial tick that gave the impression he was repeatedly winking at her. He was clearly unbalanced. Whether from bloodlust, actual mental impairments, drug-inducement, or just a bad case of nerves, I didn’t know. But it made accurately accessing the situation exceedingly difficult.
Fifty-fifty chance that he’ll accidently fire, regardless of what she did. Eighty-two percent chance he’ll shoot Vision-Kenly and then Willa, if she dropped the baton.
Shit.
Where were the others? Riley? James? Honora?
Because she was me, Vision-Kenly made the same decision that I would have. She released her grip on the baton, letting it slip from her fingers. But instead of falling to the street, the weapon sailed several feet through the air and struck the underside of the gun barrel. The man pulled the trigger. Blessedly, the shot went skyward. Unfortunately, he still had ahold of the weapon.
Vision-Kenly didn’t miss a beat. She grabbed the woman’s wrist and twisted, until she released the butter knife. Next, she delivered an impressive backhand that sent the man’s mother—who goes out hunting with their mother?—flying backward. From the height and trajectory, I had a sneaking suspicion that the blow was enhanced by my telekinetic abilities.
With the woman temporarily indisposed, future-Kenly raced to where the boy with shaky hands had retrained the gun on Willa. He was trembling all over, as if the facial tick had spread to all of his muscles. His jaw hung open and sweat was pouring down his face. He blinked feverish eyes down at Willa and never saw me coming.
Holding my nonexistent breath, I watched as my future-self tackled the boy. The two began rolling around on the ground, struggling for control of the gun. The boy was skinny to the point of emaciation, yet whatever was making him so twitchy also seemed to give him strength. There was clawing, jabbing, and elbow thrusting. The boy screamed obscenities and Talent slurs. They had no effect on future-me, but I cringed at the hateful names.
Finally, Vision-Kenly was able to wrestle the gun away from the boy. She stood, her hands perfectly still when she took aim at the boy’s forehead. All his bravado disappeared and a scared, young boy remained. He pleaded through snot-filled tears for his life.
Nearby, Willa stirred.
“Kenly?” she mumbled, struggling to sit up.
In the moment of distraction, the boy scrambled to his feet. He raced over to where his mother lay, moaning on the ground. He hauled her to her feet, wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders, and together they ran, leaving the unconscious third attacker behind. If she hadn’t been so concerned about her friend, Vision-Kenly may have followed them. But Willa was more important.
Future-me hurried to Willa’s side and helped her stand. Worried brown eyes scanned Willa from head to toe, searching for life-threatening injuries. Other than a nasty knot on her temple and a jagged cut across her palm, Willa appeared unharmed.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Vision-Kenly said, wrapping an arm around her friend’s waist to help her walk.
“Where’s James?” Willa asked.
“He chased one of them down the street,” future-me replied, voice tight. “We’ll find him.”
The night had grown eerily silent. There were no signs of a fight taking place, no grunts or shouts up ahead. A sense of foreboding made me want to hang back, but I soon realized that was not an option. It was like an invisible leash connected my two selves, the real one and the future one. My incorporeal form was pulled along as the girls hurried up the street.
It was Willa who saw him first. “NO!” she cried, knees buckling.
With that single word, Vision-Kenly froze, her muscles going slack. Unsupported, Willa slid to the ground, her chest rising and falling as she gulped the night air. Soft whimpers escaped through slightly parted lips as I mouthed a silent prayer for James.
In the pale moonlight his hair appeared almost silver. A lone curl hung down in the center of his forehead, the tip resting in the corner of one, open platinum eye. His body was so still, his gaze so flat.
The slow, cautions steps that future-me took to reach James’s body were almost cruel. But I knew she, like me, was not eager to confirm the truth that we both already knew. She knelt beside him and pressed two fingers to James’s neck. A moment later, her head fell forward, chin resting on her chest. The sob that tore from her throat broke my heart.
Beep…beep…beep…beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. BEEP. BEEEEEEP.
The steadily increasing volume and speed of the alarm wrenched me from the Vision. I blinked rapidly, trying to get my bearings.
Safe. Present. James is alive. Hasn’t happened yet. May never happen. Future is fluid, always changing. Breathe in. Breathe out. In and out. Good. Heart rate slowing.
I placed two fingers to the hollow of my throat to take my pulse. The simple gesture brought back the image of James’s broken body and the steady thump of my heartbeat increased once again.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to conjure a more pleasant memory. My attempts were futile, I could only see James’s lifeless body.
Hasn’t happened yet. Hasn’t happened yet. You can change the outcome.
I repeated the words over and over again in my head, finally muttering them out loud when the silent chanting did no good.
From beneath my rumbled, slightly damp covers, my communicator dinged with an incoming message. Anxiously, I patted the mattress until my fingers closed around the electronic device.
Incoming transmission, blinked across the small screen. After I hit the play button, James’s voice drifted out from the small speakers.
“Hey, Kenly, it’s me. Um, James. I finished up rather early on my appointment today, and now I’m in a hovercab on the way back to the flat. I spoke to Riley, he’s going to swing over to the Techno Hut and collect Honora when her shift ends. I thought maybe you and I could go for some dinner, and then over to the Giraffe to help Willa close up. See you shortly.”
I smiled, finally reassured that James really was still alive and unharmed.
And then frowned, considering the Vision again. I had no idea when in the future it would take place. I never knew for any of my Visions. It could be weeks or months or hours before the scenario I’d just seen came to fruition. That reminder was not comforting.
Clammy and still a little disoriented, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the futon where I’d laid down. I smoothed my hair back with one shaky hand, fingers becoming tangled in the rat’s nest that had taken up residence on top my head while I’d been entranced in the Vision.
Following my heart-to-heart with James the night before, I hadn’t managed a wink of sleep. After tossing and turning for a while, I’d finally admitted defeat when Riley’s alarm started blaring from the next room over. I’d crawled out of bed, fully intent on getting dressed and accompanying Honora to the Techno Hut. Just one look at my dark circles and bloodshot eyes had James insisting that I stay in bed. And I remember feeling way too exhausted to protest. I’d overhead him making my excuses to Riley, explaining that I’d gotten up in the middle of the night with a stomachache and that it was best if I rested. I appreciat
ed the lie. Tired as I was, I would’ve been useless to my new friends for safety and protection.
Honora and Willa had fretted over my health, the former offering to call in sick to spend the day caring for me. I staunchly refused. For one, I wasn’t actually ill. And it made me feel bad to accept their sympathy. For two, rent was coming due soon and I knew she needed the money. My staying at the flat without making any financial contributions was burdensome enough. A day of lost wages so that Honora could tend to my fictitious illness was just not okay.
I still had a roll of Globes safely tucked away in a sock, shoved inside my pillow. Every time I felt the small lump, guilt started gnawing at my insides. Giving them the money was the right thing to do. I knew that. But the stolen funds were all I had left from my mid-air heist and I was scared that I might need them to make a run for it. Not to ditch my friends—I’d apparently decided at some point to stay with them, to be a part of their improvised family—but to get out if the situation in London became too hazardous.
In truth, I knew that I’d already stayed to long, that I should’ve moved on already. To be totally honest, I should’ve left immediately after the encounter with Jaylen Monroe in the alley. Whether just an accurate deduction on his part, or he actually had the ability to feel Talents, the Poacher knew that I was Talented. Add to that the knowledge that I was American, and he’d probably surmised that I was Created. Without a doubt, I was on the Poacher’s radar. Not a good place to be. An even worse place to be? Near me. If I’d been a better person, I would’ve taken off. But the foursome had welcomed me without reservation, wanted me around. Even grumpy James had come around. And I wanted…to not be alone.
I SHOWERED QUICKLY in the tiny stall, then rooted through my meager belongings for the nicest outfit I currently owned. As it turned out, said outfit was the cleanest pair of non-holey jeans and a leaf green gauzy tank top that Honora had tossed at me two days before, declaring it was, “A tad too snug cross the top.”
I was standing in front of the dingy bathroom mirror inspecting my reflection when I heard the jingle of James’s keys as he unlocked the front door.
“Kenly? I’m home,” he called, easing the door shut behind him. “Kenly? You here?”
The note of alarm in his voice brought a smile to my lips. With one last glance in the mirror, I poked my head through the bathroom door.
“Hey. Sorry, I’m here. Just finishing up getting ready.”
His concern morphed into something more akin to shock. Self-consciously, I smoothed my recently blow dried hair and wiped at the corners of my mouth to make sure none of Honora’s Raspberry Sizzle lip gloss had strayed.
Since I only left the apartment to accompany Honora to work or collect Willa from the Giraffe, there hadn’t been a reason to wear makeup before now. But dinner out with James seemed like the type of occasion that called for a little extra time and care with my appearance.
It’s not a date, don’t go overboard, I’d told myself like ten times while applying the neutral-toned shadows, brown liner, and lengthening mascara to my eyes. Now, staring into James’s uneasy face, I worried that I had indeed gone overboard.
Oh no. He thinks that you think this is a date. When he said ‘grab dinner’ he probably meant at the Giraffe. Or from a chips cart. Duck back into the bathroom and wash your face.
I was about to do just that when James’s face split into a wide grin.
“You clean up rather nice.”
“Um, thanks,” I said, torn between being pleased he’d noticed and embarrassed that he had.
“And here I am, looking like a proper grease monkey,” he joked.
James wore his usual work attire, a white shirt and dirty jeans. The blue bandana that he used to wipe the excess dirt and oil off of his hands hung from one belt loop. His fingers were stained black from the day’s work and left a smudge across his chin when he scratched at the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning.
“I’ll just shower right quick—if that’s okay? Then we can go? There are a couple of hours before sunset, plenty of time to eat and walk around a bit before we go to the Giraffe. I’m sure you’re itching to get out of the flat.” The way he rambled made me wonder if maybe my extra primping made him nervous. That hadn’t been my intention. After the past month of living like a vagabond, I’d just wanted to feel normal again.
Right. Keep telling yourself that’s the only reason you’ve been staring at your reflection incessantly. Maybe one of you will actually believe it.
While James showered and dressed, I perused the airwaves for any new hits on the antidote and tried not to overthink my decision to go above and beyond basic everyday hygiene requirements.
The Daily Dirt was quiet on the antidote topic today. But a Swiss site did mention “UNITED’s increasing efforts to solve the Created problem before the upcoming Treaty vote.” I hated being referred to as ‘a problem’ when not all of us were causing trouble. It was tempting to post something to that effect in the comments section, to tell the world that some of us who were Created weren’t hurting anyone. With only negative press on Created, it would be good for the people to hear from one of us, to assure society that we were human and just the same as the rest of them. And yes, that included some bad eggs.
At the last second, I thought better of it. If they were anything like TOXIC, UNITED probably had teams of Brains writing algorithms to crawl the net space for things exactly like that. Since I’d trained with digital data, I was well aware of the ease with which they could track online posters. Even though my communicator was unregistered and technically didn’t exist at all, they could still use it as a homing beacon to pinpoint my location. Considering everything I’d done to evade them thus far, I didn’t need to be sending UNITED a formal invitation to our doorstep.
Continuing my perusal of Created news, I also found a short video clip from the states. The reporter was standing in front of a chain link fence that stood at least twenty feet tall, with old fashioned razor wire at the top. Behind her, several yards off in the distance, was a non-descript building similar to the one I’d seen in the last broadcast from the states, the one about TOXIC’s experimentation facilities. The caption at the bottom of the screen read, Cumberland, Maryland.
Biting my lip, I glanced towards James’s closed bedroom door. Music by a band that I didn’t recognize wafted out from behind it. I heard James singing along as he opened and closed dresser drawers.
Two, maybe three, minutes until he comes out. Enough time to watch it with sound before he emerges.
Hitting the volume button, I turned up the audio just loud enough to make out the words with my acute hearing. Everyone’s favorite reporter, Dana Duval, was explaining that UNITED had found another one of TOXIC’s supposed experimentation facilities. Unlike before, the international organization was not letting reporters close enough to catch any of the real action. That probably had something to do with the tenacious woman on the screen. According to Ms. Duval, UNITED was refusing comment on their latest find.
Crap, not again, I thought miserably.
I wished I knew more about the facilities and the extent of what the Director had built them for. And the patients. I wished I knew who they were, where they came from, if they were okay.
As the camera panned out, two figures in the background caught my attention. They were standing apart from the others, just slightly closer to the fence. Dressed in head to toe black, each was wearing a windbreaker with the UNITED emblem emblazoned on the back. From this distance it was hard to make out their features, but I’d have known her anywhere. Talia, ponytail of unruly curls blowing in the wind kicked up by a helicopter hovering not far overhead. She stood with her feet shoulder width apart, arms crossed protectively over her chest. The guy with her was a head taller and had his hands resting gently on her shoulders. I leaned in closer, my nose nearly touching the communicator screen as if that would somehow bring them into sharper focus.
As if on cue, the camera
zoomed in on the lovebirds, catching the money shot: Talia, plum-colored eyes shiny, tears weaving streams down her freckled cheeks as Erik pulled her in close and rested his chin on the crown of her head. He turned his face towards the camera, his expression hard enough to cut through diamond. A chill ran up my spine.
What the hell was going on? Why was Talia so upset? And why did Erik look like he wanted to murder someone?
“Ready, then?”
James’s voice startled me. I jumped and, in a poor show of dexterity, brought the communicator up too quickly and smacked myself in the face.
“Owww.”
“Oh! Are you alright? Didn’t mean to startle you.” James rushed across the living room, doing his damnedest to keep his smirk hidden.
“Fine. I’m fine.” I waved off James’s concern with one hand while tentatively patting my nose with the other.
Nothing broken. Just going to bruise. That’ll look so nice with your hair and makeup.
“Fascinating story?” James asked, still trying and failing to keep his amusement at bay.
One look at his face, and I couldn’t help it. A wide grin spread across my own, followed by a snort of laughter. James chuckled in response, watching me appreciatively. With that, the tension and weirdness from earlier were gone.
“Yeah,” I giggled. “You could say that. Let’s go before I do any more damage.”
TIBER STREET WAS one of the liveliest in all of London once the sun began to make its descent. The neon lights and thudding music of the clubs and bars were outshined only by the eccentric people who spent their time there. There was something about the place that I appreciated. Maybe it was because people seemed to come here to be their true selves—as freakish and outlandish as they pleased. Or maybe I just didn’t feel so conspicuous there. Whatever the reason, there was a feeling in the air on Tiber, as if any time spent there was fraught with endless possibilities.