Some of my anger faded. It was hard to be upset with her when she looked so contrite.
“It’s all so very complicated right now. More so than usual, and…” Willa trailed off and looked to Honora for help.
“And it doesn’t matter now. You’re safe. The Monroe’s won’t come after you now that Jaylen’s seen you with us,” Honora assured me with a smile that didn’t reach her dark eyes.
There was something that she, and the rest of them, weren’t telling me. I could have pressed the issue. But I had secrets of my own that I wasn’t ready to share. The Poachers weren’t my biggest worry right now. Yeah, if they captured me, I’d be in a world of trouble. It also wasn’t going to happen. I was strong, fast, Talented, Created. A group comprised mostly of ordinary humans was no match for me. UNITED was still my principle threat, with their advance weaponry and super agents, like Talia and her boyfriend. Untrained Talents like Willa and the others were no match for such a powerful organization. They couldn’t protect me from UNITED.
No matter what Honora and the others said, I wasn’t safe here. And now, neither were they.
AS EXHAUSTED AS I was, I still had trouble finding sleep. The apartment was dark, and everyone had grown quiet. Still, the sandman evaded me. So much had happened today, so many things that changed my world. From Alana’s foolish mission this morning, to her capture and the Councilwoman’s victory speech. From Talia’s smug expression as she looked on, to Alana and her group on stage, broken. From being chased by a mystery boy, to his appearance in the alleyway. From the arrival of Riley and his group, come to save me, to learning that people here in London bought and sold Talents like cattle. From learning of Willa’s lying, and her deceit, and the street gangs…. It was all too much.
As my anger grew, so did my anxiety. Without warning, a tingling feeling began in my fingers and toes. The familiar sensation grew, crawling up to encompass my arms and legs, and moving steadily towards my torso. It swept over my skin, encircling my entire body like a cloak. I knew I was no longer visible to the naked eye. Thinking of everything that’d happened today was causing my pulse to spike and my control to slip. I lost myself in the swelling tide, allowing it to carry me away.
Light Manipulation wasn’t the only gift Director McDonough had given me. In addition to invisibility—and immensely boosting the analytical and telekinetic Talents I was born with—I was one of an exceptionally lucky few who’d received a rare and extraordinary Talent: A Visionary’s. I was honored that he’d chosen me for such a remarkable power. I now possessed the ability to see the future.
Well, theoretically, anyway. Unlike invisibility, which I could summon on command, future-gazing was unpredictable. In fact, I had yet to have a true Vision.
The day after my injection, I caught the barest of glimpses into the future. It was like looking through a dirty window, covered by a gauzy curtain, on a foggy morning when the sun had yet to rise. Ghostly silhouettes floated across a canvas that had been washed way too many times.
Dr. Thistler, the head of TOXIC’s Medical Division, later told me that the Vision had lasted for sixty seconds. It felt much shorter. The whole experience was nothing like I’d expected; it felt like an obscured image that I was given three seconds to view and memorize. After it was over, with the Director and his wife watching in anticipation, Thistler asked me to describe the Vision for a sketch artist. When I finished, the white screen of the artist’s electronic pad had only a handful of faint black scratches. They were twisted into creature-like shapes from the dark fairytales my mom had read to me when I was little.
That was the first time the Director let his iron mask slip in front of me. Though not the last. I’d disappointed him. That realization had left me empty inside, as if his approval gave me life. Even now, weeks after his death, I yearned to make him proud. He’d given me everything—a home surrounded by my peers, a place my Talents were not only accepted, but embraced and nurtured. A life where I wanted for nothing. And then he’d given me even more—abilities and power that most people didn’t even dare to dream of. I wanted to prove that I was worthy of the extraordinary gifts that he’d bestowed upon me.
As I laid in my new bed in the London flat, an ocean away from the clinical room with its sterile white walls, beeping monitors, and acrid odors, with Dr. Thistler and her lackeys, Director McDonough and his formidable wife…the Vision seized hold of me. Anger, resentment, despondency, heartache, all fell away like layers of peeling paint, exposing the images hidden underneath. It was like flying down a spiral stairway in my mind, my feet barely skimming the boards of the winding steps. I considered grabbing the handrail, slowing my descent, and pulling myself back to the present. Instead, I did the mental equivalent of throwing myself over the railing, into the bottomless black chasm in the center. I let go, allowing the darkness to swallow me whole.
I was a third-party observer to my own future. Weird was an understatement. As if I was standing off to the side of the room, I could see both the other version of me—my Vision-self—and her surroundings through my own eyes. But only my mind was there; I couldn’t see my body at all. As if I’d left it behind. Which, I guess, made perfect sense. My physical body was lying on a bed, in a flat in the Slums. Only my consciousness had journeyed into the future.
Vision-Kenly sat on a green and gold floral print couch. A round coffee table, with three brass feet shaped like eagle talons, was in front of her. Matching armchairs sat on either side of the couch, both unoccupied. Cathedral ceilings created a draft, but the electric fire burning in the fireplace was meant to chase away the chill in the air. Over the mantel hung a larger-than-life painting of a man who seemed to belong in a different era. He looked like a king with his dark green sash, and the bands of gold and jewels hanging round his neck. There was even a thin crown of gold leaves resting atop his head. Something about his eyes, so alive in the oil painting, stirred a memory that I couldn’t quite place.
Despite the fire, Vision-Kenly was hugging herself, teeth chattering violently. She wore a thin, smock-style garment, like the gowns worn by medical patients. The orange flames illuminated her ashen face, accentuating her dry, cracked lips and the dark shadows beneath her somber eyes.
“Have you reconsidered my proposal?” a booming voice called from the shadows.
The voice was male with a distinctive British accent. Not like the brogue of my new friends, or people I heard around the Giraffe and the hostel. More eloquent and melodic. I could have listened to him speak all day.
Vision-Kenly stared straight ahead, feverish brown eyes fixed on the fire. I, however, searched for the speaker. His silhouette was all I could make out. He stood in a doorway to the right of the girl on the couch, his arms crossed, shoulder rested against the doorframe. The room abounded with puddles of darkness. He lingered in one of the deepest.
“It really in your best interests. You seemed to be of the same mind when you first agreed. Pardon my asking, but what has changed? I have satisfied my end of the arrangement, have I not?”
“By treating me like a prisoner?” Vision-Kenly replied, her voice painfully flat and apathetic. The laugh that followed was brittle and devoid of all humor. “This life—,” she waved one painfully thin arm in a gesture meant to encompass the vast room “—this life is no life at all. I’d be better off with them.”
The speaker took several steps into the parlor, just far enough for me to see a flash of golden hair but nothing more.
“You think so, do you? Your room—”
“Cell,” she corrected him.
“Your room has a telescreen. Surely you have seen the news.” He paused, but it was obvious she wasn’t going to answer. “No? Allow me to enlighten you, Miss Baker. The Created, your kind, are being massacred in the streets. The lucky ones who aren’t killed are being arrested and incarcerated. Have you ever seen a London prison? Heard what it’s like there? Even the rats here at Andrew’s Rock live under better conditions than those locked up in our fine city’
s prisons.”
She shrugged as if this information did not concern her. I had a hard time believing her disinterest was genuine; the man’s words terrified me.
“I offered you a way to help your people, Miss Baker. I was under the impression you understood.”
At this, Vision-Kenly leapt to her feet in outrage. When she spoke, her voice had lost the air of detachment from just a moment before.
“Help? You honestly think that you’re helping people? You’re inhuman. Or maybe delusional. Either way, what you’re doing, it’s degrading, humiliating, heartless.” Vision-Kenly was now shouting, her angry words bouncing off the walls and reverberating around the room. She laughed bitterly. “I’m so stupid. Why is it that I always pick the wrong people to trust? First the Director. Now you. You lied to me. You lied to me.”
“No, Miss Baker,” the man said calmly. “You lied to yourself. I was quite upfront regarding the terms. You heard what you wanted to hear.”
“Whatever.” It wasn’t the most eloquent reply, but my future-self seemed too tired to continue the verbal spat.
“Your time and my patience are running out. Either you will honor our agreement, or I will drop you in the center of London and watch as the mongrels rip you to shreds.”
The speaker finally emerged from the shadows. He was a dead-ringer for the man in the oil painting above the hearth. But his immaculately tailored navy suit and glittering golden eyes also reminded me of someone else.
As if on cue, his emergence caused the scene to fade to black. Darkness swept in from every corner of the room, settling over the two occupants and the parlor’s furnishings, until nothing but a pinprick of light remained. The audio switched off as I rose back up the spiral staircase at a dizzying speed. Nausea had my stomach roiling and I fought to keep the sickness down. And then, my eyes popped open with a jolt that left me breathless and frightened.
For a moment, disorientation and confusion were all I knew. I blinked rapidly and tried to slow my racing pulse. Several hurried heartbeats passed before the unfamiliar surroundings came into focus and I remembered that I was in my new bed, in my new apartment.
Below me, Honora’s even breathing told me she was either a heavy sleeper or I hadn’t cried out during my Vision as I’d feared. Good. Instead of trying to figure out what it all meant—the room, my appearance, the man—I just wanted to sleep. I was beyond exhausted, and my brain was starting to hurt from the constant incoming data. Focused on matching Honora’s slow inhales and exhales, I attempted to calm my pulse and turn off my mind. I tossed and turned, trying to think pleasant thoughts.
But everything that used to bring a smile to my face—thoughts of my mother, Alana, Francie, Donavon—now only brought pain. There was a good chance I’d never see my mom again. Alana was locked away, contained in some UNITED facility. Francie…well, I had no idea where she was. Her name hadn’t been among the list of casualties from D.C. I hoped that meant she was alive. Which was more than could be said for Donavon McDonough, who’d died defending her.
The familiar hatred began to bubble in my gut. Only, it didn’t feel as strong as usual. The all-consuming want to make Talia suffer wasn’t there. More than anything, I wanted to ask her why? Why did she help our enemies? Why was she working for them now? And why had she kept Erik from killing me?
Agitated and antsy, I decided sleep wasn’t coming any time soon. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I eased my body soundlessly to the floor. Honora sighed in her sleep but didn’t wake. On tip-toes, I crept to the door and gently pushed it open. The hinges were in need of oil and groaned as I slipped through the opening. I held my breath, ready to apologize to Honora if she woke up.
Definitely a heavy sleeper, I decided as she continued her even breathing.
Moving out into the main space was like entering a sensory deprivation chamber. The flat was pitch black, the heavy curtains blocking the street lights outside the windows. Deafening silence met my sensitive ears. Even my fingers tingled as I blindly felt along the wall for a switch.
“Difficulty sleeping, Chief?”
His voice scared the crap out of me. I whirled, unable to pinpoint the speaker’s location, and smacked my elbow against the wall. I swore loudly as the pain shot up my arm.
“I imagine it’s quite difficult after what you’ve seen. What you’ve been through.” The speaker continued, not waiting for my reply or bothering to ask if I was okay. His tone wasn’t sympathetic or gentle or even intrigued. It was flat, expressionless like he was reading the time from his communicator.
James, I thought bitterly. The speaker must be James.
“Excuse me?” I said, straightening and glaring in what I thought was his general direction based on the faint lines that had begun to materialize in the darkness.
“War. Death. The destruction of a once powerful city. People don’t forget those things.”
“You don’t know me, James. You don’t know what I have or haven’t seen.”
Wooden slats creaked as he shifted on the futon, then a lamp in the corner of the room came to life. I blinked as spots danced before my eyes. James, wearing only a pair of black gym shorts, was sitting on the futon, hands clasped between his knees. His hair appeared darker blond at the moment instead of the light brown of earlier; obviously the shade depended on the light. It was disheveled, giving him a more youthful appearance and softening his hard edges. His platinum eyes were alert, accessing, and I felt him studying me.
“No,” he said at last. “I don’t know you. But I do know what you are, Chief.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, a shield against his accusations.
“And what am I?” I demanded.
James gave me a smug smile. “Created.”
I swallowed hard and tried not to show my discomfort.
“We all know it already, Chief. No point denying it,” he continued. “Old Tug knew you were Talented from the moment you stepped into the Giraffe. Only after you opened your mouth did he suspect there was more to it.”
“Just because I’m American—” I started.
“Save it,” James said sharply. “Riley’s a Sensitive. A strong one. He estimates you have three, maybe four, skills.”
I stared long and hard at James across the small living room, debating whether to admit the truth. He was so confident, so satisfied with himself for knowing my secret that I wanted to lie just to take him down a notch, to tell him he was wrong.
Don’t be stupid. He’s baiting you. He knows nothing.
“What’s a Sensitive?” I asked, stalling for time.
“Someone who feels other Chromes, Talents, whatever. You don’t have them in the States?” It was less a question and more an accusation.
“We do,” I shot back defensively. “We just don’t have a name for them,” I added lamely. “I know a girl who can pinpoint our kind a mile away, and she can tell exactly what type of Talent the person is, too.”
It was true. Talia could do that. Why I brought her into the conversation, I’ll never know.
“Impressive,” James said drolly.
Our eyes locked, and I saw the tiniest spark of an emotion that wasn’t anger—a first in our short acquaintance. It may have been curiosity. It may have been respect. It may have been amusement. It may have been attraction. I wasn’t really sure, but it was definitely unnerving.
“Have a sit, why don’t you? You’re unsettling, bouncing back and forth that way,” James said.
I suddenly became all too aware that I’d been shifting back and forth on my feet. Again, my first instinct was to remain standing, simply to spite him.
Really, Kenly? You’re going to stand here all awkwardly just because he suggested you sit?
My next quandary came in my choice of seats: the futon, where James was sitting in the middle of the lumpy cushion, or the road car chairs, which looked unstable. One thing that the Creation Drug had not improved was my coordination, and falling on my butt in front of James was an embarra
ssment I was determined to avoid.
Stop being so damned juvenile. Sit next to him. Show him that he doesn’t intimidate you.
When I started for the futon, James shifted over to one side, angling his body to face me. Pulling my legs up to fold them beneath me, I realized how ridiculous I must look wearing polka-dot pajamas that belonged on a five-year old. Self-consciously I hugged my knees to my chest and tried to make myself as small as possible.
“Why are you out here anyway? Don’t you have a bed in there?” I quickly asked, pointing to the closed bedroom door that wasn’t mine.
James cocked an eyebrow. “With Riley and Willa? No thanks. I’ll take this old futon any night over listening to the two of snogging and then some. Don’t change the subject. Admit it. You’re one of the Created.”
I said nothing, squared my jaw, and refused to let the smug British boy know that he’d rattled me.
“Come on, Miss America. Give us a bit of respect here. We’re taking a rather large risk by letting you into our lives. At least let us know how deep the shite we’ve stepped in is.”
I cringed, hating that he had a point. My presence did put them in danger.
“The Poachers, UNITED, both are offering big rewards for Created.” James leaned against the arm of the futon, head resting in his threaded fingers. “Not to mention the gangs. I wager they’d make a leader out of anyone who bagged one of your lot.”
“The Poachers? Why? Why would they want—,” I caught myself. “I mean, why do they want the Created?”
“Why not? More Chromes, less hassle. Multiple skills all rolled up in one person. Right convenient for them. Besides, no laws saying they can’t take you. Parliament just barely protects Chromes. Laws looking after Created don’t exist.”
That thought sobered me. Shit. That was a horrifying concept. I could be kidnapped and sold into slavery, and it would all be perfectly legal.
“So, you’re going to turn me in?” I asked, already making my escape plan. James is strong but not quick. Speed is better than brawn in this situation. You can beat him to the door. “Hand me over to the Poachers?” Leave your stuff. The comm, the clothes, none of it’s as important as your freedom. Having no money and no stuff is still better than being contained or sold. “Call UNITED?” You’re not wearing shoes. Running without them will slow you down. But it’s better than taking time to find them and pull them on. “Collect your reward?” You don’t have a chance if you stop to do that, you won’t even make it out of the apartment. He’s barefoot too, you’ll make it.