Caged (Talented Saga) Read online

  Chapter Two

  The steady beeping of the alarm clock grew louder with each chirp. I groaned. The only good part about being medically inactive was not having to wake up with the birds. Reaching blindly towards my bedside table, I slapped at the offensive machine. After several failed attempts, I finally connected with the off button. I remained lying face down in my bed for several more minutes, my breathing again taking on the steady rhythm of sleep. The beeping anew began.

  Ugh, I must’ve hit the snooze button. Groaning again I sat up, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. When my feet made contact with the cold wooden floor, I swore loudly, wondering where my slippers were. I padded over to the window and threw open the curtains. It was still dark out ...Awesome. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure that I wanted an assignment; sleep sounded like a much better option.

  Despite my increasing desire to climb back under the covers, I grabbed my robe and made my way to the bathroom attached to my sitting room. I turned on the hot water, waiting for the steam to fill the white-tiled space before stepping in to the walk-in shower. I savored this moment, my last shower without shoes for a while. When I was a student, I’d frequently come up here to bathe, but it was too far to make the trip on a daily basis. The showers at School were definitely NOT my fondest memory from my student days, and I somehow doubted that the teachers’ were any better than the students’.

  Following the deaths’ of my parents when I was ten, I enrolled to the McDonough School for the Talented, located on a secure facility in western Maryland. I’d always known that I possessed the power to hear other people’s thoughts and was capable of controlling their minds, but I hadn’t known that my ability was called a Talent. I soon learned that Talents came in all shapes and sizes. There were Morphers, people who transformed into various animals; Light Manipulators, those who could turn invisible; Higher Reasoning or Brains, who were like human computers, capable of analyzing information in the blink of an eye; Electrical Manipulators, people who harnessed and controlled electricity; Visionaries, who saw glimpses of the future; and Viewers, who could observe a situation that they weren’t physically present in; the list went on.

  Our gifts were a result of the Great Contamination, a breakdown of the nuclear reactors all over the world. The United States created the McDonough School to train Talented children in properly using and controlling their gifts. At sixteen, we took placement exams that ranked our abilities and determined the division of Toxic that we would be positioned in after graduation. I’d been selected for the Hunters, the only division that I’d ever wanted to be a part of.

  Hunters went on Missions to track down people and information that are a threat to either Toxic or the country as a whole. Most recently, the Hunters have focused on finding and destroying a group that opposes the Talent Testing Act, called the Coalition. They don’t believe that being Talented is a good thing that Talents are abnormal, and that what we are able do is unnatural. In a way, it is, but the skills that Talents possess help to protect the Nation. We have capabilities that far exceed those of average people, allowing us to both prevent crime domestically and preclude invasion by foreign countries.

  The Coalition is so opposed to the testing laws that it staged an uprising, causing seven states to secede from the rest of the U.S. Currently, one of the Agency’s main initiatives is to defeat the Coalition before civil war breaks out, hopefully reuniting the country.

  “Are you trying to drown yourself?” a woman’s motherly voice called as she knocked on the bathroom door.

  Sighing, I turned off the water, but didn’t respond. I opened the glass door of the shower, the steam so thick that I could barely find my towel and robe. I dried myself off as best I could, considering the amount of moisture in the air, then wrapped my heavy terrycloth robe around myself, cinching the tie around my middle. Bending over, I wrapped the towel around my long wet hair. The robe was so long that I had to hold it up, so I wouldn’t trip as I made my way back into the bedroom.

  When I opened the bathroom door, steam billowed out into the sitting room, forming warm clouds. The woman who had knocked on the door was sitting at the small breakfast table in the corner with a plate of scrambled eggs, thick white toast and a huge carafe of coffee. I sniffed the air and drank in the rich fragrance of imported dark roast.

  “Morning, Talia,” Gretchen greeted me warmly. Her clear blue eyes were warm and inviting, a sharp contrast to the cold gray ones of her husband. Despite the early hour, her blonde hair was perfectly coiffed, and she was already dressed in black slacks and a royal blue blouse. “I thought that you could use a good breakfast before your first day of school.”

  “Thanks, Gretchen,” I replied, giving her a genuine smile in return. Gretchen had been like a mother to me since the death of my own as Mac had been like a father to me, and I’d come to love them both deeply. My feelings for Mac had become muddled in the nine months since returning from Nevada, though he had gone to great lengths to aid me in my physical recovery, and I was extremely grateful for his support. But I’d also come to realize that there was a lot Mac had been keeping from me. I knew that as Director, he was privy to highly classified information that wasn’t any of my business, but all the secrets were lessening the steadfast trust that I’d always had in him.

  After moving to the U.S. to attend the McDonough School, I’d learned that Mac and Gretchen opening their home to me was a highly unusual practice. Since Mac had been a close friend of my father’s, he argued that he owed it to him to watch out for me. Mac had recognized me for what I was; he’d known that I was a Mind Manipulator the first time we met because Gretchen was one of the only other recorded Talents with the same ability.

  Gretchen had ranked as a Mid-level Talent during her Placement Exams, and been assigned to the Psychic Interrogation Division. But she had no stomach for the unpleasantness associated with questioning suspects and dreaded performing the interrogations so much that it made her physically ill. She’d requested permission to leave when she was pregnant with their son. Mac wasn’t Director then, but he was still well-connected, so her request had been granted. Now, the only role that she played in the Agency was wife to the Director.

  When my parents were killed, Mac had offered me the opportunity to learn to use my Talents, something that my parents had discouraged. I’d readily agreed, and Gretchen had taught me all about controlling the powers. She taught me to open up my mind so that I could hear everyone around me; she taught me to close my mind to keep out others seeking entrance to my thoughts; she taught me how to create a true connection with another person and about the potential harm in doing so. In no time, I’d surpassed her abilities; I was a much stronger Talent than Gretchen. It wasn’t long before I could actively enter someone’s mind without making eye-contact or touching them. I could control a room full of minds at the same time, bending all of them to my will. Thankfully, Gretchen also taught me about what happens when you abuse your power. She explained to me that Mind Manipulators are so rare because most have driven themselves mad controlling others.

  “I bet you’re excited. I know how hard these last several months have been on you,” she said gently, cutting in on my memories.

  I made a noncommittal noise as I began shoveling food in to my mouth.

  The eggs were covered in a salty cheese and contained mushrooms and onions, my absolute favorite. The thick white bread was warm, covered in butter and strawberry jam; Gretchen had made both the jam and the bread herself. I sighed happily as I chewed. Gretchen’s cooking had been the only other perk of my confinement.

  “How are you feeling today?” Gretchen continued, eyeing me over a steaming mug of coffee.

  Swallowing the too-big bite of my breakfast, I cleared my throat before answering. “Pretty good, but I’ll be better once I’m around other people.” Gretchen blanched, setting her cup on the table. “Oh, Gretchen that’s not what I meant! You’ve been great, it’s just been a little claus
trophobic being stuck inside my bedroom all day,” I tried to backtrack. I hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. She’d gone out of her way to make me comfortable, and without her companionship, I might’ve gone crazy.

  “I understand, dear,” she replied, offering me a small smile. “Dr. Wythe called late last night. He’s very pleased with your progress.” I groaned. I sort of despised my therapist.

  In addition to my physical rehabilitation, Mac had insisted that I see a therapist. Dr. Wythe was the same shrink that Mac had sent me to after I’d witnessed my parents’ murders, and I loathed discussing my feelings with him; it reminded me of the months that he’d spent grilling me on what I’d seen when the Coalition raided the hotel room where we’d been staying and killed my only family. This time around, he focused incessantly on the conversation that I’d had with Ian Crane following my capture. The therapy was boring and pointless since he typically disregarded what I said and suggested a version of events that correlated with what the Agency wanted me to believe. It hadn’t taken me long to figure out that if I just told him what he wanted to hear, the sessions would end. After I’d agreed that everything said by Crane was a lie, Dr. Wythe declared me healed. He still stopped by Mac’s house when he was on campus, but I was no longer required to endure his daily torture.

  Though I’d convinced Dr. Wythe that I didn’t believe Crane’s words, I hadn’t convinced myself. I didn’t include every detail of our conversation in my official report, leaving out the part where Crane insisted that he’d known my father. I wanted to work through that on my own, wanted to decide if it was a lie without the influence of the good doctor. I wasn’t sure what Talents Dr. Wythe possessed, but they seemed like a weaker version of mine. He couldn’t read minds like I could, but he had an influence over people, much like my compulsion. His suggestive nature had nearly worked on me in my weakened condition, but my desire to cling to the truth won out.

  “Has Danbury told you which Instructors you’ll be paired with?” Gretchen continued, a cloud of displeasure darkening her normally bright eyes.

  “Um, not yet. He said that he’d have the list sent to my communicator,” I said absently, returning to my eggs now that the topic of Dr. Wythe was closed.

  Gretchen grew quiet, scrutinizing my table manners. The slight grimace contorting her beautiful features was the only outward indication that she disapproved.

  “Danbury is out for a run right now, but he wanted me to be sure that you are ready to go at 6:30,” she said, her features reverting back to an easy smile. “I packed a bag of things for you to take to the dorms with you, but call if I forgot anything and I will send it over.”

  The only response that I could manage was a small nod since my mouth was full of egg and toast. Gretchen scowled again at my lack of social graces. I swallowed. “This might be the last good meal that I get for a while. You know that the School food is barely edible.”

  When I was a student, I’d tried to eat in the cafeteria as infrequently as possible, instead sneaking up to have dinner at Gretchen’s table. It was just another reason that the other students disliked me.

  Gretchen made some small throaty noise that sounded a little like a snort. “The Instructor’s cafeteria fare is much better than the students’,” she promised.

  I spared her a skeptical glance. I’d believe it when I tasted the truth of her words for myself. I quickly scarfed down the rest of my breakfast, gulping my first cup of coffee before pouring a second cup, and sat at my vanity to get ready.

  I dried my hair with a blow dryer, then used a big round brush to straighten out all the chestnut strands. When I was satisfied that it was thoroughly dry, I used a flatiron to ensure that no hint of wave remained. Before the last nine months, I’d always worn my hair curly, but lately, I’d been straightening my locks for lack of something better to do. I’d decided that I liked the straight look – sometimes, change was a good thing.

  Next, I pulled my hair into a ponytail at the back of my head. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for several minutes before deciding in favor of makeup. My skin was smooth but uncharacteristically pale for me thanks to spending the majority of my time indoors. The dark circles under my eyes were a bluish purple, like I’d been on the losing end of a fistfight.

  Rising from the vanity, I retreated to my bedroom, where Gretchen had made my bed while I was in the shower. On the end of the burgundy comforter, in two neatly folded piles, sat several pairs of black stretch pants, white soft cotton t-shirts, and a thin gray sweatshirt. Anticipating my lack of appropriate clothing, Gretchen must’ve ordered me new outfits. Man, I didn’t even have to ask; she always delivered.

  My first class of the day was a basic skills combat class, so I grabbed a pair of cotton underwear and pulled them on, followed by the comfy-looking stretch pants. As I put on a matching bra, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror over my dresser. My back was to the mirror, and over my shoulder, I could see angry red scars, peeking out just above my stretchy pants. Unconsciously, I reached behind me and felt the raised flesh of the scar. My fingers felt the hole where the bullet had pierced my skin, and the places where the Medics stitched me up. I flinched as I touched the flesh even though no sensation came; the Agency doctors said that I may never regain feeling.

  They had offered to remove the scar as was customary, but I was still a little fuzzy on how I’d actually received it. I didn’t want to erase the only evidence that it had happened at all. A perverse part of me also liked the reminder that I now owed Crane for more than just my parents’ murders.

  My recovery had been a long and painful process, including learning how to walk again. I now received a shot every day to stabilize the chemicals that Crane’s men had injected, reducing number of seizures that had plagued me since returning from Nevada. Initially, the doctors were unable to develop an effective antidote, and the episodes were so frequent that I spent most of my time in a drug-induced coma. Eventually, the team of researchers created an equalizer that allowed me to function, but it left me tired and weak.

  My primary Medical doctor, Dr. Thistler, had treated me after my parents’ deaths as well, but my memories of her weren’t as clear as those of Dr. Wythe. Mac told me that she’d been one of the physicians to monitor my condition during my previous stay at Toxic’s Medical facility, but I’d been too traumatized to be aware of my surroundings. She was nice enough, but her involvement in my life served as a daily reminder that I was sick and currently unable to avenge my parents. I longed for a day when she would enter the examination room and proudly declare that she’d found a cure. Unfortunately, the more time that passed, the less confident I became that the time would ever come.

  “Natalia, are you dressed?” Mac called from the sitting room, snapping me back to reality.

  Grabbing for my shirt, I hastily pulled it over my head. I reached for the insanely bright white shoes and yanked them on as fast as possible. Then I noticed the bag that Gretchen packed for me with the meager personal items that I was allowed to take to the School, and stuffed the rest of my clothes inside. I slung the small duffel over my shoulder and walked out to the sitting room to meet Mac. I didn’t look back on the room that had been like a prison for the last nine months.

  Chapter Three

  Mac and Gretchen’s home was located two west of the School’s main campus. Mac drove me the short distance in a road vehicle that he kept on hand for getting around the compound.

  “You really don’t need to hold my hand and walk me to class,” I snapped once we were seated in the car. Though Mac had been like my surrogate father, our relationship had first become strained while I was in my Pledge year. The past nine months had done a little to repair the rift; I was bitter about my current situation and though I knew it was irrational I blamed him.

  “I just want to ensure that you make it there okay,” he replied mildly, his eyes fixed on the road. I gave him an odd look; did he forget that I had attended to this school for six years? I’d alr
eady taken all these classes, and I was fairly confident that I could find them in my sleep. Opening my mind, I risked gently probing Mac’s.

  “Natalia......” he warned. Mac was one of the few people who could detect when I tried to read him, and he effectively blocked most of my attempts. Mac’s uncanny ability to block me was my own doing – I’d conditioned him against mental intrusion.

  “Sorry,” I smiled sheepishly, only sorry that I’d been caught.

  The stone façade of the administration building came into view several minutes later. Mac pulled the car to a stop in the rounded, gravel drive, and he reached for the bags at my feet.

  “I’ll have these sent up to your new room,” he offered.

  Now that I was safely on campus, I figured that Mac would bid me farewell, and retreat inside to his office. Instead, he started walking away from the administration building. I quickly followed him.

  As we neared the outdoor practice area, Mac sped up. My short legs could barely match pace with his stride. I was so focused on keeping up that I didn’t notice when he stopped; I ran smack into his broad back, my head bouncing painfully off the bottom edge of a shoulder bone. Smooth, Talia, I thought to myself. But Mac barely noticed. I stood behind him, my view obstructed by his massive frame, rubbing my forehead and waiting for him to introduce me.

  “Director McDonough,” a deep voice greeted him respectfully. I froze. The morning was relatively warm, and the thin sweatshirt that I was wearing had caused sweat to dot my forehead and upper lip, but that voice raised gooseflesh on my arms and made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  My heart raced, images flashed through my mind: fingers light as feathers on my arms, running up my sides, blue eyes so full of longing and desire, soft lips against mine, wind whipping wet hair in my face, glass shards spraying my cheeks, the taste of blood in my mouth, a big hand gripping both my small, blood covered, ones. Stay with me, Tal, stay with me, his voice pleaded in my head.