Caged (Talented Saga) Page 5

  “How’s Harris?” I asked, wanting to change the subject to something more pleasant.

  “He’s good ...I guess” Penny said regretfully. “We kind of broke up a couple of months back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said honestly. She’d really liked him when they’d first started dating, and they were really cute together, so I was bummed the relationship hadn’t worked out. “What happened?”

  “Oh, you know ...it kinda just ran its course. We’re still friendly and all, but Harris wasn’t really looking for a serious relationship,” she rolled her eyes. “Besides, there are too many other great looking boys running around Elite Headquarters to stay tied down to just one.” Penny winked at me. Since becoming friends with Penny, I’d noticed her fondness for crushing on guys; even though she said that it was Harris who didn’t want a serious relationship, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Penny really hadn’t been looking for one either.

  We sat for a couple long moments in silence, neither of us really sure what to say to the other. It wasn’t uncomfortable, we were both just absorbing the revelations of the evening.

  “I should probably be heading back to my room.” I smiled apologetically at Penny.

  “Already? You just got here!” she protested.

  “I know, but I haven’t eaten, and I need to run by Medical,” I replied. She looked so disappointed, I almost told her that I would stay a little longer, but the hollowness in my stomach made me change my mind. I was pretty sure that the ache I was feeling had nothing to do with my lack of nourishment and everything to do with my longing for Erik.

  “Tomorrow night?” she asked hopefully.

  “Of course, I’ll be over after dinner.” I smiled at her reassuringly. I gave Penny one last hug before making my return trip through the glass doors and down the sterile white hallway.

  Chapter Five

  The evening had grown cool and damp, the moon just a sliver overhead but clearly visible in the cloudless sky. I kept my eyes titled upwards, gazing at the stars as I made my way to Medical. It was late and the receptionist was long gone. I wound through the corridors and found Dr. Thistler in her office.

  “Hello, Natalia,” she greeted me when I knocked lightly on the open door. “You are late.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been busy,” I mumbled. She pursed her thin lips in disapproval. She rose from her desk and gestured for me to sit in an empty chair. I did as I was told and watched as Dr. Thistler opened a cabinet and withdrew several vials. With deft movements, she filled a syringe with my medication. I my sleeve back and rested my arm on her desk. Dr. Thistler bent over me and plunged the tip of the needle into the crook on my elbow.

  I sighed. “Thanks.”

  “Please come earlier tomorrow,” Dr. Thistler responded. I nodded and scurried out of her office.

  The School grounds were deserted. It was past the student’s curfew. I reached the Instructor’s dorm quickly and climbed the three flights of stairs and found my new room. As promised, my bag of clothes sat on the end of a small bed that was covered with crisp white sheets and a thin white blanket. As soon as I laid eyes on the bed, I realized how tired I actually was. This was the longest that I’d managed to stay awake in months, so this shouldn’t have come as a surprise. I wasn’t sure if my perpetual fatigue was a result of my health or extreme boredom.

  Rummaging through the bag for something to sleep in, I sent waves of gratitude toward Gretchen when I pulled out a faded gray t-shirt and a pair of navy sweatpants that were devoid of any shape. I quickly shed the workout clothes that I’d been wearing all day, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and exchanged them for the comfortable pajamas that Gretchen had rescued from my room at Elite headquarters.

  The sheets were cool and scratchy against my exposed skin. I curled in to a ball, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to conserve body heat. My last conscious thought of the evening was to have Gretchen send a real blanket.

  The next morning, I woke before the sun was in the sky and tried in vain to go back to sleep. All of the thoughts and feelings that the alcohol suppressed the day before began swimming to the surface of my mind: the he unease from seeing Donavon, the anger at Mac for making me unknowingly walk into that situation, the pain of reliving the events in Nevada, the frustration from the memories that still eluded me, the longing to see Erik, and the worry that feelings weren’t being reciprocated. After several failed attempts to quiet the scenes playing in my head, I got out of bed and dressed for a run.

  I donned the first workout clothes that I found in my bag and gathered my hair into a tight ponytail, then left my room.

  Bright stars were still scattered across the ink-colored sky, forming a dazzling map of unexplored territory. The chill in the air brought my senses to life. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the early morning dew that hung in the air, and moisture bathed my face and arms like a cold blanket.

  Over the past few months, my weakened condition had caused walking to be an unwelcome chore and jogging to be torture. Now, with my head bursting from the overload of emotions, my atrophied muscles craved the exercise, the physical exertion and pain felt liberating. After only ten minutes, my breathing was labored, and my t-shirt clung to me, damp with sweat.

  I cleared my mind of my current surroundings, and the trees, already shedding their leaves in preparation for winter, disappeared. The thick green grass beneath my feet ceased to exist. Instead, my mind cycled through images from my memories like a slideshow.

  I saw myself positioned between two handrails, the effort of lifting one foot excruciating. I felt the muscles in my leg tense, readying themselves for what they knew was next, but next never came. I ran harder. I saw the hallway of Crane’s basement and the man with the syringe. I felt the chemicals heavy in my veins. I ran harder. I saw Donavon cowering in the corner of a room, hands over his head, pleading with me to stop. Electricity crackled in my fingers and toes. I ran harder. Mac squatting next to my hospital bed, our eyes locked as he told me what I already knew: Ian Crane killed my parents. I ran harder. I saw myself crouched in a closet, peering through the wooden slats at the men in black mercilessly murdering my parents. I ran harder. I saw the hotel room, windows blown out, bodies of faceless men scattered around me, enclosing me in a circle; all dead. I ran harder.

  The Instructor’s dorm was in sight. My lungs were on fire, every breath felt like a knife plunging deeper in to the flesh between my ribs. My legs screamed in protest as I pushed them each additional step. The memories had been replaced by white electrical snow accompanied by an increasing buzzing sound. The weight of my sweat soaked clothing was threatening to drag me under the tidal wave of exhaustion I was riding. Salt stung my eyes as I attempted to wipe it away with the back of my dirty, slippery forearm. I was mere feet from the back entrance when my legs finally won the battle with my mind and gave out completely.

  I wrapped my arms around my torso, trying to get my breathing under control. My head spun so fast that I wasn’t entirely sure which way was up anymore. I fell over, my cheek pressed against the cold grass, letting it draw the heat from my body. The world began to right itself and I took a couple of deep breaths for good measure before pushing myself up on all fours.

  I felt his presence before he spoke. “Go away, Donavon,” I said quietly, hoping that I sounded threatening.

  “You don’t look so good, Tals,” he replied, sounding like he actually cared. “You need help getting up?”

  “I said, go away.” This time the undertones in my voice were definitely closer to pleading than threatening. Donavon came up behind me. He hesitated, but I knew that his intention was to guide me to my feet. As soon as he made his move, I summoned the last of my strength and kicked my right leg straight up and back. My foot made solid contact with his chest, and he lost his balance, stumbling backward.

  “Suit yourself,” he mumbled as he walked away. I smiled. I might be totally out of shape, but Donavon would definitely have a bruise. Someti
mes, it’s the little things in life that are most gratifying. My satisfaction was short lived; I could still feel Donavon’s presence when I began vomiting.

  I was so busy regurgitating the previous day’s breakfast that I didn’t even notice Janet until I felt her hand on my back. I tensed.

  “What happened to you?” Janet asked worriedly. I relaxed at the sound of her voice.

  “Oh, you know, I just went for a little run.” I smiled weakly up at her, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “You’re soaked through. How far is a little run?” she asked alarmed. Her hand gently stroked my tangled curls.

  “I left at sunrise,” I replied sheepishly. Janet grumbled, then wrapped her arm around my waist and carefully lifted me to my feet. I felt a little weak in the knees, but managed to stay upright with her help. I leaned against her gratefully, letting her support most of my weight.

  “You might want to have somebody clean that up.” I nodded to the grass.

  “I’ll get right on it.” She rolled her eyes.

  Janet guided me up the stairs and into my room before demanding I shower. I still had a small part of my dignity left, so I refused her help to the bathroom. As soon as the cool water hit my face, the stomach upset subsided, the cold sweat trickling down my back warmed, and the uncontrollable shaking in my limbs slowed. I stayed in the shower until Janet banged on the door, forcing me out.

  When I finally exited the small bathroom wrapped in my fluffy robe, I found Janet sitting at my desk with coffee, water, and a plate piled with slices of toast.

  She rose when she saw me and motioned for me to sit. I dutifully complied and wasted no time replenishing the calories that I’d unwillingly purged from my body. The bread was soaked with butter that poured into my mouth with each bite. The coffee was too hot and a little on the bitter side, but I was too impatient to wait for it to cool or to bother with sugar. I felt the last hints of uneasiness leave my stomach and my head pounded a little less. By the sixth piece of toast, I was as good as new.

  Janet watched me devour my breakfast without comment. Instead, she picked up my brush and began winding my long dark hair into a braid down my back. The motherly gesture comforted me. By the time she finished, I had consumed the entire loaf of bread.

  “Better?” she asked once I’d wiped the excess butter from my hands.

  “Like a million bucks.” I smiled.

  “Good, get dressed. Be downstairs in ten,” she directed in a gentle voice.

  “You don’t need to walk me. I can find it on my own,” I replied. Now that I was once again in control of my gag reflex, I was more than a little embarrassed at the condition she’d found me in.

  “I’m not worried about you finding it. Get dressed.” Her voice had a slight edge to it now. She’d expected my reaction to Donavon’s unwelcome presence yesterday, but like she’d promised last night, no more freebies.

  I dressed quickly in black stretch pants, a tight white tank top, and sneakers, still damp from my morning run. Grabbing a light jacket, I set off to meet Janet out front. At the last second, I remembered that Mac had promised to send the personnel files of the Instructors that I was assisting. I hurried back to grab my communicator before leaving the room.

  Janet escorted me just far enough to ensure that I arrived at Donavon’s class. I could feel her gaze until she was sure that Donavon had seen me and my opportunity for escape had passed.

  Donavon gave a slight nod in my direction as I approached. I didn’t reciprocate. Instead, I took a seat on the ground in the back of the mat, folding my legs underneath me. Donavon began by describing, in excruciating detail, each move that he wanted the students to work on. He droned on for so long that I actually thought he might break down the name origin of each skill. I guess my musings were louder than I’d intended because Donavon stopped mid-sentence.

  “Enough talk,” he said, smiling at the class. “If I could get my assistant, Ms. Lyons, to come up front, we can demonstrate each of these maneuvers.” I would have known, even if he didn’t have a shit eating grin on his face, that I was about to be sorry that I hadn’t kept my thoughts to myself. I slowly made my way to the front of the class, giving a small wave and half-smile to the seated students. They stared back, wide-eyed.

  Standing next to him, the two of us made quite the pair. Donavon was lean and muscular, biceps straining the sleeves of his shirt, his forearms corded with sinewy muscles. I was small and wiry in comparison. Prior to being shot, I’d actually had a fair amount of muscle; now, I was practically skin and bones. Donavon’s height was impressive next to an average-sized person. He must look larger than life standing next to me. More than a few of his pupils looked skeptical about Donavon using me as a demonstration dummy.

  “Do you want to suit up, Lyons?” he asked once I’d taken my position opposite him. When students at the School practiced, they often wore suits made of a synthetic material that had been developed in some Agency test facility. The suits thin and fit the body like a second skin. The fabric wasn’t exactly breathable, but was nearly impossible to penetrate; it dulled the sensation of a hit, so it felt more like a hard pillow than a fist or foot. The suits allowed students to practice with weapons ranging from attack batons to small knives without causing each other too much bodily harm.

  While on missions, Hunters wore a high-tech version of it called an adapti-suit. These both prevented injury by being nearly impenetrable, and camouflaged the wearer by replicating the surroundings. On my first Hunt, I’d found one of the exceptions for piercing the fabric the hard way; nothing keeps out a poisoned tip dagger.

  For practice drills like the one that Donavon wanted to run, the partner being used as a punching bag often won’t wear a full suit, but rather pads on their thighs and core. The pads serve the dual purposes of both giving the attacker somewhere to aim and protecting the wearer. I knew that I should at least put on the pads. But after Donavon finding me in such a vulnerable position just hours earlier, I felt the need to show him that I was every bit as hardcore now as I had been before my incident. So, instead of moving to pull on the pads, I met his eyes and answered, “I don’t need one.”

  Outwardly, Donavon’s eyes gave a small flicker of something that looked almost like concern. Inwardly, he was all irritation. “Don’t be stupid, Talia,” he mentally chastised me.

  “We spar all the time without suits,” I mentally shot back.

  “You haven’t sparred in almost a year. You’re not conditioned to take hits anymore.” His mental voice sounded impatient.

  “How’s your chest feel?” I snapped, my eyes darting to the space where I’d kicked him. Baiting him was probably a bad idea, but I couldn’t help myself.

  He scoffed with irritation, then turned his attention to the class and began going through the motions of the first combination of kicks. He first demonstrated each one in the air, then faced me and demonstrated what each one looked like when it made contact with another person. He was clearly still annoyed with me, for ...well, honestly, probably for a lot of things.

  His first kick struck my thigh with a force so jarring, it reverberated to every bone in my body. My face remained neutral, not betraying any of the pain I felt, but inside, I screamed, and a long strain of expletives escaped my mind.

  “Should’ve worn the suit,” Donavon shot back. His tone was haughty, but his blue eyes were wary. A brief flash of tenderness warmed his harsh expression. I felt a small flutter in my stomach; damn, I really hated him.

  I guess he decided that I’d learned my lesson after the first kick because he let up on me for the rest of the demonstration. While the students practiced, I wandered through the pairs, correcting technique and trying not to limp. My thigh was throbbing. After what seemed like the entire morning, though actually only ninety minutes, Donavon finally dismissed class. If I’d been an ordinary assistant, I would’ve stayed to help put away the practice mats and pads. But I wasn’t. Both my leg and my pride were stinging, so instead
, I just left along with the students.

  Chapter Six

  Students at the McDonough School have six classes a day, alternating their days between physical and intellectual lessons. The students that I had in class this morning would continue on to small weapons training and defensive combat techniques before lunch, then offensive combat techniques class, large weapons, and finally Talent training after lunch.

  Unlike the students, my second period was not a physical one. Instead, I was assigned to assist Annalise Cleary in her Prevalent Languages of the World class. On the short walk to her classroom, I glanced through her record. I immediately noticed the red flag in her file; Annalise’s husband, Jerald Mathias, defected to Colorado five years after their marriage to join the Coalition. Annalise had been thoroughly investigated at the time and cleared of any wrongdoing. She’d reverted back to her maiden name and continued working for Toxic.

  I found her room with mere seconds to spare. I quietly walked through the doorway and ducked into the back of the classroom. Not wanting to interrupt, I decided to wait until after her lesson to introduce myself. I leaned against the wall, surveying the class, and immediately felt self-conscious.

  I had forgotten that there was a reason why the students alternated days between physical and academic classes. My stretchy pants and tight workout shirt had fit right in during Donavon’s combat training, but I looked wildly out of place in this classroom, where all the students were wearing khaki slacks, crisp white dress shirts, and navy blazers. Instructor Cleary was wearing a red skirt suit with the collar of a floral-print shirt peeking out from under her formfitting jacket. Well, crap. Not only was I inappropriately dressed, I was willing to bet that I smelled. I’d have to remember a change of clothes tomorrow.

  Annalise Cleary began class as I wrapped myself in the lightweight jacket that I grabbed on my way out of my room. She gave brief instructions in Spanish, then the students opened their bags and began working from glossy books. After she was satisfied that all of the children understood her directions, she finally turned her attention to me. She motioned me over to the desk with a wave of her hand.