Unleashed (TalentBorn Book 4) Read online

  A small bubble of space forms around me as I move through the crowd: the sheep instinctively recognise a predator in their midst. Heads turn to watch me with hungry eyes, following the graceful, sinuous movement of my body. Doctor Pearce taught me that my body is a weapon in more ways than one. When I find my target, he will want to follow me, and I’ll make sure of it.

  I scan the faces without seeming to, checking each one against the photo imprinted in my mind. None of them hold any interest for me – not the handsome young men with perfect hair and sparkling eyes, nor the slightly older, scarred guys with an element of danger about them, nor the pretty girls with shimmering hair, some of who flash their eyes at me with their best ‘come hither’ pouts. They’re all just a distraction, and distractions are not for people like me. I am a soldier, and the mission comes before everything.

  I pay no attention to Snow White either, trailing in my wake as I work my way through the room, cutting down the occasional would-be suitor with a haughty glare. I process each face in a heartbeat, not bothering to break my stride.

  It doesn’t take me long to find him, parading himself in the middle of the dance floor. His dance partner is all over him, rubbing her body against his like a cat in heat. I curl my lip. Pathetic.

  I let my hips sway to the thrumming music as I make my approach. She sees me first and tries to warn me off with a glare. As if she could intimidate me. She’s a civilian. And not a particularly pretty one – bleached blonde hair, and face smothered in thick layers of makeup that doesn’t quite conceal the kind of leathery skin that comes with spending too much time sun worshipping.

  I lean over his shoulder and purr in his ear.

  “You don’t want her. You want me.”

  My hips sway away from him as he turns, inviting him to chase me. I toss my head, flashing just enough jet-black hair and flawless skin to catch his eye. The girl and I, we’re night and day. She is a dreary Monday morning – common, mediocre, and unappealing. I am the darkness of a stormy night – dangerous, seductive, irresistible.

  His head stays turned and he watches my body make love to the music’s throbbing bass, all the while moving away from him, daring him to follow. He does, Icarus to the sun, the dreary Monday girl forgotten. She pouts and stomps off with a whip of her bottle blonde hair and a gasp of indignation and fury, which are wasted on Bradshaw. He has eyes only for me.

  “What’s your name, beautiful?” he asks as his body takes the bait, trying to close the gap between us and match my rhythm. I let him get just close enough to keep him from being discouraged. My body says chase me even as my eyes say I’ll let you catch me.

  “No names,” I tell him, twisting my lips into a smile that says it’s not his name I’m interested in. He smiles back like he thinks he’s just hit the jackpot. Little does he know. He should’ve stuck with the Monday girl.

  He reaches out, pawing at me with all the finesse of a raptor. He’s no Casanova, he’s a predator. Something in him recognises something in me, and our inner-beasts court each other. He has no way of knowing that mine is only toying with him. I like to play with my prey.

  His hand rests on my hip a moment, then moves round behind me. I permit it, encouraging him with a flash of eyes and another of teeth. My hand traces the V of his partially buttoned shirt, caressing the bare skin.

  “You’re beautiful,” he tells me with a grin. How droll. I barely keep from rolling my eyes. I’m growing bored, and the constant music is irritating me. It’s time to wrap this up. I lean in, my breasts pressed to his chest, my hip to his leg, and whisper in his ear.

  “Why are we wasting time? We both know what we want.”

  I turn on my heel, taking his hand in mine, and move away from the dance floor. He follows without hesitation, his body close behind mine, warning the men who eye me that I am spoken for. As if anyone here is man enough to possess me. As if I have any interest in such distractions. My heart is pounding, the blood lending a flush to my cheeks, but unlike most of the sheep here, it’s not intoxication or lust that colour my cheeks. It’s the promise of blood, of violence. Of release.

  I find what I’m looking for – an unguarded exit that leads to an alley behind the club. The doc says we won’t be disturbed there. I glance back over my shoulder, ostensibly to make eyes at Bradshaw, and quickly scan the space behind him. Megan has found my target’s wingman and is following close behind us. I guess she’s not completely useless, after all. Her presence is still an insult. As if I couldn’t have taken them both.

  I turn away and lead my victim out of the thrumming nightclub and into the cold quiet of the alley. It’s wide, more like a yard than an alley, with several buildings backing onto it. All but the nightclub are boarded up. The doc was right, as always.

  Bradshaw is watching me with those predatory eyes, waiting to see if I’ll change my mind now that we’re alone. I place a palm against his chest and put a swing in my hips as I back him up against a wall. He grins and lets his gaze rove all over me. Eugh, what a creep. I need to end this quickly, before I vomit. I lean in close, pressing my body against his, and trail my lips past his mouth to his ear.

  “This is going to hurt,” I whisper. He tenses just as I raise my knee and slam it between his legs. He gasps and falls forwards into me. I take a quick step backwards before he can recover, and swing a low kick into the back of his knee. It connects with a dull thud, sending him sprawling to the floor. There’s movement behind me and I throw a look over my shoulder. Megan has zapped Dobson and he’s on the floor, convulsing. I suppress a shudder: I really hate electricity. She tucks yet another stray lock of hair behind one ear – and what is up with that, anyway? Just tie it back already and get on with the mission. I grin savagely. My target’s still busy trying to breathe, I’ve got a couple of seconds I can spare to ruin Megan’s night. She senses my stare and locks eyes with me just as I reach deep down inside myself, fling open the lid to the box where terror lives, and focus on the spot behind Megan.

  The shift barely interrupts my flow, not like it used to. One second I’m standing over my fallen target, the next I’m right behind Megan, driving a punch into her kidney. She cries out and drops to the floor – this girl really can’t take a punch. I grin, relishing the tingle running along my knuckles.

  She lifts her hand, splaying her fingers, and nothing happens. Not so much as a crackle. Her face contorts in rage as she lies in the dirt at my feet. She’s defenceless without her talent, and she knows it. She aims a sluggish kick at my legs and I easily step aside, letting it sail harmlessly passed.

  “Come on, Snow White,” I goad. “You can do better than that.”

  She just glares up at me, then her eyes slide past me and widen. I swallow the urge to roll mine in response.

  “Oh, come on, you don’t think I’m going to fall for that?”

  “Maybe you should.”

  His voice comes from behind me and I spin around, instinctively getting my guard up. Something slashes across my forearm and as he draws back I see the streetlight glimmer on the object in his hand. A blade. My blood is coating it, and more of the crimson liquid is flowing down my arm and pooling around my fingers. Twice in one day. Sloppy. Still, it’s just a flesh wound. It would have been a different story if I hadn’t got my guard up in time. He shouldn’t have warned me. His eyes narrow as he reaches the same conclusion. He underestimated me. I underestimated him. Neither of us is going to make the same mistake again.

  Instead of weakening me, the pain makes me sharper. The wound is a mere kiss compared to what I’ve faced back in the basement. I can hear his buddy hauling himself to his feet, but I don’t take my eyes from my target. I’ll deal with him later if he’s too much for Megan to handle.

  My lips twist into a feral grin. This is what I’ve been waiting for: a chance to test my skill, to let Savage Anna out of her cage. I can hear her snarling inside me, waiting for her moment.

  Bradshaw slashes the knife from side to side, slicing through the air
with a sharp swish. I keep my eyes on his torso. His hands can only go where his shoulders go, and the knife can only go where his hands go. Unless he throws it. He’s not going to throw it. You never let go of your advantage in a street fight. He has no way of knowing it doesn’t give him an advantage – barely even sporting chance.

  He feints with the blade again, watching me with pale green eyes. He’s stalling. I see it now: he can fight, but he’s not the one who starts the fight. He defends. Fine. I’ll give him something to defend against.

  I push my guard hand a fraction further forward, and twist my shoulder inward, lining him up for a punch to the face. He reacts instinctively, raising his guard and angling his body, and my foot flashes through the air, landing with a solid thud against his exposed ribs.

  My foot strikes twice more inside a second, punishing his mistake. I sway back – I don’t want this to be over too quickly, after all – and watch him shake off the pain. Good. Finally, a fighter. I was getting bored of all the soft targets the doc has sent me after recently.

  He steps slowly, watching me, re-assessing, searching for a weakness. He’ll find none. I hear the sounds of a scuffle behind me, and a pitifully feminine wail of pain. Trust Snow White to even scream like a girl. My eyes don’t leave my target. I’ll clear up after Megan later.

  Bradshaw reverses his knife to an under-hand grip, and I narrow my eyes. Oh yeah, he was definitely holding back before. He didn’t want to hurt me too badly. He’s having a change of heart. We both know I’m too good for him to hold back anymore – and he hasn’t met Savage Anna yet. Both of our lips twist into facsimiles of smiles: his grim, mine feral.

  He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and I allow my muscles to become fluid, loosely following his movement. He’s taller than me, with a longer reach, and he’ll try to use it to his advantage. I’ll try to stop him.

  I aim a kick low, testing his reflexes. He blocks it, driving a raised knee into my exposed calf. A dull ache spreads through the muscle as I draw back, and he explodes forwards, slashing the knife at my torso. I dance back lightly and the blade sails harmlessly through the air. He pulls back, preparing to strike again and I lunge forward, closing the gap between us and driving a fist under his ribcage. Air explodes from his lungs in a whoosh and I press my advantage, slamming another fist into his face. His head snaps back and then starts to come forward again. I lurch out of the way of the headbutt before he can make contact – I really don’t want a broken nose – and his foot snakes behind my ankle, trying to trip me. I stumble, almost losing my balance completely. My heart hammers with the thrill as I fight against gravity, relying on my feline grace to keep me on my feet. He lashes out with the knife again, and hits… something. I don’t know. I don’t care. I let the pain fuel me.

  I press forwards again, trapping his knife hand against his chest, and slam a knee at his groin. He twists, taking my strike to his thigh, and shoves me backwards. I don’t resist: in a battle of strength I’m never going to come off best. I move clumsily, letting him think I’m off balance, and he comes ploughing forward, knife poised in that deadly underhand grip. I let his strike come in, swaying aside at the last second, limbs like liquid fire until his arm reaches full extension. My left forearm snakes inside it, stopping him pulling it back, and I smash my right forearm into the weak point a fraction behind the elbow. He cries out, and the blade drops from his hand. I kick it aside and sway back again before he can retaliate, but he pulls back too.

  I watch him move through calculating eyes. I don’t think I struck hard enough to break the elbow. He could be feigning the injury to lull me into a false sense of security. Take nothing for granted in a fight. Like blood loss, for example. My arm’s bleeding heavily now. My body’s strong, but not indestructible. Eventually the wound will weaken me, and no amount of will power will keep me on my feet. It’s time to stop playing and end this.

  I lunge forward, leading with my uninjured hand. He expects it, blocks and parries. What he doesn’t expect is for me to double back under his guard, but that’s exactly where I go. He slams an elbow down into my exposed back and I grunt in pain, then thrust an uppercut into his ribcage. The blood pumping from me is slowing me down, weakening me, and that’s the only reason my strike doesn’t break ribs. But I’ve got more where that came from.

  I don’t get a chance to land them. He wraps his arms around me in a bear hug, crushing me against him and trapping my arms so that I can’t land a strike. I lift my leg to knee him, but he twists and evades it. His arms are crushing the air out of me, making it hard to get a breath and I thrash around, desperately fighting to draw some air into my lungs.

  And then I stop.

  I don’t need air. I can last three minutes without it. As long as I don’t panic. I let myself go limp, and loll my head forward onto his chest. The arms around me keep crushing… and then ease up. He thinks I’m unconscious. He’s underestimated me… again.

  As soon as I feel enough slack, I rear my head back and slam it into his face… once… twice… a third time. Blood splatters all over me as his nose splits wide open, and his arms fall away. I see the moment he loses consciousness, but I leap on his falling body and land an elbow to the side of his head, just to be on the safe side. And then I take the breath my lungs are screaming for.

  I look around the alley, my shoulders heaving from pain and exertion, and my head spinning as oxygen pumps back into my bloodstream. Dobson is stooped over a body – Megan’s – and he looks like he’s in pain. Guess she managed to get a couple of shots in after all. Good for her. He doesn’t seem to have noticed the fight behind him has ended. I take one more breath then roll off Bradshaw’s body. I come up in a silent crouch and wrap my hand around the discarded knife. I steady my ragged breathing and draw back my arm. And stop. Doc said he didn’t want him dead. No. Doc said he would ‘prefer’ he survived the encounter. There’s a distinction. And there are mitigating circumstances, after all. It’s the only way I can be sure to save Megan. Have to save precious Megan.

  I stalk silently across the concrete and lock my gaze onto his shoulder. I could throw the knife and lodge it in there, but where’s the fun in that? My attention drifts higher, to his short, curled hair, and my snarl becomes a smirk. It’s almost too easy. My hand shoots out, gripping his curls, and I yank his head back. He stumbles, off balance and off guard, and my blade flashes in the moonlight before he can recover. I slash it across his throat, opening a red gash in the soft flesh, and toss him aside as he starts to gurgle. I let the knife fall from my fingers and suck a deep breath into my burning lungs. My vision starts to fog – not all of the blood in the gutter belongs to Dobson. I stumble back to Bradshaw and tangle my hand in his coat. A thought strikes me: I glance across at Megan with a groan. Doc will want her back – not that I can fathom why – and he’s going to be seriously pissed at me if the police pick her up before Flynn does. Especially if she’s lying next to a corpse. And definitely especially if she is a corpse.

  Slowly, painstakingly, I haul her over to my unconscious target, then wrap one hand around each of their forearms, and think of what the doc is going to do to me if Megan dies.

  Chapter Three

  “I suppose there’s no point in telling you that what you did was reckless.”

  I’d hang my head in shame, but I’m lying flat on a hospital bed inside one of AbGen’s private med wings. He’s right, it was stupid.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor Pearce.”

  “Anna, Anna,” he sighs, sinking into a chair beside my bed. I roll my head to look at him. “I ought to punish you for jeopardising the mission to pursue your personal vendetta against Megan.”

  It’s no less than I deserve. I violated my primary code. I disappointed him. Regret burns through me. There’s nothing I can say. I almost blew the mission. I bite my lip and resolve to do better next time. There’ll be a next time. Doc will forgive me… he will forgive me, right? I worry at my lip and stare at the floor, not daring to see the
answer in his eyes. The seconds creep by, each one amplifying the anxiety inside me. What have I done? Stupid, reckless Anna, risking everything for a moment’s satisfaction. I never learn. He’s right to punish me. I deserve it.

  “I’m not going to punish you. But I suggest you spend your time in here thinking over what you have done.”

  “Yes, Doctor Pearce,” I say. It pains me to be away from my basement, but I don’t dare complain. If Doc says I’m to recover here, there here is where I’ll be.

  “While you recuperate from the effects of your recklessness, you will develop your latent talent.”

  I can feel his eyes boring into me, challenging me to object. Ryan, his walking, talking talent detector and torturer-in-chief, told him I can – amongst other things – project my consciousness outside of my body. Of course, Ryan also hates me, so I doubt his sincerity, and am in no hurry to waste my time trying to force a talent I don’t have. If I could do this thing the doc thinks I can, then I would know about it. Further, it’s unheard of for an absa to have more than one talent. Doc says it makes me special. I want him to think I’m special, so I wish I had this extra talent. But wishing doesn’t work, and I can no more wish myself able to possess an astral projection talent than I can wish myself healed and back in my basement. But it’s the doc asking, so I’ll try.

  He rises from his seat.

  “Rest. I’ll send an instructor to work with you this afternoon.”

  He leaves, and I lie back, staring up at the ceiling. I imagine images in the uneven paint. If I squint and tilt my head, that one looks like me fighting Bradshaw. That one looks like Chang sparring with me, and that one looks like me kissing a dark haired, handsome guy a few years my senior. Scott. I grind my teeth together, shoving the image aside. I thought I was done with that. How much longer will my memories of being under the traitor’s thrall continue to haunt me?