Exiled: Kenly's Story (A Talented Novel)

Exiled

Copyright © 2014 by Sophie Davis

Smashwords
Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic
(photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission
in writing from the author.

Printed in the United States of America

Learn more information at:
www.sophiedavisbooks.com

Cover design by Robin Ludwig Designs

Formatting by
Inkstain
Interior Book Designing

Talented (Talented Saga # 1)

Caged (Talented Saga # 2)

Hunted (Talented Saga # 3)

Captivated, A Talented Novella

Created (Talented Saga # 4)

Exiled: Kenly’s Story (A Talented Novel)

Inescapable (Talented Saga #5)…2015

Pawn (Nightmares Trilogy #1)

Sacrifice (Nightmares Trilogy #2)…2015

Checkmate (Nightmares Trilogy #3)…2015

Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy
#1)

Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

Vacant Voices (Blind Barriers Trilogy
#3)…2015

THE DRIZZLING RAIN made the worn,
cobblestoned streets slick. My hood was pulled tightly around my
face, but the drops still clung to my cheeks and eyelashes. Wiping
my hand over my face for what felt like the tenth time in sixty
seconds, I quickened my pace as much as I dared. Running called too
much attention, but a casual evening stroll in the rain felt odd.
Even if I threw caution to the wind and jogged, knowing my luck and
the tread on my sneakers, I’d probably wipe out and hurt myself.
Given the number of people who’d gladly injure me, I didn’t want to
do my enemies any favors.

Through the steam and
stench hovering over the sidewalk in this area of London, I
casually turned down the next street on my left. Hopefully, to any
bystander, it would appear as if I was wandering aimlessly, without
any particular destination in mind. It
should
seem that way, given the
precautions I’d taken. After meandering around for an hour, I was
finally nearing my journey’s end; a street that was only a twenty
minute walk away from where I’d started.

My body began to relax, almost
reflexively.

That reflex might prove to
be deadly one of these days
, I admonished
myself.

Already starting in on a mental lecture, I
forced myself to walk even slower as punishment. Even though I’d
taken a different route than yesterday, there was no such thing as
being too safe anymore. I couldn’t ever, not for a moment, let my
guard down. The only way to stay alive was to be exceptionally
cautious, and cautious people didn’t relax.

Despite the fact my senses naturally pulled
in more details than those of an average human, a vaguely familiar
voice in my head urged me to cycle through them, expanding each one
further, so as not to miss even the tiniest facet of my
surroundings. As I covered the last hundred feet, I practiced using
my peripheral vision while still staring straight ahead. While
appearing overtly casual. And not cross-eyed. I hoped.

Finally, I was close enough to make out the
details of a door covered in chipping, forest green paint. A small
window framed the crude painting of a giraffe, just discernable
through the unending lines of block text in the background. On my
first visit, the newspapers taped over the inside of the glass had
made me nervous. After several visits, I’d come to appreciate the
small layer of protection. While some didn’t like the fact that
they couldn’t see who was outside, the regulars were far more
comfortable being hidden on the inside.

Pulling open the door, bells overhead
announced my arrival with a high, melodic tinkle. The cool air
coming off of the stone walls and the delicious scent of baked
bread enveloped my senses all at once, and I sighed. The homey
ambiance and inviting atmosphere was a welcome departure from the
callous world outside. Plus, my eyeballs were aching from
constantly expanding my vision. In here, I could see the whole
space without any extra effort.

Here was the Flying Giraffe Pub.

Located six blocks west of one of London’s
famous parks, the Flying Giraffe was known for two things. One was
its shady clientele. Hence the covered window. The other was a dish
called Tugboat Stew—a delicious mixture of gamey meat, carrots,
celery, and potatoes in thick brown gravy. The stew had been my
sole daily meal for nearly two weeks running.

Back home, I would’ve balked at eating just
once a day. It wasn’t like my awkwardly skinny frame benefitted
aesthetically from limited caloric intake. And yet, things might
have been far worse if not for a stroke of luck on my journey
across the pond. I’d spent the four-hour flight from Harrisburg,
Pennsylvania to London, England huddled in the freezing-cold cargo
hold of a commercial hoverplane. Though it was hard to recollect
feeling cold after walking through the steam garden outside, I’d
been miserable.

Fortunately, the cargo hold was a veritable
treasure trove for the supplies I’d been desperately lacking. I
passed the time by rooting through checked luggage for clothes,
cash, and other basic necessities. In a bright pink suitcase,
covered in stickers advertising bands, I struck gold: jeans,
t-shirts, sweaters, all in my size. There was even a pair of tennis
shoes, only half a size too small. The girl’s wallet hadn’t been
among her belongings, but a large roll of Global Currency—the
monetary system used everywhere in the world, which we called
Globes for short—had been stuffed inside of a lone sock. Stealing
wasn’t normally my M.O., but being on the run from an international
agency hell-bent on making me their prisoner made for relaxed
morals. Everything normal was out the window; survival was
king.