Ensnared (Enchained Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  No one is around, one of the quieter days within the manor, and a short peek down the hallway leading to Commander Vye’s office verifies that she is occupied, as the closed door to her office indicates. I walk toward her in a more mature manner, wondering what I will say to her as words fumble through my raging mind in an effort to convince me that they can convey what my guilty subconsciousness wishes to reveal. I want to comfort her, reassure her that everything will be all right, that it is only for a little while and her brother will return, but my leaden feet drag on the floor, refusing to carry me the closer I get to her.

  Her broom swishes across the floor, kicking up bits of dust as she piles it in the middle near where she had placed the dustpan, and I step around it, careful not to disturb it, reminded of Sheila and how I had kicked her pile of dirt, unconcerned about the extra work I had caused her to do.

  “Gwen,” I say, but she turns away, showing her back to me. “Gwen, I’m sorry about Chase.”

  “Leave me alone,” Gwen’s small voice cuts through me, slicing my heart and making me feel worse than I did a few moments ago.

  “He’ll be back.”

  The broom stops. Gwen faces me with a vengeful look on her face, something I thought she could never possess, but the anger burning within her gray eyes bore through me, invisible lasers carrying out her will. “Back? You sent him to the agricultural district. Once there, you never leave. It’s no different from the mines or the crematorium.”

  I look around as her voice echoes around me, but if anyone is close enough overhear, they remain hidden. “I’m sorry, Gwen, but I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You always have a choice,” she spits.

  Do I? Loose strands of her hair drape across her face, reminding me of the night I had caught her out after curfew, the first time I ever saw her, and as she stares at me, the face of the plebeian girl from my hearing fills my mind again, bleeding and bruised with terrified, pleading eyes, begging me to release her. I may have had a choice then, but none of my decisions would have ended well. Even if I had not elected to do as was commanded of me, to execute her, she still would have been murdered along with Commander Vye and Renal. One life or three, that was my choice. What Tapiwa had made me do with Chase was another test to confirm my loyalty to Arel, and if I hadn’t done what she had wanted, he would have been sent to a far worse place, and so would have Commander Vye. One life or two, that was my second choice for the day.

  “Sometimes,” I say, my voice soft, just above a whisper, desperate to hold back the burning sting of the tears threatening to break free, reminding me that I have not cried since my days within the training facility, since the day they had been beaten out of me, “no matter what we choose, all decisions lead to the same end.”

  Gwen’s hardened eyes never leave mine and I envision her playing scenarios within her mind of what she would do to me to punishment, if she could. “Just go.”

  A single tear escapes my eye as I step away from her and head for the door, wiping it away the second it rolls down my cheek: another soul destroyed by my hand. Sniffling and swallowing the wad of spit in my mouth in an effort to eradicate the lump in my throat, I straighten my jacket, squaring my shoulders and march out of the manor, obeying Gwen’s request.

  I reach the end of the driveway to the manor and glance around, noting the hunched shoulders of not just the plebeians, but of the citizens as well, as they hurry to their destination, not wanting to be caught away from home should another attack happen, the fear in their eyes evident. Some peek out from under the brim of their hats to look at me, while others trot across the street, wanting to get as far away from me as possible, something I have become accustomed to. The bell of the trolley dings as it speeds down the street, stopping just long enough to allow passengers to either board or disembark, before continuing down the street, following the steel tracks laid before it.

  Turning, I head for the center of the eastern sector, retracing my steps to the man’s home, hoping that I can find it again without attracting attention. A man on a bike speeds past me, almost running into me as he peddles down the road, hurrying away from me and delving into the heart of this sector and its bustling activity, causing me to jump to the side, startled, and crash into a woman walking by me. She falls to the ground, losing her hold on the bag in her arms, and it lands on the cracked cement, spilling its contents to the horror of the woman as she watches everything unfold. Her brown eyes flick to me, wide and unblinking as she waits for me to decide her punishment. Rubbing my shoulder—though it’s healed, it’s still a bit sore and of course it is the one that I landed on, thus taking the full impact of my fall— I study the items on the sidewalk, wondering what she is doing with first aid kits, medicine, antibiotic cream, and medical tape, though I have an idea. We stare at one another a moment, me in my black uniform, complete with Arel’s crest on the wrists bands of my jacket, with my long hair pulled back into a bun, looking every bit the arbiter of Arel, while she freezes on the walk in a basic button up shirt and trousers, not the sort of clothing one of the wealthier members of Arelian society would wear, meaning that she is of the lower class, wishes to go unnoticed, or both, looking at me as her eyes have still not blinked or left my gaze, while bits of her frayed hair—the sort of locks that detest humidity, heat, cold, any sort of weather, choosing to remain unruly at all times—float in the breeze, bouncing in a way that reminds me of a seesaw. I reach for a roll of medical tape, pondering it as the ribbed fibers brush against my palm.

  “Where do you seem to be off to in such a hurry?” I ask, doing my duty as an arbiter, but trying to not sound so cold.

  “No… nowhere,” replies the woman, her voice shaking a little, “just heading to… to my mother’s.”

  “Mother?”

  An old term. Most people handed to a couple to be raised refer to their adoptive parents as “parental units”. Arel learned that people need some sense of belonging and feeling loved, which is why they allow some to have the semblance of family, but they are not encouraged to become too attached.

  “I was given to her when she was approved for her permit to adopt a child.”

  I consider her words. The only way to know for certain if she is telling the truth will be to take her to an information booth and have her palm scanned, but if it turns out she is lying, then I will have to detain her, which means those depending on her for these supplies will suffer. If I let her go and she gets caught by another arbiter, she will tell them of me, of that I have no doubt, which will result in my arrest. As I consider my options, Gwen’s anger fills my mind, reminding me of what I had sentenced her brother to, and memories of the plebeian quarters (their fear, their desperation, and their hopelessness) waft over me, and I hand the medical tape to the frightened woman who takes it from me, unsure at first, and stuffs it back into her bag.

  “You should be more careful,” I tell her as we stand up.

  Her head swivels around as she ponders over whether this is a trick or not, waiting for me to change my mind or for other arbiters to jump on us and take her to the Ministry of Justice.

  “Have a good day,” I tell her and walk away.

  She remains frozen in her position for a moment before running off, getting as far away from me as she can.

  I stroll down the sidewalk, retracing my steps from the night I evaded a drone while out after curfew and without authorization, ignoring the honking of horns, the bell of the trolley, the whistle of the railcar as it soars above everyone, and the incessant conversations of those brave enough to leave their homes for the day. I turn down an alley, making certain that no one watches me, while pretending to be doing my normal rounds. The dip in the hole-ridden pavement looks familiar, but it is difficult to tell in the bright sunlight when I remember seeing it in the dark of night. The constant stopping of footsteps on the walk just beyond the alley echo around me, circling me in waves as the noise reverberates off the brick sides of the buildings towering over me, sheltering me in
their shadows as I make my way further in. I pause. Which way did I go? Closing my eyes, I picture that night in my mind, remembering my fear of being caught, my apprehension and desire to get away, and… a fence.

  Looking around, I spot a dilapidated fence, run down and decayed from neglect and horrid weather conditions, and I hurry toward it, crawling through the hole in it like I had that night, being careful not to tear my uniform, or else face the unnerving task of explaining such an infraction to Commander Vye. Once through, I hurry to the end of the ally, making certain that I keep my pace even, my posture erect, and act as though this is a routine investigation as no one dares question an arbiter, unless I act as though I have something to hide. I reach the edge of a building and join the meandering crowd as people rush by me, keeping their heads low and giving me some space, not wanting to bump into me or give me a reason to detain them. A woman’s broad hat brushes the side of my temple as she walks by, unaware or unconcerned that her hat has just struck me, as she walks down the sidewalk, and I study the brim of her orange and green hat with a pink daisy in its center almost as wide as her pudgy hips.

  The square.

  I remember running across it and to another alley. Stepping off the walk, I trot across the street, avoiding the trolley as it roars down its tracks beeping at me to get out of its way, and for a moment, I am thrust back to my first day here when I had decided to hitch a ride on it in an effort to report to Commander Vye on time, with no such luck. Children’s laughter catches my attention, and I notice a group of school children accompanied by their teachers out on an excursion, their yellow uniforms almost as bright as the sun as they glow in the daylight, walking across the street, when one of the girls in the back drops something. She turns around to get it. In horror, I watch as the trolley speeds down its track, not caring if a child is in its path as it hurries to get to its destination so that it can dump its passengers and get new ones.

  I sprint for the girl. The trolley nears, but I push myself to go faster, my feet flying over the hole-ridden pavement as I charge through the menagerie of people who remain unaware of the girl’s plight. The rumble of the trolley fills my ears, pushing all other extraneous sounds out of my mind as I focus on reaching the girl before it does, my heart pounding in my throat as I force my lungs to take in air, utilizing the oxygen to the best of my advantage. I shove someone out of my way, unconcerned about sending him flying, forcing him to let go of his paper wrapped bundle that skitters across the ground, stopping when it hits the curb.

  “Move!” I scream at another too busy talking to her friends to notice my desperation. She starts to say something, but clamps her mouth shut when she notices my uniform and the speed I am moving at.

  Almost there.

  The girl picks up her fallen object and looks up just in time to see the trolley coming for her, but she freezes. I quicken my pace, almost tripping as I run with my legs threatening to entangle themselves. The incessant beeping of the trolley warns those around us that something is wrong, but the girl refuses to move, rooted to her spot, holding a small spherical object in her tiny hands, her face contorted in fear. Her mouth opens in a scream just I reach her, and I wrap my arms around her slender frame as I push her out of the way, and we both tumble across the ground; the trolley just misses us and continues down its track as though nothing has happened. I examine the girl, making certain that she is all right and not injured when her teacher rushes up to us.

  “Bethany!” she scolds her. “How many times have you been told to look where you are going?”

  I stand up, glaring at the woman, thinking her harsh words unnecessary. Even if the girl does need reminding, this isn’t the time. “I think the important thing is that she’s okay,” I say and the teacher ceases her badgering of the whimpering girl.

  “I meant no disrespect, arbiter, but this one tends to daydream and not pay attention,” the teach tells me.

  I look at the girl as tears run down her cheek. She cannot be more that six years old. “Are you injured?” I ask her.

  “My knee hurts,” she answers in a small voice, not bothering to look up from the ground.

  I kneel down and inspect her knee. The material has worn through and droplets of blood dot her kneecap; it is a scrape, nothing more. “It’s just a scratch,” I tell her in a gentle voice, dabbing her knee with the sleeve of my jacket, and scowling when I notice a tear. “You’ll be fine. Let this be a reminder to always be aware of your surroundings and to look where you are going.”

  The girl nods and runs back to her classmates.

  The teacher says nothing as she watches me, before turning to head back to her group of students, and as she leads them away, she steals one last look at me, but I am already headed to the other side of the square. Once I reach it, I set a brisk pace down the alley and meet a wall, its bricks different shaped and different sizes, making it stand out just a bit in Arel’s society of conformity, and I stop, trying to picture how this place looked at night.

  Did I turn left or right?

  Once again, I close my eyes, trying to remember that night: the acrid smell in the air, the chilled damp permeating through my clothing and soaking my skin, the eerie silence, broken only by the whine of the drone and the shouts of the arbiters pursuing me. Left. I had turned left. I dash down the left fork of the alley, darting past shuttered windows and locked doors as my foot splashes in a small pool of water where the asphalt has crumbled away, forming a foot-sized hole. No one is around, allowing me to continue unhindered and without the worry of being seen. I walk faster, my heart skipping a beat as I near where I remember the man living, unsure of what I will say to him once I find him. I come across a dead end, or what appears to be a dead end, and stop. Two doors loom before me, and I stare at them both, uncertain of which one to try. If I knock on the wrong one, I will need a plausible story for my being there, one that Commander Vye will believe in case the person who answers it complains. People can complain about what they believe to be unfair detainment by an arbiter, few do, but if the person behind the door does, I need to be prepared. Just when I think I have a good story, I start for the furthest door and stop the moment I hear a knob turn and hinges creak, afraid of being caught out here, since this is not my section to patrol today. I dart behind a corner. The door closest to me opens and out steps the same man who had helped me the night I had snuck out of the manor. He shuts his door and goes to the second one, the one I had first intended to knock on, opens it and leaves.

  Checking to make sure no one watches me, I step out of hiding and approach the second door with caution, pausing when I reach it, straining to listen to the sounds beyond it. I reach for the handle and twist, easing the door open and almost gawk at what I see: people strolling by talking, some running to catch a moving walkway, while others just mosey down the walk, all unconcerned about me watching them. I am such a fool! There was door here the entire time that led to another street, which I could have used that night, but I never tested it, assuming that it was someone’s home; though, there could have been arbiters on the other side waiting for me, I remind myself. I step through the doorway, closing it, and mingle in with the crowd, matching their pace, stepping in time with them, as though we are all one as I follow after the man, keeping him in sight, but doing my best to not alert him to my presence. As I walk, I turn back, getting a better look at the mysterious door and the building it is attached to. Even from the outside, the door looks as though it goes to someone’s dwelling and not to an alley. Who constructed it this way and why is a mystery, and one I will never learn the answer to, but it must be convenient for those who know of its existence. Reminding myself that I have a mission, I turn back around and hurry after the man who had save me. He strolls with the crowd, following the wave of people, blending in, while remaining aware of what’s around him, while I keep my distance, doing my best to pretend to be doing my rounds. He turns and heads to an entranceway, and I follow his movements, staying behind him as he walks through a doo
r.

  Hurrying, and not wanting to lose him, I shove my way through the crowded sidewalk, hiking up five stairs, the corner of the third one is missing as bits of it crumbles away, demonstrating a desperate need for repair, and to the door at the top. I stare at the barrier in front of me, noting its color of dried blood. As my mind races with thoughts of how I must have been detected, I take the final step toward the door and it slides open with a whoosh sound, only audible to those close to it, greeting me with a dark hole. Wary, I walk inside, glancing at the sign above me that reads, “ES Dine In” and wondering what I will find inside.

  The distinct clatter of silverware on plates, shrouded by soft murmurings as people converse over their meals, being careful to keep their volume low, lest inquisitive ears pick up their sentiments, greets me as the door closes behind me, my eyes roam the interior of the restaurant, feeling out of place and like I do not belong, despite the arbiters sitting at some of the tables, lined in neat rows with the same amount of spacing on each side, consuming their meals with little to no thought about my presence. Waiters move from table to table, providing refreshment, only water is served to the arbiters while the other patrons are allowed to indulge in more delectable fare, dressed in matching uniforms of pale blue and each with an apron tied around their waists. Though not horrifying, the uniform atmosphere is not inviting, making me miss Sigal’s place and the boisterous activity that I always found there as he hopped from table to table, giving every person that warm smile of his as he talked about his food, while slipping dessert dishes to those who weren’t supposed to have any. Spotting a camera, I step to the side, staying out of its line of site, my stomach turning in knots as I sneak around, avoiding eye contact and the lights attached to the wall, casting a bluish glow on the paisley floral paper, until I am underneath it and pull out the cord, unplugging it.

  I scan those indulging in food, searching for the man I had followed here, and each moment I spend in this place, my chest tightens as I hope that I am not recognized by any of the arbiters here. I spot him, sitting next to a wall at a table for two, munching on a bowl of pasta, almost as though he has been expecting me. Acting casual, I migrate between chairs and tables, staying as close to the perimeter as I can, until I reach him and sit down in the chair across from him.