Inception (The Marked Book 1) Read online

  Inception

  BIANCA SCARDONI

  The Marked Series

  (Book One)

  To my mother, Anna,

  for believing in me long before I wrote this.

  Copyright © 2015 Bianca Scardoni

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without express written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in an article or book review.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook and for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters and events depicted in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9948651-0-6 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-9948651-1-3 (kindle)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  PREFACE

  1. HOLLOW BE THY NAME

  2. WELCOME TO THE GAUNTLET

  3. FRIENDS AND RIVALS

  4. DANGEROUS CONNECTIONS

  5. THE GOOD SON

  6. UNINVITED

  7. UP CLOSE AND IMPERSONAL

  8. HEAD CASE

  9. REVELATIONS

  10. THE SACRIFICE

  11. THINGS THAT GO BUMP

  12. CRUEL INTENTIONS

  13. FRIDAY NIGHT LIES

  14. STRICTLY BUSINESS

  15. FACE OFF

  16. REALITY BITES

  17. THE HUNTINGTON INQUIRY

  18. BLINDSIDED

  19. TRAINING DAY

  20. FRIGHT NIGHT

  21. CHEMISTRY

  22. THIRD WHEEL

  23. RIDING IN CARS WITH BOYS

  24. THE CARNIVAL

  25. SECRETS

  26. BREAKING BREAD

  27. EXCAVATION

  28. ENCOUNTERS OF THE WORST KIND

  29. THE IMMORTAL AMULET

  30. BEDTIME STORIES

  31. DETAINED

  32. TRANSFERENCE

  33. ATONEMENT

  34. UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENT

  35. BACK TO THE PAST

  36. SUNNY SIDE UP

  37. CONTACT

  38. HOLLOW EVE

  39. THE DANCE

  40. CENTER STAGE

  41. PARTY CRASHER

  42. THE AWFUL TRUTH

  43. UNNATURAL BORN KILLER

  44. END GAMES

  BONUS MATERIAL

  ANAKIM INDEX

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Be careful who you trust,

  for even the Devil was once an Angel.

  preface

  The most dangerous enemy is not the one who lingers behind you in the shadows, but the one who walks beside you as a friend. They shape the world around you with well-constructed lies, entombing you in the gossamer of their deceit. You’ll never know their true face, for they shed their masks in layers—meticulous and devious, like the skin of an ever-changing snake.

  I walked hand in hand with my enemy, allowed their kiss of death to linger on my lips while the world disintegrated around me. I couldn’t see through the smoke and mirrors; too consumed with fighting a destiny I didn’t want; too afraid to let go of a life I wasn’t meant to have. Running only brought me closer to them. Back to where I started. Back to my inevitable fall from grace. One misstep was all it took, and it all came crashing down. And they were right there waiting for it—eager and ready to bury me in the wreckage.

  The stage had been set.

  The actors were in place.

  Everything was a lie, and I never saw it coming.

  1. HOLLOW BE THY NAME

  The wrought-iron gates creaked open as the black town car glided through the late afternoon fog and took us up the winding driveway to my uncle’s house—the Blackburn Estate. The massive, Baronial-style gray stone had been in our family for over a century and had all the trappings of a real life haunted house, outfitted with arched Victorian towers, ivy-clung walls, and a spike-tipped fence that spanned the entire length of the grounds.

  It was arguably one of the most macabre-looking houses in town, and for a second I contemplated telling the driver to take me back to the hospital—a thought that quickly dissipated with a brief flashback to the mandatory group therapy sessions and decrepit nourishment they had the audacity to call food.

  Anything was better than that place.

  I had spent the last six months holed up in a mental institution, suffering from what they called, “a psychotic break from reality due to a traumatic event.” That event being the death of my father, and the psychotic break being the part where I claimed to have been attacked by a vampire.

  Yeah, I know what you’re thinking; vampires aren’t real. They don’t murder your father in the middle of the night while you’re watching on helpless and powerless to stop it. Certainly not if you’re living in this little place we call reality, so that’s exactly what I told my doctors—over and over again like an anti-psychotic mantra—until they believed that I believed it and finally signed my release papers.

  But I know what I saw.

  The town car came to a stop at the top of the driveway where my Uncle Karl was standing in wait on the front stoop, solemn and watchful like a raven holding fast on its perch. His hands were crossed firmly behind his back—stoic, just the way I remembered him.

  He was my father’s brother no doubt, and looked every bit the part with the same dark hair and matching charcoal eyes. His hair was brushed back neatly, broken up only by the thin, white edges along his ears that threatened to reveal the age he otherwise carried so well.

  It was often said that I looked just like them—a Blackburn through and through—with the same dark hair and lean frame, though my hair was longer and turned in waves all the way down my back, and my eyes were a lighter, more peculiar shade of gray. I used to cringe when people said I looked like him—my father, because I was a girl and girls aren’t supposed to look like their fathers. Girls are supposed to look like their mothers, or fairy princesses, or Barbie dolls, or some crap like that.

  I plucked the ear buds from my ears and gathered my things as the driver came around back and opened the door for me. My first reaction was to jump back when his hand came out towards me, though I quickly relaxed, realizing he was only trying to help me out of the car and not decapitate me by way of an extended palm.

  Clearly, I still had some residual issues.

  I sucked in a calming breath and shook my hand at him to let him know that I had this, and then climbed out by myself, dragging my oversized duffel bag with me. The driver smiled back at me unaffected, and circled back to the trunk where he dug out the rest of my bags; one small, russet suitcase.

  This was what my seventeen years of life had been reduced to: one duffel bag and a hideous valise. How ironic since I used to be the kind of girl who shopped every week-end and worried about what so and so thought about my outfit or if what’s his face noticed me that day. Lately though, I couldn’t find it in me to give a shit. I just packed up the bare essentials and told the realtor to donate the rest to Goodwill.

  “Hello, Jemma,” greeted my uncle as I made my way up the front steps. He didn’t bother with a hug. “Welcome home.”

  There was something strange about hearing that word, like it didn’t belong to me anymore or shouldn’t be coming out of his mouth. Maybe it was because it made me face reality; that these past six months weren’t just some perpetual nightmare I was stuck in; that I wasn’t simply waiting for someone to wake me up and tell me none of it was real and that everything was fine. Because everything wasn’t fine. It was far from fine, and somehow, that seemingly harml
ess word made it all too real.

  The life I knew and loved was gone, and so was my father. No matter how many words I chose to reject.

  Inside, the monolithic foyer was fixed with pale, textured wallpaper, mahogany wall paneling, and an incredible grand staircase dressed in a crimson stair runner. Everything about the house was rich, and dense, and rooted. It was everything I wasn’t. Even the air, with its distinct smell of oak wood and sage, spoke to its identify and its history. I couldn’t help but feel small here. Overwhelmed. Incompatible.

  I stood in the space holding my duffel bag, unable to seed myself into the hardwood floors—into the house—and stared up at the elaborate chandelier, drinking all of it in and wondering if I’d ever really be able to feel at home here.

  “This way,” said my uncle, taking me away from my wandering thoughts. “Let’s get you settled in.”

  I followed him up the stairs to the second floor where we traversed the darkened corridor in shared silence, passing a string of doors and painted portraits of noble men who marked a striking resemblance to my father, until we reached my room at the end of the hall. The grand tour left much to be desired, though I didn’t figure my uncle for the tour giving type anyway. The truth was, I didn’t really care to see the ins and outs of the house. I just wanted to unpack what little things I had left and settle into anything that remotely resembled a bedroom.

  “I hope this will do,” he said as he opened the double doors to my new bedroom—a plum colored space at least twice the size of my old room.

  I was at a loss for words as I soaked in the floor to ceiling windows, the outdoor terrace, the queen-size canopy bed, and elegant black furniture. It was a far cry from the institutional white I had grown accustomed to in recent months, and was absolutely incredible. “I think it’ll do just fine.”

  His staid expression teetered around a smile. “There’s school clothes in the closet and the bathroom’s been stocked as well.”

  “You shopped for me?” I asked, discernably surprised. And who could blame me? He looked like the kind of man who couldn’t tell a roller from a rolling pin.

  “Well, I signed the check if that counts.”

  “It counts,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  An awkward moment of silence passed.

  “Very good then, I’ll leave you to get settled in. I’m sure you’re quite tired from your trip,” he said, adjusting the collar of his dress shirt. He seemed to be in a hurry to leave. “I’ll be right down the hall in my office should you need anything.”

  I nodded, propping my bag up onto the bed as I took in the depths of the walls around me. I wanted to get lost here, to lose myself in this new beginning and forget everything else that happened to me. I wanted to forget the grief and the uncertainty; the terrifying moments that had etched their details into the forever of my mind. I wanted to forget all of it.

  “Uncle Karl,” I called out as he began to close the door. I waited for him to peer his head back in. “I just wanted to say thank you, you know, for taking me in. I know you didn’t have to do this.”

  He stepped back into the room. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way, Jemma. This is where you belong—where you’ve always belonged. With family.”

  I tried for a smile. “Would it be alright if I made a long-distance call? I’d like to let Tessa know I arrived okay.”

  “Of course,” he nodded. “This is your home now. You can call your sister anytime you wish.” His eyes darted over my shoulder as though something had snagged his attention.

  Reflexively, I turned towards the apparent distraction. I thought I saw something flicker across the balcony window, but it was gone just as soon as my eyes settled. Weird.

  “Did you see that?” I asked, turning back to him.

  “Did I see what?”

  “In the window…like a shadow or something.”

  “A shadow?” His eyebrows pulled together.

  “Yeah—or a figure?”

  “A shadow or a figure?” he repeated, eyeing me as though maybe I’d been released from the hospital a little too early.

  I wasn’t sure how to explain what I thought I just saw and the more I tried to answer him, the more ridiculous I felt about it. “You know what, never mind.” I shook my head. “I’m probably just tired from my trip.”

  “Of course. Say no more,” he nodded. “Get some rest, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I waited for him to close the door and then shifted my eyes back to the window—watching it as though it could speak to me; as though it would profess its truth.

  There’s nothing out there, I told myself, hugging my arms for warmth. Just my eyes playing tricks on me…

  The line rang at least a dozen times before Tessa finally picked up her phone. She sounded out of breath, like she’d been running a marathon or working out heavily…or something else. Tessa was often busy doing something else. Most of the time, I was just grateful for getting through to her at all.

  “Tessa! It’s me Jemma,” I whisper-yelled into the receiver.

  “It’s good to hear your voice, Jemma” Her breathing was still labored. “How is everything at Uncle Karl’s?”

  “It’s fine. I just got here,” I said speedily.

  “Where are you? Can you come see me? I really need to talk to you” —I paused and looked over my shoulders, lowering my voice— “about that thing we discussed at the hospital.”

  That thing being the vampires. Vampires that she seemed perfectly comfortable discussing, not at all like everyone else’s reaction (such as Suzy Carson, my former legal guardian) which basically consisted of having me committed.

  My initial decision to stay in Florida after my father’s murder had been an easy one. I wanted to stay close to the people I knew—close to my friends—and since my sister couldn’t very well put her life on hold to move in and take care of me, going to live with Suzy had been the next best thing. She was the closest thing I had to a mother anyway, and I trusted her. Up until she had me institutionalized, that is.

  “I know, Jemma. We’ll talk soon. I’m a little tied up right now, but I’ll try to make it out there as soon as I can. Spend some time with Uncle Karl in the meantime. I’m sure he has plenty to talk to you about.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I mumbled, feeling disappointed. “He seems like a real talker.”

  She laughed, the sound of it raspy yet strangely melodic. “Take care, Jemma. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Right. See ya.”

  If I don’t get killed by a vampire.

  I woke up early the next morning to a melancholy sky that seemed to go on forever, its dull gray light encroaching itself in my room through an opening slit in the velvet curtains. Tiny particles of dust danced lazily around my face, beckoning me for my attention as they fought to stay inside the light. I watched their sway through groggy eyes, transfixed by the normalcy of it all, and for a moment, I’d forgotten my place.

  Hollow Hills.

  That was my place. A sleepy little town tucked away in the rangy coast of British Columbia—worlds away from the sunshine state I used to call home.

  I rolled onto my back and looked up at the black cloth ceiling of my canopy bed as reality set in and wrenched me from my happy place. house, with my father downstairs waiting to fix us breakfast. It usually only took a few seconds to remember—to wake up from my daze, but in those fleeting moments, I was happy again.

  It was hard to let go of that; to let go of the life I had before, but the truth was, it was harder for me to stay there inside the pain. I wasn’t strong enough to live there no matter how much I wanted to. At most, I could allow myself only a few minutes to cry for him—to grieve our lives, and then I had to push the memories away, burying them deep inside of me once again so that I could function. So that I could go on.

  I kicked the covers off my legs and shivered as I tried to summon enough courage to pry myself from the warmth of my bed. The chill was unshakable. Even with the light of day,
I could feel the bite in my bones, lingering and unwilling to thaw itself out. The cold would take some getting used to, I realized, as I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtains in search of the morning sun.

  I stood there for a moment and watched as my new world roused itself from its slumber with silent promises of a new day—a new start. There was almost something hopeful about it, reassuring, like a forged whisper of hope telling me that everything was going to be okay.

  Even if I didn’t believe it.

  Even if I didn’t feel it inside.

  The coils in my stomach tightened as thoughts about my day began to surface. Thoughts about my first day; in a new town; in a new school; Mid-semester. I hadn’t even left my room and already my day had taken a U-turn straight to hell.

  After a hot shower, I dressed in a pair of fitted blue jeans and a plain white camisole, and made my way to the kitchen where my uncle was sitting by himself at the breakfast nook over by the large bay windows. He had the paper in front of him, but he wasn’t reading it. He was on the phone, deep in conversation.

  The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was spacious and plump with contrasts—cathedral ceilings and arched doorways on one hand, warm taupe walls and granite counter tops on the other. It was a seamless blend of old-world and new.

  I searched through the cabinets for a decent-sized bowl and filled it to the rim with the fruity cereal box that sat on the kitchen island. My uncle turned at the sudden commotion of tumbling sugar pebbles and held up his index finger to me as if to say, “just a minute,” even though I hadn’t actually said anything to him.

  I took my bowl over to the table and dug in, pulling my uncle’s newspaper over to me in the process. Some fatal animal attack was plastered all over the front page, but I didn’t get a chance to read the details.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked, hanging up the phone.

  “Yeah,” I nodded through a mouth full. That is, unless we’re counting the four times I got up to investigate the balcony, or the nightmare that nearly drowned me in a cold sweat. I was keeping that part to myself, though. “I slept great.”