Inception (The Marked Book 1) Read online

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, probably ransacking his brain for something else to talk to me about. “Are you looking forward to your first day of school?”

  I gave him the kind of look that said, “Are you from this planet?” and he smiled knowingly, confirming that he was.

  “You’ll be fine. I’m sure.”

  “Well that makes one of us,” I grumbled, unable to hide my doubt. Things tended to go very wrong for me. My expectations were pretty low.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to make it a long week-end—start fresh on Monday?”

  “I’m sure,” I answered easily. “I’m behind enough as it is. I just want to get it over with.” Besides, if it turned out to be half as bad as I’d been imagining it, I would have the entire week-end to plot my escape.

  “I thought maybe you’d like to take a little time to settle in…or perhaps to talk.”

  My face contorted. Talk about what? My extended stay at the hospital? My father’s murder? I had no desire to talk about either of those things. And definitely not with him. “That’s okay. I’m all set,” I said with extra fake-sauce on the smile.

  “Very well. As you wish.”

  “So, what’s the story with that animal attack?” I asked as he unfurled his newspaper. “Does that happen a lot around here?”

  “It happens enough. Plenty of bears and wolves and such.”

  My mind snagged on the ‘and such’ part.

  “That reminds me,” he said as he reached in his pocket and pulled out a sleek black device. “I picked this up for you last week. I hope it’s the right kind,” he said, pushing it across the table to me.

  “You bought me a cell phone?” I fought back a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “It’s for me as much as it is for you.”

  “Oh, okay.” I thought about that for a second. “Is this like a trust thing?” I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or not.

  “It’s a safety thing.”

  “In case I go schizo again?”

  His eyes bulged. “Jemma—”

  “I’m kidding,” I cut in as I examined the phone with my free hand and scooped another spoonful of cereal with the other. “It’s great, Uncle Karl. Thank you.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Well, now that we have that settled,” he said, pulling back the cuff of his shirt to check the time, “you should probably get your things together. You don’t want to be late on your first day.”

  “Uh-huh,” I nodded, still distracted with my new phone.

  “I’ll have the town car ready for you outside.”

  The chauffeured town car? Ugh. That should go over well.

  “Thanks, Uncle Karl, but that’s really not necessary. I don’t think showing up with a chauffeur is the best way to make a good first impression.” When he didn’t answer, I enlightened him. “Because they’d think I was a pretentious snob.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s Weston Academy,” he informed, straightening out his newspaper. “They’re all pretentious snobs.”

  2. WELCOME TO THE GAUNTLET

  Weston Academy sat on the hilly outskirts of town amidst a thick tangle of evergreens, resembling more of a cathedral church than it did an actual school building. A narrow, cobble-stone road trimmed with pine trees on either side stretched all the way up to the three-story, ash colored building where we took our place behind a row of similar-looking town cars, carrying similar-looking students, all wearing similar-looking uniforms. I couldn’t help but feel like I was in a funeral procession for the young and the prosperous.

  A thicket of dark clouds burrowed in above us as we reached the front entrance of the school, their presence casting an eerie shadow over the goliath building and blocking out any semblance of sunlight.

  “Looks like it’s going to rain,” I noted, staring out the back window. That, or this was the world’s worst omen.

  “It usually does,” said Henry, the driver who I’d gotten better acquainted with on the way over here. “You’ll get used to it.”

  That seemed doubtful. I hadn’t even been here one full day and already I missed the sun.

  The knots in my stomach tightened as I continued surveying the landscape. Everything was so grand, so intimidating. I wasn’t sure I could ever fit in here. It took every ounce of courage I had not to lock the doors and barricade myself in the back of the car like a petulant child.

  Luckily, Henry was none the wiser when he came around back and opened my door for me.

  “Thanks,” I said as I climbed out on shaky legs.

  “My pleasure, Miss Blackburn.” His gently graying hair seemed to fade into the mounting fog.

  “Just Jemma,” I reminded.

  “Of course.” He nodded. “Good luck on your first day.”

  I thanked him again as I straightened out my uniform (a black pleated skirt, crisp white blouse, and a way-too-preppy blazer) and began my walk across the metaphorical plank, butterflies swarming deep inside my belly. I swung my near-empty schoolbag over my shoulder and pushed through the large double doors just as the bell rang out around me.

  The bustling crowd thinned quickly as I made my way down the corridor (through the chaos of slamming lockers, excited chatter, and rushing students) and had all but disappeared by the time I reached the main office and coaxed myself through the door. A round-faced woman in her late forties with short, cinnamon red hair peered up at me from behind the reception desk, her glasses resting on the tip of her short button nose.

  “Hi,” I said as I approached her desk, my schoolbag dangling from my fingertips. “I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be.”

  “Name, please?”

  “Jemma Blackburn. It’s my first day.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” she grinned. “Karl’s niece. Welcome to Weston Academy, my dear. We’re glad to have you with us.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad to be here,” I lied, figuring that’s probably what she wanted to hear.

  “I’m Candice Tate, but you can call me Ms. Tate, or Candice, or Ms. T, however you please,” she sang, waving her hand in the air flippantly. “You know, I’m sure I had your transfer papers here just a second ago,” she said as she rummaged around her desk, lifting and dropping stacks of papers and manila folders.

  I waited patiently, racking my fingers on the counter as I pretended to take an interest in the academia posters and public service announcements plastered all over the eggshell walls.

  The office door swung open behind me as a tall blond girl walked in with a stack of books cradled in her arm. Her long flowing hair was parted neatly to the side and looked as though it were lifted straight out of a magazine.

  “Morning, Candace. I need a late slip for homeroom. Mr. Bradley won’t let me in.”

  “Good grief, Miss Valentine. The day you actually manage to get to class on time is the day I hang up my gloves in here for good,” she said in a semi-scolding manner as she rolled her chair back and disappeared below the desk.

  The girl turned to me with a mocking face, mouthing the words, “what gloves?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “You’re new,” she smiled. It wasn’t a question. “I’m Taylor.”

  “Jemma,” I smiled back.

  “Cute kicks.”

  I glanced down and noticed our matching pairs of black Converse sneakers. “Yours are pretty cute too.”

  “Great minds,” she winked.

  “Here she is,” cooed Ms. Tate, pulling out a pink pad from the bottom drawer and jotting something down onto it.

  “What’s your schedule look like?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said and looked over at Candice.

  She handed Taylor a sheet of paper, presumably my class schedule. “Perhaps you might escort Miss Blackburn to her class?” She eyed Taylor as she wrote. “It is her first day after all.”

  “Love to,” she smiled and turned back to me, her round, denim blue eyes sparkling. “The
longer this takes, the better. I seriously can’t stand history.”

  “Me neither,” I laughed, and left out the part about how I hated the other subjects too.

  All eyes were on Taylor and me when we walked into our first-period World History class together. A short, balding man with a white chemise and beige pants stood at the front of the class, an open book in one hand and a piece of white chalk in the other. He didn’t look pleased by the intrusion.

  “Miss Valentine,” he said, in a low staccato voice. “Nice of you to join us. I see you brought a friend with you.”

  I felt my cheeks warm as the entire class gawked at me.

  “She’s a new student, Mr. Bradley,” explained Taylor. “I was in the office helping her get registered. That’s why I’m late,” she added and then turned around with a smirk before taking my transfer papers and handing them over to him.

  “Of course it is, Miss Valentine,” he said sardonically as he took the papers from her and looked them over. “Very well. Find yourself a seat, Miss Blackburn. Any seat will do.”

  Taylor waved me off before heading to the back of the class. She took her seat next to a pretty brunette with thin almond-shaped eyes the color of an aquamarine stone who would have been even prettier if it wasn’t for that nasty scowl she was wearing; which, consequently, seemed to be directed right at me.

  There was a definite hate-on-first-sight feel to it.

  I scanned the class and found an empty seat on the other side of the room, mid-row against the wall. I moved to it quickly, avoiding all eye contact as I shuffled down the aisle.

  “You can share Mr. Pratt’s textbooks until you get your own,” said Mr. Bradley, motioning to the brown-eyed blond guy with the buzz-cut and industrial piercing sitting beside me. He scooted his desk over to mine and pushed his book closer.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problemo,” he said, grinning. “I’m Ben.”

  “Jemma.”

  “Make sure to see me after school,” continued Mr. Bradley, at the front of the class. “We can go through what you need to get caught up with the rest of the class.”

  I nodded that I would and breathed a sigh of relief when he went on with his lesson, taking all the attention and curious eyes back with him.

  All except one, I noted.

  He was sitting clear across the classroom, leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out in front of him like he owned the room, and was staring at me through the most striking blue eyes I had ever seen before—piercing cobalt eyes, like the clearest part of the deepest ocean.

  An ocean I had the sudden urge to swim in.

  While everyone else was busy taking notes, he sat in front of a closed notebook with his pencil tucked behind his ear and absolutely no intention of connecting the two. His jet-black hair was thick and long. Just long enough to be slicked back neatly, and dark enough that it made his eyes soar out at me from across the room.

  I noticed he averted his eyes as soon as I met his stare but they quickly returned, and then it was my turn to look away. Only I didn’t. I couldn’t. My eyes locked in on him, and in an instant, I was embroiled in an entanglement of feelings I was neither ready for, nor prepared to understand.

  There was something about him—about those eyes and that stare—something familiar. It was the kind of something that made everyone else in the room fade away into the dark recess of my mind until there was no one left but me and him. He was the picture. Everything else around him was just white noise.

  His eyebrows pulled together as he stared back at me from across the room, and then, seemingly despite himself, his expression softened and gave way to a faint smile that caused two of the most beautiful dimples I’d ever seen ignite on either side of his marvelously sculpted face.

  Before I had a chance to react, to catch my breath again, the moment was abruptly detonated when the scowling brunette from earlier leaned forward in her chair and pushed herself into my frame of vision, breaking the connection and sending a tirade of daggers over to me by way of her glowering eyes.

  It was a warning shot if I ever did hear one, and I knew enough to leave well enough alone.

  I turned away quickly and spent the rest of the class with my eyes glued to the lackluster Mr. Bradley whose monotone voice almost put me to sleep on three different occasions, and even though I felt eyes burning into the back of my head, I never once turned back to see who’s eyes they might have been.

  3. FRIENDS AND RIVALS

  The sound of the lunch bell blaring was music to my overstimulated ears. I felt an unmistakable pang of relief when I saw Taylor Valentine walk up to my locker and invite me to eat lunch with her and her friends in the cafeteria. She had already become my favorite person at Weston, and it wasn’t just because we both hated history, or liked the same shoes, or because she’d gone above and beyond all day—showing me to my classes, introducing me around, and breaking the ice when it got awkward. We just sort of clicked.

  That wasn’t to say that the other students weren’t nice. Most of them were, but in a different way. There was a forced politeness about them, a shallow curiosity about the new girl, whereas with Taylor it felt genuine. She was herself right off the bat and had this kind of, “this is me, take it or leave it,” attitude, which pulled me in like a moth to a flame.

  The cafeteria was overcrowded and buzzing with heavy chatter and laughter when we walked in together. Thankfully, most of the student body was too engulfed in their own conversations and lunches to bother noticing me as we headed over to the lunch line, though the sentiment was short lived.

  “Yes she’s new! Get over it and quit staring at her,” snapped Taylor at some kid standing in front of us.

  He turned around before I could see his face.

  “You’d think they never saw a new student before,” she said rolling her eyes, and then leaned back against the aluminum divider railing. “So? How do you like Weston so far?” she asked, and then went on in a more hostile tone, glaring at another group behind us. “Aside from all the creepers, that is.”

  “It’s fine—It’s great,” I said shrugging my shoulders.

  “Yeah, I know, it blows,” she laughed. “The uniforms suck, the teachers suck, and our hockey team has the worst record in the entire league. If it wasn’t for all the cute, rich boys, I would have transferred out of here a long time ago.”

  At least she had her priorities straight.

  “Any of them yours?” I asked.

  “Cute rich boys?” she raised her eyebrow. “Nah, not me. I’m far too capricious to be tied down to just one boy.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not.

  “Meanwhile, I totally saw you and Trace Macarthur making googly-eyes in history,” she accused, her lips curving upwards.

  Trace Macarthur. His name swept through me like a summer breeze.

  “Nikki looked like she was about to go postal on you,” she continued, laughing.

  “Nikki?” I asked her casually, though I had a fairly good idea who she was referring to.

  “Nikki Parker, his girlfriend.” She tweaked her eyebrows.

  Of course she’s his girlfriend. That’s just the kind of luck I have.

  “They’ve been on and off since sophomore year,” she continued, blindly re-applying her cherry lip gloss. “Apparently they’re off-again, but I’m sure it’ll only be a matter of time before she gets him back. I mean, it’s not like she has any competition. She’s freaking Nikki Parker and no one around here is crazy enough to go after anything that belongs to Nikki Parker. You know what I mean?”

  “I’m getting it.” Loud and clear.

  “Anyway, there’s plenty of other hotties just ripe for the picking. And with all that,” she said, gesturing over to me brazenly, “you’ll have no trouble picking them right off the top branch, one by one.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh with her, though her not-so-subtle heads up was certainly not lost on me.

  After paying fo
r our food, we walked back into the main cafeteria where I followed her to a secluded table of her friends; several of whom I recognized from previous classes together, though none more so than Trace Macarthur and Nikki Parker, who stood out at the forefront of the pack.

  Nikki was leaning into him, her arm wrapped around his neck as though draping him in a luxurious sheath that was herself. They appeared to be looking down at something—the table, the tray of food, nothing in particular—laughing privately as we walked up to them. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought they were still a couple. A happy one.

  Trace straightened out as soon as he saw me, like my presence affected his person, while Nikki’s stare went arctic. If looks could kill, I would have already been a pile of grizzled bone dust.

  “This is Jemma,” announced Taylor. “You know Benjamin from History,” she said pointing to the blond guy who shared his book with me this morning, and then to the couple. “That’s Nikki and Trace. And this is Hannah Richardson, Carly Owens, and Morgan Sinclair,” she concluded, gesturing to the slender blond, baby-faced brunette, and the voluptuous red-head, respectively.

  “Hi,” I said, giving an awkward wave.

  “Hello,” said Morgan, coolly. Her sea-green eyes shifting up from her Blackberry as she summed me up.

  “Nice to meet you,” added Hannah, her smile was lopsided though welcoming. “I think we’re in chemistry together?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I agreed and sat down in between her and Taylor, with Nikki directly across from me. Morgan, Carly and Ben were on her free side.

  “So how’s Weston treating you?” asked Ben. “Is it everything the brochure claimed it would be?”

  “Yeah,” I laughed. “It’s fine—good. Everyone’s been really nice.” Well, almost everyone.

  “Fine? Nice?” he chortled and took a sip of his soda. “Come on, you can do better than that. Grade our paper.”