Inception (The Marked Book 1) (2 page)

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.”

“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.