by Nicola Marsh
SCION OF THE SUN
Nicola Marsh
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction including brands, names or products such as: America’s Most Wanted, American Idol, Band-Aid, Ben and Jerry’s/Chunky Monkey, Cammie Morgan, Doc Martens, Gossip Girl, Harry Potter, Hogwarts, iPod, Liv Tyler, Lord of the Rings, Magic 8 Ball, Michael Bublé, Mockingjay, Saks, Sorting Hat, Robert Pattinson, Ron Weasley, Rose Hathaway, Teen Vogue, The Hunger Games, Twilight, Vampire Academy, Voldemort, VW, and Zoey Redbird.
Copyright © 2013 by Nicola Marsh
Scion of the Sun by Nicola Marsh.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC. Month9Books is a registered trademark, and its related logo is a registered trademark of Month9Books, LLC.
Summary: A teenage supernatural misfit enters boarding school for the freakishly gifted, discovers she can teleport to a Druid parallel existence and battles coming of age issues while embarking on a quest to recover an icon that can change the world and her family as she knows it.
ISBN 978-0-9850294-3-2 (tr. pbk) 978-1-939765-53-6 (ebook)
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Praise for
SCION OF THE SUN
“Scion of the Sun is packed with action, mystery, romance, and suspense. It’s not to be missed.” – Jennifer L. Armentrout, #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
For my amazing boys, who are already asking when they can read this book.
I’m sure the years will fly too fast and you’ll be reading this before you know it.
You’re my inspiration.
I love you more than words can say.
CHAPTER ONE
I always thought cults were for crazies.
Until I joined one.
Let me clear up any misconceptions. I’m not crazy. A freak, but not crazy. Which is why I’m here. Freaks R Us. A boarding school for the intellectually gifted tucked away in the back streets of Wolfebane, New Hampshire.
Intellectually gifted? Yeah, right.
We have a pristine lake surrounded by majestic mountains. We have lush green fields that turn into fabulous groomed ski trails in the winter. We have upscale restaurants and thriving businesses and fancy homes—city pizzazz with small town coziness. We even have our very own homegrown C.U.L.T.
The Clique of Unique Luminary Telepathies.
When the average person searches this place on the Internet, the home page reads Co-Ed for Unified Learning and Teaching, a New Age school for the hippest of the hip. It appears to be a rambling English manor, sandstone and massive latticed windows and French doors, surrounded by a cottage garden gone wild.
All very civilized for a place of learning, but what I’d learn would scare the crap out of me.
“Going in sometime this century?”
I glared at Colt, sitting smug in his beat-up Chevy, eager to get rid of me. I’d been thrust on his family, Nan’s only neighbors, when she got carted off to the hospital. I hated staying with his uptight family as much as they hated having me.
“Nah, think I’ll hang with you a bit longer. It’s so much fun.”
He pointed at the door. “Get out.”
I didn’t budge. Colt didn’t scare me. C.U.L.T. did.
“I had no choice staying with your folks. What’s your excuse?”
His expression turned stubborn.
“How old are you anyway? Nineteen? Twenty, tops?”
“Twenty-one,” he gritted out. “Too old to be babysitting dorks like you.”
“Dork? That’s mature for a guy tied so tight to mommy’s apron strings he’s still living at home.”
His hands clenched on the steering wheel and I jiggled the door handle. The door opened on the third try.
“If you were this smart-assed with your Nan I’m not surprised she had a stroke.”
Low blow. That’s what it felt like, like he’d kicked me in the guts. His words inspired the same nauseating feeling I’d had when I’d told her what I’d seen. When she’d uttered five mysterious words—she took the wrong one—and keeled over.
“And she’s in a long-term coma?” He drove the boot in harder. “She’d probably do anything to stay away from you.”
I grabbed my backpack, slung my messenger bag over my shoulder, and slammed the door. I couldn’t get away from him fast enough. It wasn’t what he’d said as much as the possible truth behind it.
He leaned across the bench seat and leered out the window. “Enjoy the lock-up. It’s a perfect place for psychos. You’ll fit right in.”
“Screw you.”
Colt gave me the finger, gunned the engine, and squealed away from the curb, leaving me standing in front of my prison.
Wolfebane High had sucked, but boarding school? Fine for my fictional faves Zoey Redbird and Rose Hathaway and Cammie Morgan. Me? I wasn’t the kickass heroine so much.
I stiffened as a group of girls exited the school gates. No uniforms, just a motley mix of preppy and prissy mixed with cheerleader chic. In my faded jeans, striped hoodie, and worn pink ballet flats, I stood out like the nerdy bookworm I was.
One of the girls, a tall blonde with shiny hair to her waist, stopped and glanced my way. I half smiled. She scrutinized me from head to foot before giving me the cheerleader welcome.
She turned her back.
Humiliation heated my cheeks as Cheerleader Chick said something to the group and they tittered, gawked at me, and snickered.
Not one of them smiled. Most did the same flick-over dismissive thing before turning away and heading up the street toward town, leaving me as helpless and mortified and angry as I’d been at Wolfebane High.
There, too, I’d tried to pretend the princesses didn’t get to me, that my grades were all that mattered. But with every condescending smirk, every haughty glare, I’d wanted to smash my fist into their conceited faces. Not that I was pro-violence. Unless provoked.
Who needed all that perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect outfit crap anyway? Who needed friends?
As I watched the tight-knit group stroll down the street in all their trendy glory, confident in their place in the world, a small part of me yearned to run after them, to be part of their shared secrets, their out-there prettiness, their inner circle.
“Cliques are the same the world over, huh?”
I stopped staring at the princess posse and mustered a tight smile for the girl who’d voiced my opinion. A girl who looked about twelve, wearing a bizarre outfit of a saffron-sequined halter top, camouflage pants, and patent leather Mary Janes.
“You go to school here?”
She nodded, her baby face losing years by the second. “Third year.”
I’d never been good at small talk so I scrambled for a semi-polite response. “You like it?”
“Yeah, it’s not bad.”
She pointed at my bags. “First day?”
“Uh-huh.”
She glanced at her watch. “Gotta run. Good luck.”
Great, even the y
oungest, worst-dressed kid in school didn’t want to hang around me. And how could she be in third year when she looked like she belonged in preschool? I must’ve been staring, because she pointed to her face.
“Don’t let this fool you. I can conjure up a good spell like the rest of them.”
Just like that, my bubble of normality burst. It had been thin to begin with, but it had been there, an illusion that this place was like any other high school, complete with an in-crowd tailor-made to ignore me.
But nothing about C.U.L.T. was normal, as I’d soon find out.
As if my crappy day couldn’t get any crappier, one of Wolfebane’s legendary storms decided now was as good a time as any to dump a sky full of rain on me.
I scurried for the nearest shelter, a towering oak that could’ve protected an entire football team. I could’ve entered the school and huddled under the huge stone arches flanking the path leading to the main building, but the longer I could delay the inevitable, the more in control I felt.
Of course, the Cheerleader Crew chose that moment to come back, balancing their diet sodas and umbrellas and delicate egos without missing a step. They glanced in my direction, their nerd-radar working overtime despite the storm, and did the derisive quick-look-away in unison before dashing into school, making a mockery of my “I’m cool and in control” mantra.
Hard to appear cool when you’re a drowned rat huddled under a tree, clutching your messenger bag to your chest to protect your precious books. I glanced up at the sky, hoping for a reprieve so I could make a run for it.
“Room for two under here?”
I jumped and spun around, wondering where the biker dude had sprung from. A few years older than me, he wore head-to-toe black—black jeans, black T-shirt, black leather jacket—and had enough facial piercings to create his own magnetic field.
“Whatever.”
His lips curled into a surprisingly nice smile at my answer. “Let me guess. First day?”
Not interested in making small talk but stuck here until the rain stopped, I shrugged. “What gave it away? My unbridled enthusiasm?”
He laughed. “You’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
“This look.” He frowned, making his eyebrow and lip rings jiggle. “I call it the get-me-the-hell-outta-here look. All the newbies get it. Makes it easy to spot you a mile away.”
I jerked my thumb at the school. “You’re a student?”
“Not anymore.” He kicked a khaki duffel at his feet. “I’m done.”
“You graduated?”
This time, there was nothing remotely nice about his smile. His top lip curl was positively evil. “You could say that.”
I took in the slouch, the bad boy outfit, the piercings, and the sneer. “Expelled?”
He shook his head, his long brown ponytail flicking over his shoulder. “Not that lucky.” He kicked his duffel again, harder this time. “I’m tired of all the New Age crap, so I quit.”
Intrigued by a school that allowed its students to decide how long they stuck around, I pretended I didn’t care about his answers when in fact I wanted to play twenty questions with the rebel before he hit the road. “Why were you here?”
His dark gaze swept me from head to foot as he took a step closer. “You really want to know?”
I shrugged, determined not to show his proximity intimidated me a tad. “Hey, if I’m going to be stuck inside this freak show, pays to be in the know.”
He studied me as he slugged me on the shoulder like an old buddy, and I struggled not to wince. “Pity I’m leaving. I dig you, new chick.” He stuck out his hand. “Drake.”
“Holly.” I shook his hand, a little disappointed when some greater force didn’t zap me. As if. Drake didn’t seem so bad for an ex-student. Hopefully the rest of my classmates would be okay too.
Leaning against the tree trunk, he folded his arms. “So you want to know what I can do, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He pushed off the tree so suddenly I took an involuntary step back. “I burn things.” He leaned into my face. “Want a demo?”
I knew he wasn’t referring to using matches or kindling and my heart twisted in fear as his eyes glowed red.
“Sure.” Maybe Drake would fry me to a crisp and save me an entire term of freaky lessons?
He invaded my personal space, but I didn’t move. I’d faced bullies like him at Wolfebane High and had learned the hard way: if you show fear, you go down. I stiffened when a crimson circle spread around his irises. I braced myself to be nuked, staggering in relief when he punched me on the arm again and stepped back.
“You’re cool, Holly. Pity I can’t stick around and show you a few party tricks.”
“Yeah, pity,” I said, almost peeing my pants in relief when he hoisted his duffel, slung it over his shoulder, and saluted.
“I’d say break a leg, but with the weird stuff that goes on in there, it’ll probably happen.” His eyes flared red again before he blinked and the scarlet vanished, his smile back to benign. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, kid.”
He took two steps before turning back. “Almost forgot. A little friendly advice. Don’t trust the principal. She’s one serious psycho.”
Not a problem; I never trusted principals as a rule. Except Nan knew this one and had said Brigit Smith could help me. Considering what had been happening lately, I needed all the help I could get.
As he bolted into the rain, which had eased to a light sprinkle, I swung back to school with dread turning my feet to lead.
If a freak like Drake couldn’t make it there, what chance did I have?
CHAPTER TWO
Outside the school gates, I plucked at the string of my hoodie, twisting it around my finger until it turned numb. I had to do this. I just didn’t want to.
The way I saw it, I had two options.
Drag my sorry ass into school and go meet the principal, or run screaming back to Nan’s where social services would haul me away. Some freaking options.
I had to figure out why I’d started having visions so I’d be safer taking my chances with the head freak, despite Drake’s weird warning, than ending up in some scary foster home.
Decision made, I marched through the long stone-arched entryway, the gloom of the stones at odds with the welcoming appearance of the main building. Way to go with the Stonehenge look. Once I turned onto another pathway free of the odd-shaped stone arches, I glanced around. Not a student in sight. Odd. Then again, what did I expect at a C.U.L.T.? They were probably all tucked away with their magic wands, trying to transform Fs on their term papers to As.
Harsh, considering the bulk of the student body was normal apparently. From what I understood, the kids attending here were intellectually gifted students with an interest in New Age studies to complement their high school diploma. Whatever that meant.
Guess the name Nan knew the place by, the clique and luminary telepathies thing, made me imagine a school filled with levitating, spell-casting freaks. If Drake was anything to go by …
I could live with the intellectually gifted tag, but the visions, the telepathy? I could do without.
I mentally rehearsed what I’d say as I followed signs to the principal’s office, housed in the front of the massive sandstone building sprawling across an acre.
Nan said you could help freaks like me.
You see, there’s this thing, I see stuff. Weird stuff.
With no idea what I’d say when I met the head freak, I stopped outside a thick wooden door with a brass nameplate reading Brigit Smith, C.U.L.T. Principal, nerves knotting my stomach as I shook out my hands.
“Come in, Holly, I’ve been expecting you.”
My hand, raised to knock, dropped to my side. First lesson: head freak had ESP. Or cameras. I glanced around and saw no evidence of recording devices. Spooky.
“I haven’t got all day, Holly.”
This time, steel threaded through the command, and as the door creaked open—add
ing to the surrealism—I shoved my hands into the pockets of my hoodie to stop the tingling and bumped the door fully open with my hip.
I glanced around the room, surprised by the normalcy of it all. Gold-embossed wallpaper, wood-trimmed french doors, marble fireplace, antique furniture, with an impressive crystal chandelier overhead. I’d imagined something along the lines of Hogwarts with a healthy dash of nuthouse thrown in, not this staid, simplistic drawing room taken straight from Jane Austen’s era.
Then I caught sight of America’s preeminent parapsychologist and my preconceptions, along with whatever Nan had told me about Brigit, flew straight out the barred window.
“Don’t stand there gawking. Come in and join me.”
A plump, snowy-haired woman with apple cheeks, owlish eyes, and a striking widow’s peak stirred a miniature bubbling cauldron on her giant mahogany desk. If she thought I’d join her for a quick incantation in this freak show, she had another think coming. “And call me Brigit. We don’t stick to formalities around here.”
I stopped a few feet short of the desk and tilted my chin up, waiting for her to say something, anything, to give me an excuse to turn around and storm out without looking back.
“I’m sorry about your grandmother.”
“Thanks.”
Nan had raised me after Mom abandoned me. Vanished, Nan said. Whatever that meant. Like Mom had gone up in a puff of smoke when the reality was probably far harsher. Rhiannon Burton obviously hadn’t wanted a squalling kid, so she’d run off. Vanished, my ass.
I kept a photo of Mom next to my bed. Because, who knew, maybe if I stared at the picture long enough, she might show up one day?
So I could say to her face, screw you.
Nan was the only person I trusted in this world, and she now lay in a vast bed hooked up to machines to keep her alive, her vegetative state so frightening I ached every time I visited. A sliver of pain, as sharp and niggling as a splinter lodged under a fingernail, stuck in my heart, and wiggled, intensifying the throbbing ache until I could barely breathe. I didn’t need Brigit’s trite condolences. I needed her help with my problem. I needed her to make it go away.