Inception (The Marked Book 1)

by Bianca Scardoni

The taxi cab met us on desolate Edgewood Drive less than ten minutes later. Dominic insisted that he escort me all the way home even though he said he lived on the other side of town. I didn’t argue and did my best to hide my delight as I climbed into the back of the cab with him. When we arrived at my place, Dominic told the taxi driver to keep the meter running as he slid out of the car, gallantly carrying my purse before extending his hand out to me.

  I didn’t hesitate to take it.

  “Thanks again for your help tonight,” I said as he walked me up to the iron gates where I entered the four-digit security code my uncle had drilled into memory. “I’m glad you were there.” I shuddered to think what might have happened if he hadn’t been at All Saints tonight to intervene on my behalf.

  “As am I,” he smiled and then crossed his hands behind his back. “I hope to be of assistance to you again. Soon.”

  I smiled at the undercurrent of his words. “I’m working again tomorrow night. There’s a good chance I may need some assistance then if you’re interested.”

  He dipped his head once. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  There was a moment of awkwardness just then as I stood there idle, unsure of what the proper goodbye was supposed to be. A hand shake? A hug? My heart sped up. A kiss?

  I chased the thought away and ended the night with a simple smile before starting up the driveway.

  “Jemma,” he called a few seconds later, his voice filling me up with exhilaration and causing my pulse to race.

  He glided towards me, stopping just inches from where I stood. The anticipation overwhelming every cell in my body as I stood there, a captive member of his dark, entangling eyes.

  This was it. He was going to make a move, I thought, bracing myself for a kiss.

  “You forgot your purse,” he said as he pushed something into the pit of my stomach.

  “Huh?” I looked down and saw my handbag. “Oh...thanks?”

  “You bet,” he said, his lips coiled upwards as he took a step back, watching me with those eyes—those alluring, menacing eyes—and then stalked back to the taxicab.

  I lingered for a moment, bemused at the exchange, before turning to make my trek up the long stretch of driveway, the sound of heavy steel gates creaking shut behind me.

  That was...weird.

  8. head case

  I woke up early the next morning, an elusive dream callously prying my eyes open before their time. I struggled to catch my breath as clips from my dream danced around my mind disjointedly, piecing themselves together in fragments.

  The red sky was the first thing I remembered. It was the color of fresh blood. It poured over the desolate street, dusting everything in its crimson hue as I stood there alone, watching the strange firmament in wonder.

  A figure moved in beside me. The midnight-black hair, the humming sensation in my body; I knew it was Trace even before I saw him. He took my hand in his and began talking to me—warning me about something that I inherently knew was important, but I couldn’t hear any of the words. There was no sound, only visions of his lips moving. His dimples pressing in and out, reaffirming the severity of what he was trying to tell me.

  “I can’t hear what you’re saying,” I told him, shaking my head in frustration.

  A raven called out above us, its voice echoing through the red sky before diving down to the ground beside me.

  “Did you see that?” I asked Trace, but he was still staring forward, talking to himself in voiceless riddles.

  I turned back to the raven and found Dominic kneeling in its place, the strange sky illuminating him in all the right ways. He stood up and reached out to me, stroking my cheek with the back of his fingers, letting me know everything was going to be okay. But I knew it was a lie.

  “What’s going on?” I asked them, but neither one responded. “Why won’t anyone answer me?”

  “This isn’t their time,” said a small voice from behind.

  I turned towards the sound; a little boy no more than eight or nine years old. His dark hair was parted to the side and his eyes were a familiar shade of gray.

  “What does that mean?” I asked him, bending down to meet him where he stood. “Whose time is it?”

  “Yours.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “You have to go back. You have to make it right.”

  “Go back where? Make what right?”

  “The answers you seek are right where you are,” he said, pointing over my shoulder into the horizon.

  I followed his gaze down the abandoned street. “There’s nothing out there,” I said, looking back at him. But he was already gone.

  I turned back to Trace, easy as breathing. Something was always drawing me to him, magnetizing me in his direction. I wanted to be by his side, even in this strange dreamlike world. He reached for my hand and pulled me in close to him. His eyes speaking to me, telling me secrets I needed to know, but I couldn’t make out any of their words.

  “I don’t like it here,” I told him. “I want to go home.”

  He leaned in to me; to kiss me; to comfort me; and in my dream, I waited with bated breath for it, though our lips never connected. Instead, his lips moved down the base of my neck, caressing me as they glided over my hungry skin.

  I closed my eyes briefly, indulging in his touch. When I opened them again, short blond curls filled my vision.

  “This will only hurt a lifetime,” said Dominic and then bit down into my neck.

  The pain shot through my veins, burning as his poison consumed my being. He drank from me in unquenchable heaps, over and over again under the strange red sky.

  And I didn’t move a muscle to stop him.

  It took me several minutes to steady my heart rate and breathe once I realized it was only a dream. I climbed out of my bed and tiptoed my way down the hall, intent on getting myself a glass of water to wash away the dream’s bitter taste from my mouth. I wasn’t sure what time my uncle woke up at so I was extra quiet when I rounded the corner, careful not to accidentally wake him up. I relaxed as soon as I neared his office and heard his voice looming from within.

  “Jemma is my responsibility. I will decide what’s best for her,” I heard him say, and froze mid-step.

  After a brief pause, he continued. “The problem is she’s neither here nor there at this point. She’s somewhere in-between. We can’t go on this way, it’s much too dangerous. The spell has to be broken.”

  The spell? What spell? What’s too dangerous? What in the HELL was he talking about?

  I took a step forward, greedily wanting a better view, better sound. The wood creaked monstrously beneath my foot giving me away as though the house were alive and openly playing for the other team.

  Crap.

  “Listen, we’ll discuss this later at the meeting. Something’s come up.”

  I took a series of track-star steps backwards towards my room and nearly somersaulted myself back into bed, pulling the covers up over my head and squeezing my eyes shut.

  Several moments later, I heard my door creak open, followed by a brief stint of silence, before it closed shut again.

  There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that my uncle had just come in to see if I was awake. If I had been the culprit eavesdropping on his conversation, probably wondering how much I had heard.

  Well, I heard enough.

  I had no idea what was going on around here, or what he was talking about, but I had every intention of finding out.

  I had an impossible time staying focused throughout the day. My mind, despite what I had been commanding it, continued to busy itself with the conversation I overheard this morning in my uncle’s office as I struggled to make sense out of the senseless. After countless scenarios, I finally decided that I must have misunderstood what he had said, or the context in which it was said, because no other explanation seemed plausible. Jumping to paranoid conclusions was a surefire way to get myself admitted back to the hospital.

  My thoughts
quickly drifted to better things, like the conversation I had with Dominic last night—and our walk, and the shade of his eyes, and the fullness of his lips, and every other little distracting thing about him. It was absolute mutiny of the mind, and Dominic Huntington was reigning supremely.

  After the big lunch rush, I was relived to finally be able to sit down at the bar with Paula, the other full-time waitress, and have our first break of the day. We sat side by side eating our lunch as Zane balanced his cash register on the other side of the counter. Paula, with her dark blond hair pulled back into a proper and unassuming ponytail, seemed to be completely distracted with her own thoughts.

  I needed to get us out of our heads.

  “Is it always busy like this?” I asked no one in particular.

  Paula shook her head.

  “Not usually on Sundays.” Zane responded without looking.

  “Could have used an extra waiter,” I noted quietly. “Where’s Trace today anyway?” I asked and then nearly kicked myself for it.

  “He doesn’t work the lunch shift,” said Zane, and then lifted one of his arched eyebrows. “Why? Did you miss him?”

  Insta-defense set in. “No. I couldn’t care less. I’m just curious about the work schedule, that’s all.”

  Work schedule? That sounded lame, even to me.

  “Sure,” he said, not even bothering to hide his sarcasm. “Me thinks the girl doth protest too much.”

  I reverted to kindergarten coping skills and made a face.

  “Do you like it so far?” asked Paula, her voice low and timid. “The job, I mean.”

  I nodded, picking up a stack of veggies with my fork. “Sure. It’s alright. Not that I have anything to compare it to.”

  “Wait.” Zane lifted his hand in the air dramatically. “Are you saying we popped your cherry here?” He leaned in closer, his skin a perfectly tanned gold.

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Do you hear yourself? I refuse to dignify that with an answer.”

  “Dignify what with an answer?” asked Trace as he walked up from behind. His shirt was dotted with droplets of rain and clinging to his shoulders in an interesting way.

  Not that I was staring. Much.

  “Nothing,” I said as I tried not to look when he slicked his hair back and leaned onto the counter beside me.

  “Her cherry,” blurted Zane. “We popped her cherry.”

  I turned pomegranate red.

  “You what?” Trace looked over at me uneasily, his own cheeks slightly darker than before. “What’s he talking about?”

  “He’s trying to be funny. Trying being the operative word,” I explained and then quickly added, “It’s my first job,” as though that cleared up the whole thing.

  It didn’t.

  Zane jumped in. “First job. Cherry. Virgin territory—”

  Trace lifted his hand to stop him. “Thanks, I got it.”

  Awkward.

  “Is April here yet?” asked Trace, undoubtedly needing to change the subject in a massive way.

  “I think she’s in the office,” answered Paula.

  “Thanks.” He bounced his striking blues off of me once more and then took off for the back office.

  I dropped my eyes to my plate. When I looked up again, Zane was grinning ear to ear.

  “What?” I snapped, already defensive.

  “What is that? What’s going on there?” he said, ticking his head towards Trace. “I’m sensing a little je ne sais quoi.”

  “You’re high on spray-tan fumes.”

  He smacked his lips. “Mm hmm.”

  “I’m meeting Dominic Huntington tonight,” I blurted out, hoping that might quell his suspicions, and then cringed inwardly for trying so hard. Why did I even feel the need to defend myself?

  Zane’s eyes rounded out with delight at the revelation but quickly evaporated into something else as he eyed Paula. She flicked her salad back and forth with her fork, her expression obscured in thought, before she pushed the plate away.

  “Excuse me,” she said as she slipped off her stool and walked off towards the back. I could have sworn I saw a tear fashioning in the corner of her eye.

  I looked at Zane. “Did I say something wrong?”

  He leaned in across the bar as though there were prying ears all around us. “She used to go with him.”

  “Go with Dominic?” I recoiled. “Go with him where?”

  His eyes peeked up at the ceiling. “Go with him,” he repeated suggestively. “As in she used to date him.” He shook his head in pity. “Poor girl had it bad, too.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. They were damn near on fire. How long did they date? Was it serious? Did they sleep together? I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear any of it.

  “What happened with them?” I asked, despite myself.

  “He dogged her out, that’s what. Dropped her like last season’s Pradas.”

  “But I thought he just moved back here?” Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he was talking about another Dominic Huntington. Okay so it wasn’t likely, but it was possible.

  “He did,” he said as he pushed off the counter and returned to the cash register. “They moved fast.”

  “Oh.” Gross.

  I changed my mind. I didn’t want to hear this anymore.

  “My breaks over,” I said as I grabbed our plates off the bar. “Later, Zane.”

  “Laters, Jem.”

  I rushed off to the back, putting as much distance between myself and that conversation as I physically could.

  The hours passed by slightly disjointed, and for good reason. My head was sort of all over the place yet nowhere in particular. I felt tired, and under the weather, like below sea level, and while I initially just chalked it up to the surprise of finding out about Paula and Dominic, as time wore on, things seemed to go from bad to worse, and I quickly realized it had nothing to do with either one of them.

  I was standing in the back storeroom looking for the paper napkins when it happened. It was as though a sudden surge of tiny needles began blitzing my skin and when I looked up around me, the entire room had become animated in an unnatural way, similar to what you’d see in the skewed mirrors of a Funhouse.

  The melting walls and flashing black dots were the last thing I saw before I hit the ground.

  In truth, it only felt like I was out for a split second, but I had no real way of knowing for sure. When I came to, I was face down on a cold tile with an open box of paper napkins scattered on the floor around me. The seconds felt like minutes, and it took forever for the room to slow its rotation long enough for me to regain my balance and stagger back into a seating position, my back planted firmly against the wall like an anchor.

  Even still, my stomach wrenched and my head pounded harder than the bass line of a hundred tribal drums. I could feel my skin was clammy, and heated, crawling with uncomfortable, tingling sensations, and I knew I was far from out of the woods.

  The door burst open as Trace came barreling through it, his usual controlled expression overtaken by concern.

  “I’m fine,” I said as he rushed over to me. My voice had surprised even me. It sounded far too shaky and weak to be mine.

  “You don’t look fine,” he said as he bent down and scooped me up off the floor and into his arms.

  I didn’t have the strength to fight him off. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to. Instead, I just wrapped my arm around his neck and resigned myself as he carried me out of the storeroom and into the private employee washroom.

  “What happened? Did you black out?”

  “I don’t know,” I said dimly as he placed me down onto the chair. He grabbed a hand towel from the cupboard and turned on the facet, soaking it under the cold running water.

  I could see his expression through the mirror, his face stirring with an array of emotions I couldn’t quite decipher.

  He returned to my side with the wet towel in his hand and bent down on the tiled floor before me. The fact that this was the second time
that Trace Macarthur was kneeling down at my feet did not escape me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as he carefully wiped the sweat from my face. The cool wet cloth felt good against my skin.

  “I think so,” I sighed, letting my eyes close.

  “Does anything hurt?”

  I shrugged, looking down at my torso and limbs, twisting my left arm around, and then my right. Shit. Blood—my blood.

  “Oh my God, I’m bleeding!” I said stupidly.

  He cupped his hand around my arm and held it out, examining the wound with careful eyes. His skin was considerably hotter than mine—if that was even possible—and even though the added heat should have bothered me, it didn’t.

  “It’s just a scrape, you’ll survive,” he said quietly. “I’ll get a bandage.”

  “It all happened so fast,” I noted, mostly to myself. “I guess I’m coming down with the flu or something.”

  He got up and tossed the towel into the sink. “Yeah, or something,” he said, sounding frustrated.

  I couldn’t tell where the aggravation was coming from but it was making me feel uncomfortable, like I was some sort of burden to him. The whole idea seemed ridiculous since I never asked for his help to begin with. I contemplated saying something to that effect but decided against it being that he was my boss’s son and all.

  He opened up the bottom cabinet and pulled out a first aid kit and then returned to my side, pushing both his hands through his hair as he cleared the view in front of his eyes. His midnight black hair falling just short of his broad shoulders.

  “Let me see your arm,” he said without making eye contact. His thick lashes fanned out, shielding those incredible eyes.

  I held out my arm to him and looked away for a distraction. I found one in the chair I was sitting on and began picking away at a loose piece of material as he cleaned and bandaged my wound.

  Neither one of us filled the silence.

  “It’s probably that spell,” he finally said in a barely-there voice. He was still kneeling on the floor in front of me, picking up the scattered first aid supplies.

  My eyes reduced to slits. “What did you say?”