Infinity Chronicles Book One: A Paranormal Reverse Harem Series

by Albany Walker

  Infinity Chronicles Book One

  A Paranormal Reverse Harem Series

  Albany Walker

  Infinity Chronicles Book One

  A Paranormal Reverse Harem Story

  By

  Albany Walker

  Cover Art Design By Maria Spada

  Editing Done By Elemental Editing & Proofreading

  Copyright © 2019 by Albany Walker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  18. Eighteen

  19. Nineteen

  20. Twenty

  21. Twenty One

  22. Twenty Two

  23. Twenty Three

  24. Twenty Four

  25. Twenty Five

  Also by Albany Walker

  About the Author

  One

  I look up to the last place I wanted to be—another new school, in another new town. I secure my frayed backpack over one slumped shoulder, not because it looks cool but because the other strap snapped two schools ago, or was it three? Didn't matter.

  I let my gaze rove over the old building slowly. There is nothing special about the bland square box that is the home of the Franklin Comets, whose last feat of anything worth mentioning was twenty years earlier—if I'm to believe the crooked sign half hanging near the front doors.

  Cinderblock walls, cobbled together with gray mortar, leach every bit of life from the surrounding area.

  The grass that grew in scarce patches might have been green if there was enough of it to create a lawn. But in the shadow of the utilitarian building before me, it looks as dull as everything around it.

  I drop my head and study the cracked sidewalk that leads up to a short flight of stairs, and ultimately to four dark brown doors at the entrance of the school.

  I'd walked here early yesterday morning just to get an idea of how long it would take me to get here from the RV.

  Twenty-three minutes was all that stood between me, and the only place I had to call home. The walk wasn't bad, not compared to how far we were parked from the last school I attended.

  I'd arrived early enough that only a few cars are parked in the small lot adjacent to the school. I wanted enough time to slide past the other students without notice. That's one thing I'm exceedingly good at, being invisible.

  My muddy blonde hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck, letting the sides cover my ears and shield part of my face. My skin is clear but unexceptional I don't wear makeup, other than my trusty cupcake chapstick that is.

  I'm not overly thin or thick. What girlish features I have are swallowed by my clothes that I've fashioned into a uniform of teenage acceptance of jeans and long sleeve tees ranging in shades of dull brown to drab blue. Never bright or fresh, not even black or white. Those colors draw attention, whether it be the dingy off-white that fabric seems to favor while being laundered at the coin wash or the inherent indecency that black seems to assume.

  My goal is to remain unremarkable. I fight to keep my grades on an even keel of low Bs. In some classes, like literature or language arts, I try hard not to let myself strive for the grades I'd get if I applied myself. To draw attention would only expedite my mother’s need to “move on.”

  A few years ago, when I hadn't yet grasped the reality of our nomadic existence, when I was still starry-eyed and naïve of my mother’s wanderlust ways, I’d thought our life was an adventure.

  I'd let my mouth and thoughts flit about freely for all my classmates and teachers to hear. That was back when I actually thought I could do something with my life, that I could be something more than my mother's daughter.

  I'd shown off how easily schoolwork came to me. I even tested out of middle school, guaranteeing early graduation and an easy scholarship. But as soon as mom found out, we packed up our 1970’s motor home and blew out of Tulsa faster than she could lecture me about the importance of anonymity.

  For weeks after she drilled me about the art of invisibility.

  It didn't matter that my scores could have gotten me a ticket out of this meager existence she seems to favor.

  I learned quickly it was so much easier to fake mediocrity than it was to console my flighty mom when someone took the time to notice either of us. So, I embraced my forgettability.

  Gathering my errant thoughts much like a child tugs a dandelion from a lawn, I shuffle over the broken slabs of concrete to the crumbling stairs, which will inevitably lead to depressing linoleum tiled hallways and a predictable nondescript office with uninterested staff trying to make it through another Monday.

  Grabbing the first door handle, I'm surprised to find it locked tight. Unsure, I begin to move down the line, tugging each door lightly before the last one finally gives way, allowing me into the quiet halls.

  It only takes a second to notice the overly large wall of windows spanning from waist high to the ceiling. As I make my way to the office, I see the shine of thin strands of metal laced through the glass, promising security, but from what? A bunch of high school students?

  The heavy wooden door into the front office opens soundlessly, but still draws the attention of the middle-aged woman shuffling papers at a high counter.

  Her lips thin, as do her eyes, when she spots me.

  Quickly, she glances at a large circular clock that is caged behind rusted metal before looking back down to me. Her gaze is aggravated and assessing. I'm sure she thought she'd have at least ten more minutes before having to deal with the student body.

  With a sigh she lifts the few papers she's still clutching and packs them onto the counter before her, keeping them hoisted, and forming a useless barrier between us.

  “Yes?” she utters the word in exasperation more than anything else, and it is the only greeting I get. My gaze falls to her hands, still grasping the loose sheets of paper.

  “Laura Fallen. New registration, ” I mutter, still focusing on her hands and avoiding eye contact. My words are soft, not overly polite nor rude, forgettable. Her thick fingers drop the small stack of papers, ruining all the straightening she'd done, and she paws at an upright filing system. I'm handed a well-worn manila envelope.

  As I reach forward, one of the paperstucked inside slips free and swirls down to the brown industrial carpet below. I grasp the file tightly before crouching down to retrieve the fallen document.

  “Your transcripts came over incomplete. There's no record of yearly pictures or testing scores.” Her eyes scour over me as I stand again. I don't tell her that I've always been conveniently absent on picture days and most days any school wide tests were taken. I say nothing but lift my shoulders in a small move of innocence.

  “Sorry?” I warble back. I see her hair sway as she shakes her head in annoyance.

  “Wish I didn't need to do everyone's job!” she complains, then adds, “I'll be needing that folder back. Your locker assignment and schedule ar
e yours to keep.”

  When I leave the office, I notice there's a stillness in the halls as I journey up to the second floor. Most of the classroom doors are open, with tall gray trash bins left empty adjacent to the entrances. My locker is tucked away at the end of hallway, right next to a rear stairwell. Intrigued by the possibilities of where they lead, I open my locker quickly just to make sure the combination works then close it back up, keeping my backpack with me.

  When I reach the bottom of the back stairway, it spills to the lower level and an exit. This will definitely be a quicker route, which I file away for later.

  As I make my way to my homeroom, the halls slowly start to fill. I manage to successfully filter through groups of kids with no one pointing out that a new student has joined their ranks. Cautiously, I linger on the fringes until I feel an acceptable amount of time has passed so I won't be the first or last student to enter the room.

  I place the half sheet of paper with empty columns on my teacher’s desk for his initials. I've been to several schools where they require new students to return similar forms after the first day of school, whether they think the kids will skip or are too inept to find their classes, I don't know, but it's a silly practice.

  The older man behind the desk looks at me before scribbling his initials in the appropriate column.

  “Alphabetic assigned seating Miss Fallen, but with late enrollment I'm afraid I'll have to stick you in the back.” From the corner of my eye I notice his eyes narrow on me, wondering and assessing if I'll cause trouble back there.

  I give a nod and walk over to the last row of five and sit in the desk farthest from the front. A few students peer at me as I pass, but my hair is still secured limply over my shoulders, the loose hold of a rubber band offering some anonymity from the curious stares of my classmates.

  Thankfully the homeroom teacher doesn't acknowledge me again throughout the short period. I know at some point today at least one teacher will address me and my newness, thinking they're somehow being helpful instead recognizing it for the embarrassment it actually is. I'm grateful to Mr. Wilber for not doing that.

  As the day slides by I get a few looks and hear a some whispers, but not much more than I'm normally used to from always being the new kid.

  I was a little surprised when Mom told me where we'd be moving this time. She usually picks a place that just borders on being a big city; a town barely large enough so our existence won't be noticed. But the town of Canton is more than just shy of being a big city, hell they don't even have a Walmart.

  Initially it concerned me that I'd stand out more in the smaller school. But I needn't have worried, because my hard-earned invisibility works better than I'd expected.

  Lunch always sucks for the first few days, the days before I've sussed out the best places to eat my bagged PB&J in peace while I read whatever book has my attention for the day. Today is no different.

  They split lunch into two groups: A and B. I got the former, so as my fourth hour lets out I meander out slowly, taking my time collecting my pencils and newly assigned book from my desk. After clearing the door, I head to the most obvious choice for all the book nerds worldwide: the library.

  Unfortunately, there's a signed posted which reads ‘closed for lunch periods,’ so I turn on my heel and head back the way I came. Maybe I can just go to my locker and camp out on the floor. An idea strikes as I make my way up the corridor. The lunchroom needs to be avoided at all costs, so I need to think of a new place to eat lunch. I pass a few classes still in session, but mostly my walk is uninterrupted. When I look past the bank of lockers that hold mine, I see the empty stairwell. A small smile lifts my lips when I peer down to the landing that separates the two flights of stairs. If I sit on one of the first few steps, I'll easily be able to notice anyone coming from the hall or the stairs below.

  With my back to the wall I munch slowly on my sandwich while it's still half in the sandwich bag, and flip through my book to find whatever scrap of paper I've tucked into the pages to mark my spot.

  Luckily I was able to finish my lunch with no interruptions, and I'm just gathering my things when I hear voices coming from below. I start working faster to tuck my stuff away when a soft voice reaches my ears. I can't make out what she says, but it’s quickly followed by a deep chuckle.

  Great, I've wandered into someone's make out spot. Before I can cram my brown sack into my book bag, heavy steps land on the stairs.

  I barely manage to sling my bag over my shoulder when a dark head appears on the landing and I drop my eyes to the steps below me. I'm already facing down, and I think passing him would be easier than rushing back up to my locker at this point, so I wedge myself as near to the right wall as possible and begin to descend the stairs.

  As he looks up, I recognize the moment he notices me. His steps falter, if only briefly, before resuming his unhurried pace. When we pass, his head turns and follows me. I never look up, pretending not to notice him. His musky cologne lingers in the passageway as I round the landing.

  Standing at the base of the stairs is a blonde girl peering up at me. My eyes dart to the ground quickly and she takes a breath like she might speak to me when my foot hits the last step, but I keep walking. As I turn down the next hallway, I catch a glimpse of her still watching me before I move out of sight, her eyes narrowed in speculation.

  Everything is fine until fifth hour, which is when it happens. I've settled into a peaceful acceptance that I might just make it through the day without any teachers prompting me to spill why or how I ended up in their school. But then it does.

  Mrs. Yarro, a youngish teacher with an easy smile, moves to the front of her desk and leans her rump against it, crossing her ankles. “So, guys, I'm sure you've noticed we have a new classmate today. I hope all of you are making her feel welcome.”

  At her announcement a few heads swivel around the room. Looking for the new student that I'm sure most of them had no clue was among them.

  I'm tempted to ignore her, but I know that doesn't work because I've tried it before. So, I gaze at the front of the room without making eye contact with anyone and lift my hand in a small wave.

  “Laura, tell us where are you from?” Mrs. Yarro prods.

  At this point I don't even remember, so I tell her the last place we moved from. “Michigan,” I respond loud enough so I won't need to repeat myself. Mrs. Yarro nods her head encouragingly, wanting me to add more. When I don't, she folds her hands together and looks around the room.

  Taking mercy on me after one last look in my direction she says, “All right then Laura, we're happy to have you. Jimmy can you tell me where we left off on Friday?”

  “Um, uh,” the guy in front of me stutters as he turns back around to his own desk and fumbles with a textbook.

  With a heavy sigh Mrs. Yarro answers her own question, “Chapter twenty-four people! Remember we're having a test Thursday. I'll expect everyone to be prepared.”

  I get a few more looks throughout the class period but nothing I couldn't handle. My last class of the day is the only elective available to me, art. To say I lack the creative gene would be too simple; frankly, I'm completely out of my element with anything artistic.

  The teacher, a mild looking man in tan corduroy pants and a button-up shirt, is standing near a lab table. Oh no, these are the worst. I really don't want to share a table with anyone; it's hard to ignore someone sitting at the same table with you.

  “Laura,” he addresses me in a smooth tone. I nod, stepping close enough that we won't draw too much attention from the others coming into the room. “I have an open seat for you right here.” He gestures to a table at the far left of the room. “We've been working on portraits for the display case at the front of the school for the past few weeks, after everyone arrives I'll get you started, and we'll see if we can get you caught up.”

  I let my bag slide down my arm and to the floor next to the stool. The other seat at the table is still empty when I drop into mine. D
o I dare hope it will remain that way?

  I take advantage of the fact that few other students haven’t arrived yet and let my eyes scan the room.

  The ceiling is high, leaving exposed gray beams crisscrossing above me, every inch of wall space from about ten feet down is covered with layers and layers of artwork. Some childlike with just smears of colors on aging construction paper, others you can tell the artist has real talent.

  It's the most vivid place in the whole school; while everything else bleeds gray and bland, this room erupts in colors. It's a little dizzying honestly.

  The scrape of a stool jolts me from my stupor as I stared at a particularly dark drawing. It almost covers the white paper completely in charcoal, but it still invokes a feeling of emptiness in me. I can't make out the images from my vantage point, but the desolation spans the room. Instinctively, I look over to the sound that disturbed me, and when I catch sight of a slightly scruffy chin, I snap my head back to face the front of the class.

  I can't believe I was so distracted by the sketch, I didn't realize students were filling seats around me.

  Mr. Adams greets the class by clapping his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “All right guys, your portraits are due soon. I’ll make my way around the room to see if anyone needs a little guidance, if I don’t make it to you today, it’ll be first thing tomorrow. I want to see the best you have to give me.”

  He makes his way over to my table, already carrying a large, thick piece of white paper. Mr. Adams leans his palms on the surface, and his eyes meet mine briefly before I move my gaze to the paper resting on the black desktop. “We've been focusing mostly on technique over the last few weeks, learning proportions and facial perspective. How familiar are you with portrait work?”