The Fake Heart (Time Alchemist Series)

by Revelle, Allice

  The Fake Heart

  Book One in the Time Alchemist Series

  By Allice Revelle

  Copyright 2012 © Allice Revelle

  Book Cover Art © PetarPaunchev (iStockPhoto.com)

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or represented fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or locations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  DEDICATION

  To Mom.

  LUMI, always.

  CHAPTER 1

  I was just a normal sixteen year old girl.

  My life in Savannah was supposed to be perfectly, absolutely normal. Totally, one hundred percent normal. I was going to kick my old A- average where it hurt and become top of my new class; I was going to giggle and gossip with my new girl friends over everything—from the cutest dresses made from local designers (and only the best money would buy) and rating gorgeous, just-walked-right-out-of-a-fashion-magazine, Grade A guys; and last, but certainly not least…my path to the future.

  First step: St. Mary’s Academy. And then, I would have the best of the best colleges from across the county at the tips of my fingers.

  I was just normal, boring, stick-by-the-rules Emery Miller. And I had plans.

  But those plans…well, they didn’t include me on becoming an alchemist.

  But Fate always had a funny way of showing me up, didn’t it?

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  Every morning starts off the same. Today was no exception, even if it was the start of my brand new life, miles and miles away from home.

  I hummed to one of my favorite Adele songs playing softly from scratchy, silver-and-blue stereo on the small wooden dresser drawers as I shuffled around my single dorm room in tempo. The dark cream colored plush carpet tickled the bottoms of my feet. I stopped for the hundredth time this morning in front of the full length mirror hanging on the closet door. Despite the smeared and scratched up surface, I could still see myself just fine in the reflection—a nervous smile spread on my pink cheeks (courtesy of some light blush), and green eyes almost hidden under thick, wavy auburn colored bangs.

  Brushing away the obnoxious hair did little to help. People often assumed that just because I hid my eyes from the world meant I was shy and vulnerable and insecure. Well, they were wrong. Dead wrong. Despite how annoying the bangs tended to block my eyesight, that’s just how I liked my hair. It was me—Emery. A little unique, just like my name.

  Besides, nothing a few cute glittering purple flower barrettes (a parting gift from my best friend Rachel back in my hometown near Albany—the capitol of New York, for those who…didn’t know. It honestly surprised me thought I lived in NYC; I’ve only been there, like, once in my whole life, and that was during a middle school field trip) couldn’t fix as I snapped them neatly in place, making sure not a stray hair was sticking out of place. Hair and Make-Up: Check.

  The scarlet colored jacket felt awkwardly stiff and a size too big on my body, and the black pleated skirt felt like it was made of a very rough material as it scratched against my legs. But I’d taken any slight discomfort (heck, I’d walk around the entire school with rocks and needles in my shoes!) to wear the emblem of St. Mary’s Academy—a golden insignia of a small, beautiful magnolia flower stitched perfectly over the left breast pocket.

  Wearing this uniform meant you were part of the privileged. The fortunate. The elite.

  And I, Emery Miller, was an official St. Mary’s sophomore student!

  Okay, well, I wasn’t exactly considered “elite” in such a glamorous, posh school, considering 95% of the student body was insanely rich (mostly from old money) and gorgeous, being one of the few scholarship students auspicious enough to even breathe on St. Mary’s finely trimmed Southern grounds.

  I tugged the edge of my skirt one last time, forcing a bright and cheery smile on my face as I posed. The black buttons of the jacket gleamed like prized gems against the morning light illuminating from the window that portrayed a small glimpse of the school grounds—the back of the girl’s dormitory, Moore Hall, which led to a collection of trees that swayed in a gentle sunup breeze.

  With one last double take—dress shirt neatly tucked in, jacket wrinkle free, buttons in place, skirt the right length (required by St. Mary’s rules) and the black tie snug nice and tight under the crisp white shirt. Uniform: Check

  I glanced over at the framed picture on top the oak nightstand table—the artificial light from the bedside lamp cast an unfriendly glare over the picture of me, a then five year old graduating from kindergarten, hair sticking out from underneath the little square-tussled hat decorated in Hello Kitty stickers and glitter, my mouth wide open, showing my missing front three teeth (yes, three) from an unfortunate accident on the swing sets; my proud father wrapping his big arms around my tiny body, our cheeks pressed together like putty. His smile was so wide it looked like his reddened face was split in half. There were even tears in his eyes.

  I haven’t seen my father smile like that in years. Not since my mom just up and left one night—ironically, the week or so after that kindergarten graduation photo.

  Times had been tough. Really tough, and it didn’t help that the small town I lived in breathed gossip like a fish breathes water. One week, my mother ran off with another man. The next week she ran off with another woman. The third week, she was a secret Russian spy, planning to overthrow our government—which is so stupid, considering that my mother had never been to Russia (that I know of). The weeks after that were just endless, trashy rumors, ranging from secret affairs to possible murders—but no one really wanted to just accept that she had grown tired of us and left in the middle of the night without even saying goodbye, only on a scribbled message on the back of a grocery list while Dad had gone to pick me up from a sleepover at Rachel’s house .My father especially didn’t seem to want to except such a humiliating way that the love of his life left him with no reason, and the fact that she had done it while I wasn’t even there. He’s had it far worse than me; considering I don’t really remember much about my mother, save for the few pictures I found hidden in Dad’s bedroom closet and the occasional remembrance of her vanilla fragrant perfume that drifted around the old house.

  My Dad had come from a pretty prosperous family—he was expected to follow in the family business—but all of that had changed when he met my Mom. After getting her pregnant when she was only seventeen, he dropped out of high school to take care of her, thus getting disowned by his own family—and that may have been why she was never liked well in our old town. People assumed she was some horrid gold digger, after his family’s wealth.

  Even now, while I was snuggled safe and secure under the roofs of St. Mary’s buildings, my father was probably still sleeping on Uncle Ben’s scratchy and smelly couch, trying to get a little sleep before his part time job at the gas station started. And then after that, it would be flipping burgers at Wendy’s. I don’t care what anybody said—I loved my dad, even if he did smell like sweat, burnt rubber and greasy fries. Those were the smells of honest work and love.

  Despite all of the rough upbringings, he always put me first. Even when I thought I would never be qualified or good enough to come to St. Mary’s, he was the one who went above and beyond to get all the recommendations I had needed, applied for any student loans I might need, and even drove me to all of my after school clubs and volunteer sessions that would look good on the St. Mary’s application. (A difficult task, considering we always borrowed Uncle Ben’s car and the fact that bus fare was far to
o expensive; not to mention that Dad, as much as I loved him, was a little too cautious than most parents should be, refusing to really let me walk to school by myself unless with friends).

  Now here I was—thanks to him, and the generosity of a St. Mary’s alumni’s scholarship, which played a huge role in me being here. If it wasn’t for the scholarship, I’d still be waking up to the smells of oil, men’s soap and burnt scrambled eggs every single morning, preparing to go to the same boring, rambunctious excuse of a high school where half the kids my age didn’t even give college a second glance; just waiting for the day where they can hitch up and have kids.

  I didn’t want that kind of life, to be dependent on somebody and stuck at home taking care of kids when I was barely an adult. Maybe it was my way of me trying not to make a mistake like my parents had, which was why, when my sweet Grandma had told me all about her life, and her mother’s—my great-grandmother’s—life at St. Mary’s, I knew I was destined to go there and make something of myself.

  And there was no way I wasn’t going to make my Dad proud. I was going to make sure all of his hard work wasn’t for nothing. I wanted him to smile and cry from joy at how well he raised his only daughter during such hard times. I want to say “See Dad? Look at me! You have nothing to be ashamed of anymore! I did it!”

  I smiled to myself as I retrieved a small band next to the picture and slipped my Grandmother’s bracelet on—a silver band with a beautiful crimson stone in the center with silver flowing etchings around the sides, gave me even more confidence as it dangled carelessly on my thin wrist. It was an old family heirloom that Grandma had given to me on my eighth birthday. I clutched it to my chest, staring into the tiny stone, wishing she were still alive so I could hold her instead of a piece of jewelry. It still hurt so much to know that I couldn’t tell her I had gotten into St. Mary’s, just like she had. Even my Mother had come to St. Mary’s once, a long, long time ago, and would have graduated if my Grandparent’s didn’t have to move to move up North during her freshman year. Sometimes when I had visited my Grandma, whenever I ever mentioned my Mom, she would have this lonely, glazed look over her eyes, as if the whole move was the reason why her daughter had gotten pregnant so young without graduating, and then just…left for good.

  Grandma never blamed Dad for what happened. If only I could convince him that nobody really did.

  But I would.

  “That’s right,” I said, clutching the worn frame in my palms, feeling the years of hard work and forlorn swirl inside me, “I’m going to be someone great, Dad. Just you wait. I’m going to make you so proud.”

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  “Wow, Em, way to get ready—too early.”

  The digital clock on my nightstand flashed 7:16 a.m. Orientation (only required for freshman and new transfer students like me—the school day didn’t actually start until tomorrow!) didn’t start until 8:30 am.

  I grabbed the campus map from my folder and smoothed it out of the desk’s surface. St. Mary’s school grounds were huge, even for a school in a historical city like Savannah. It was almost like a college campus, with the typical administrative buildings, dormitories (two sets for the boys and girls; no such thing as a co-ed dorm here, despite the rumors) a gym (with a pool, tennis court and soccer/football field), as well as a few other buildings for classes like science and art. Even a four-story library with a built in coffee shop for hard working students like myself, and I couldn’t wait to check that out!

  The tip of my index finger traced a pathway from Moore Hall to the auditorium which practically led to the front of the campus. Since most of the dorms were older buildings they were located near the back end of the campus, while places like that auditorium and the teacher’s officers, newly built and refurbished buildings, were more towards the front. A regular paced walk all the way across the grounds would have gotten me there in fifteen minutes or less. I glanced at the clock again: 7: 20. I still had plenty of time. Why not go explore a bit?

  “Sounds like a plan, Em.” I assured myself, gushing with excitement and a mixture of nervousness. After another quick check list (Uniform in perfect condition? There wasn’t any lip-gloss stuck to my teeth, was there? All the folders and pens I needed? Check, check, and check!), and a quick good bye to my father’s picture (with a reminder to give him a call after orientation was over), I slung my brown leather messenger bag over my shoulder, the beads of my favorite multi-colored keychain—shaped almost exactly like the flower design on my hairclips—clanged against the leathery surface, and shoved my feet into black flats before heading out the door.

  My heart fluttered with anticipation as I hopped onto the elevator, hearing the loud ping as the doors slid to a close. My fingers closed around the bracelet—my lucky charm, my support, my heritage; all reminders of what I needed to do and why I was at St. Mary’s Academy in the first place.

  CHAPTER 2

  Soft, morning light radiated through the collage of rustling green leaves. Despite being so early in the morning, there wasn’t a sound heard except for the occasional chirping of birds and chattering squirrels skittering up and down the barks of the trees. The heels of my dress shoes made rather loud and annoying clomping sounds along the stone pathways, like one of the horse drawn tour carriages that Savannah was well known for, probably scaring away any cute woodland creatures that happened to reside near the woods.

  But that was fine with me. The heavy southern air was unusually soothing against my skin, and a light breeze played across my face, tousling my hair a little out of place. I reached up to make sure the flower clips were still snug in place. No way was I going into orientation with a wild goose nest of a hair style! Only a week living inside of St. Mary’s, and I could already tell that the second most important thing these rich kids cared more about than their grades was their looks. First impressions meant a whole lot more here than they did up North—they determined who would approach me, who I would share my lunches with, and if I truly deserved to be walking in the same footsteps as the other god-like students.

  The city of Savannah was indeed a beautiful, breathtaking place. St. Mary’s delighted in showing off its historic brick and stone buildings, ornate wrought iron gates and elaborate old style architecture that made up the campus. A majority of the school’s buildings still looked like they did when St. Mary’s was first formed in the early 1900s, as an orphanage.

  St. Mary’s orphanage didn’t turn into a school until a hundred or so years ago. It wasn’t until St. Mary’s was about to go under financially when a generous and prosperous local made a hefty donation—in exchange for St. Mary’s turning into a boarding school for the next-in-line heirs of very wealthy companies and families. A.K.A: a safe haven for snobby little brats who roll deep in their parent’s dough.

  So now, 2011, St. Mary’s had evolved from a small, worn down orphanage to a high class boarding school fit for royalty. But really, St. Mary’s relied heavily on donations and tuitions to keep running, which is why so few scholarship students are accepted, if any at all.

  Needless to say, St. Mary’s is indeed a school for the wealthy, but it’s almost kind of sad that the less fortunate (like myself, for example) have to pry and dig and beg just to be able to enter the gates.

  I walked along the cobblestone pathway, passing a few old-fashioned lampposts (the kind that have to be lit by hand. How cool is that?), and some stone benches with names carved on the front; possibly old alumni or the names of generous donors. I could just imagine on a warm spring day all of the students taking cover under the thick shades of the oaks, reading books and listening to pop music or cuddling with their loved ones on plaid blankets. An unusually heavy sigh escaped my lips, breaking the clouds of my imagination. I wonder how long it would be to make friends and have picnics on the school grounds, or find a cute and sweet boy who’d lend me his shoulder as we napped under the trees? Would any rich boy here really want to spend time with me, a foreign girl who could barely afford the school uniform? />
  The edges of the map rustled in my hands as I took another look. I had already explored most of the area around my dorm, and even saw the small lake nestled between blankets of trees in front of the huge library. I paused at a fork in the road.

  Going right would take me straight to the auditorium. Going left would take me through a winding pathway all the way through a small layer of woods and come back around in front of the auditorium. It looked longer, but I narrowed my eyes to see the small black print better, noticing that there was a small church marked along the pathway.

  I took another glance at my watch. I still had well over half an hour. With any luck, I’ll get there early enough to find a good seat up front, and get a little sightseeing all at once.

  It was perfect! I folded the map up in a neat square and placed it in the jacket’s front pocket, then clip-clopped towards the pathway, into the heart of the woods, feeling like a giddy Dorothy on her way to see the Wizard of Oz.

  Despite how hidden the pathway was, it looked just as pristine as the rest of the grounds. True, the shades cast an almost uncanny overcast, almost completely blocking out the sun. But it was nice and cool as the long limbs of the moss covered branches brushed against the grounds.

  I took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh air, suddenly feeling rejuvenated as I kept up my pace, pausing every once in awhile to admire the huge aging oaks, or take count of how many bronze colored stones that sprinkled along the gray path.

  Not a sound was in the air except my heavy footfalls and breathing.

  Clang!

  I stopped mid-step, ears perked. The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly rose; goose bumps tickled my skin, even underneath the warm layers of clothes. I held my breath, thinking I had imagined the sound—

  CLANG!

  There it was again! It was a faint ringing sound, like somebody striking steel. Metal…against metal. But that wasn’t all—something….buzzing, like the humming of electricity running through wires, and muffled shouting following after. The sounds were coming to my left, and if I looked closely, I could see through the thick tree trunks and hanging moss a glimpse of the black iron fence that cut of St. Mary’s from the outside world.