Inception (The Marked Book 1)

by Bianca Scardoni

  “But not impossible?” I asked, watching him pull the keys from the ignition. “Is there someone you can call, like a contact or something? Or should we go to the Council? Do you think they can help us with this, or is it better to just—”

  “You ask too many questions, anyone ever tell you that?” He flung the driver’s side door open and climbed out of the car without answering any of them.

  I scanned my surroundings trying to figure out where we were but saw nothing telling. There was nothing but trees and shrubs and dirt for miles in every direction.

  Trace appeared on the passenger side and pulled open the door, holding out his hand. I looked down at it, questioning it as though it could speak to me. As though it had the answers I sought in this foreign world.

  “You can trust me,” he said, inching it closer.

  I placed my hand into his and climbed out of the car.

  32. TRANSFERENCE

  “Where are we going?” I asked as Trace led me further away from the car and deeper into the dew-kissed forest.

  “We can’t go back to town right now. They know who you are. They’ll know how to find you.” He stopped in a small clearing and turned around to face me. A canopy of plush green leaves blanketed the two of us like a beautiful quilt. “We need to go somewhere safe until we figure this thing out.”

  “Where did you have in mind?” I asked, crossing my arms. He better not be thinking about camping out here.

  “My father’s cabin up north.” He looked at me with calming eyes. “No one knows about it. It’s completely off the grid.”

  “But the car—” I began, thumbing in the direction of where we’d come from but stopped short when he started grinning.

  “We won’t need it,” he said. Before I could ask another one of my daft question, he quickly added, “We’re using another mode of transportation.”

  “Oh. Right...that porting thing you do.”

  “Yeah, that porting thing I do.” He took a purposeful step towards me, breaking into my personal space.

  “What are you doing?”

  He uncrossed my arms and gently began pulling me towards him. “Your body needs to be touching mine for this to work.”

  “Oh, so we...okay.” My heart sped up feverishly.

  I let him pull me in closer until I was pushed up flush against his body. Careful not to graze the injured area, I circled my arms around his waist and breathed in his intoxicating scent as he slid his own arms around my back, sending my body into a near-state of rapture.

  He cleared his throat. When I looked up at him, I could see he was fighting back a smile.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head.

  Was he laughing at me again?

  “I want you to take a few deep breaths, okay? You’re going to feel cold for a bit, but it’s normal. Don’t be scared.”

  Before I could ask any more questions, I felt his body temperature (and my own) drop abruptly, jolting me upright. I tightened my hold on him as the forest began blackening out around us. The freezing air licking at my skin as the world I thought I knew ceased to exist.

  In an instant, my mind was spinning out. Or maybe it was us that was spinning—falling, folding upon ourselves in a stateless state, and then suddenly we were solidifying again, the world slowly taking up its form around us. Except the picture was different now. Gone was the forest and its pine-green beauty, and in its place was a darkened living room inside a strange log cabin I’d never been to before. And the cold. The cold was near arctic. I began shivering wildly, still holding onto Trace as he held on to me.

  The room solidified with colors, each detail falling into place, almost as though its molecules were being put back together again one by one. Or maybe it was our own molecules. And then, just like that, our body temperature rose, buzzing, climbing back up to a normal level. Well, as normal as it could be while standing this close to Trace Macarthur.

  I stepped back and looked up at him in awe. “Oh, my God.”

  He tried to laugh but winced again as he clutched onto his side in obvious pain. “I’m okay,” he assured upon seeing my worried expression.

  “No you’re not. You should have taken us to a hospital!” I reached forward to touch him.

  He caught my wrist mid-air. “There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom. First door down the hall.”

  I pulled my hand back and followed his instructions. When I came back into the living room, he was already sitting on the wooden coffee table unbuttoning his shirt. Unprepared, I froze mid-step in the entrance at the sight of his peeking flesh.

  He looked up and quirked an eyebrow. “You okay?”

  “What? Yeah. Totally.” My cheeks flushed. Get it together, Jemma. “I’m fine.”

  I stepped in the room and handed him the first aid kit. Not wanting to get caught staring again, I busied myself looking around the room, pretending to be interested in the decor. The antlers above the stone fireplace only mildly held my interest.

  “Can you help me get this off?” He motioned to his injury as proof that he needed my assistance disrobing.

  I nodded coolly though I could feel the heat surging through me when I knelt down on the area rug before him. Without making any eye contact, I carefully took the collar of his shirt and began sliding it off his shoulder, then down his arm—his taut, muscular, beautiful arm. To my relief, the sleeve came off easily, exposing the entire half of his body.

  I looked up at him and caught him watching me.

  My heart thumped at asinine levels as I reached up and took the other side of his shirt, gently sliding it over his shoulder. Careful not to scrape it against his injury, I slipped my thumb under the fabric and let my finger graze against his skin as I dragged the shirt down his arm. His skin was as warm as a fever and ignited my blood like a fire storm.

  I peered back up at him in a daze and noted that his eyes had closed again. Even in this sorry state of pain, he was the picture of otherworldly perfection.

  “I can hear you,” he whispered. His eyes flicked open and sang with regret.

  “Huh?”

  He gestured to my hand that was still touching his skin. “I try not to listen in—I prefer not to, but...” he shrugged as though it were beyond his control.

  Oh crap. My cheeks felt volcanic, like at any moment they would burst into flames. Say something, Jemma! “I was just thinking that you, you know, still looked decent despite what happened to you tonight.”

  He arched a brow at me.

  “Just shut up,” I warned, even though he hadn’t said anything. If he knew what was good for him, he’d leave it at that. “How well can you hear me anyway?” I wondered if it would be inappropriate to demand we test this thing out.

  “Well enough.” He looked down to examine his wound.

  The bleeding had slowed considerably but there was a gaping wound that looked as though it would need a few stitches. I tossed his shirt on the armchair and tried to move around him to take a seat on the couch. Far away. Where there would be no more skin-to-skin contact.

  He grabbed my wrist. “Where are you going? I need you to do this for me.” He motioned to his injury again.

  “Do what for you?” I recoiled.

  “Stitch me up.”

  “Are you insane? I can’t stitch you up.”

  “Yeah, you can.” There wasn't the slightest hint of reluctance in his voice. “It’s just like sewing.”

  “And what makes you think I know how to sew?”

  His dimples flashed on both sides. “Wishful thinking.”

  I looked down at his sultry eyes, and those perfect lips, and that chiseled jaw from the gods, and prayed for the strength not to throw myself at this man like some unworthy peasant.

  “Sit,” he whispered, pulling me to the floor again.

  “I don’t have a steady hand.”

  “I can’t do this on myself.”

  “I’m going to butcher you—turn you into Frankenstein!” A
hot one for sure, but a Frankenstein nonetheless.

  “I’ll walk you through it. You’ll be fine.” He bent forward to pick up the first aid kit from the floor and let out an audible grunt.

  I couldn’t stand seeing him in pain like this.

  “You need painkillers,” I said, taking the first aid kit from him. I cracked it open and searched through its contents for the contraband. “Here, take these,” I ordered, handing him a packet of over-the-counter painkillers.

  He tossed two in his mouth and swallowed sans water.

  Without waiting for his prompt, I pulled out some gauze and a bottle of antiseptic and started cleaning the area around the wound until I had a clear view of the puncture. I may have been a novice at stitching flesh together but I certainly knew how to clean out a wound. And it definitely needed stitches.

  “Lean back,” I told him, standing on my knees now. “We can’t close the wound until we flush it out or it’ll get infected.” Of that I was sure.

  He slid back onto his elbows, exposing his washboard abdomen and causing my core body temperature to rise even higher than it already was. I bet they outlawed bodies like his in certain parts of the world. I bet it was downright illegal. And for good reason, too. I was a hop and skip away from going into cardiac arrest.

  Leaning over him, I poured the antiseptic liquid into the wound until I felt (in all my infinite medical wisdom) that it was sterile enough to be sealed. “I think that should do it,” I mumbled, trying to keep my eyes from roaming.

  “Thanks.” He offered a bleak smile and straightened out.

  When he pulled out the needle and a spool of string that bore an alarming resemblance to a fishing line, I decided that it was the perfect time to distract myself with a phone call. I grabbed my phone and checked for service.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, looping the string through the needle head with ease. It was obvious he’d done this before. With his short fuse and propensity to brawl, he probably stitched himself up every other day.

  “I’m calling Gabriel to let him know where we are. Maybe he can help us—”

  “No way,” he said, taking the phone from me quick as a thief. “How do we know he wasn’t the one who sent the Runners?”

  “Are you high?” I snatched the phone back. “Gabriel would never do that. Ever. He’s a good guy.”

  “He’s a Rev—”

  “You don’t know him!” I snapped, cutting him off. “He would never do anything to hurt me. It’s not him, Trace. Trust me.”

  He stared back at me, his sublime blue eyes taking me in.

  “Besides, I think I know who’s behind this,” I added, fingering the Amulet under my shirt. “But I need to speak to Gabriel first. He needs to know what’s going on.”

  “Fine,” he said, though the tension in his jaw never gave.

  My phone call with Gabriel was short and to the point. Even though he presented his usual calm and reassuring facade on the exterior, I could hear the anxiety undertones in his voice. We were both thinking the same thing: that this was probably related to Engel and the Amulet. So what now? Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything he could do until sundown, for obvious reasons, so I was ordered to stay with Trace until he got there and not to answer the door to anyone but him.

  As if I’d planned on doing otherwise, I thought, hanging up the phone and turning my attention back to the beautiful boy sitting before me.

  This was going to be a long day.

  After a brief crash course in sutures that didn’t cover nearly as much as I would have liked it to, Trace handed me the sterilized needle and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you ready to do this?” he asked, knowing full well I wasn’t.

  My hand shook. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

  “That’s okay,” he smirked. His dimples flashing as though they were winking at me. “I’m pretty enough.”

  That he is, I thought, biting down the words. Sucking in a deep breath, I pinched the wound shut with my thumb and forefinger before driving the needle into his flesh.

  “Gah!” I squealed as hair-raising tingles zipped down my spine. I think I felt the entry more than he did.

  “You’re doing fine,” he said, trying to reassure me. He was the one getting his skin sewn together by a high school student and he was trying to keep me calm. Figures.

  “The calmer you are, the better it is for me,” he answered.

  Startled momentarily, my eyes shifted to our connected body parts as realization set in. “You know, this reading my mind thing is going to take some getting used to.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t mind working on it with you.”

  Private one-on-one sessions with him flashed through my mind, making me blush. I thought I saw him smiling from the corner of my eye but I was too mortified to look up and confirm it.

  “Does it ever bother you?” I wondered, curious to know more about his ability. “Hearing other people’s thoughts?”

  “Sometimes,” he admitted. “I hated being touched as a kid. I didn’t know how to block it out.”

  I couldn’t imagine being constantly bombarded with other people’s mundane thoughts and noises every time I made contact with someone. “It must be horrible.”

  “It’s not all bad.” He shrugged it off. “It has its advantages, too.”

  “Like what?”

  He let his seductive gaze pour over me, slow like molasses. “Use your imagination.”

  I pulled my hand back just as my mind derailed. I didn’t want him to know what I was thinking, and I sure as hell couldn’t focus when he looked at me that way.

  His eyebrows rose.

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” he laughed coyly.

  “You’re distracting me and if you don’t stop it and let me concentrate, I’m going to end up sewing your belly button shut!”

  The hint of a smile graced his face as he looked down at me, seemingly fascinated.

  “No more messing around!” I ordered.

  He nodded solemnly as though he had every intention of obeying my orders. After a brief pause, he craned his head to me, filling up the air with his all-consuming presence. “You know, you’re nothing like what I expected.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, wetting his lips. “Something else. You’re…different.”

  Different? I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean I’m different?”

  He seemed amused by my outrage.

  “You’re the one who’s different from one day to the next!” I shot back unable to hide my indignity. Frankly, it was a little hard to take coming from him. I’d yet to meet a moodier guy than Trace Macarthur.

  The whites of his eyes flashed. “I meant it as a compliment.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks reddened. “So did I.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I just meant that you’re difficult to read sometimes. Some days it seems like you don’t want anything to do with me, or at least that’s what you tell me. And then other times, I think…I don’t know, something else. It’s hard to keep up.”

  He lowered his head. “I know.”

  “So why are you like this with me?” I pushed, unsatisfied with his response. “Why do you talk to me and sit next to me and offer to take me to see my dad after you made it clear that you wanted nothing to do with me?”

  “Can’t people change their minds?”

  “I guess they can,” I shrugged, struggling to keep my hands from shaking as I needled another stitch into his side. “It just seemed like there was something more behind it.”

  “There was.”

  “And now?” I looked up at him wanting to read him like a book; to know him and all of his secrets.

  “And now I’m having a hard time remembering what it was.” There was something incredibly moving about the way he looked at me, about the way he let me see him—really see him. Even if it was only for a moment.

  “So then...” I
paused, swallowing the mounting butterflies. “What does this mean exactly?”

  “Does it have to mean anything? Can’t I just sit next to you if I want to sit next to you?” He reached forward and gently moved a strand of hair away from my eyes.

  My heart pounded in my chest as I tried not to get lost in those spellbinding pools of blue.

  “Am I distracting you again?” he smiled.

  Unable to deny it out loud and keep a straight face, I rolled my eyes at him in an effort to appear flippant. I heard him chuckle softly, but I didn’t meet his eyes this time.

  “So how about you tell me who you think is behind this? Would be nice to know why I took a knife to the stomach.”

  “I’m not sure,” I started, unsure of where to go with it.

  “But you have a theory.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I think it might have to do with my sister, Tessa.”

  His eyebrows furrowed as he watched me—studied me. “What makes you think that?”

  “She’s in trouble,” I explained, eyes lowered. “I can’t tell you much about it because I don’t really know the details myself. Just that there’s these Revs after her, dangerous ones, and since we met up last night, I just thought it might be related—”

  “Tessa was in town?” he cut in, his interest peaked.

  “Yeah, not for long though. She came to see me—to warn me about what was going on.”

  He nodded, taking it in. “So you’re thinking these Rev’s followed her last night and saw you with her? That they’re trying to use you to get to her now?”

  “Maybe.” I tried to read his expression, but he gave nothing away. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Rev’s don’t usually go through all this trouble. They must really want something from her.”

  I swallowed hard, afraid to think of what they would do to me if they found out I was the one who had the Amulet now and not her. I was way out of my league with this—

  “The Amulet?” Trace’s dark brows pulled together as he covered my hand with his, stopping my movements. “What do you mean you have the Amulet?”

  Shit. I yanked my hand back. “Dammit, Trace!”