My side aches as worry creeps through me. What if he’s contemplating cutting me again? He already did it once this week, carved the word freak into my side with a knife, his form of punishment whenever I do something bad, which seems to be all the time.

Eventually, he leaves my room, and I let out a shaky breath and try to force myself to go to sleep. It proves to be impossible, though, so I eventually sneak out to see if I can figure out what he was burning.

After slipping on a jacket and shoes, I climb out the window and shimmy down the tree beside it. Then I tiptoe over to the spot where the fire was. I use the flashlight on my phone to look around the area, but all I can find are embers. Whatever he was burning, disintegrated in the flames. Or, well, maybe not.

Something shiny and silver catches my eye.

I crouch down, scoop it up, and then my confusion doubles. It’s a pendant shaped like a feather.

Weird.

I’m not sure if this is what he was trying to burn, but it’s pretty, so I decide to keep it. Then I head back into the house, telling myself that, come morning, I’ll sneak out and see if I can find anything else he may have been burning.

Of course, when the sun rises, and I get up and go downstairs, my uncle announces we’re moving out of town. And not in a few weeks, but in a few days, which is odd since him and my aunt always talk about how much they love the town we live in now.

Even weirder is, when I sneak outside to check around where my uncle lit the fire last night, all signs of it are gone. Almost like I dreamt the incident. And I may have believed I had except, when I check the pocket of my pajamas, the pendant is still in there.

1

ONE WEEK LATER

RAVEN

A lot of people say my name has a magical sound to it. I guess it does.

I used to love my name. Ravenlee Wilowwynter; Raven for short. It’s different. Unique. Pretty even. But it also has a deeper meaning. Or, well, an actual raven does.

Bad luck.

That’s what those birds represent. And right after I turned twelve, I realized this. Because, like those dark-feathered birds, I became bad luck. Cursed even. Because I’m the reason my parents died. I’m the reason they’re buried beneath the ground. I’m the reason they aren’t here anymore.

These guilty thoughts creep through my mind as I stand in front of the mirror, examining my long, dark hair that looks similar to the dark shade of a raven’s feather—midnight black, with hints of violet and blue when it catches the light. I can’t help questioning if I used to be a raven in another life. Perhaps that’s why I bring bad luck wherever I go.

“Ravenlee Wilowwynter! Get your butt down here,” my aunt Beth shouts from downstairs. “You don’t need to make everyone else late for the first day of school because you can’t get your lazy butt moving.”