Chapter One
To get to live, I have to die a little more each day.
I don’t know the name of the boy. I never bothered to ask. All that matters is that he belongs to this world. He’s human. His kisses soothe the deep ache thundering inside me. I could drown in them. In him. For a moment, I love and hate him all at once.
I let him pull me deeper into the shadows of the library and press me against the wall.
“You’re so beautiful.” His voice is hoarse, rough. He surely believes that’s due to his growing need for me. I know better.
I’m sucking the life right out of him. Just a little kiss. Just a little bit of life. If he persists in trying to shove his hand down my pants, it will be a lot more. Fortunately for him, he has trouble unbuckling my belt.
Someone clears their throat behind us. I grin, taking in the girl glaring at us, arms crossed on her chest. Five foot six, strawberry-blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders, small breasts, and curvy hips. She’s my opposite, although we’re almost identical.
Clary wears a cheer uniform—a red and white crop top with a pleated skirt that flirts with the hem of her shorts, revealing plenty of skin. I’m in black from head to toe. Boots, jeans, a tank top, and my favorite leather jacket.
“Already?” Her eyes are fixed on the boy still plastered all over me. “Can’t you wait one day before spreading your legs?”
She’s disgusted with me.
We used to be closer than anything as children, until things changed. Until I changed.
She stayed on the path paved by our type-A parents. I started to see things that may not be there, and want things no kid should want.
Then, I began to need them.
My skin burns, my insides are ice and daggers, my head is all but ready to explode at all times, except when I’m touching boys. And girls. I kissed a girl or two, and definitely liked it.
My sister thinks I’m a slut. I know I’m something much worse.
She blames me for the move. She thinks my stalkers finally forced our parents to leave LA. The truth is, they’re both professors. We’ve moved seven times in eighteen years. We would have moved regardless of my antics.
Besides, it’s not like I ask boys to follow me around like lost puppies. We use each other for a little while, and when they ask for more, I pull the brakes. It’s not my fault some of them can’t take no for an answer.
“See?” I point downward. “My legs are closed. And covered, you’ll notice.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Mom sent me a text. She wants us back as soon as I’m done with practice.”
She tells me because I don’t have a phone. I’ve never seen the appeal. In fact, I have a marked distaste for most technology. I don’t even like cars, hence why I wait around until she’s done with practice. Our new house isn’t more than a couple of miles away from Willow Prep, so I could have walked, but there are much better things to occupy myself with.
I push against the boy’s chest. At first, he doesn’t budge, but after I raise my brow, he takes a step back, then another.
“Thanks. Until next time, then.”
There won’t be a next time. He might be cute enough—athletic, well dressed—but his technique leaves a lot to be desired, and I didn’t appreciate the unprompted wandering hands. I join my sister and send him a wink over my shoulder before falling into step with her. He doesn’t need to know I’m not up for a redo. I’m not entirely unfeeling, and he gave me no reason to wound his pride.
We walk in silence to the parking lot. Clary applies apple balm to her lips, and without a word, she hands me the little pot. I dab my finger in it and moisten my dry lips.
She may not like me very much, but she loves me still.
Her car is one of the last still in the lot at five o’clock. It stands out like a sore thumb. It’s all about grayish ecofriendly cars or four-wheelers here in Oregon. Like any LA princess, she drives a convertible—a bubblegum-blue BMW our grandparents gave us both for our sweet sixteenth.
And yes, they knew I don’t drive. Clary offered to drive me anywhere, feeling guilty that they’d passed me over in all but name.
I can’t envy her—or blame them, either. I’m not the grandchild I should be. They did everything in their power to raise their daughter well, and then they spoiled us, like any grandparents should. I remember nights staying up late to watch movies and eat too much candy at their ranch. They keep horses. One pony is named after me, and I own their best thoroughbred.
Edith and Gerald Ross deserve the perfect granddaughters. And they got it in Clary. Life shortchanged them when it comes to me.
“What do you think it’s about?” She fires up her engine and I wrinkle my nose in distaste. Even the sound of it irritates me. “Mom wanting us back early.”
It’s unusual, to say the least. Our parents have a tolerant policy when it comes to our education. They’re too busy shaping the minds of college students to worry overmuch about their own progeny. So long as we keep a spotless 4.0 and avoid getting pregnant, they’re happy to let us do as we please.
I shrug. “Maybe she cooked?”
Clary shudders, appropriately horrified. “Lord, please no.”
We exchange a knowing glance, my smile echoed on her lips. For a moment, we are twins again.
It’s a miracle we’ve lived so long, given that neither of our parents are capable of cooking pasta without causing a major fire hazard in the process. We were eight when we taught ourselves to cook. Clary’s best at baking. She has the patience.
“Keira, can I ask you for a favor?”
Her voice has changed, and she doesn’t meet my eyes, even fleetingly. Her grip around the steering wheel whitens her knuckles.
No.
The real answer is no, she can’t.
Whatever she has to ask me, it’s serious, and I don’t do serious.
“Shoot.” I’m noncommittal as ever.
“Can you…be discreet this year?”
I gape at her, surprised.
“I mean, I know you like to play around. You always have.”
“A gross exaggeration. I distinctly recall boys had cooties in third grade.”
Jokes aren’t helping this time. She’s still dead serious. “Yeah, well, you’ve had boys drooling at your feet for years. I get it. But I’m your twin sister. You don’t know how things are for me. The boys who want to score both twins. The girls who call me a slut.” That’s ridiculous. She’s had all of two boyfriends, and I don’t think she let either of them go past second base. “It’s our senior year. Mom and Dad tore us from all our friends, and we—I—have to start over. I don’t want to have to fight your shadow on top of everything else.”
I silently fume. I want the names of everyone who badmouthed her. I’ll make them suffer, and I’ll enjoy it.
Whatever I am, Clary’s got nothing to do with it. It skipped her. It always skips every child in the family, except for one.
Except for me.
In our parents’ generation, it’s Aunt Julia, our father’s youngest sister. I was twelve when she took me aside, after seeing me staring into the backyard, seeing something I knew no one else could see.
She told me of our heritage. Our curse.