The Raven Four: Books 1-2 Read online

  The Raven Four: Books 1-2

  Jessica Sorensen

  The Raven Four: Books 1-2

  Jessica Sorensen

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Sorensen

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms.

  For information: jessicasorensen.com

  Cover Design by MaeIDesign

  Created with Vellum

  The Raven Four (The Raven Four, Book 1)

  The Raven Four

  Jessica Sorensen

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Sorensen

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms.

  For information: jessicasorensen.com

  Cover Design by MaeIDesign

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Raven

  Raven

  Raven

  Raven

  Zay

  Raven

  Raven

  Raven

  Raven

  Raven

  Raven

  Raven

  Raven

  Jax

  Hunter

  Zay

  The Raven Oath (The Raven Four, Book 2)

  1. Raven

  2. Jax

  3. Zay

  4. Hunter

  5. Raven

  6. Raven

  7. Raven

  8. Raven

  9. Raven

  10. Raven

  11. Jax

  12. Raven

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Sorensen

  Prologue

  Raven

  Six years earlier…

  Padded walls surround me. I’m trapped. Not just in this room. I feel trapped in my own mind, stuck in a place splattered with blood, pain, and torment, all of which were put there by me. At least that’s what the police are saying. The doctors here have been trying to figure that out.

  “So you can’t remember anything about that day?” the doctor asks me.

  He’s sitting in a chair in the doorway and is holding a handheld device, jotting down notes while he tries to pick apart my brain. He’s under strict orders not to let me out of this room, which has been my home since the day I was hauled in here, covered in blood, completely numb inside.

  Completely in shock about the blood staining my hands.

  I shake my head, hugging my knees against my chest. “I can’t remember anything other than when the police showed up.”

  He taps his stylus against the screen of the handheld device, studying me way too closely for my liking. But he does that a lot. It used to not bother me, but then the incident happened, and now I wish he’d stop looking at me at all.

  “Why do you think that is?” he asks. “Or do you really remember and you’re just too afraid to tell the truth? I know that’s how it works sometimes. Fear is potent like that. It can make us do things we never imagined we’d do. Is that what happened that day, Ravenlee? Were you afraid?”

  Fear pulsates through me.

  Blood on my hands.

  Blood everywhere.

  But I feel nothing.

  See nothing.

  “You are nothing,” he whispers in my ear. “Remember that if you ever think about this again.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” I say. I can’t see his face, but I can smell him—smell the blood on him—

  I blink from the memories. “I’m not afraid.”

  The doctor studies me, and I can’t tell if I’ve failed or passed this test.

  Am I ever getting out of here?

  Finally, he stands up. “Your aunt and uncle are going to be here to pick you up tomorrow.”

  “Wait… I’m getting out of here?” I ask, surprised.

  From what I understood and what everyone kept telling me, I was going to be locked up for a very long time.

  He nods, tucking the stylus into the front pocket of his shirt. “Some circumstances in the case have changed. The witness they thought they had is no longer a witness. And some of the evidence the police thought they had against you no longer exists.”

  Weird. But everything about the last handful of months has been weird.

  Starting with…

  Blood on my hands.

  I yank myself from the memory, refusing to think about that day. “You said my aunt and uncle were coming to get me?”

  He nods, stepping into the room. “From what I understand, you’re going to go live with them. I think they’re your only living relatives. Am I right?”

  Frowning, I nod. I barely know my dad’s brother and wife. Have only met them a couple of times, and from what I could tell, my dad and him didn’t get along very well. My mom wasn’t a fan of them either.

  My frown deepens.

  Everything is in the past tense.

  Stop thinking about it.

  “Well, I hope you’ll continue your therapy wherever you end up.” He stays inside my room as he shuts the door.

  My guard instantly goes up.

  The last time he shut the door…

  He smiles at me. “Now, little bird, how about a proper goodbye.”

  I shut my eyes as he reaches me. I shut down.

  Just like the day my parents died, my mind shuts off.

  Blanks out.

  And in the end, I remember hardly anything.

  But maybe that’s for the better.

  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. 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 to your first day
of school because you can’t get your lazy butt moving.”

  My initial instinct is to throw back a snarky retort, but I know better than to do that while my uncle’s home. So, I take a deep breath before calling out, “I’m just about ready.”

  She doesn’t say anything to me directly, but I hear her tell my uncle, “That damn girl is really getting on my nerves. She’s always late. And don’t even get me started on how much trouble she gets into. And the mouth on her … I don’t understand why we can’t kick her butt out when she turns eighteen. I don’t think I can put up with her crap until graduation.”

  “I made an agreement when I took her in, Beth. She’s going to live with us until she graduates high school, and that’s final,” my uncle Don replies in a cold tone.

  He’s my dad’s brother but, where my dad was a nice, caring man, my uncle is frigid and angry all the time, especially with me. Although, there are occasions when he seems almost thrilled to be around me, but that’s never a good thing.

  “Now, go make me my breakfast. It’s my first day, and I’m not going to be late.”

  I roll my eyes as my aunt says, “Of course, dear.”

  My aunt usually does what she’s told, at least when it comes to my uncle. She stays home, where she cooks, cleans, and has dinner on the table every night when he gets home from work. I swear it’s like they still think it’s the 1950s or something. If I didn’t despise my aunt so much, I might try to encourage her not to be such a doormat. But if I tried to tell her that, not only would my aunt ground my ass, my uncle would smack me a good one.

  He’s been doing that kind of shit since I moved in with them and their daughter right after my parents died. At first, I put up a fight, trying to battle back. But a shit-ton of good that did. I quickly learned that fighting back meant more hits. So, I learned to swallow my pride and keep my mouth shut when I’m around my uncle. All bets are off, though, with everyone else.

  I wish I had another choice. Wish I could turn him in. I thought about doing so when he first started smacking me around. The problem is, he’s a cop. And I’m the rebel piece of shit niece they so kindly took in after she did horrible things. At least, that’s how everyone sees it.

  And I have a feeling things with my uncle are about to get even worse now that he’s officially the sheriff on Honeyton, a small town that we moved to just a handful of days ago, today.

  The place is out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by hills that give a sense of seclusion and friendliness. Well, that's the bullshit my uncle told us when he announced we were moving here. Personally, I'm not buying it. I took a walk around town yesterday, and the looks I got from the townspeople were less than friendly. I could practically smell the judgment and snobbery lacing the crisp fall air and feel my impending outcast title waiting for me today when I enter the hallways of my new school. I do look kind of intimidating, though.

  But it’s cool. I can handle it. I can and have dealt with a lot worst. In fact, I'm used to being the outcast. I've been one since I moved in with my uncle, aunt, and their daughter, Dixie May.

  Dixie fucking May. Though she’s my cousin and is the same age as me, we have no other similarities. If I’m a reincarnated raven, then Dixie May is probably a hawk, which I once read are supposed to be predators to ravens and can represent danger. Honestly, from what I’ve read, ravens can usually only fend off a hawk if there’s a group of them, also known as a conspiracy. I like the name conspiracy better, probably because I mentally conspire all the time to take Dixie May down. But I’ve never had any real friends, at least long-lasting ones, so, more than likely, that’s not going to happen. Not that I just let her walk all over me. I don’t at all. But Dixie May is the most manipulative, fake, and devious person I’ve crossed paths with. She’s also very pretty and charming when she needs to be, except at home where she acts like a spoiled brat. She also has ammunition against me—knows the reason I came to live with her and her family all those years ago. And when she told everyone at our old school about it, I instantly became labeled the freak that people not only despised but feared.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sick of these damn boxes,” Dixie May complains from her bedroom across the hall from mine. “I can’t find anything at all. And my favorite pair of shoes are missing. I bet the movers stole them.”

  I roll my eyes. The movers were two big dudes who seemed nice enough, and in no way, shape, or form seemed like the kind of people who’d steal designer shoes. Not to mention, one single pair of shoes.

  “I’ll call and make a complaint,” my aunt calls out to her.

  “What’s a freakin’ complaint going to do?” Dixie May whines. “It won’t get me my shoes back. And they were my favorite pair.”

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” my aunt tells her. “If you want, we can drive over to the city this weekend and go shopping.”

  “Fine. But you better buy me a couple of extra pairs in case this happens again,” Dixie May warns.

  “Of course,” my aunt says. “I’ll even buy you a few new outfits if you want.”

  I’d roll my eyes again, but at this point, I’m starting to worry that they’ll get stuck in my head. For reals, though. Dixie May has so many clothes that my aunt and uncle had to add an extra closet to her room before we could move into this house.

  Then there’s me. My entire wardrobe fits into a bag and mostly consists of secondhand items that I purchased with money I saved up from jobs I worked here and there. But I like my clothes. They fit my personality, and when I wear them, I like to imagine who they used to belong to and what kind of life they had while they wore them.

  Right now, I’m rocking a Nirvana shirt that I’m convinced someone wore to one of the band’s concerts decades ago. I also have on a pair of cut-off shorts, knee-high tights, and clunky, scuffed boots that lace up all the way over my knees. I topped off the look with a plaid overshirt and a leather jacket that used to belong to my mother. It’s one of the few items I have left of hers. I like to occasionally breathe in the scent, pretending I can still smell her perfume.

  I miss her so, so much.

  As tears begin to well in my eyes, I suck them back and focus on finishing getting ready, putting on a velvet choker then adding leather bands to my wrists. I always wear them to cover up the scars marking my flesh.

  Like always, my dark hair is swept to the side in a wild mess of waves, and I kept my makeup minimal, consisting of kohl eyeliner and some lip gloss—I’m not really a makeup sort of girl.

  “Raven! You have one more minute to get your butt down here, and then we’re leaving you!” Aunt Beth shouts, a warning ringing in her tone. “It’s not like it’s going to matter anyway. I’m sure I’ll probably get a call from the school halfway through the day, informing me that, once again, you got yourself suspended.”

  She might be right. I do have a reputation for getting suspended. Most of the time, it’s because I get into a fight, either one that someone else started it or I took the first swing after someone repeatedly called me names. I’ve had to go to anger management classes a couple times that, honestly, I’m not sure helped.

  It's not like I'm angry all the time. Most of the time, I can pull off indifference pretty damn well. But there's a particular name that really gets under my skin and, annoyingly, it's one of the words scarring my flesh beneath my clothes.

  As my chest pressurizes at the memories of how the scars got there, I tear my gaze off the mirror, collect my bag, and then stick my hand underneath the mattress to grab a joint from my stash.

  I have quite the collection under there. Most of it comes from my uncle, who sometimes brings drugs home after he's done a bust. He's been doing it for years, stealing a bit here and there then reporting that a less amount was found during a raid. How do I know this? Because I overheard a phone conversation once between him and one of his buddies. He didn't know I was home—I wasn't supposed to be—but I'd decided to ditch after a group of guys and girls jumped me and kicked my ass. I fought ba
ck, of course—my dad taught me how to protect myself at a young age—and I even got in a few good swings. But I was completely outnumbered. In the end, I gave someone a black eye and someone else a fat lip, while my face looked like a freakin’ lumpy blueberry.

  But anyway, I left school, went home, and hid up in my bedroom. My uncle had come home for lunch and, as I was sneaking around, trying to stay hidden, I noticed him empty some bags out of his pockets, stuffing them into the attic crawlspace. Then he called someone and informed them of what he had managed to bring home that day.

  “I got a lot today,” he said then paused. “Yeah, I know. I want you to push it as fast as you can.”

  Before my parents died, I’d been raised in a questionable neighborhood and knew enough about the drug world to understand what that meant.

  When he left, I snuck up to the crawlspace and jackpot. I didn’t take it all, just enough that he wouldn’t notice. After that, it became a routine. Usually, I’d find only weed in there, but on a couple of occasions, I found some ecstasy and coke.

  I’m a little worried about how things are going to work now that we’ve moved and he has a new job. I guess I’ll find out. It’s going to suck if he stops stealing drugs and stashing them in the house. Not that I’m addicted, but getting high often calms me, and I need help with that whenever I can.

  “Raven! For the love of God, get down here!” Aunt Beth shouts furiously.