The Art of Being Friends: (A Pact Between the Forgotten #1) Read online

  The Art of Being Friends

  (A Pact Between the Forgotten, #1)

  Jessica Sorensen

  The Art of Being Friends

  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 Najla Qamber Designs

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. One week later

  2. Raven

  3. Hunter

  4. Raven

  5. Hunter

  6. Raven

  7. Raven

  8. Raven

  9. Hunter

  10. Raven

  11. Raven

  12. Raven

  13. Hunter

  14. Raven

  15. Raven

  16. Raven

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Sorensen

  Prologue

  Raven

  I’ve always suffered from insomnia, even before my parents died. Tonight is no exception.

  After spending hours trying to go to sleep, I end up lying in bed for quite a while, just staring up at the ceiling and thinking. I have no plans of moving anytime soon until I hear the strangest noise coming from outside. It almost sounds like a fire crackling.

  Confused, I get up, tiptoe over to the window, and peer outside, surprised to find that, yep, the noise is indeed exactly what I thought it was.

  A fire is crackling in the middle of the field beside my house. A man stands beside it. A man who looks an awful lot like my uncle, who has been my guardian ever since my parents died.

  I watch from the window as he throws something into the flames, then steps back.

  What the hell?

  What is he burning in the middle of the night? Whatever it is, it can’t be good. Why else would anyone burn something in the middle of the night?

  My best bet is that it might be some incriminating evidence against him. My uncle may be a police officer, but he does a lot of sketchy stuff.

  I stand by the window for a bit, watching as he remains in front of the flames. Eventually, he puts the fire out by shoveling dirt onto it. Then he starts back toward the house.

  I hunker down to avoid being seen. Then, when I hear the front door creak open, I crawl back toward my bed and climb in. And it’s a good thing I do, too.

  Moments later, my bedroom door is opened.

  I keep my eyes shut, but I can sense someone looking at me. It has to be my uncle, but what the hell is he doing?

  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.”

  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 agreed when I took her in, Beth. She’s going to live with us until she graduates from 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.

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; He’s been doing that kind of shit since I moved in with them. 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 that he’s a cop. And I’m the rebel, piece of shit niece that 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 of Honeyton, the small town that we moved to.

  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. 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 worse. 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 not 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.

  Still, Dixie May is the most manipulative, fake, and devious person I’ve ever 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. 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 keep 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 from someone else starting it or I take 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 they 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. Remember how I said he does a lot of sketchy stuff? Well, bringing drugs home after he’s done a bust is one of those things. 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 back, 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.

  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 or 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.

  Sighing, I put the joint in my bag then head down the stairs to start what I’m sure is going to be a hellish first day of school.
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  2

  Raven

  I end up crossing paths with my uncle on my way out. He’s in the kitchen, sitting at the table, eating breakfast and reading a newspaper. He doesn’t look a lot like my dad—shorter and stockier with a bald spot on his head—which I’m grateful for. He’s also dressed in his uniform.

  I try to pass by the kitchen without being noticed and hurry toward the front door, but he glances up before I can make a quick exit.

  His gaze sweeps across me, and then he frowns. “You’re really going to go to school dressed like that?”

  I bite back a rude remark and shrug while tugging on the sleeve of my jacket, mostly to keep the pendant hidden. It’s the one I found in the remains of the fire, and I know it might be risky wearing it, but for some reason, I feel connected to it. Or maybe it’s just that it’s something nice, and it’s been a while since I’ve had something nice.

  He eyes me over again, making my skin crawl. “You look like a slut.”

  My anger ticks, and I want nothing more than to walk up and clock him in the face. But I fight the urge and turn for the door, preparing to walk out.

  “You better not get into trouble today,” he calls after me. “If you do, you’ll be punished. I mean it, Ravenlee. You’ll learn to obey, even if I have to—”

  I rush out the front door and close it behind me, cutting off whatever threat he was about to throw my way. I might pay for the move later, but right now, all I want to worry about is getting through school, so I keep my head low and climb into the back seat of my aunt’s car.