Chapter 1

According to my mother, I was a curse made flesh. She swore the moment I entered this world, I nearly killed her with a hemorrhage so massive it soaked through three sets of sheets. She hated me for it. In the dead of winter, she would leave me outside in nothing but a thin cloth until fever burned through my tiny body like wildfire.

When my father took me to see a doctor, he slipped on black ice and shattered his leg. That accident sealed his belief. I existed for one purpose only—to bring ruin to everyone who came near me. In his rage, he threw me into the pigpen. Let me eat swill. Let me fend for myself among the animals.

I would have frozen to death if not for Grandma.

She couldn't bear to watch me die. She scooped me up, pressed her warmth into my frozen skin, and spooned rice paste into my mouth until I was seven years old.

When it was time for me to start school, Grandma walked to town to buy me a schoolbag. On the way back, a car struck her.

She never came home.

When they found her, her fingers were still wrapped around the straps of that bag.

I wailed, my small legs pumping as fast as they could carry me toward her body. But before I could reach her, my father—eyes bloodshot, veins bulging at his temples—swung his leg and kicked me to the ground.

The impact knocked the air from my lungs. Pain lanced through my ribs. A metallic tang flooded my mouth, and I coughed up a splatter of bright red blood onto the frozen dirt.

He didn't even blink.

"This is all your fault." His voice dripped venom. "You jinx. You brought this on us. Why couldn't you just die?"

Later, after the funeral, I walked alone toward the icy river at the edge of the village.

1.

Earlier that day, I had returned from the mountain with a basket full of grass. A crowd had gathered in Grandma's cramped courtyard. Every face was carved with grief.

Confusion swirled through me, but a cold pit in my stomach whispered that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

The basket slipped from my fingers. My feet moved before my mind caught up, carrying me toward the house. Faith Odell caught my arm, her grip tight.

Her eyes were rimmed with red. "Don't go in there, child. You're too little. It will only scare you."

I shoved her away—desperation lending me strength I didn't know I had—and rushed into the main hall.

Grandma's bed had been moved to the center of the room. Lying on it was a figure soaked in blood. Barely recognizable as human.

I crept closer. The person was wearing Grandma's clothes.

My mouth fell open. My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird. My gaze darted around the room, searching for her familiar silhouette.

"Where is Grandma?" My voice came out thin. Childish. "I'm scared. Grandma? Grandma!"

I shouted her name, wandering aimlessly through the crowd of mourning neighbors.

Zachary Logan stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the bed. He placed a trembling hand on my head. "Your grandma is gone, child." His Adam's apple bobbed. "That... that is your grandma lying there."

He swallowed hard. "Stop looking. Go outside. You don't want to have nightmares."

A buzzing sound filled my ears. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Even at seven, living in this house had taught me the darkness of the world. I knew what "dead" meant.

The realization hit like a physical blow.

I burst into tears and threw myself toward the bed. "Grandma, what's wrong? Wake up! Don't scare me! Grandma!"

I reached out, desperate to touch her, to shake her awake. But my father intercepted me. Hatred blazed in his eyes as his boot connected with my stomach, sending me flying backward.

"It's all because of you! You jinx! Why don't you go die?"

I was only seven. His kick shifted something inside me. I curled up on the cold floor, retching blood.

Fear made my limbs tremble. But I gathered every scrap of courage I possessed and looked up at him. "Dad... I just wanted to see Grandma. What happened to her?"

He pointed a shaking finger at me, looking as if he wanted to flay the skin from my bones.

"You have the nerve to ask?" His voice rose to a roar. "I don't know what sin I committed to father a curse like you. It wasn't enough that you almost killed me and your mother? Now you've killed your grandmother too!"

His chest heaved. "If you didn't need to go to school, she wouldn't have gone to town! She wouldn't have been on that road! If it weren't for your cursed existence, she would still be alive!"

"Even in death, she was holding that bag for you." Spittle flew from his lips. "You think you deserve school? A jinx like you? What are you going to do—curse the teachers to death too?"

I looked past him to Grandma. Clutched in her stiff hand was a pink schoolbag, now stained dark with blood.

My father raised his leg to kick me again, but Zachary Logan grabbed his arm. "She's just a child! Don't say such things. Naomi Pope didn't drive that truck—a drunk driver did. It has nothing to do with her. Don't take your anger out on a seven-year-old."