I want to say thank you to iLoveMeSomeCaptainAmerica, an amazing writer, and an amazing beta, without whom, these chapters would be riddled with grammatical errors and occasionally strange wording. :)


The first dream I had of him was the night I turned eleven. My parents had decided on separation that day, and I had been so sad, so angry that two people who I thought were supposed to be happy weren't. That night, I dreamt up a man like I had never seen. His cheeks were sort of hollow, cheekbones prominent. Black, feathery wings sprouted from his back like it was natural. They contrasted heavily against his snow-white hair combed back and out of his face. His eyes were bright emerald, like my own. And the scene, it kept changing. Despite my vision being a little fuzzy around the edges, I could see the flames flickering around us one minute, the next I could see the frozen- over water we stood on, slowly cracking under our combined weight. Did I mention the fact that I could feel the flames, licking at my pale, freckly skin, and when the scene changed, feel the cold biting at it, the ice seemingly embedding itself into my flesh as I slowly froze until the scene returned to the extreme heat and flames that licked at my pale, un-marked skin, as though I was an ice cream cone, and it the hungry child.

"I can make all your problems go away," he said. His voice was smooth, almost melodic — but not in a good way. He could convince anyone of anything, I was sure of it. Then again, I had been only eleven.

"How?" I had asked, in some state or another of awe. A handsome stranger, telling me he could take away my problems? That was a dream all on its own. Of course, the changing scene and his black wings hadn't factored into my decision to ultimately say yes, nor did the mischievous glint in his green eyes that I hadn't noticed until after the deed was done.

"You're how old, eleven?" He asked, as I nodded vigorously. "You should know what your soul is, right?" Once again, I nodded. "Well, if you say 'yes' I'll take that, and it'll be done. All your problems will be gone, I promise." Stupidly thinking the stranger had only my best intentions at heart, I agreed.

At that point in my life, I hadn't realized what a precious thing life was, nor did I realize what your soul was and what it did. It is not only the thing that allows you to feel everything you do, but it is your essence, you essential life force. And, well, walking around without one isn't much fun. Of course, no one told me this.

After agreeing to this stranger's condition, he kissed me on the temple; his lips were cold against my forehead. It was like shivers were rolling backwards up my shoulder blades. My immediate feeling was that I'd done something bad, something I'd get reprimanded for by my parents. I was suddenly awake, in my own bed with sunlight streaming through the windows. My parents were still fighting in the kitchen all the way at the other end of the house, thinking that I couldn't hear them. Only, I could. But instead of feeling stressed, anxious, angry or saddend by my parent's screaming match, I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. I imagined it to be the worst feeling in the world if I could feel.

I went down for breakfast that morning only to be met with my parents glaring at each other across the table. As I poured myself a glass of orange juice, my mother let out the highest pitched gasp I'd ever heard. "What?" I looked down at my small, pyjama-clad body.

She grabbed my wrist but wherever she touched stung. Turns out I could feel only physically. All up and down my stick-thin arms were burns mixed with frost bite. Funny how I hadn't left my bed all night long. Almost every night since I've had dreams of him, I felt nothing.


Over the years, I've learned to fake emotions. It's not as easy as you think, especially when you have to do it all the time. I don't ever feel happy, satisfied, upset, angry, worried, anxious, euphoria, or paranoia even. Nothing. More than once, I couldn't help thinking that death would be better than the life I was living. But the small voice in my head always fed me the idea that one day I would wake up from this never-ending nightmare.

That is what I would imagine to be ironic. I'll never be anything other than a living, breathing robot. And when I was eleven, I didn't want to feel anything. Given, it was because of my parents always arguing, dragging me into the middle of it all.

I do whatever my parents tell me, because really, I don't know if I like things or not. I don't complain when doing homework, I don't complain when my father drops me off at kickboxing six days a week. Imagine that: me, barely over five-feet tall and nothing-pounds, doing kickboxing. In my spare time at my mother's, I paint with her. I cook quite often, even if I'm not hungry, mostly because I can feel the heat from the stovetop burning my skin and the hot oil spraying up and onto me. Sometimes in winter, I'll go outside, feigning like I forgot to bring a jacket and walk around, feeling and allowing the cold to bite viciously at my exposed skin. I feel.

My mother says I'm clumsy. I'll give her that, because, well, people always tell me I am. I remember when she'd tried putting me in dance classes when I was thirteen, and the teacher was always muttering curses under her breath about how clumsy I was in her thick French accent. The day she pulled me out of dance classes is the day I bet made her wish she had another daughter who could dance and do girly things along those lines. But, she never got one.

Can you begin to imagine going through all the major events of your life unfeeling? It's almost like you don't mature, because you can't feel things the way others do and learn from said feelings. Try being me, in creative writing class. I only barely passed because I read and read stories that people claimed had such great emotion woven in.

Lying in my bed, I think about my seventeenth birthday, only a few days away. I'll forever have the emotional capacity of an eleven year-old.

I could swear that as I squish my head further into the plush pillow, I feel a rush of emotion swell inside of me, something wet rolling down my cheek. It can't be. I haven't cried in nearly five years. Before I can ponder more on whether or not I just cried a tear, I'm forcefully pushed into a deep sleep. Some may describe it as a comatose-like state, but I just say it's another day in my life. It always happens before I see him, the man with black wings. The owner of my soul.


This time, we're standing on a frozen-over body of water. No cracks split the ice, not that I can see as large snowflakes fall over the slippery solid. The man still looks the same as ever, even with his back turned to me. The black wings sprout from his skin, where his ribs ought to be. His posture is stiff, like maybe having the large wings, parodying that of an angel, is hurting him. His white hair isn't slicked back for the first time. Instead, it's hanging in his darkened green eyes.

"It's about time, Clarissa."

"Sorry that I had to get up and go to school like a normal person," I chuckles, though the howling wind almost covers the sound completely. The force of it blows bright red hair into my face. I push it away, but without the impatience I might have had four or five years ago.

He turns around, his green eyes finding mine. I remember when I first met him and his eyes weren't that colour—they were bright, almost lively. In a few strides, he's reached me. Normally, this far into the dream the scene would've changed to the scorching flames at least once, but not yet. The cold nips at my fingers and I feel them going numb already.

"What are you doing?" I ask, his tall, lithe form bending over to reach the top of my head. When I was eleven, he'd had to crouch down to reach the top of my head. Now, he needed only to bend over.

"Hush, little sister." He kisses the top of my head, and I'm knocked off my feet by a large gust of something. Wind, perhaps? The ice is cold against my skin as my body is wracked by shivers. Hot tears pour down my face, searing my skin where they touch. The feel of it is strange, but not unwelcome. I feel angry, angry at him for taking my soul from me at such a young age, of depriving me of feeling things the way normal people do. He's crouched down beside my small form, his skin almost the same shade as mine; he pushes a piece of my hair back behind my ear. I slap his hand away, scrambling on the ice to stand up.

"Don't touch me!" I yell, and the ice breaks open just a bit, a loud crack amidst the silence. It's then that I notice the snow has stopped falling, the wind has ceased it's howling. Almost like they're holding their breaths to see what happens.

Then, he does possibly the most surprising thing he could: he grins.

"Welcome back, little sister."

"What did you call me?" I demand, narrowing my eyes at him and his boyish grin. I feel like complete, utter chaos. Like someone has taken a perfectly white room and splattered coloured paint over everything. It's the best thing I can ever remember feeling.

"Ah," he grins even wider. "You don't remember me?"

"Of course I remember you—you tricked me into selling my soul."

"Oh, no, no, no," he shakes his head, white hair once again falling into his eyes. "I solved all your problems. Didn't I?" He looks at me, almost hopefully.

My eyebrows must be in or very near my hairline. I glower up at him. "You deprived me the privilege of feeling," I grit out. "I've been numb for the past six years of my life! I felt nothing; I might as well have been dead, for all I lived!"

He grabs my wrists in his hands; I can't pull away, either. "Don't say such things, Clarissa," he orders. His tone suggests I have no choice but to comply. Like hell I will.

"I should be dead. All the times I tried to burn myself or break my bones!"

His grip tightens noticeably on my wrists; he might just break my bones. His gaze quickly shifts to my arms, where the evidence of previous burns litter my pale skin.

He looks lost, like he doesn't know what to say or do. The ice cracks again. It must mean something, I just don't know what. "I—I thought I was helping you," he stumbles on his words.

"That's how you help your 'little sister?'" I demand. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

His eyes meet mine again. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"You want to put money on that?" I challenge. I can feel the blood pumping through my veins, feel the rush. Where it's coming from, I have no idea.

Silence follows and it lasts much longer than it ever has with him.

"I need a favor."

Of course he does—why else would he have given me back my soul? If I ever thought, even for a second, it was because he cared for me, I'm sorely mistaken it seems.

Maybe if I do him this favor, he'll leave me alone.

"What is it?" His head shoots up, that must've been the exact opposite of what he was expecting.

"Angels aren't supposed to leave—they aren't supposed to fall..." he trails off and before I can even bat an eyelash, the ice cracks open completely, swallowing me up. The breath is ripped from my lungs but I can't scream.


My lungs are burning, the air is thick. I can't breathe.

My eyes open. My orange walls are alight with illumination—not sunshine, either. The flames battle the darkness of my room, licking at the paint, eating away at the wood floor, my mattress, sheets, my dresser. Everything is bathed in flames.

"Clary!" My mother's voice rings through the heavy smoke. The smoke alarm is going berserk. Guess we can cross a burning building off of the list of places you can see my mother's red hair. "Clary!" She calls again.

"Mom! Mom!" I say it like a chant, wanting to leave my bed, but the floor is engulfed flames.

"Clary, breathe, it's going to be okay." And I do. I breathe, inhaling the tainted air. I cough, and cough. Squeezing my eyes shut, I take deep breaths. In, out. In, out. Repeat. In, out. In, out. Repeat.

When I open my eyes, the flames have gone out, as if someone poured a gallon of water through my ceiling, extinguishing the fire. My bed is more than singed. It's absolutely fried. The floor is black, charred. My whole room is destroyed and burned. Even the ceiling has small, black wisps reaching towards the white center like some sort of demented fingers.

My mother races across the blackened floor, while I sit shocked on my bed, not daring to move a muscle. Did that just happen—did I do that? She crouches before me, worried green eyes scanning my body for burns. There are none, unless the ones up and down my arms count.

"How..." She trails off, utterly as lost, as I am.

"Mom," I squeak, pulling her to me. Her body is frozen for a moment before reciprocating my hug. I've never shown direct affection to anyone before, so it must be a surprise. Once again, hot tears trail down my cheeks, landing in my mother's messy red bun.

Out of my peripheral vision, I swear I can see dark green eyes watching me and black wings fluttering almost noiselessly.


I thank whatever is up in the sky that I'd had the weekend to get used to having, well, feelings again. I felt everything double—no, triple. I actually cried because we ran out of Fruit Loops. My mom kept looking at me like I'd snapped, and I should face it—I probably have. Seriously, some guy who's supposedly your brother, stealing your soul because he thinks he's somehow protecting you? Whatever's in the air is making me crazy. Actually crazy.

Not to mention, I haven't slept in the past two days, fearing that I'll dream about him again, or I'll wake up in a fiery pit once more. I don't think my mom would like me lighting her house on fire again. I don't think her bank account would appreciate it much, either.

I don't think I can stand being around the woman—much as I may love her—for another second, with the way she keeps looking over her shoulder at me every ten seconds as if I'm going to try pulling a knife on her or something.

That is the only reason I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling my unruly hair back, not interested to do anything else with it. My friends are going to get quite the surprise this morning: I have a personality now.

Only two days ago I was robotic and for the most part silent, keeping to myself, and now—now, I can actually hold up a conversation without feeling like a prisoner in my own mind. Taking a deep breath, I leave the house and take my usual route to school.


I haven't seen them all day. We all have different schedules, which makes it hard to talk in between classes, but now it's lunch, and thankfully, I have lunch with at least one of my friends.

Pushing open the cafeteria doors, I spot our table immediately, which alarms me. Usually, our table is blocked from view because of all the other students crowding the place. Most of them—them being girls—are gathered at one table in particular.

I don't bother getting in the deserted lunch line because the food is disgusting. I sit down at our table, looking to Alec for an indication as to what is so important that practically the entire female population of St. Xavier's needs to see.

"Some new guy," he shrugs, taking a bite out of his sandwich.

"That's what they're crowding over?" I scoff.

Alec looks straight at me, shock written all over his chiselled features. "Did you just—did you just talk?"

I nod. "Yeah. Isn't that most normal people do with their friends?"

He just stares at me like I'm an alien. "Are you feeling alright, Clary?"

"Just fantastic," I murmur in response. Alec still looks positively stunned by my recent talkativeness, while I try and get a glimpse of said new student through the miniscule gaps between fawning teenage girls.

"Oh," someone says, pulling out a chair beside Alec. "Munchkin has a personality?"

I roll my eyes, meeting the man's gaze head-on. "Is that a loose thread I see?" I fake gasp, pointing at his blazer.

Magnus's eyes go wide. "What? Where is it?" He demands, pulling at his blazer and trying to find the non-existant loose thread.

"There isn't one, Magnus," Alec claps him on the shoulder. Magnus scowls at me, which surely turns into a pout as he crosses his arms like a child, propping his feet on the table. The soles of his silver boots very nearly touch my folded hands, before I pull them away, hastily wiping the palms of my hands against the rough fabric of my jeans.

Magnus, always being the one most uncomfortable with long stretches of silence, is the first to break it. "So," he waggles his eyebrows at me. "Have you got a look at Mr. Ken Doll over there?"

"What?" I ask, cocking my head to the side a little.

Magnus groans obnoxiously, tilting his head in the direction of the definitely over-populated table. "The new kid." He says it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and I'm just plain stupid.

"Oh—no, I haven't."

"I'm not surprised," Magnus gives me a look as he taps his enamel-clad nails against the grimy lunch table. "But it won't be long, Biscuit, I assure you." Biscuit? Was that supposed to be some sort of nickname, or term of endearment? If so, I wonder how on earth it is that Magnus and Alec are still together. Then again, how they ever got together in the first place is a mystery for the ages.

"What do you mean?" Alec's tone is protective, almost, as he is suddenly engaged in the conversation where he'd been absent for the past three minutes. He acts like my older brother, and sometimes it really gets on my nerves. When he's met with silence from his boyfriend, he grits out, cheeks flushing with anger, "Damn it, Magnus. Tell me!" He hammers his fist down against the table, coercing the old thing to wobble unsteadily on its metal legs. A couple of people look over at our table.

"Jeez, alright," Magnus pushes Alec back down into his seat. "I mean that with our dear Clary's new ability to speak—and not to mention that fiery personality of hers—she'll be noticed. It's really only a matter of time."

Well, that was the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth.

Before either Alec or I can reply, though, the bell rings, signalling that lunch is over and we had better get to class unless we want detention after school, hosted by none other than Mr. Starkweather, an old man who should have retired long ago.

"See you later," I smile at Alec as I stand from my seat.

Magnus gives me a knowing smirk and a two-fingered wave as he takes a bite out of an apple that I'm not sure where he got it. I think I may be a little sleep-deprived. Still, I can't stop wondering what that look was for.


My next class is art, one I share with Maia Roberts, a pretty dark-skinned girl with a curvy, athletic body. She offers me a smile as I take my seat next to her. For whatever reason, there is partner-seating in the art class, which makes me think that at one point it was the science classroom.

"Hey, Clary," her smile grows into a grin.

"Hey," I grin back. I don't know what's got her all happy, but whatever it is, it must be good. She looks momentarily stunned, her glossed lips parted a few millimetres. She blinks a few times, like she can't quite process the feat that is me speaking.

She shakes her head, tight brown curls bouncing with the motion. "Have you seen the new guy?" She drums her fingers against the black table. There must be something awfully special about this new guy for Maia to be talking about him—normally, it's like she's got tunnel vision for her boyfriend, Jordan.

"No—but he's got all the girls under some sort of love spell, or something," I shrug.

Maia laughs. "If you saw him, you would understand."

"I don't think I want to understand, then." I reply stubbornly, unzipping my bag and withdrawing my beat-up sketch book. The once-black cover is scratched up, the corners peeling, the spiral-binding threatening to come apart. I need to go shopping for a new one, preferably sometime soon.

"You don't know what you're missing," Maia sing-songs, twirling a pencil between her fingers. All I can think about, though, is my practically ruined sketchbook; and that's perfectly fine. I've never been one of those girls obsessing over guys, but then again, it's probably because I was an emotionless robot for a good six years of my life.

It's then that the teacher begins her lesson, finishing quickly and giving us an assignment. I work furiously on my drawing; feeling the pencil glide against the paper somehow soothes me. It's not enough of a distraction, because soon enough my mind is on the still-stranger that I've been dreaming about for the past six years. The way his black wings are always ruffled, like the icy winds disrupt them, the way his eyes gradually got harder and colder, the green darkening with every dream. I can't stop thinking about the words he'd spoken to me before I fell. Angels aren't supposed to leave—they aren't supposed to fall...

I look down at my hands as the bell dismisses us, frowning at the coat of gray that now cover them and the pads of my fingers. My drawing is far from what I usually draw. So far it almost scares me. It's the boy from my dreams, hair falling into his eyes just like last night, and his wings swooping out behind him elegantly. I scribble my name at the bottom of the page, ripping it from my sketch book, and hand the paper to my teacher on my way out the door.

I just need to get to English, I think. I scurry past people in the hallway. For whatever reason, I hope that English can divert my attention from the dreams, even just for a little while. I'd be okay with that. That is, until I think about what dreams await me tonight. I violently shove away the thoughts, walking into English. I take a seat near the back of the class, watching as students file in. Most of the seats are filled when the late bell rings. It's only a matter of time before the last of the seats are occupied by detention-slip bearers. Mr. Fitz is generally one of my favourite teachers, but he's strict, and hates people coming in late.

He leans against his rickety wood desk, arms crossed as he waits for the final seats to be filled. His curly coffee hair shines in the sunlight, and I can't help thinking how similar the colour is to Isabelle's eyes. She's Alec's fraternal twin. We're not close but we're friends, I guess.

Mr. Fitz has long given up on waiting for the late-comers as he writes something on the chalkboard. He turns, clapping his hands together. "Can anyone tell me about Edgar Allan Poe?"

Not a minute later, a group of boys walk into the class, some laughing obnoxiously loud, others talking just as loudly, like they're trying to overpower the others. In the center of all the chaos that is the group, is a boy. I haven't seen him before, not in the four months since school started—he must be the new kid every girl is practically drooling over.

His hair is that shade of blonde that so many people wish they could have, but seems to exist only in fairytales: gold. His skin is strangely tan for December in New York; he's probably from some sunny state. I can't see his eyes, but I have a feeling they'll be breath-taking, just like the rest of him. He has prominent cheekbones, a sharp jaw line, and a narrow mouth. I'm seriously debating whether or not he's had plastic surgery, because, well, no teenage boy looks like he does. Magnus was right, because—oh my God—he looks like a Ken Doll.

Mr. Fitz clears his throat and the group goes stark silent, all smirks and grins gone, replaced by blank, somewhat fearful expressions. Except, I see one smirk. Specifically from Ken Doll. This is certainly going to be entertaining.

"Detention," Mr. Fitz says without falter. Groans resound through the room as Mr. Fitz hands out detention slips to the rowdy group. I have to hide my surprising satisfaction when even the new kid gets one. However, it seems the leather jacket-clad boy is unaffected by the yellow piece of paper covered in chicken-scratch writing. It's as if the piece of paper is beneath him, if that makes any sense whatsoever.

Every girl in the class—even Maia—is fixated on the new-comer. I, however, can't be bothered. So what if he's physically flawless? He's probably got such an awful personality, Sebastian Verlac—this guy in my science class who thinks that he's God's gift to the world—would be jealous. Instead of staring at the guy like he's the only source of water in a drought, I take to my notebook, doodling some angel wings. Then it occurs to me—I haven't taken my mind off of the stranger in my dreams, merely relaxed a little bit.

Maybe that's the key to—

Someone drops a bag on the floor near me.

In hindsight, I shouldn't have looked up.

Sitting in the seat closet to Maia and I's table, is none other than the new kid. I'm almost positive that Maia has gone into shock over this new development. But, that's not the worst part. Man, I wish it was. He's smirking at me, like he knows something I don't. It makes me instantly dislike him, acting so complacent, so smug—whatever you want to call it, I don't like it.

I quickly dismiss him, looking back down at my notebook. I know that I'll definitely try and pay attention to whatever it is about Edgar Allan Poe Mr. Fitz is saying.

And it's not because I care.


After school—and two treacherous classes with the new kid, whose name I still haven't bothered to learn—I lean against Alec's car, waiting not-so-patiently for him to exit the massive building the government calls school, and what I call mandatory educatory-daycare. I should have driven to school, but no, I had to take the "healthy way" and walk. And now I must rely on turtle-Alec for a ride to wherever.

It's another ten minutes before he comes outside, and he's not alone like he usually is. And, no, I don't mean he's with his glitter-using, eccentric boyfriend, I mean he's with the blonde, has-the-whole-cheerleading-squad-kissing-the-ground-he-walks-on, new kid. They're laughing, Alec throwing his head back, his usually bland blue eyes lighting up to their true electric colour. I only ever get to see him like that every once in a while, like on Thanksgiving weekend, when Magnus choked on stuffing and very nearly died—whilst Alec died of laughter, and I pretended to. It's a whole lot harder to actually do than it seems.

They part ways—thank God—the new kid heading to the other end of the parking lot, Alec heading towards me. I don't know why, but I'm royally ticked off now, and I want to key Alec's pretty, pretty black Mercedes.

"Hey," Alec grins at me, offering a two-fingered wave in my direction.

I'm pretty sure smoke comes out when I let out a breath. Then again, it could be that it's nearly mid-December, and it would be a rare thing for your breath to not come out in cloud-like fashion. I decide that it would be best for both of us—mainly Alec—if I didn't respond.

He digs around in the pocket of his baggy jeans for the keys. Finally finding purchase, he unlocks the car. The car is just as cold as it is outside. Fantastic! I can freeze to death in the comfort of a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car.

Alec slips the keys into the ignition, the vents blasting icy air at me. Soon enough, we're pulling out of the parking lot, onto the bustling New York streets. Traffic after school—and really any time—is horrible.

I fold my arms over my chest, staring out at the passing buildings and people, refusing to look at Alec, or speak to him for that matter. Really, I have no reason to be angry with him but I am just for associating with the blonde He-Devil—or who I assume to be a He-Devil.

"Have you met the new kid—Jace?" Alec asks excitedly.

I actually hadn't, but I'd seen him, and that was enough. "No," I grumble.

"Well, I invited him over—to hang out." I swear Alec might actually be bouncing in his seat.

"Joyous," I reply sarcastically. "Drop me off at home, in that case."

Alec's eyes look over at me quickly as he steers down a winding side-street. "What? Why?"

"I just—I have homework to get done, and if his obnoxiously loud laughter is any indication of his personality, I think I'll just spend my evening huddled up in my room with my sketchpad." Surprisingly, I only have to finish my math homework, and read "The Tell Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe, which won't take me long at all. I was really hoping that Alec and I could do something at least mildly fun tonight. I guess not.

"Clary, don't—I want to hang out with you." It's something akin to begging. I'm not going to budge, though. Okay, I might, just a little.

"Take me home, Alec. If you don't want to, its fine, I'll just walk." I don't feel like being around people right now and walking—even in the snow shower—is sounding like the better option as opposed to sitting through an awkward car ride with Alec.

"Stop saying stupid things," Alec shakes his head; I think I can see the ghost of a smile on his lips. And I can't help smiling back, even if it goes against my mood.


My Mom is out when Alec drops me off at the Brownstone. The Brownstone is an old house, separated into two apartments—the upstairs, which is my apartment, and the downstairs, which is my neighbour Madame Dorothea's.

She's a weird old lady that runs a psychic shop, with dark, tightly-curled hair, and a deeply tanned complexion. She wears baggy, oddly patterned sundresses and slippers. Sometimes she just sits outside her apartment door in a red lounge chair, watching as we walk up the stairs to our apartment. Unfortunately, it's the only the way up.

Thankfully, she isn't sitting outside her apartment when I go up the stairs. Though, I wouldn't put it past her to spy on us through her peephole. It never really bothered me before, but now I realize how creepy it actually is. Shuddering slightly, I take the stairs two at a time.

I unlock the door, pushing on the metal door, a few pieces of green paint fluttering to the ground.

Just as I anticipated, a note is taped to the fridge explaining that my mother has gone to visit her old friend, Luke, who just so happens to live in Canada. She also tells me not to light my bedroom on fire again. Yeah, because I'm going to so light all of my possessions on fire, voluntarily, for a second time. Wondering if my mom thinks I'm some sort of psychopath dead set on burning us alive, I head to my room, the weight of the books in my bag seemingly pulling me down. Or maybe it's the unexpected wave of drowsiness that washes over me.


Unsurprisingly, I dream of the stranger again. His white hair is blowing in the icy wind, green eyes narrowing at me accusingly. What did I do?

"You're not supposed to be able to do that."

"Do what?"

"Wake up from the dream."

"Excuse me?"

"Not unless I release you," he explains. "You're stronger than I thought."

"Oh, gee, thanks," I spit sarcastically, watching his black, beaten wings move up and down with his breathing pattern. "That means a lot coming from a total stranger."

"Clarissa, I—you don't know who I am?" He looks wounded by my words, like we'd been best friends all our lives and I'd completely forgotten him.

"No," I purse my lips, the harsh cold cutting through my thin jeans like a knife.

"It's Jonathan, your brother."


What do you guys think? Drop me a review, tell me whether or not I should continue.