Chapter One
The thwack, thwack of Easton Novak’s ax driving into birch logs echoed through the quiet clearing.
In a smooth motion, he pushed the split wood off into the growing pile beside him and stacked another wide log onto the old chopping block. After swinging the ax handle behind him, he lifted it in the air and blasted the blade through the wood. Again and again, he swung his ax until he had enough for a cord of firewood. That wasn’t the point of this, though. The purpose wasn’t to prepare for winter. The cold months were behind him, after all. It was early spring and he already had enough wood to last him a month of deep snow, plus a couple of cords to sell.
The point was to settle the animal that snarled constantly deep inside of him. He had work to do. Oh, he saw how the other Gray Backs looked at him. The girls, Willa, Gia, and Georgia were more tolerant, but he still scared his crew on some level.
As he should.
If they knew what was really going on inside of him, Creed would’ve put him down years ago.
This wasn’t working. All of the physical exertion wasn’t settling him enough. It never did. He’d have to Change. Maybe fight and bleed, too. The restlessness that washed over him lately was suffocating. His bear was struggling for breath inside of him, clawing and tearing. He didn’t know what the damned thing was fighting against. And he sure as shit couldn’t tell anyone else what was wrong. He couldn’t even figure out his own animal.
The other Gray Backs called themselves misfits, but none of them could even touch the baggage he carried.
The flutter of wings sounded behind him, and Easton threw a narrow-eyed glare over his shoulder, but the branches of the old pine that shaded his trailer were empty, save needles and pine cones.
Gritting his teeth, Easton peeled his shirt off and wiped the sweat from his face. With an irritated sigh, he tossed his shirt onto the railing of the stairs that led to his front door, then pulled another log onto the chopping block.
Another flutter of wings, and he was going to kill the fucking bird who was scratching at the memories he wanted to keep buried. No, the memories that he needed to keep buried, or his bruin silver bear was going to rip him to shreds on his way out.
Flap, flap, scritch, scratch.
She wasn’t real. Not real, not real. The raven was a ghost, just like Tessa had been Jason’s ghost. The bird had left him alone all these years, but now that he’d admitted to seeing Tessa, the ghost raven was back to torture him.
He cracked the blade down the center of a log.
Flap, flap.
“Stop it,” he murmured.
He laughed as the knee high grass tickled his frail shoulders.
Easton blinked hard and slammed the ax down. He couldn’t do this again. Not today.
Flap, flap.
“Leave me alone,” he growled out.
Dad picked him up and swung him around and around. Easton laughed louder as Dad tickled him and rasped his beard across his face. Silly Dad, always ready to play.
“Dinner,” Mom yelled from the front porch of their cabin. Mom. Home. Safety. Everything was cherry. Mom made a pie for desert. The sweet sugar granules smelled so good on the wind. Sugar and wheat, and his stomach growled, ready to eat.
“My hungry little bear,” Dad said, tucking him under his arm and tromping through the tall grass.
Easton smiled up at the tree branch where his raven sat, watching him. Her head was cocked, and she blinked slow as Dad carried him up the stairs. Easton waved just before the door closed behind them.
Hungry little bear.
“I said stop it!” Easton’s legs buckled under him as he dropped the ax.
Flap, flap.
With a snarl, he pulled his knife from the sheath on his belt and turned. In one swift motion, he flipped the blade and threw it at the branch where the ghost raven sat. The knife sunk into the bark, and the flapping of wings filled his head. She was gone, but a single, shiny, black feather floated this way and that in front of the trunk of the pine. Easton drew back in horror. “You’re not real.”
She wasn’t. Couldn’t be.
He lurched forward and picked up the feather. It felt real enough, soft and light. Smooth as he ran his finger down the length of it. The feather even smelled like her—his raven. Chills blasted up his arms as he searched the branches above.
He would have to burn her things.
He would have to set fire to the trinkets he cherished the most.
Chest heaving, Easton climbed the stairs to his trailer and threw open the door. He kept the gifts she’d brought him under his bed in an old, plastic tackle box. Each section was labeled with a year, and filled with the tiny treasures she’d dropped in places for him to find.
He sank to his knees and yanked the lid open. Hair berets, rubber bands, paperclips, and anything small that glinted in the sun. The last compartment was empty.