Prologue

Kit

H e put his hands under the scalding spray and poured washing detergent over them. The abrasive granules rubbed his skin raw, turning it red and sticky as they melted. It smelled strong. Industrial almost.

It tickled his nostrils and made him want to sneeze, but he rubbed his nose against the sleeve over his shoulder and kept rubbing. Until he couldn't anymore.

Until it stung and burned and turned almost purple from the heat and the chemicals in the detergent.

It wasn't coming off. It stayed there, on the tips of his fingers and around the roots of his nails. Covering his cuticles.

He turned the water off and wiped his hands on the small towel hanging next to his sink. The flannel felt like sandpaper on his abused skin. He let it drop to the ground and extended his shaking fingers to look at them under the light.

It was there.

Subtle, still. Blurry and barely darker than his skin. But visible enough.

And he knew it'd stop being that very soon now that it had appeared.

He pushed his fingers into his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration, squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing a silent scream that scratched at his throat.

He didn't want this. He'd never asked for it.

He'd waited until the first moment eyes weren't on him to run away, and he'd never looked back. He didn't want to look back. And he wanted to go back even less.

He'd created a life that, while lonely, belonged to him and him alone. No interference. No demands. No obligations to do what others wanted.

And no need to tie himself to someone else just to keep something he'd never wanted in the first place.

He'd given it all up because he'd never asked for it.

And now it was back.

Uninvited and still unwanted.

He turned the light in his bathroom off and walked back into his bedroom, knees weak and mind running a mile a minute. The black and gray furniture he'd spent so long picking out felt like it was mocking him now. Like it was saying he didn't belong here either. Like it was telling him to just leave.

There was a tap on his window, sharp and short, but insistent.

He whipped his head around at the sound, walking over to find a raven perched on his windowsill, its beak stuck up in the air and its beady black eyes judging him.

He wanted to pull the curtain closed and ignore it until it went away, but he knew that raven was more than just a raven. He knew there would be no ignoring it.

He walked to the window, reaching out with stained fingers to open it. Crisp, cold air hit his skin and made him shiver. The bite of it soothed the skin on his palms though, and he welcomed the relief it offered.

The raven cawed at him, hopping closer, tilting its head curiously before unfolding its wings and flapping them. It sent a flurry of snowy, damp air into his face. He closed his eyes to protect himself from it, then used his sleeve to wipe them before opening them again.

The raven was gone. Not a footprint left in the pillowy snow on the windowsill.

Not a footprint, but a message.

Curled into the fresh snow. Mocking him. Turning his life upside down and ruining it.

They'd found him.

He wasn't sure he'd ever really been hidden in the first place. Maybe they'd always known where he was. Maybe he'd never really been gone. Never truly free.

Maybe the life he'd built for himself had had an expiration date since the second he crossed the border and left his hometown, never to be seen again.

It was a bitter pill to swallow.

He reached out and dug his fingers into the snow, ruining the words written in it, clenching his fists and letting the warmth of his skin melt them away.

They dripped down his wrists and into his sleeves, dampening them, making the hairs on his arms stand up.

He'd ruined the words.

But there was no escaping them.

They were burned behind his eyelids and screaming in his head. He stared at the black marks on his fingers, stark against the white snow, and forced himself to face them.

It's time to come back home.