They called us a murder, as in crows.
They had ever since we'd been out in the student parking lot one day and a crow had fallen from the sky and died right at our feet. And Eve––goddamn Eve, with her silver tongue and storm-cloud eyes––had smiled.
They also called us strange. Mysterious. Dangerous.
Strange because when Jack was twelve, he'd been struck by lightning on a night when there were no recorded storms in the area. Mysterious because the Shearwater twins had shown up to town two years ago, rich and parent-less and beautiful, and had instantly earned a reputation for themselves. Dangerous because even before the crows, I'd always had a thing for other people's nightmares.
But even if you didn't know us, you knew of us. There were five of us then: Tannyn. Jack. West. Theodore. Evelyn.
Five of us, before Eve––goddamn Eve, with her sunshine hair and poisonous smile––had turned up dead in the branches of an oak tree on her family's property. Heart carved from her chest. Crows perched on her mangled body.
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