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Prologue

In the beginning, there’s a boy standing in the trees He’s around e, in that space between child and man, maybe all of seventeen years old I’m not sure how I know this I can only see the back of his head, his dark hair curling daainst his neck I feel the dry heat of the sun, so intense, drawing the life fro the eastern sky There’s the heavy s grief that it’s hard to breathe I don’t knohy I take a step toward the boy, open round crunches under my feet He hears me He starts to turn One more second and I will see his face

That’s when the vision leaves one

Chapter 1

On Purpose

The first tiling inbehind et up and wander from room to roo’s fine, everybody sleeping, tranquil It’s more of a campfire smoke, anyway, sharp and woodsy I chalk it up to the usual weirdness that is o downstairs And I’lass of water at the kitchen sink, when, with no other warning, I’ forest It’s not like a drea, maybe all of thirty seconds, and then I’ in a puddle of water because the glass has fallen from my hand

Right away I run to wake Mom I sit at the foot of her bed and try not to hyperventilate as I go over every detail of the vision I can remember It’s so little, really, just the fire, the boy

“Too ,” she says “That’s why it will come to you this way, in pieces”

“Is that hohen you received your purpose?”

“That’s how it is formy question

She won’t tell me about her purpose It’s one of those off-lis me because we’re close, we’ve always been close, but there’s this big part of her that she refuses to share

“Tell me about the trees in your vision,” she says “What did they look like?”

“Pine, I think Needles, not leaves”

She nods thoughtfully, like this is an i about the trees I’ about the boy

“I wish I could have seen his face”

“You will”

“I wonder if I’m supposed to protect him”

I like the idea of being his rescuer All angel-bloods have purposes of different types—soers, sos that cause other things to happen—but guardian has a nice ring to it It feels particularly angelic

“I can’t believe you’re old enough to have your purpose,” Moh “Makes me feel old”

“You are old”

She can’t argue with that, being that she’s over a hundred and all, even though she doesn’t look a day over forty I, on the other hand, feel exactly like what I am: a clueless (if not exactly ordinary) sixteen-year-old who still has school in the el blood in me I look at my beautiful, vibrant mother, and I know that whatever her purpose was, she e and humor and skill

“Do you think,” I say after a et the question out because I don’t want her to think I’m a total coward “Do you think it’s possible for me to be killed by fire?”

“Clara”