Chapter 4: What He Took

My wolf was in that dagger. For thirteen years she'd been eight inches of black crystal on a murderer's son's belt, and I had walked past her a thousand times carrying dishes. I don't remember getting to the cellar stairs. I remember my mother's hands on my face and the words coming out of her in pieces, and I remember that I did not cry, because I had already done all my crying when I was eight and there was none left in the tank. Here is the story nobody in the Blood Moon is allowed to tell. My...