Chapter 7: Blood and Fire

They laid her in the creekside grave as the sun set. William pressed an old hunting knife into my palm, motioning for me to do it.

I crawled to the coffin, knees scraping the rough wood, but before I could act, my father yanked my hair and smashed my head against the pine.

Warm blood trickled down my face. Pain exploded in my ribs, sharp and cold, but I bit down hard on my lip and didn’t make a sound.

The slap stung, but what burned worse was the way everyone watched, their faces twisted with something uglier than hate.

He hissed in my ear, breath reeking of whiskey—