My fingers close around the thin, sharp piece of metal. It feels cold and perfect, as if it has been made specifically for my hand. Bash smiles at me like a man witnessing holy communion. Wren whispers a riddle I don’t comprehend, something about wolves in coats of sugar and mercy, wearing masks of meat. Even his rabid insanity can’t dampen the feeling within me, the sense of rightness. The craving for blood and destruction, the one I have always harbored.
