Chapter One: Edith CHAPTER ONE EDITH
Knives always make me nervous.

Metal gleams as Jim lifts the knife in his large fist and slices into his slab of ham. In his every movement, no matter how innocuous, I see the possibility of violence. But the man sitting across the table is not my dad, I remind myself.

My dad is dead. I don’t have to fear him anymore.

Jim smiles, exposing coffee-stained teeth. “Everything okay, Edith?”

My foster father’s voice is smooth and easy, my name familiar in his mouth. I’ve lived with him and his wife for nine years, but I doubt either one remembers what terrible anniversary September 15 marks. My parents’ murder-suicide took place ten years ago today. If Jim remembered, he wouldn’t be asking me if everything is okay. He would know it’s not.

“Fine,” I lie, my head throbbing.

Another migraine. Just what I need.

“Want some OJ, sweetie?” my foster mom, Patricia, offers, as if some sugary juice can sweeten me up.

Her wedding ring clinks against the glass as she hands me a cup, and for a moment, I’m a little girl again, and the glass shatters against the wall. I flinch as my mom kneels, painstakingly picking up the pieces, even as they slice her fingertips open. It’s the same way she tried to salvage her marriage—until she bled the same bright red as the paint on Patricia’s nails.

“Thanks,” I say without emotion.

These people who aren’t my parents keep talking, their voices barely louder than the TV. In this house, the volume is kept to a quiet hum in the background. When I was little, I’d turn the TV up until it blared, but it still wasn’t loud enough to drown out my dad yelling. I try to never think about my parents, but today it’s impossible not to.

I force myself to take a bite of breakfast. The eggs are poached to perfection, but as I chew, I miss the crunch of Mom’s burnt bacon. I have no appetite for this, or anything else, but unless I eat, Jim and Patricia will worry, so I have some more.

Bea runs up to the table and pouts. “I thought we were having pancakes.”

Patricia pats her head. “Maybe Saturday before Edith’s cross-country meet.”

My little sister stuffs her mouth with buttery toast, all complaints forgotten. Even though they were her parents too, she has no idea what anniversary today is.

I clear my throat. “Speaking of, I’m probably going to stay late at practice.”

“Just let me know when to pick you up,” Jim says, reaching for his newspaper.

I shake my head. “Maddy will give me a ride. Thanks, though.”

Only eight hours until practice. Eight hours until I’m running on the track, my eyes fixed on the horizon, my lungs filling with each quick breath, my skin slick with a sheen of sweat, my feet pounding over polyurethane. Running is the only time I can forget what happened.

Unlike here.

Sunlight streams through the window, illuminating the picturesque breakfast spread complete with gingham tablecloth and happy family. Jim, with his starched white shirt and sweater tied around his neck, reads a newspaper. Patricia, with her full face of makeup and floral dress, sips some orange juice. Bea, with her junior school uniform and cute little pigtails, fits right into this scene.

And then there’s me, a piece with too many sharp edges to fit anywhere.

So I’m trying to smooth myself down, make myself smaller until I’m one of them. I have no choice; otherwise I might turn out like my dad. And that scares me more than anything. It’s bad enough I have to see his gray eyes staring back at me every time I look in the mirror. So I smile a little wider, laugh a little louder while Bea chats excitedly with our foster parents.

I grip my fork tighter. Maybe if I had grown up with parents like Jim and Patricia, I wouldn’t feel so out of place. Maybe if my dad hadn’t killed my mom and then himself when I was seven, I wouldn’t feel so angry all the time, rage simmering just under the surface. Maybe if he wasn’t my dad, I wouldn’t have his eyes or his hair or, worst of all, his anger.

Maybe I wouldn’t have to pretend.

I’m determined to belong here, even if it means pretending. In less than a year, when I turn eighteen, I might not be able to. Jim and Patricia haven’t adopted us, which means I could be separated from Bea, the only real family I have left.

Everything is fine. I’m fine.

At least Bea doesn’t remember any of it. She was too young. To her, Jim and Patricia are our parents. She doesn’t remember what happened to Mom and Dad, and probably doesn’t remember our brief stay with our uncle either. She doesn’t even realize she gets her auburn hair and brown eyes from our real mom. Being happy is easy for her.

As I swallow another bite, something heavy and cold settles in the pit of my stomach. I squeeze my fork until my fingers tighten into a painful fist. Seeing them all so happy, even on a day like this—especially on a day like this—makes me even angrier. My hand starts to tremble, so I hide it in my lap before anyone can notice. I smile until my cheeks hurt when all I want to do is scream. But I’m a good daughter. A good sister. A good girl.

Even when it feels bad.

Because it doesn’t matter how I feel.

I get to school early like always.

Saint Vincent’s Prep School stands before me, all bright red brick and sleek glass windows. Jim and Patricia insisted on sending us to the best private schools. Tuition costs as much as some colleges do. Mom never would’ve been able to afford it. She couldn’t have afforded to divorce Dad even if she’d wanted to.

Yet as much money as Jim and Patricia have spent, they still haven’t adopted me. What am I doing wrong? Students stream in around me, eager to get inside before they receive tardy slips, laughing and talking loudly to one another. All the uproar sends a sharp pain shooting through my skull, but I smooth out my pleated skirt, double-check that my shirt is buttoned all the way up, and make sure my knee-high socks are high enough. Uniform, check.

Before I head in, I prepare to play my next part and force a smile. Being a good girl also means being a good student. I’m on my way to becoming valedictorian, and I’ve already started looking at nearby universities with Division I track teams like Harvard, BU, or BC. The closer I can stay to Bea, the better.

The hallway’s bright, artificial lights make me wince. As I walk through the locker-lined halls, I keep my head down, my glossy black Mary Jane shoes clicking quickly against the tiled floor. As soon as I open my locker, I’m met with rows of neatly lined binders, all labeled and color coded. Everything is in its place. Textbooks fill the lower shelf along with a patterned pouch of pencils that Patricia gave me for my birthday.

I grab my migraine medicine, but the bottle is empty.

Great.

Maddy glances over from her locker beside mine. We’ve been “neighbors” for so long, not to mention track teammates, that we became friends by default. Her locker is full of floral paper and art supplies. She may be a lot, but she’s always been kind to me.

“Ugh, so cute,” Maddy says.

At first I think she’s commenting on the photo of Bea I keep in my locker. A silly selfie my sister took, sticking her tongue out and rolling her eyes when she stole my phone. She hates that I actually printed it, so I have to keep it hidden or else she’ll tear it to pieces. But it’s so authentically her that I can’t throw it out.

It reminds me of who I might’ve been.

But no. When I look at Maddy, she’s staring at the small magnetic mirror stuck to my locker door. She tilts her head back and forth, swiveling from side to side, like the only thing she’s interested in studying is herself.

“I’m thinking maybe I should go blond,” Maddy says, frowning at her reflection. “Tyler said he likes blondes.” She finally turns my way, surveying my hair. “What shade is that, anyway? Platinum, blond gray…?”

That’s not why I dye my hair, I almost snap, but grit my teeth instead. As soon as I was old enough, I grabbed bleach and the first box of hair dye I could find in the convenience store. I didn’t care what color it was as long as it wasn’t my dad’s dark shade of brown. Until then I’d always see his face every time I looked in the mirror.

“Platinum,” I say, forcing out a light laugh. Thinking of my dad so much today has made my chest tight. I feel like a rubber band stretching and stretching and stretching until—

I slam my locker shut a little too loud.

“Whoa,” Maddy says. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Just have a bit of a headache. Probably stressed about the AP Physics exam.”

“Why? I’m sure you’ll ace it. You always do.” Maddy blows out a breath as she rifles through her purse. “Here, take some Tylenol.”

I pop the pills quickly. “Thanks.”

Maddy grabs her books and closes her locker. “I have no idea how you can do track and still make honor roll. Kind of makes me hate you. Just a little bit.”

I do what I always do when I’m uncomfortable or don’t know how to respond. I laugh. The only reason I keep myself so busy is because the busier I am, the less time I have to think or, worse, feel. But I can’t tell Maddy that.

“Probably because I don’t date,” I settle on instead.

“Try telling that to him.”

I can already guess who she means even before a heavy arm slings around my shoulder.

“Hey, babe,” Jason says, pulling me close as Maddy scurries away.

Jason has his varsity jacket on like it’s a permanent part of him. I wrinkle my nose at the pungent scent of his sweat and way too much cologne. I’ve always been sensitive to smell, but his makes my headache even worse, which I didn’t think was possible.

Keep quiet, I remind myself. Don’t cause trouble. I do my best to extract myself without causing a scene.

The only time a good girl ever shows her teeth is when she smiles.

“Hey, sorry, I’d better get to class.”

Ignoring my obvious discomfort, Jason leans against my locker, using his body to block my escape. “Hold on a minute.” He leans closer, lowering his head toward mine. Personal space isn’t a thing to him either. “Louis bragged you were making out with him. That true?”

I blow out a breath. Other than running, kissing cute boys is one of the few things that make me feel good. Dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin—I need to get those happy hormones somehow. And I can’t seem to resist, even if I’d be better off avoiding boys completely.

“You aren’t my boyfriend.”

His eyes darken. To Jason, I’m playing hard to get, and he hates losing more than anything. He already won over all the popular girls in school, but that isn’t enough for him. He’s the type of person who needs to be loved by everyone, since he’s incapable of loving himself.

“Is Louis?” Jason demands.

“No.” I force another smile, surprised my teeth haven’t cracked yet. “Like I said, I don’t do relationships.”

Least of all with you, I silently add. Why would I ever want to be in a relationship after what happened to my parents? Mom could never leave because she loved Dad. I never want to end up in a situation like that. As long as I don’t care, I can’t be trapped.

I move around Jason, determined not to be late for class.

He grabs my arm. “We’re not done here, Edith.”

“Don’t touch me.” I bite out the words, struggling to remain calm and collected. All I can think of is how many times my dad put his hands on Mom without her permission. “Please,” I add, already trying to smooth things over, so I won’t make him angrier.

Just like Mom used to.

Jason tightens his grip on me. “You had no problem with me touching you before.”

Suddenly it feels like a hundred degrees in here. My blood is boiling.

“It’s called consent,” I tell him, my temples throbbing. “And it can be taken away at any time. Including right now.”

With a sudden burst of strength, I yank free of him.

“Whoa, whoa.” Jason laughs, but he sounds a little nervous. “Calm down. I barely touched—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down.” My voice is practically a growl.

I hate those words more than anything. You need to calm down, Dad used to tell Mom on the rare occasion she couldn’t take it anymore and snapped. Funny how that never applied to him, though. His anger was never the problem.

Hers was.

“Look, I’m just trying to talk.” Jason moves closer. “Stop being so hysterical.”

I back up slowly. “Get. Away. From. Me.”

Jason doesn’t listen. He closes the distance in a stride, grabbing for me again. My head is pounding so hard I can barely stay standing. His hand is large and strong as he reaches for me, just like when Dad—

My palm connects with Jason’s cheek with a loud smack. As I hit him, my nails look suddenly… wrong. They’re no longer nails but light-colored claws, long and thick and sharp. Claws that leave long slashes across his cheek, bright blood welling against pale skin.

Something inside me snarls with violent satisfaction.

Jason’s hand flies to his face, his eyes wide. “You cut me, you fucking bitch.”

“No.” I freeze in shock. “I slapped you, that’s…”

Doubt seizes me. It’s not possible. I didn’t cut him. Did I? I stare down at my shaking hands. They look normal again. My nails are short and round and pink, the edges ragged from where I’ve chewed on them. “I-I…”

“Holy shit,” a student says, whipping out his phone.

“Did you see that?” another asks.

“No fucking way.”

Students crowd around us, their phones pointing at me in accusation. Suddenly, I feel like an animal backed into a corner, scared and angry with no way out. My face prickles, hot with shame. Where was everyone when Jason was grabbing me?

“What’s going on here?” Our history teacher, Mr. Smith, works his way through the crowded hall. “What happened?”

I turn to him, desperate. “Mr. Smith, Jason grabbed—”

“She cut me,” Jason says, blood trickling down his cheek. “Bitch has a knife.”

I recoil at his words. “What?”

Bright red drops splatter over the tile floor.

Time rewinds around me. The splattered blood becomes a pool, sticky under my slippers as I take a tentative step into my parents’ room ten years ago. Mom lies there, lifeless; Dad stands there, a knife in his hand.

Tears well in my eyes, and the scene blurs.

I’m back in the hall at school again, staring at Jason and Mr. Smith.

I shake my head frantically, trying to rid myself of the memory. “No, I hate knives. I wouldn’t—”

“That’s a very serious allegation,” Mr. Smith says, examining Jason’s bloody cheek. He turns to me, his voice deepening just like my dad’s would whenever he got angry. “Bringing weapons to school is illegal.”

“But I didn’t!”

My gaze darts between the faces of my classmates. Maddy. Jason. All these onlookers. Someone must have seen what happened. But Maddy looks terrified. They all do.

It takes me a moment to realize what they’re so scared of.

Me.

“Where is it?” Mr. Smith demands. “The weapon?”

“I-I don’t have one,” I say.

But as I stare at my hands, I’m no longer sure that’s true. I may not have held a knife, but hands can be weapons too. So can claws. All my anger evaporates, leaving me cold with terror. Am I finally losing it?

Mr. Smith glares at me. “Go to the principal’s office right now, young lady.”

A weight presses down on my chest until I can barely breathe. This cannot be happening. I’ve always been a good daughter, a good student, a good girl. I kept quiet and smiled and laughed. I made myself small, so small, until it felt like there was nothing left of me.

I did everything right.

So why are things falling apart again?

“This isn’t like you, Edith.” Principal Matthews is just as large and intimidating as the mahogany desk he sits behind. He’s right. I’ve always been “a pleasure to have in class.” Until now. I lower my gaze, unable to meet his eyes as he continues, “I don’t know what you were thinking, assaulting another student with a weapon.”

When I look up from the desk, I see my dad sitting there.

His eyes hold a threat—the threat that I’m just like him.

I flinch, and Principal Matthews is himself again. “Where is the weapon?”

Tears well up, but I blink them back quickly, not wanting to let him see me cry. “I don’t have one.”

“Wherever you hid it, it doesn’t matter,” Principal Matthews says sternly. “It’s only a matter of time before we uncover it, and even if we don’t, Jason’s wound is evidence enough. Why don’t you just tell me the truth?”

“I am!” I choke on a sob. “Why would I do that? I have a meet on Saturday. Please, the cross-country team needs me. I’m one of our best runners.”

“I don’t think you understand the severity of this situation.” Principal Matthews shakes his head. “You’re not only facing expulsion. You could go to jail for this. You’ll be tried as an adult. Do you understand that? What you did is assault. Assault with a deadly weapon.”

Jail? My chest grows unbearably tight.

What about all the terrible people who actually deserve jail?

People like my dad.

What am I going to do? Jim and Patricia will never adopt me now.

The principal’s eyes meet mine over the thin rims of his glasses like he’s enjoying this. Having power over me. Frightening me. My hands ball into fists. Sitting before him, I feel like a child again, small and powerless.

“Jason assaulted me first,” I quietly plead.

Principal Matthews sighs heavily, leaning back in his plush office chair. “You kids in the foster system just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”

My nails bite into my palms.

Fuck you, I want to shout, but I swallow the words. It’s not the first time I’ve heard something like that. He wouldn’t understand why I’m so angry. If I let myself start, I would scream until my throat was raw, until I had no voice left at all.

Principal Matthews changes tactics. “I’ve already called the police and your guardian. They should be arriving any moment now, so before they do, just tell me where—”

The door bangs open behind me, and I whirl around.

No. Not Jim and Patricia.

My social worker’s generous frame fills the doorway instead.

Of course. Since I haven’t been adopted, Jim and Patricia aren’t my legal guardians. Helga is. Shoulder-length gray hair frames her soft, wrinkled face and gentle eyes. She bustles into the principal’s office, wearing a bright dress and big smile, completely at odds with the grim mood.

“I came as soon as I could,” Helga says, plopping her briefcase on the desk like it belongs to her.

It’s been three weeks since I saw her. Whenever she visits, it’s exhausting. I have to save my best performances for her. I’m doing well, thank you for asking! Couldn’t be happier, actually. Now I’m glad she showed up, not Jim and Patricia. I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to them.

Helga clears her throat. “I’d like to speak with Edith. Alone.”

Principal Matthews nods reluctantly. “Very well. I should see if the police have arrived yet.”

We’re both silent until the door slams shut.

Helga lowers herself into the seat beside mine. She studies me with keen interest, no trace of fear or judgment. “I want to hear what happened from you.”

“I didn’t do anything.” I jump up from my chair and pace back and forth, unable to sit still any longer. “Jason was an asshole—he kept trying to grab me—and I just… I got so angry… I slapped him, that’s all.”

Helga raises her brows. “That’s all?”

She sounds business as usual, as if this is another one of our monthly check-ins. I can just imagine all the things she’s cataloging about me in her head right now: Violent tendencies. Uncontrollable rage. Risk to others.

Worst of all: Like father, like daughter.

I shake my head. “I know, I know. It’s never acceptable to hit someone.” Still, how come no one cared when Jason kept grabbing me without my permission? Why is that acceptable? I hesitate a moment before adding, “I would never use a knife. Never.”

A corner of Helga’s mouth lifts, deepening the creases of her face. “I know.”

That stops me in my tracks. “You do?”

Of all the people I expected to believe me, my social worker was not at the top of the list. She may have known me since I was seven years old, even longer than Jim and Patricia, but I still expected her to write me off like everyone else.

“They will never find the weapon, will they?” Helga asks.

My knees suddenly go weak, so I drop back into the seat. “Because I didn’t have one. I must have accidentally scratched him.”

Helga gives me a knowing look and reaches for my hand. “With these nails? I think not.” She unfurls my fingers. “Claws, however…”

I rip my hand away. “What?”

“They were claw marks, weren’t they?” she asks matter-of-factly.

I stare at her. How could Helga possibly know that?

She just got here, and I haven’t told anyone.

“I’d hoped that perhaps you would be spared,” Helga continues, pressing her thin lips together. “Most never awaken to their powers anymore. And if they do, well…”

“Most what?” I ask, rubbing my throbbing temples.

“Berserkir,” Helga says solemnly.

“What are you talking about?” I blink a few times. “You mean like… berserkers?”

As I say the word aloud, I realize the way Helga pronounces it sounds different. Sharper. Berserkers were mentioned briefly when we covered the Viking age in European history. They’re supposed to be violent, battle-crazed warriors who ran into combat shirtless, wearing wolfskins instead of armor, and biting their shields like wild animals.

But that can’t be what Helga is talking about.

It wouldn’t make any sense.

Her eye contact is unwavering as she says, “True berserkir didn’t just fight with animalistic frenzy. They became animals. Either a boar or wolf or bear.” I scoff, unable to help myself, but Helga continues, “The transformation was triggered by intense anger. That raw emotion taps into something primal within all of us, but only berserkir could fully utilize it to turn animal. And those ancient warriors passed down this ability to some of their descendants—including, it seems, you, Edith.”

Is this some kind of joke?

People turning into animals? Has Helga lost her mind?

“You can’t be serious,” I say, staring at her.

Helga doesn’t flinch. “Oh, I most certainly am.”

I glance down at my nails—still round. Not like when I slapped Jason. Impossible or not, I saw pale claws.

I know I did.

Helga shakes her head, still frowning. “Most berserkir remain latent their whole lives—especially women, given that society is always teaching us to suppress our anger instead of expressing it. I wanted that for you, I did. After everything you went through, I’d hoped you’d be able to live a normal life.”

“What you’re saying, it’s not… This isn’t possible,” I manage to get out.

Not me being a berserkr nor living a normal life.

“Of course, there was always the possibility you’d awaken,” Helga continues, unfazed. “That’s why I took on your case. My sisters and I work to ensure others like you are protected. As part of that, we monitor all the known berserkir bloodlines.”

Berserkir bloodlines.

My hands tighten on the plastic arms of the chair. “Wait, you don’t mean…?”

“Your father was a berserkr as well. A wolf, in fact.”

I shake my head so hard my hair sways. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would remember if—”

Helga leans forward, unzipping her briefcase.

“You wouldn’t.” She pulls out something small and egg shaped that dangles from a long chain. It reminds me of the thurible the priest swings before Mass, trailing incense over the altar, but the one Helga holds is miniature by comparison. “Not after I used seiðr on you.”

She draws the syllables out, pronouncing the word like sathe-rr.

I blink. “Say what?”

“Ancient magic.” Helga holds the censer in front of me. “It’ll be quicker if I show you.”

She flicks her wrist, swinging the censer back and forth like a pendulum. As I stare at it, red smoke pours out, swirling up my nostrils. The smoke doesn’t smell like myrrh and frankincense, but something ancient and earthy. Strange yet familiar.

My eyelids grow heavy as I breathe in.

“Muna,” Helga says, her voice echoing throughout the room. “Muna langt fram.”

My eyes close.

And then it feels like I’m falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Moments from my childhood flash around me—broken dishes and shouting over the TV. But now, my memories begin to morph. Shattered glass didn’t slice Mom’s hands… Dad’s claws did. As he screams at her, his teeth sharpen into fangs.

Suddenly it’s the night that has marked me like a brand.

Dark liquid covers the carpet like spilled juice. Dad stands over her, knife glinting in the moonlight. But then the knife shrinks, turning into claws, and hair envelops his entire body. Dad transforms into a wolf before my eyes—

Enough. I’ve seen enough.

I jerk awake in my chair, returned to reality. Slowly, I look around Principal Matthews’s office. Helga studies me with a shrewd expression.

I’m back.

But now everything is different.

My memories of my parents have always felt incomplete, like I was peering through a dirty window. There were things I couldn’t recall. Therapists theorized it was because of PTSD. But what I just saw felt like I smashed the window and finally glimpsed the truth.

It was real.

And Helga hid the truth from me. It’s all coming back—she used the same censer on that horrible night ten years ago, only to make me forget instead of remember.

I stare at Helga, at a loss for words. I trusted her. She’s been the one constant in my life since my parents’ murder-suicide, but now she seems like a total stranger. Is Helga even a social worker? Who the hell is she?

“You… you messed with my memories?” I choke out. “How could you?”

“I had no choice,” Helga says. “The existence of berserkir cannot become public. Once, berserking was useful for battle, but now it’s responsible for numerous homicides that need to be covered up. If not, it would create hysteria like the witch trials of the past. Berserkir would be killed en masse, along with other practitioners of our magic.”

I shake my head slowly. Nothing she’s saying makes any sense. Berserkir. Seiðr. I don’t want to believe it. Any of it. But… I saw my dad. He was a wolf. Rage turned him wild and dangerous. And he wasn’t the only one with claws. I didn’t just inherit his eyes or hair or anger—I inherited this, too. What other explanation is there for what I did?

An awful pressure builds and builds inside my chest.

Something cracks under my finger.

The chair.

My breathing quickens. I stare down at the bright piece of plastic in my shaking hand. The arm of the chair is snapped in jagged pieces, and small bits are scattered over the floor like broken glass.

“That’s to be expected,” Helga says, unfazed. “You’re going to experience increased strength and other heightened senses. This was your first time going berserk, wasn’t it?” When I nod, Helga adds, “It won’t be the last.”

“How do I stop it?” I ask, finally looking up at her.

“You can’t.” Helga leans forward. “But you can learn to control it. My family runs a school in Iceland called Skallagrim Academy. As far as most are concerned, it’s a place for troubled youth, but Skallagrim is actually a school for seiðr. We work to preserve the ancient magic and provide protection to its practitioners. At Skallagrim, you can be among other berserkir like yourself.”

My stomach sinks. That’s the last thing I want. I already had to get a new family, a new house, a new school, a new life. The plastic cracks in my hand. I don’t want to have to do that all over again.

“I can make this all go away,” Helga says, “as long as you attend Skallagrim Academy.”

“How?” I ask. “Principal Matthews made it sound like my punishment was all but guaranteed. Not to mention that my foster parents will never agree. And what about Jason and all those witnesses—”

“I can be very… persuasive when necessary.”

The weight she puts on the word makes me queasy. “And if I refuse?”

“This will proceed to court. You’ll be expelled, maybe go to jail.” Helga pauses, looks me straight in the eye. “And then, someday, it will happen again. Or worse.”

I stare at the plastic shards by my feet. How many things did Dad break in his rages? I may not have sliced Jason with a knife, but I did let my anger get the best of me. I reacted physically in a way I couldn’t control or predict. Just like my dad.

What else could I be capable of?

When I say nothing, Helga continues. “We’re running out of time. The principal will be returning with the police any moment.” She glances at the door. “I’m going to need an answer, Edith. Now.”

I am not an animal, I want to insist, but the evidence that I am is right here in my hands. Whether I want to or not, I have to accept it, or else I might lose control and hurt someone less deserving than Jason. Like father, like daughter.

And I refuse to be like him.

“Fine,” I say, voice barely a whisper. “I’ll go to Skallagrim Academy.”