Crescent (Book 1)

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I should've known the truth the night Rosie was born. Like me, she was born in the dark. I remember it like it was yesterday. In the middle of the night, I heard my mother screaming. I woke up in terror- they finally found us- but then my father called the midwife.

I remember my mother writhing in pain in the bathtub when the midwife came. I remember my father scolding me for peeking through the bathroom door. When he'd shooed me away, I sat down in the hall instead... I waited for hours on the landing outside their room until he emerged- alone. His shirt was dark with blood, his hair sticky.

"Is mommy okay?" I asked him.

He looked at me like he saw a ghost. I'm a ghost to my own father. When he finally sat next to me, his head fell to his hands. "She's fine, Brenna... You're a big sister now. You know what that means?" I knew. He'd made sure of it. A minute later, I heard sweet Rosalyn cry. She sounded hurt like she was struggling just to breathe. Rosalyn. I'd come up with that name. My sweet little sister. Even at ten years old, I knew I'd love her until the day I died.

I should have known the truth. There was a reason we didn't go to the hospital. We were hiding. Always hiding. The day Rosie was born was the day I should have known: Our gift would be the death of us.

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My first breath is frost-cold. When my eyes pop open and I peer down, all I see is red. It crusts nearly every inch of skin, and my shirt is stained with it. Blood. Beneath it, an angry red scar lies just below my collarbone. Black and purple bruises mar the muscles surrounding it, but the raised bullet mark brings it all reeling back:

The fire, the gunshots, my family, the van...

I shoot upwards. The van is gone along with my mother. I'm locked in the back of what looks like a carriage, four barred walls surrounded by a wooden exterior. Frost gathers in the air around me, colder than before. My teeth chatter.

The carriage jolts to a stop. The front door slams, and I brace myself as someone unbars the back. Snowy wind gusts inside, and two soldiers appear at the exit. The commander steps between them.

"Get out," he orders. Fighting will be useless. I don't know how long I've been unconscious, but I can feel it in my bones: the gunshot had taken enough out of me already. I stumble out into the bitter cold, my feet hitting a cobbled path. Snow clouds my vision, but it's the fortress in front of me that stops me dead in my tracks: Gigantic stone walls and three circular towers straight from a story book shoot up into the looming clouds.

Behind us, the carriage is parked on a hundred-foot long bridge surrounded by a chilling drop on either side. It's guarded by a forest of snow and ice on the opposite end. Before us, a lowered drawbridge leads to a courtyard with wrought-iron fencing. A maroon colored banner flies from the largest of the towers, its picture distorted by the wind as the soldiers led me toward the medieval stone and iron entrance. The commander shoves me forward.

Ice is slick beneath every step, and stone gargoyles with twisted faces leer down from every buttress. The two grand cathedral doors of the castle open. A chill grips my bones, but it has nothing to do with the cold. Light floods the darkness within. We step inside.

Our footsteps echo off the shadowy halls as we walk into the dimly lit corridor. Directly across the enormous space, there's a sweeping double staircase. To the left, there's a fireplace roaring with flames.

"Where are we?" I'm met with silence, our steps the only sound as we walk behind the staircases. I memorize the routes we take. Fifty paces straight, turn left, then fifteen paces. Down another corridor, take a right.