Chapter 9 · That Old Jacket

The knife feels wrong in my hand.

Cain handed it to me an hour ago—maybe two, I lost track—and I've been staring at it ever since. It's not new. The handle's wrapped in leather that's gone dark from years of sweat and blood, and the blade's got nicks along one edge. He told me to hold it like this, fingers tight around the grip, thumb along the spine. My hand keeps shaking.

"Stop thinking." Cain's voice cuts through the quiet. He's sitting across from me, back against the wall, arms crossed. "You think, you freeze. You freeze, you die."

I tighten my grip. The leather's rough under my palm. "Easy for you to say."

"Yeah. It is." He doesn't blink. "I've done it a thousand times. You haven't done it once."

I want to throw the knife at him. Instead I adjust my thumb the way he showed me. The position feels unnatural, like my hand's trying to hold something it wasn't built for. Which is stupid, because three nights ago I grew claws that could rip through a man's throat. A knife should be easy.

"Again," Cain says.

I stand.