The Editors

Prologue

The girl knew something was wrong as soon as she stepped foot in the house.

The inside was cloaked with darkness, but a trickle of moonlight was enough to reveal the smeared pools of dark red, the glittering shards of broken glass, and the fingernails embedded in scratch marks on the wooden floor.

Her gown dragged across the ground, beautiful, laden with precious gems, and much too heavy of a burden for a young girl her age to bear. Her shoes crunched the debris underneath as she followed the trail of broken and red. She arrived at a corner and as she was about to take another step forward, she froze.

Her stomach hadn't dropped when she had come in. No tears spilled, no breaths missed, because she knew her parents and they were strong. Invincible. Vicious. Nothing could stop them, and that belief had fuelled her last steps.

There was a hand.

The hand wore a ring.

She knew that ring.

White noise filled her ears and black dots dances across her vision. She didn't scream as she fell to her knees, ignoring the glass that drew red lines her skin.

She couldn't scream because she couldn't breathe.

The girl clutched her father's hand in hers desperately, as if she held on tight enough it would stop the blood from pouring out of the gruesome hole in his chest.

"You have to run," he choked out, air barely escaping cracked lips. "She's still here, Emlyn, she's still here." He glanced around the room with a crazed look in his eyes, his hands clenching hers with surprising strength for a dying man. He coughed violently and red liquid rose up in his throat, threatening to suffocate him. And it did.

That night, the young girl cried. Cried through the lights and sirens, through the comforting words laden with pity, through the empty gaze of the person she needed the most. She swore to never cry again. And she didn't.