{"product_id":"such-sharp-teeth-isbn-9780593545836","title":"Such Sharp Teeth","description":"\u003cb\u003eA young woman in need of a transformation finds herself in touch with the animal inside in this gripping, incisive \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling novel from the author of \u003ci\u003eCackle\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Return\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRory Morris isn’t thrilled to be moving back to her hometown, even if it is temporary. There are bad memories there. But her twin sister, Scarlett, is pregnant, estranged from the baby’s father, and needs support, so Rory returns to the place she thought she’d put in her rearview. After a night out at a bar where she runs into Ian, an old almost-flame, she hits a large animal with her car. And when she gets out to investigate, she’s attacked.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Rory survives, miraculously, but life begins to look and feel different. She’s unnaturally strong, with an aversion to silver—and suddenly the moon has her in its thrall. She’s changing into someone else—something else, maybe even a monster. But does that mean she’s putting those close to her in danger? Or is embracing the wildness inside of her the key to acceptance?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e This darkly comedic love story is a brilliantly layered portrait of trauma, rage, and vulnerability.“This bitingly sarcastic novel mixes romance with horror, wrapped inside an exploration of bodily autonomy, trauma, hunger and undying rage.” - \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Wonderfully witty and wild. It's also heady and daring in how the story explores friend and family dynamics, the anger women aren't allowed to express within our culture, and the wounds that transform us against our will. The next full moon I see, I'll be rooting for Rory.\"–Paul Tremblay, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Cabin at the End of the World\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Pallbearers Club\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No one is writing horror that explores the intricacies of femininity like Rachel Harrison. This brilliant story is about accepting your identity, your past, love, friendship, and family... all wrapped up in a deeply satisfying and scary monster tale. \u003ci\u003eSuch Sharp Teeth\u003c\/i\u003e is as irresistible as the pull of the full moon—I couldn't tear myself away.\" – Mallory O'Meara, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Lady From the Black Lagoon\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rachel Harrison has written a witty and wholly original exploration of lycanthropy, trauma, and the monsters that reside within all of us, if we dig deep enough to find them. \u003ci\u003eSuch Sharp Teeth\u003c\/i\u003e is an incredibly compelling read that’s full of horror and heart. It's the werewolf book I've been waiting for and I can’t recommend it enough.” –Alexis Henderson, Author of \u003ci\u003eThe Year of the Witching\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHouse of Hunger\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Darkly comic and modern...a story about rage, trauma and leaning into one's wild side.\"-\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"At turns heart-warming, heart-rending, and a little monstrous, Harrison's latest gives anything but your typical big bad wolf story. \u003ci\u003eSuch Sharp Teeth\u003c\/i\u003e runs slick with bone-crackling wit and cunning, but don't be fooled by that grin; this wolf has a bite.\"\u003cb\u003e - \u003c\/b\u003eHailey Piper, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eQueen of Teeth\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rachel Harrison’s razor sharp prose cuts straight to the bone. With its quick-witted dialogue and acutely human regard for its cursed characters, \u003ci\u003eSuch Sharp Teeth\u003c\/i\u003e solidifies her spot as the alpha author of heartfelt horror.”–Clay McLeod Chapman, author of \u003ci\u003eGhost Eaters\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"With prose as sleek as a wolf in full stride, \u003ci\u003eSuch Sharp Teeth\u003c\/i\u003e feels at once like a classic werewolf story, and something delightfully new. It's a breathless, poignant, blood-and-flesh-licking tale that asks: when our distractions and coping mechanisms are shredded away, who–or what–are we? And it confirms once again that Rachel Harrison is horror's poet laureate of quarter-life dread and existential transition.\" \u003ci\u003e- \u003c\/i\u003eNat Cassidy, author of \u003ci\u003eMary: An Awakening of Terror\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eRachel Harrison\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of \u003ci\u003eCackle\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Return\u003c\/i\u003e, which was nominated for a Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a First Novel. Her short fiction has appeared in Guernica, Electric Literature's Recommended Reading, and as an Audible Original. She lives in Western New York with her husband and their cat\/overlord.I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoths flutter around the fluorescent bulb as it blinks into the dark outside the bar. I lean back and lift my gaze to the night. There’s no light pollution out here, and the stars are fierce. The moon is full, so I give it a wink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Did you just wink at me?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIan’s so tall he blocks out the moon. When he’s in front of you, there’s nothing else. He’s all there is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I did wink,” I say. “But not at you. Sorry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All right,” he says. “Glad we cleared that up.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Apologies for any confusion.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe doesn’t say anything else. He turns away from me to exhale, releasing a calm river of smoke toward the parking lot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are you disappointed?” I ask him. “Did I give you false hope for a second there?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well, yeah, but I’ve had false hope since we were thirteen, so I’m used to it,” he says, turning back toward the light so I can see his good-­natured grin. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s been so many years since I last saw that grin. My heart begins to thump mutinously inside my chest. Maybe his hope isn’t false after all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll right, then. Time to go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I should head home. My sister will be jealous if she thinks I’m out having too much fun while she’s stuck home. Sober.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tell Scarlett I say hello,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I will,” I say, patting my pockets to check for my wallet, my keys. “Happy we ran into each other. Good to see you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah,” he says. “We should run into each other again while you’re still in town.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI search for a cool, noncommittal response among the assortment I store readily under my tongue. I fumble. My lips part but offer nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Or not,” he says, shrugging his massive shoulders. He pushes his glasses up his nose, the same squarish black Ray-­Bans he wore in high school. Behind the thick lenses, his eyes are a striking, unusual blue. Cobalt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, yeah,” I stammer. “I mean, yes. Of course.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHorrifying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You good to drive? I can give you a ride,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m good. One beer. I can walk in a straight line for you, though, if you like. ABC’s backwards.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Could you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m shy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe laughs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All right.” I take my car keys out of my pocket. I slip my index finger into the key ring and flip them around. “Good night.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bye, Rory.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m curious if he’s watching me as I walk to my car. The restraint it takes to not sneak a glance over my shoulder. Shameful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ll leave this part out when I tell Scarlett.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I tell Scarlett.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDespite her current situation, she seems to have retained her position as a hard-­core romantic. She’s like Mom. If I tell her I bumped into Ian Pedretti, forget it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI get into the car and turn the heat on, thawing myself from the October chill. I pull out of the parking lot, stealing a quick look in my rearview.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIan is still there, finishing his cigarette.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI forgot about the mist. There’s an ever-­present mist that skulks around here like a townie. It tumbles down from the mountain, seeps out of the woods, and slathers itself across the dull suburban landscape. It might be the only defining quality of my hometown. Persistent mist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven with my brights on, there’s negligible visibility. I drive slowly around the winding curves of Cutter Road. I used to know it by heart. I could drive it in the dark no problem, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been back. I didn’t think it was something I could lose. I thought that the map of this place was etched into me, that I could navigate from muscle memory, but I guess time erases the things you least expect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA yawn crawls out of me. It’s dramatic about it. The heat has me sleepy. I need to stay awake and alert for the five minutes it’ll take me to get back to Scarlett’s. Doesn’t seem like too monumental a task, but after years of being able to zone out on the subway, passively observing stops and the occasional kerfuffle, the additional attention required for driving seems like a big ask. I turn off the heat and crack open the windows, hoping the fresh air will keep me honest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn comes the signature campfire smell of autumn, but also something else. Something more potent and less appealing. I sniff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s wet animal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe distinct scent of damp fur.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s overpowering. I consider closing the window, but then my phone chimes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy eyes obediently flick over to the illuminated screen, and . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTime leaps ahead, dragging me by the neck. It leaves me with my lungs convulsing, a hideous screeching in my ears. My seat belt is tight, at my throat like a knife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy car is facing in the wrong direction. I inhale, and it’s just burning rubber.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hit something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hit something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sound, that grievous thud, replays loudly in my head. It’s relentless, with a severe disorienting urgency.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pull at my seat belt, attempting to loosen it, so I can breathe, but it’s dead set on anchoring me in this hellish moment. I feel around for the button with a trembling hand. I find it eventually, and the seat belt releases with a fast snap. I open the car door and stumble onto the road.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe cold pulls me out of the fog of my shock. I do a quick examination of my body. Extremities seem to be intact. I feel my face. Aside from the wide gape of my mouth, there’s nothing concerning. I move my neck side to side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m fine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCar? Not fine. My front bumper, the grille, whatever, is now so deeply indented, it’s the shape of a V.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat did I hit? What could possibly cause that much damage? A deer?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI clench my teeth and take a minute to allow the reality to fully set in, as much as I’d prefer to hang out in the cozy palm of denial. I brace myself for the inevitable cycle of emotions. Anger at myself for being an irresponsible driver, frustration at the situation in general. Remorse for the animal I almost certainly killed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wasn’t speeding. I was going only thirty, thirty-­five at most. But if the sound and the state of my car are any indication, RIP. I guess I should check to make sure I don’t abandon a concussed house pet, some freshly maimed family dog. If that’s what I hit and there’s a chance that it’s somehow still alive, that means there’s a chance I can save it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turn toward the road. Mist curls in all directions; it peels from the night like the skin from ripe fruit. There’s a glittering black smear on the road, mostly eluding the reach of my headlights. I step toward it, holding my breath, preparing my apology to Spot or Bambi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy presence disrupts the mist, and between my headlights, aggressive starlight, and a cruel, gawking moon, I can see the mess I’ve made.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can’t even tell what kind of animal it is. Or was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s inside out. The impact must have skinned it somehow because there’s no evidence of fur. Giant worms of intestines unravel across the road. The wet abstract of organs contrasts against the pale shock of bone. It’s a shapeless horror. An absolute massacre.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m sorry,” I tell it, searching for some hint of its identity. There’s a lot of it, whatever it is. Too much. Guessing a deer? I scan for antlers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s a lump. I squint, stepping deeper into the haze. My eyes adjust, and I can see that the lump is fur. A neat mound of fur. Beside the mound, staring up at me with dead glassy eyes, is a head. I was right. It was a deer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow is this possible? I was not going over thirty-­five. And even if I was . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething possesses me to reach out and hover my hand over the carcass. It’s cold. There’s no heat coming off it, no warmth at all. I just hit it. If it just died, wouldn’t it still be warm?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI linger over the deer, wondering, until I realize I’m not required to turn in an autopsy report. It’s not a mystery I need to solve. I killed it. I feel bad; that’s it. My punishment is I’ll likely never be able to stomach meat again. I’ll be a vegetarian and a conscientious driver.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sigh and straighten my legs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pause to listen. I hear something. Labored breathing. A sharp inhale followed by the slow rip of an exhale. It repeats.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI bring my hand to my chest. Its surf is steady. Rise, fall. Rise, fall. It contradicts the sound. But if I’m not making it, what is?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s an onslaught of darkness, confusing me for all of two seconds before I realize something has passed in front of the headlights.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUntil I realize I’m not the one who killed that deer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turn around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt eclipses the headlights, concealing itself in darkness. I can make out a vague outline, trace an enormous mass sliced from shadow. It suddenly shifts between the headlights, uncoiling itself. The light scalds my eyes, forcing a brief retreat into the refuge of my head. I’m tempted to let them stay there, to leave my eyes closed and maybe just never open them again, never face whatever it is in front of me. But something else—­maybe survival instinct or curiosity—­wins out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI open my eyes, and at first they struggle against the brightness. All I can see is that whatever’s there, positioned between me and my car, it’s standing upright.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA bear. It’s a bear. It’s the size of a large bear. It’s got four limbs. A head. Fur.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI blink, and the scene comes into focus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve never seen a bear like this. Its proportions are weird.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt stands on the pads of its feet. They’re not really paws. They’re big but narrow, and they’ve got fur, only it’s sparse, and where there’s none, grayish skin is stretched tight over thin splinters of bone. Its toes are each about the size of my fist, and from them extend thick black nails, sharp, almost like talons. Its legs are long. Slim pale muscles slither around exposed bone, fur detaching in certain places, like around the knees. The legs have a disturbing bend to them. They’re not straight. They won’t straighten. They’re hind legs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s slouched, concealing part of its torso. There’s fur missing there, too. Its skin has been pulled too taut; there are obvious rips where the thing is fleshless. I can see a sickening twist of ribs and spongy insides, but most of it is shadowed by the curtain of its arms. The thing pulls them forward but leaves them limp. They dangle down past its knees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIts hands are marred. Leathery tangled mitts. Bones peek through recessions of fur. Its giant knuckles are bald. Its fingers have way too many joints; they bend and unbend and bend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI look up at its head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA whiteness escapes its wide-­open jaws. Froth pours through its fangs. Beyond its snout, two red eyes bore into me. The color of them, it’s unreal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt can’t be real.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDid someone slip something into my beer?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI feel the skepticism creep across my expression, my eyebrows sinking, eyes narrowing as I study the thing standing in front of me. My doubt releases me from my fear, and for a moment the creature isn’t real and I’m safe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt must sense this, because it rears back, head up, opening its chest to the sky, arms wide. I can hear the awful creak of its jaw as it unhinges to an alarming degree, the separation between its teeth staggering. It begins to scream. The torturous pitch funnels ice into my veins. It’s agonizing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe scream splits, harmonizing with itself. It’s like there’s more than one voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnimals shouldn’t be able to scream like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s going on forever. I don’t know if it’ll ever stop. Should I run? Why haven’t I already started running?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thing finally stops screaming. It collapses onto all fours. It turns to me, and the clarity of its red gaze is unnerving. I understand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s angry. I hit it with my car. I interrupted its dinner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd it’s starving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI run.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI take off into the mist. I’m a runner but this is different. Running for your life is different. It sucks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m vulnerable on the road. There’s nowhere for me to hide. If another car comes, it’s more likely to hit me than be able to help me. I veer into the woods.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wet carpet of moss swallows my footsteps. I dodge branches, hop over rocks. I know it’s following me because it’s not stealthy. It doesn’t need to be because it’s huge and fanged and fast. It’s got that predator confidence. It knows it can catch me because it’s the predator. And I’m prey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s not the first beast to see me this way. Might be the last, though.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy thoughts distract me. My run becomes increasingly reckless. A wayward arm smacks a cluster of low foliage. The rustle is thunderous.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can’t think. I can’t think about what’s happening. I can’t stop to conjure the image of what’s hunting me, pause to marvel at the horror of it. No time for How? or Why? or What the ever-­loving fuck? Its snarls cleave the quiet; its hot breath is at my heels. Any hope of escape is obliterated. I’m not going to outrun the thing. I can’t. I’m not getting home to my sister, who needs me. I can’t go any faster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs this it, then? My final thought: This is as fast as I can go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI spit dirt and blood from my mouth. The pain is disorienting. I’m facedown. The gentle creep of insect legs along my cheek is the only sensation I can decisively identify. The rest is just nebulous torment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy ankle, maybe?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe brutal bloom of heat on my shoulder interrupts my analysis, and I’m flipped over onto my back. It’s done easily, like I have no weight, like it’s nothing, like I’m nothing. My body is not a factor, except right now I know it’s the only factor. I go rigid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt looms above me, the moon providing a direct spotlight, a wraithlike glow. Honestly, I could do without it. Fuck you, moon. I don’t need my death by large inbred animal to have good lighting. Dark would be fine. Preferable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could close my eyes, but it’s kind of hard when the thing looks the way it does.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can almost hear the chiding of my future self, if there were to be a future self. Or maybe it’s the chorus of outsiders who might someday read about what happened to me and wonder aloud, “Why didn’t she?” “Why didn’t she wriggle away?” “If it were me, I would have punched it in the face!” “I would have fought back!” “I would have screamed!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy didn’t I? Why don’t I?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause I can’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt lowers itself down. It sniffs me, starting at my feet. It’s removed my boots, or they’ve come off somehow. Not sure. I can see now that my ankle is twisted, bloody. My jeans are torn to shreds. They were my favorite jeans, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe soft twitch of my grin meets a salty wetness. I’m crying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScarlett.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m grateful we never had that special twin thing. We were disappointed as children that we didn’t have that connection. She broke her collarbone at a soccer game, and I was across town having the time of my life sleeping over at Ash’s. Double-­fisting s’mores and dancing along to music videos on MTV. No phantom pain. No nothing.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301005545701,"sku":"NP9780593545836","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593545836.jpg?v=1767737487","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/such-sharp-teeth-isbn-9780593545836","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}