Sadima
and Hahp's worlds are separated by generations, but
their lives are connected in surprising and powerful
ways in this first book of a trilogy.
Kathleen Duey became fascinated
with writing stories in the fourth grade and told
everyone who would listen that she was going to be
an author. But first she spent twenty years living
in odd, off-the-grid places, subsistence farming,
and reading.
Skin Hunger is the
first volume in a trilogy that has taken 15 years
to ripen. The next book, Sacred Scars, is
in progress now.
Kathleen's titles include
books for younger readers: The Unicorn's Secret
is an 8-book saga for 2-4th graders. Her Hoofbeats
books are middle grade historical novels. Kathleen
currently lives in southern California.
SKIN HUNGER,
by Kathleen Duey. Copyright © 2007. Used with
permission of Atheneum Books for Young Readers, an
imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing.
When I was eleven
years old, my father decided to get rid of me. I don't
think he gave a crap if I lived or died me. Waiting
for the carriage that
morning, I stared westward through the
steam rising off the river mouth. Beyond it, across
the delta and the
still-water marshes on the other side, the night-torches
in the South-End
slums of Limori were being snuffed out.
Once the eye-burning stench
of the greasewood was gone, the beggars would swarm
back to the boardwalk. But by then the shopkeepers'
dogs would be off their leashes. Most were half-wolf.
All were underfed. Some nights, when I knew my father
was angry enough to hurt me, I crawled up the tree
outside my window to get to the roof. I could usually
hear them barking from up there. Once in a while,
I heard someone scream. It always gave me shivers
people live there? Aben went up to the roof with me
once. Not to hide from our father, but for the adventure.
My brother never had to hide.
"Hahp?" I turned.
My mother was wearing one of her dim little smiles.
She was holding herself straight, moving with exaggerated,
fluid grace, looking vapid, which meant she was frantic
with worry over me. And fear of my father.
"Are you all right?"
she asked in a near whisper, as though the sound of
her voice would be enough to ignite my father. He
was faced away, but I knew by the set of his shoulders
that she was right to be careful. He was not far from
one of his rages. I nodded, then looked past her at
the house. If the stories were true, I might not ever
see it again.
