In fact, YA, popular and otherwise, is all about messy, sloppy, confusing endings as the teenage protagonists make their way between teenhood and adulthood.
Luckily enough the wind was on our side and we were travelling at a good speed. I had high hopes, smugly confident about the whole thing. The vampiric weapons had to be good.
On deck, I kept picturing the scene with my father lying dead on the floor, blood streaming out of his stomach. I felt the hate flaring through my body again.
I produced a dagger from my pocket. I grasped it tightly in my hand, the tip of the dagger facing towards my heart.
The water was freezing and my heartbeat was slowing. I was running out of hope.
I was growing really scared… Nothing had gone according to plan.
The man put his hand to his side and brandished a long sword… My father was standing strong, a grin plastered across his face, and no sign of fear in his eyes.
He just happened to be sixty years younger than everyone else, with blonde hair, fjord-blue eyes, and the body of a Norse warrior. Well, let’s be honest. Not a Norse warrior. More like a Norse warrior’s younger cousin who goes to the gym once and a while, but you know he also likes his peanut butter pancakes. He was gorgeous.