'The Last One' by Rachel Howzell Hall is our 'GMA' Book Club pick for December

''The Last One'' by New York Times bestselling author Rachel Howzell Hall is our "GMA" Book Club pick for December.

Hall's new novel blends fantasy and adventure, following Kai as she navigates a dangerous and mysterious world.

Kai wakes in a desolate land, surrounded by sickness and monstrous beasts, with no memory of how she got there. Her only hope lies in reaching the Sea of Devour, but to do so, she reluctantly accepts the help of a skilled – and infuriating – village blacksmith.

"As she searches for answers, Kai only finds more questions, especially regarding the blacksmith who can ignite her body like a flame, then douse it with ice in the next breath," a synopsis read. "And no one is what ― or who ― they appear to be in the kingdom of Vinevridth, including the man whose secrets might be as deadly as the land itself."

Read an excerpt below and get a copy of the book here.

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This month, we are also teaming up with Little Free Library to give out free copies in Times Square and at 150 locations across the U.S. and Canada. Since 2009, more than 300 million books have been shared in Little Free Libraries across the world. Click here to find a copy of ''The Last One'' at a Little Free Library location near you.

Read along with us and join the conversation all month on our Instagram account, @GMABookClub, and with #GMABookClub.

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I open my eyes and choose violence.

Because I'm on my back and a woman is on top of me. Her pale hand is wrapped around my neck. She smells sickly sweet, she smells strange, and she smells foul. The whites of her large blue eyes are yellow as straw.

With that smooth skin, she looks nineteen or twenty years old. Is she a thief? Is she a murderer?

Either way, she needs to get off me. So I slap at her ear with one hand and grab her fingers with the other.

"Oh!" Her eyes widen, and she successfully dodges my swipe. She tries to reel away but falls back over me instead. She gasps, and her rancid breath hits my nose.

I gag — ugh! — then squeeze her hand.

She doesn't wince even as I crack a bone in her smallest finger. No. She uses her free hand to dip near my neck. "Ha," she says with a grin. "Still got it."

I want to ask, You still got what? but my tongue droops in my mouth like a dying lily. I can't push out one word, and definitely not four.

The thief holds up a thick gold chain that sparkles in the light. A gold moth with ruby-encrusted wings dangles from that chain. The stone on the moth's thorax is the size of a robin's egg and as dark as the darkest night.

The pendant's clasp is as broken as I am, and my chest feels cold without that jeweled moth, oddly empty, like she's taken more than an amulet from me.

The thief yanks out of my hold and this time successfully scoots away. She tries to chuckle, but tears shine in her eyes as she winces and flexes her injured hand. "You didn't have to break every bone. One would've been plenty."

I open my mouth to respond — I know you're not talking to me like that — but the back of my head throbs, and my tongue is still stuck.

"But I'll take this necklace as an apology," the bandit says, scrambling to her feet. "Thanks." She winces again as she tries to flex her tender hand, then swings a knapsack onto her shoulder and winks at me. "Tah."

And just like that, she's gone, a flash through the grove of trees.

Did she just…? Yeah, she did. And…"Tah?"

With fire bubbling in my belly, I push up from the bed of twigs, yellowing leaves, and gray bark to follow her — but my legs flop beneath me, and I fall back into the dry rubbish.

What is happening? Why can't I stand?

My mind spins with dizziness and confusion. My feet were working fine just moments ago. I think.

Because what was I doing moments ago before waking up with a thief on top of me? Uhh… I don't remember.

The rapid pulsing in my gut makes me look down to see my heaving chest protected by my favorite scarlet bandeau and — Wait. Why the hell am I looking at my favorite bandeau?

My eyes dart to the stretch of mahogany skin across my belly and then farther down.

The soil speckling my toes and ankles looks sickly gray, so stark against my brown feet, pinpoints of starlight against the velvet night sky.

I should not be seeing gray dirt. I should not be seeing my toes.

Where are my boots? Why am I so cold? Where is my cloak?

I squeeze the bridge of my aching nose.

Why do I see bare hands? Where are my gloves?

Sh*t.

That thief wore a bloodred leather vest, a bloodred hooded cloak, black leather gloves, and black suede boots. All of it hung off her like dead skin.

Why? Because that was my bloodred leather vest, that's why. And that was my bloodred hooded cloak, and those were my black leather gloves, and those were my suede boots that I'd finally — finally — broken in.

That thief stole my clothes. Left me wearing nothing but this bandeau and these black leather breeches.

I need my stuff, especially my amulet, and the longer I sit here, that tugging in my gut fades. Feels like something — my pendant — is pulling me to follow that bandit.

I try to yell, "Stop, thief!" but I can no longer see her — she ran into that copse of gray birches ahead. Words still won't work in my mouth, and trying to speak makes my head spin. But I don't need my mouth or words to catch a thief. Just my feet.

Still a bit wobbly, I push up from my nest of grass again, succeeding this time. I take a step…and then another step…and another.

Where did she go? I might not be able to see her, but I can still smell her. That distinct and unforgettable sickly sweetness means…

She's dying.

Yeah, death stinks. She didn't have any obvious injuries — besides the one I gave her — but there's something wrong with her. She looked like she hasn't eaten in several days.

And her rancid breath. Some kind of sickness is eating away her insides.

That's when I notice it: a golden amber trail twisting through those ghostly trees, swirling over pink granite boulders and clouding the air. A golden amber trail that follows the thief's route through this forest.

I blink — am I seeing this stream of light because it's really there or am I seeing this stream of light because I hurt my head?

I squeeze my eyes shut, take several deep breaths, and open my eyes again.

Nothing else glows, not the trees, fallen leaves, or dirt. But that gold light remains, hovering, beckoning me to follow.

Amber must be the color of death here.

But where is "here"?

I push my fingers against my temples as though I can make another memory — any memory — pop into my mind. But nothing pops out. No memories left.

I don't remember roaming these woods. I don't remember the events that left me so unconscious that a bandit felt comfortable enough to steal almost every piece of clothing off my body.

I'll ponder these gaps in my memory later, hopefully with a pastry or two and a cask of rum.

I guess some things, rum and cake, are more unforgettable than others. My mind pulls away from treats because I have a bigger problem right now: that cold and oddly empty sensation I felt waking up moments ago is now spreading across my chest and down to my belly.

"Cold" and "empty" are never good. "Cold" and "empty" mean danger. Even the simplest creature senses danger.

I may be near-naked, but I'm far from simple.

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From "THE LAST ONE" published by arrangement with Red Tower Books, an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. Copyright © 2024 by Rachel Howzell Hall.

From "THE LAST ONE" published by arrangement with Recorded Books, an RBmedia audio brand. Copyright © 2024 by Rachel Howzell Hall.