Tonight, with masks and shadows and chaos all around us, Jackson finally has the perfect excuse to make his move, at least that’s what we’re betting on.
A bet we might lose, because, so far, I haven’t seen him.
“I think it’s time for me to take a little stroll through the corn maze,” I tell Carrson.
He flinches, his grip tightening on my waist. “I’ll go with you.”
I tilt my head and give him a soft but firm, “Carrson…”
He huffs, his jaw tight, and drops his hands with a rough, “Fine.”
Raising on my toes, I press a kiss to his lips, quick and chaste, because I know from experience how easy it is to get lost in him. How hard it is to let him go.
I love you.
I almost say it again, but this isn’t how I want that conversation to go, not here or now where danger surrounds us and I’m rushing to meet it.
Instead, I tell him, “I’ll be fine.”
“You can’t know that,” he says, his voice low and strained.
The look on his face nearly undoes me, with misery written in every line, like he’s barely holding it together. I almost give it all up. Scrap the plan. Give in to his fear. Ihateseeing him like this, and maybe that’s what love is, not fireworks or grand gestures, but this quiet ache. This undeniable truth that his happiness suddenly matters more than my own.
“Please,” he says, each word cracking and desperate. “Pleasebe careful.”
That’s when I know.
He loves me back.
Because Carrson never begs.
He demands. He threatens. He forces the world to its knees.
But now, just for me, he’s pleading.
I tuck that knowledge into my pocket, a charm to keep me warm on the journey I’m about to take. Unable to stop myself, I give him one last, fleeting kiss, then I walk away, without looking back, into the darkness of the corn maze.
***
The minute I enter the maze, the sounds of the party hush, replaced by the brittle crunch of dry corn stalks and dead leaves beneath my boots and the sound of my own breath, a little too fast and shallow. I take a left, then a right, quickly losing my bearings. Now and then I catch distant sounds, muffled giggles, a sudden gasp. I catch glimpses of a group of partygoers a few rows over or lovers tucked into the corners for privacy.
Above me, the full moon glows white and watchful behind a veil of shifting clouds. One drifts across the sky and blocks the moonlight, casting everything in shadow.
When it clears, I startle at the apparition before me.
A man, judging by his size, in a plague doctor’s costume. The mask is grotesque, cracked leather stitched into a long, hooked beak. In the 1600s, doctors stuffed those beaks with herbs to block the stench of illness and death. This one has polished glass lenses instead of eyes, blank and reflective. A belted coat falls to his boots, stiff and heavy-looking.
I think it’s Jackson, but I can’t be sure since his face is hidden.
“H—hello?” I stutter, fear trickling down my spine. Goosebumps break out, rushing across my skin. I rub my hands over my arms to chaseaway the sudden chill, but it stays, clings.
The person doesn’t answer, just takes a menacing step closer.
I force myself not to back away.
Instead, I straighten my spine and lift my chin, even as my heart pumps hard in my chest. “Nice costume,” I say, injecting forced casualness into my voice. “Very historically accurate. You get points for commitment.”
Still, he says nothing.
