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Halloween, 1791

Mercy

The corn is screaming, and it isn’t the wind. This is something else, something buried beneath the brittle scrape of stalk against stalk. A sound too sharp, too human. I hear it beneath the chanting as they drag me through the field.

My bare feet carve trenches through the mud. My heels catch on roots that shouldn’t be this thick curling around my ankles as if they’re trying to help the hands pulling me forward… or perhaps they’re helping them.

I don’t know anything anymore except that something is moving inside me.

Another cramp tears through my stomach causing me to let out a loud violent scream but the sound disappears beneath the drums. They’ve been beating them since sunset. Slowly at first. One. Two. Three. Then silence only to repeat but now the silence has turned into pounding. Drums, feet and hands clapping all while voices chant words my mother taught me never to repeat outside Harvest.

The whole village is here. Men I’ve known since childhood. Women who brought bread when my father died. Children sitting on their parents shoulders so they can see.

Everyone wears white—except me.

I wear nothing but the red ribbon tied around my wrist with big black words running across. ‘BRIDE’.

I used to think the word was beautiful.

Now…I fucking hate it.

Something presses outward beneath my skin and the pain bends me in half.

I look down. “No.”

My stomach moves. Not a kick but a fucking ripple. Slowly traveling beneath my ribs toward my navel.

Then another.

Something branches under my skin making me scream again.

The crowd cheers.

“NO!” I claw at my stomach but someone catches my wrists.

“Don’t touch it.”

I know that voice.

My head snaps up and Malakai Wright stands beside me with blood pouring down the front of his shirt. His face is uncovered…for now.

“Kai.” I call out.

His eyes meet mine and I gasp.

I’ve never seen terror in them before. Not fucking once but tonight, he’s drowning in it.

“Get it out of me.” I say through clenched teeth.

His jaw tightens.

“Please.” I beg but he turns his face away from me and stares toward the center of the clearing.

I follow his line of sight. There’s a table—long, wooden and covered with the remains of the feast. Apples are split in half. Bread is soaked dark with wine. Bones stripped clean. Half-eaten fruit crushed beneath overturned cups.

Blood runs between the boards and drips steadily into the dirt letting the earth drink every drop.

Around it, people dance. Some naked, some bleeding…some both.