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I turn toward the field. “Where’s Malakai?”

Rhett’s silence hangs in the air, and I look at him with narrowed eyes. “Where?”

He points deeper into the corn.

Of course.

“Fuck.”

I start walking and Rhett follows.

“You know,” he says, “for someone who spent the evening telling me not to go into the field, you’re remarkably eager to go into said field.”

“I was telling you not to Hunt.”

“I didn’t Hunt.”

“You chased half the fucking guests.”

“I entertained paying customers.”

“You took ribbons.”

“Souvenirs.”

“You chased her.”

He goes quiet. That’s worse.

I stop and he nearly walks into me. Then I turn. “Why?”

His mask hides everything except his eyes. Those haven’t changed. Not really. There’s more darkness in them now. More years. But they’re still Rhett. Still the man who once climbed onto the roof of the church because Malakai bet him he couldn’t steal the iron rooster from the steeple. He’s still the man who laughed when they put the rope around his neck. Still the man who has never known when to be afraid.

Except once.

I remember every second.

Red satin. A woman screaming. Earth opening beneath our feet.

I shake off the memory and focus on Rhett again. “Why did you chase her?” I ask again.

His gaze follows the path Sage disappeared down before returning to me. “Because she ran.”

My jaw tightens. He knows damn well that isn’t what I’m asking.

“Rhett.” The warning in my voice wipes whatever amusement remains from his face and he lets out a slow breath.

“Because the field wanted me to.”

That shuts me up.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. I look toward the corn. Every stalk stands perfectly still beneath the night sky, untouched by so much as a breath of wind. But beneath my boots, something hums. Barely there. A soft vibration traveling up through the soles of my feet.

Patient. Familiar. Awake.

“It hasn’t called you in years.”

“Sixty-three.”