Page 40
My attention drifts toward the scarecrow at the edge of the field. Something about it is wrong. I stare at it until the realization crawls cold beneath my skin. Its head has moved. Not by much… but enough that the burlap face no longer points toward the maze. It points toward me.
No. Past me. Toward Sage.
“Get rid of them.”
Kai follows my stare, and tension settles across his face. “You know we can’t.”
“Burn them.”
”We tried.”
”Then bury them deeper.”
His eyes come back to mine. ”They are buried.”
The words sink slowly into my stomach. I look at the scarecrow again then at Kai.
He brushes his hands against his jeans, but the dirt clings to his skin. “This is the part that comes up.”
A cold sensation moves down my spine.
Beside me, Rhett releases a slow breath. “I fucking hate when you say things like that.”
For once, we agree.
Before I can answer, music erupts beyond the maze. The sudden bass rolls through the field hard enough to vibrate under my boots, followed by an explosion of cheers from the crowd. Hundreds of people drinking, dancing and laughing beneath the lights.
Harvest Communion. The modern version. The harmless version.
Bonfires. Music. Alcohol. Bodies pressed together under the stars. Nothing more.
I stare toward the distant glow as another cheer rises into the night. That’s what The Reaping has become. A show. Once a year, people come here to drink themselves stupid, eat too much, dance around fire, and pay to be frightened. They wear masks because masks are fun. They run because being chased makes their hearts pound. They feast because it’s autumn. They fuck because they’re drunk and alive and twenty-one.
They think Harvest Communion is a branding. A gimmick. A tradition.
That’s exactly how I want it.
People can’t worship what they don’t believe in. And things that aren’t worshipped eventually die.
At least, that’s what I hoped.
The Earth pulses beneath my feet once.
My heart answers with a second pulse.
Rhett grabs the wooden post beside him. “Did you feel that?”
A third.
The corn moves. Every stalk at once. Not bending—turning. Toward the farm—toward her.
Kai closes his eyes.
I know that expression. He’s listening again.
“What?”
”The Sower has been called.”
