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Whatever it is moves slowly beneath my skin, dragging across the curve of my belly as if it’s searching for a way out… or a way to grow.

A thousand voices whisper from the Earth around us.

Hungry—waiting.

“Ripe.”

1

Ripe For The Picking

Sage

Present day…Halloween Night.

“If you get murdered tonight, I’m taking your boots.”

I look down at my feet, then across the center console at my best friend. “You can’t fit them.”

“That sounds like a problem for Dead Sage.”

I raise a brow. “Dead Sage is haunting your ass.”

“Dead Sage won’t have feet.”

I stare at her while she stares back.

From the back seat, Ali groans, “We’ve been in the car for forty minutes. How are we already talking about dismemberment?”

“It’s Halloween.” I smile.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It answers every question.”

Mariah points at me. “Exactly.”

I turn the music back up. Some obnoxious remix of Monster Mash rattles the speakers while Ali complains and Mariah drums both hands against the steering wheel.

Outside the window, civilization has slowly disappeared. Streetlights became houses. Houses became trees and trees are now farmlands. There’s nothing but black fields stretching under a fat October moon and the occasional farmhouse glowing somewhere in the distance.

I fucking love it.

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. Not because I’m one of those people who starts decorating in July. I wait until August, like a civilized human being. But tonight isn’t plastic skeletons and grocery store candy.

Tonight is The Reaping.

Ward Farm’s adult-only Halloween event.

I pull up the website for probably the fiftieth time since buying our tickets. The homepage loads beneath a vintage drawing of a scarecrow standing in a cornfield.

WARD FARM EST 1791 THE REAPING.

One night. One harvest. No children.

I grin.

“Read it again.” Mariah says.