Page 217

Sage

Irun. Not because Rhett told me to. Not because the Hunt wants me to. Not because some ancient ritual decided fear tastes better when served barefoot beneath a fucking harvest moon.

I run because something made of roots, bones, corn husks, and human fucking hands is chasing me and I am officially out of clever things to say about it.

The ground bucks beneath my feet and I nearly fall. A root tears through the dirt where my ankle was half a second ago. “FUCK!” I jump over another.

Behind me, the Harvest moves.

I don’t look but I can hear it. Branches snapping. Wet dragging sounds. Hundreds of mouths whispering.

Bride.

Bride.

Bride.

“No!”

The word rips from my throat as the red mark around my wrist flares with heat.

I shove deeper into the corn, forcing my way through stalks that claw at my clothes while smoke pours between the rows, burning my lungs with every breath.

Above me, fire races across the tops of the stalks.

But the corn doesn’t burn.

The flames simply follow.

Of course not.

Why would haunted immortal corn obey basic fucking combustion?

Someone crashes into me and we both go down.

A man dressed like a pirate.

I recognize him. He was dancing near the bonfire earlier. Laughing. Drunk. Normal. Now blood covers half his face. “Help me.”

I grab his arm. “Come on.”

He doesn’t move.

“Get up!”

His mouth opens.

A corn kernel drops onto the dirt.

Then another.

I stop.

“What the fuck?”

His jaw stretches wider, and suddenly they pour out.

Hundreds of them.