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My blood freezes.

“What?”

Her gaze drops to my wrist. “You.”

No. I back away. “No.”

“The Harvest has been waiting.”

“No.”

“For McBride blood.”

“NO.”

The barn shakes.

I grab the table.

Mercy doesn’t move. “You are not a sacrifice, Sage.”

“Stop saying that like the alternative is better!”

“It isn’t.”

My scream echoes.

Mercy closes her eyes. “I know.”

The anger leaves me. Just like that. Because she does. She knows exactly what it means.

I’m screaming at a woman who has spent two centuries trapped beneath a cornfield. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I am.”

“Be angry.”

She looks at me. “Anger is useful.”

Something pounds against the barn doors.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Silence.

Mercy looks toward them. “We don’t have long.”

“Then tell me how to stop it.”

“You can’t stop the Harvest.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Sage.”

“Try again.”