Page 214 of Ripe

“Never.” The lie almost kills me.

She hears it.

Her eyes fill.

But she nods once. “Fine.”

The word hurts more than it should.

She steps away. “Then don't.”

I stare at her as she turns and walks toward the house. The crowd parts for her. Every person bows as she passes but she doesn't look at them. Doesn't look at me. She simply walks.

I stand alone.

The Sower mask lies in the dirt at my feet.

The stitched mouth opens. COWARD.

I crush it beneath my boot. “Fuck you.”

Something laughs beneath the Earth. Then the smell hits me.

Smoke.

I turn.

The Harvest Table is burning.

Not the candles.

The fucking table.

Fire crawls across the ancient wood, spreading unnaturally fast before spilling over the edges and racing into the corn.

Within seconds, the field begins to burn.

“SAGE!”

She turns just as flames erupt between us.

The frozen Communion shatters.

Screams rip through the field as people scatter in every direction, trampling over one another while roots burst from the Earth beneath their feet. Scarecrows tear free from their posts and lunge into the fleeing crowd, and all around us, the bonfires surge impossibly high, throwing walls of heat and sparks into the night.

“Sage!”

Smoke rolls between us.

One second, I can see her.

The next, she’s gone.

“SAGE!”

I charge toward her.

Something coils around my ankle and yanks.