The Last Harvest

The whispering stops, but I hear the unmistakable susurration of breath. Pressing down on the cold brass handle, I nudge the door open.

The room is full of people dressed in long glittery gowns and tuxedos, martinis in hand. They’re all staring back at me, but no one moves a muscle. I’m wondering if they’re wax figures or mannequins, until one of them speaks.

“Do something, Ian,” a woman says through her teeth. It’s Mrs. Neely.

My eyes dart around the room. Mr. and Mrs. Miller are here, Mr. and Mrs. Doogan, Mr. and Mrs. Gillman, Dr. and Mrs. Perry … all the parents of the sixth generation are present—except for mine.

“What are you doing here? What’s going on?” I pant.

I look past them to a television screen set up on Ian’s desk. There’s a half-naked girl lying on a bench. It takes me a good minute to realize it’s Ali on the screen … in the secret room. I stare at each and every one of them in disbelief. These sick fucks have been watching us the entire time. A wave of dizziness washes over me. I grasp onto the edge of the desk to keep my balance, when I notice what’s in front of the screen. On a swath of black velvet, there’s a branding iron. The symbol on the end is plain as day—the upside-down U with two dots above and below. The invitation. Were they planning on using that thing on me? Was Ali in on it? Or did they use her to lure me here? I grasp on to the handle.

“Clay, everything’s fine,” Mr. Neely says as he steps forward. “But I think you’ve lost your way. Let me show you back to Ali.”

“Stay away from me!” I swipe the metal rod in front of me.

Mr. Neely holds out his arm, motioning for the others to stay back.

I lash the iron through the air, again and again, as I work my way to the door.

Stumbling down the front steps, I drop the branding iron.

I jump to my feet, ready to fight, but they just stand there in the doorway, like I’m some kind of curiosity.

“But, Ian…” Mrs. Neely says.

“All in good time.” He smiles. “And Clay Tate’s time is running out.”





46

I RUN as fast as I can down Main Street, but my legs aren’t working right. Who am I kidding? My brain’s not working right. Cars are honking, people are calling out my number. The lights are too bright, the clouds are moving in way too fast.

“Fuck!” I scream as I stare back at the Preservation Society.

I have to find Miss Granger. I might be crazy, I might be drugged, but I know what I saw. I know what I felt. And that was real. They were going to brand me.

I slap myself as hard as I can, trying to jolt myself out of this haze, but I can still feel Ali on my skin, in my hair, on my mouth. Everything is pulling me back to her, but I can’t give in to this—whatever this is. I have to hang on until Miss Granger can tell me what the hell’s happening … so she can fix this.

I wipe my sleeve across my face and cut through some yards to get to Pine Street.

Dogs are barking, televisions blaring, I almost get taken out by a clothesline, but I find my way to her front door.

I start banging. I don’t care who sees me. I don’t stop until I notice the red streak smeared across the dark wood.

Staring down in fascination at my bloody knuckles, I can hardly feel a thing. God only knows what was in that rye.

Miss Granger cracks the door open. “Clay, what are you doing here?” she asks warily.

“You have to help me,” I plead. “I was at the Preservation Society with Ali … we were alone, or I thought we were alone, but I think they drugged us and they were watching … they were watching us—”

“Watching you what?” she asks as she pulls me inside. “What were you doing with Ali?” She grabs my shoulders.

“Watching us…” I break away from her, peeking through the curtains, making sure they didn’t follow me here. “I can’t believe what just happened … what almost happened.”

Miss Granger sinks to the edge of the coffee table, like she already knows what I’m going to say.

“Ali took me to the secret room … the real secret room. We had a few drinks … we were kissing and stuff, and she whispered, ‘blessed be the seed.’ She tried to cover it up, but I know what I heard. I went upstairs and I found Ian Neely and all the Preservation Society having some kind of cocktail party while they watched us on a screen. And they had the branding iron out. I saw the mark. And I found this.” With trembling hands, I pull out the piece of paper and give it to her.

“Our ancestors … they sold our souls to the Devil to get the land. The sixth generation … it’s all right there. Ten will be sacrificed and only one will be able to lay hands on the lord, to care for him, usher in a new age. And something about the seed … what does that even mean?”

Kim Liggett's books