Page 32 of Deviant

Your end will be by my hand, Rowen.

And mine alone.

This is my solemn vow to you.

Chapter 6

Rowen

Town Hall meetings.

No matter how many of these I attend, the end result is always the same—a sick feeling in my stomach.

And this year’s meeting is no different.

On the first Saturday of every September, Blackwater Falls has their annual meeting to go over the particulars of how that year’s Harvest Festival should be conducted. Led and organized by our mayor, Warren Davenport, we have to endure hours of his pompous and insensitive rant about how it is our civic duty to this town to uphold its traditions and ensure that this year’s Harvest Festival is even better than its predecessor.

Our mayor’s demand for perfection is so disconnected from reality and basic human decency that it leaves a bad taste in my mouth to see my father standing behind him on the podium, having to show his support while Davenport goes off on his tangent.

But does anyone stand up and tell him he could stick his festival where the sun doesn’t shine?

No.

Does anyone even offer any kind of resistance to the mayor’s ludicrous demands?

Also no.

Instead, the hall remains eerily silent while Davenport’s voice is the only one dignified to be heard.

It’s almost as if the town enjoys throwing a party before they send twelve poor souls to their deaths. Or eleven, if you believe one of them will become the victor inThe Scourge.

But one does come back.

The priest is proof of that.

I bite my inner cheek, recalling the last time I visited Hollow’s Church in search of Father O’Sullivan and came up empty-handed. I’ve searched for him every day this week, but he’s evaded me at every turn.

Ugh.

I try not to flinch when Aidan places his hand on my bare knee just to stop my leg from restlessly bouncing up and down.

“Easy there, babe. Why so jittery?” he whispers in my ear.

“I’m not jittery,” I groan, sweeping his hand away from my knee, earning me a pissed-off groan in return.

“Fine. Whatever. Have it your way. But I’m starting to get really sick and tired of you PMSing all the time,” he accuses before aiming his attention back on our mayor.

I want to snap back at him that just because I’m in a mood doesn’t mean I’m on my fucking period. However, I keep my mouth shut when I feel my father’s eyes skim over me, his cold stare pinning me to the spot.

He doesn’t have to say it, but I know he would have preferred me to stay at home. If he had it his way, he would have me under house arrest, preventing me from showing my face here and volunteering my services for the festival.

Usually, I’d be all too happy not to make an appearance, but this harvest season is different.

It’s the first one that I’m actually invested in.

And hopefully, the last one I’ll ever attend.

As much as my father would like nothing more than to keep me from anything and everything harvest-related, this year, he’ll just have to accept that I want to be a willing participant.

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