Page 22 of Bonepetal
“Seasonal,” I say, smudging until the head blurs into a shadow that looks like trees.
He hums academically and moves on.
Hours slide. Evening bruises the windows. We clean up, the scrape of stools and brushes echoing in the emptying studio. Miles’ phone buzzes, and he groans.
“I’ve gotta head into work. Someone bailed, and apparently I’m the chosen one.” He slings his bag over his shoulder, then fixes me with a look. “Go straight home, okay?”
“I was actually thinking I’d swing by Nathan’s?—”
“Nope,” he cuts me off, wagging a finger. “Don’t. I’ll stop by. His place is on the way to the restaurant anyway.”
I hesitate, then nod. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Girl you don’t have to thank me,” He leans in and air-kisses my cheek. “Just text me when you’re home so I know you made it, and pray for me, it’s going to be a busy shift.”
“I promise,” I add, feeling thankful for him.
He grins, already tapping out a message as he heads for the door. The hall empties behind him, leaving only the creak of the building’s old bones and me, standing still long enough for whatever in me likes to make bad choices to stretch, sigh, and start pointing at exits.
The usual walk home feels too wide open, too many streetlights for my thoughts to slip out and mug me. The other way, the one that takes me behind the old mill, across the ditch, through the farm, feels more peaceful, and quicker.
Shortcut, then. Just to shave a corner off the evening. Because I don’t want to think about how thin the air feels tonight, or how tomorrow looms like a bruise I can’t stop poking. It’s late, I’m tired, and I just want to get home, lock the door, and ignore all of it.
The farm sits quiet at the edge of town, rows stretching into the dark like they’ve got no end. No lights besides the moon. No noise. Just the wind shifting through dry stalks and the faint smell of dirt gone cold for the season.
I reach the fence along the property and swing a leg over.
The rows close in quick—tall, packed tight, brushing my shoulders when the wind shifts. The dirt path is hard under my boots, worn down from tractors and work boots. I pull my jacket tighter to block the chill, but the wind still sneaks in, carrying the smell of damp hay, turned-up earth, and that sharp tang of fallen leaves starting to rot.
I keep walking, because I’m too tired to deal with the wholeveil is thinningthing or the fact that tomorrow’s sitting in my chest like a stone.
I just want to get home and shut it all out.
The light’s fading fast, and the wind whistles through the rows, making everything creak and shift. Then I hear it—footsteps behind me.
Heavy. Even. Too steady to be an accident.
And then a breath. Slow, deep.
Not rushed. Not even trying to hide.
A chill climbs my spine rung by rung, and my blood lights up like it just found an outlet. My body knows exactly what this is. I don’t even have to look behind me to know the monster that’s there.
I can feel it. Feel him across my skin, and in my lungs with every breath.
Of course he’d come for me. I always knew he would.
The Thorned Patch said I was chosen—the pure one. Finn dying for me last year may have satisfied him for a while, bought me a little borrowed time. But hunger like the devil’s, doesn’t stay quiet forever.
How could he not come back for me?
So I do the obvious, and most sensible thing.
I run.
Corn stalks whip at my arms and snag at my skirt. The rows blur past, the world shrinking to my ragged breath and the hammering of my heartbeat. I stumble once, knees jarring against the ground, but shove up with a fistful of dirt and veer deeper into the field.
I zigzag through the stalks, remembering how Finn once told me after a hunting lesson with the elders that smart prey never runs in a straight line. They weave, cut angles, try to throw the predator off, hoping the path they cross will scatter their scent.
