The Last Harvest(67)

I lean down to kiss her when horns start blaring.

“Tate!” Someone yells as they drive by. “Good luck tomorrow against the Sooners. Give ’em hell!”

I shake my head. “Let’s get out of here.”

“It just so happens I know a place where we can be completely alone.”

As I lead her to the passenger door, she runs her hand over the side of Old Blue. “This truck is so you.”

“What? Worn-out and rusty?” I say as I take her backpack.

“No. Classic. And true.”

As I open the door for her, I feel a flutter of excitement. This is the first time she’s ridden in my truck in a year—at least conscious.

*

WE PULL up in front of the Preservation Society and my heart sinks. The main house is all lit up and there’s a bunch of cars parked out front. “I thought you said no one would be here.”

“It’s just us,” she says as she takes off my cap, placing it carefully on the dash. “There’s a big pregame party over at the Neelys’ tonight. Overflow parking.”

She starts to open her door.

“Wait,” I say as I get out and open it for her. She takes my hand and doesn’t let go the whole way up the brick pathway to the front door.

“You have a key, right?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I let out a nervous laugh as I find the brass one.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know if you heard,” I say as I slide the key in the lock, “but I got caught breaking in here last week.”

“Seriously? Clay, you’re such a badass,” she teases.

“No. It was pretty much the opposite of badass. I didn’t realize I had a key the entire time,” I say as I try to get the lock to turn, but it’s being stubborn.

“Did you have to have one of those awkward talks with Mr. Neely?”

“Oh yeah, and then he sort of blackmailed me into coming to the Harvest Festival.”

“And here I thought you came back for me,” she says as she slips under my arm, placing herself between me and the door.

I lean into her, brushing my lips against her ear. “I did.” And the lock finally gives. “I guess I just needed a nudge in the right direction.”

“Well, I’ll have to thank him for that someday.”

As we step inside the Preservation Society, I notice the door to Mr. Neely’s office is closed.

“Come on,” Ali says with an excited giggle as she leads me down to the basement, to the end of the long hallway. “I can’t wait to show you this.”

She slides her hand against the wood-paneled wall and a doorway pops open. I remember looking at this wall the night I broke in. There was a strange rotting smell, but now it smells sweet—too sweet, like it’s covering something up.

We step inside and she lights some candles. “There’s no electricity in here. They wanted to keep it pure, like it was in the old days.”

“Of course.”

“But it’s kind of nice … romantic,” she says as she peeks at me over her shoulder.

There’s an oversized leather ottoman in the center of the room. Big enough to be a bed. The walls are filled with books and trinkets.

“What is all this stuff?”

“The council archives. This room has been in existence since they built the Preservation Society in 1889. I think maybe they used it as a chapel … a sanctuary.”

“Sanctuary from what?” I look at her sharply.

“Who knows … their parents, maybe?” She gives a cute little shrug. “This is the one place we can be alone. Invisible.” She shuts the door. I watch the seams disappear into the grooves of the paneling and instantly, I feel better. Like we just shut out the world.

“Okay.” I let out a deep breath. “Let’s never leave this room.”

“Fine by me,” she says as she crosses to a heavy wood sideboard, pouring dark amber liquid from a decanter into two cut crystal glasses.

I take a whiff of the stopper and I guess I make a face.

“My dad’s rye.” She smiles up at me. “Not the smoothest, but it gets the job done.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“We do it all the time.” She hands me a glass. “Do you have any idea how boring the council meetings are? It’s the only perk.” She positions herself directly in front of me, clinking her glass to mine. “To us.…”

We both take a drink. It burns my eyes, but it feels good going down my throat. Instant warmth radiating throughout my body.

“Now,” Ali says as she picks up one of the candles, moving it along the spines of a row of books. “They showed us all this stuff when they turned over the council to us last year, but I never gave it much thought until you started telling me Miss Granger’s theory. There’s a prophecy, but not like Miss Granger thinks.”

She pulls down an old book from the shelves, thumbing through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for.

“Here,” she says, pointing to the text.

I read over her shoulder, “The sixth generation will inherit the earth, paving the way for a new age.”

“That’s pretty self-explanatory,” Ali says. “When our ancestors founded Midland, formed the council, everything they built was for the sixth generation. For us.”