The Last Harvest(70)

“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?”

I look up at the wall, trying to piece together the information, but it’s empty. All of the documents have been removed and there’s a fresh coat of paint. I start looking around the room in a panic when I notice a small suitcase by the door.

“You’re leaving?” I ask, feeling short of breath. “You can’t leave. Not now. I know I said some terrible things. I didn’t believe you and I’m so sorry, but please don’t leave. I need you to fix this. I need you to save her. I’ll do anything you ask.”

“I’m sorry I involved you in this,” she says, shaking her head. “It was reckless on my part. You don’t bear the mark. It’s not you.”

“But Lee doesn’t have it either.”

“Not anymore.” She gives me a pointed stare and I understand everything. The mark was erased in that explosion, covered up by scar tissue and pain. It was him all along.

“I know you feel bad for your friends, but there’s no way you could’ve stopped this. You must believe me. The Devil is more powerful than you can ever imagine and he’s growing more powerful by the second. That’s why I’m going to All Saints tonight to prepare for the exorcism.”

“But you’ll be back, right?”

She reaches out, brushing her hand against my cheek. “There’s something I need to show you.” She pulls the photo album out, turning to the articles about Mexico City. TWO MISSIONARIES AND FIVE CHILDREN FOUND DEAD AFTER BRUTAL ATTACK AT THE CHURCH OF GRACE. “Do you remember me telling you about the last case in 1999?”

I nod, wondering where she’s going with this.

She turns to the autopsy photos. “The missionaries … they were my parents.” She brushes her fingers over the photographs. “They were demonologists. They performed exorcisms. This was their last case.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, remembering the photo from her nightstand. I can’t believe I didn’t put it together.

“The Church took me in, allowed me to continue their work. My parents gave their lives to save the sixth child,” she says as she takes her hair out of the tight knot and pulls it over to the side to reveal some kind of scar.

“The sixth child was me,” she says. Taking my hand, she places it against the brand. I’d know that symbol anywhere. “So, I could never leave this behind, even if I wanted to. Avenging my parents’ death, defeating the Devil, is my life’s work.”

It feels strange touching her this way, almost too intimate. I pull my hand away.