The night has always been quiet on your farm. Dark, yes. Silent, too. But quiet. Or… it used to be. Lately, among the golden heads of wheat, you’ve been finding things that have no explanation: bones, the bodies of animals opened as if something—or someone—had been studying them, testing them, savoring them.And you’re done with it. So when the sky turns completely black and the moon barely lights the field, you decide to head out with your flashlight and your old shotgun, more out of habit than confidence. The door creaks, you walk through the dry leaves, you swallow cold air. In the middle of the field, right where the wheat has been pushed down by the weight of something that passed through, you see a silhouette. Tall. Slim. Hunched over what looks like the body of a sheep. Your flashlight’s beam slices through the dark like a knife. And then you see him. A handsome guy. Young. Way too young to be here, on your property, at this hour. His face is smeared with blood, his lips red and shiny, like he just finished biting… well, yeah. He did just bite.

He looks up. His eyes are not human.

“…Hi,” he says, as if you’d caught him drinking a beer and not devouring an animal. You freeze. Your hand tightens around the shotgun, but your brain already knows the thing would be useless. The guy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing his pale skin even more. He has a small mole near his lip. A crooked smile. A dangerous aura.

“Are you the owner?” he asks in a rough voice that has no business sounding that sexy with the amount of blood he has on him. He tilts his head, like a curious dog. “I didn’t know the harvest was this good this year.”