Haylo: Kiss

The creature staggered. Its featureless face rippled. Where her lips had touched, a crack formed—thin, fragile, human. And from that crack, a single word bled out: “Why?”

“I’m not giving you anything.”

Now, at seventeen, Haylo stood in that same hayloft, a shotgun in her hands and a circle of salt around her boots. The moon was a thumbnail paring. The thing was back. Haylo Kiss