Excerpts Fantasy Read an Excerpt From Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil by V.E. Schwab This is a story about life—how it ends, and how it starts. By V.E. Schwab | Published on May 28, 2025 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil, a new genre-defying novel about immortality and hunger by V.E. Schwab, out from Tor Books on June 10th. This is a story about hunger.1532. Santo Domingo de la Calzada.A young girl grows up wild and wily—her beauty is only outmatched by her dreams of escape. But María knows she can only ever be a prize, or a pawn, in the games played by men. When an alluring stranger offers an alternate path, María makes a desperate choice. She vows to have no regrets.This is a story about love.1827. London.A young woman lives an idyllic but cloistered life on her family’s estate, until a moment of forbidden intimacy sees her shipped off to London. Charlotte’s tender heart and seemingly impossible wishes are swept away by an invitation from a beautiful widow—but the price of freedom is higher than she could have imagined.This is a story about rage.2019. Boston.College was supposed to be her chance to be someone new. That’s why Alice moved halfway across the world, leaving her old life behind. But after an out-of-character one-night stand leaves her questioning her past, her present, and her future, Alice throws herself into the hunt for answers . . . and revenge.This is a story about life—how it ends, and how it starts. There is no gentle waking, no state of in-between. One moment Sabine is dead to the world, and the next she is back in the barn, alive. Awake. But not alone. She looks up and sees a man standing several feet away. In one hand he holds a rope, the donkey tethered to the end. In his other hand he holds a pitchfork, the wooden pole hovering over her side. She has the sense that he has prodded her with it. “Get up,” he says. Sabine stands, and sways, still feeling weak, and ill, despite the many hours’ sleep. The barn door is open at the farmer’s back, late-afternoon light slanting in, and she winces at the sight of it. The glare still makes her dizzy. “Are you hurt?” he asks, and in the daylight she can see the stains that paint her gown, the unmistakable shade of long-dry blood. He sees it, too, and yet, he doesn’t flinch. There is no trace of fear around him, and it rankles her. That despite the look of her, he is so certain of his safety, convinced she is the damsel, not the danger. Sabine watches as he takes in her unlaced collar, the ruby at her throat. For a moment, his attention wanders lower, drifting over the bare skin that pitches toward her breasts. A quick flick down to her bare feet, the slippers cast off somewhere amid the hay, before cutting back up to her face. Her hair. The jewel. “Are you hurt?” he said, but there was no caring in the question, only a man trying to gauge the trouble in his barn, deciding whether her presence is an inconvenience or an opportunity. Sabine supposes she could cry, or beg for help, spin some story about scoundrels, make herself small and play the part of helpless maiden. She could, but she doesn’t. Instead she meets his gaze, and holds it, the way she used to when the caravans came through. Her attention is a fishing line, a hook flashing in the stream, and sure enough, he snags, and twitches, can’t seem to tear away. “Tell me, señor,” she says, and there it is again, that new timbre in her voice. A low, almost feline purr. “Are you married?” She lets her own gaze roam over the man, measuring his body the way he just measured hers. He colors, and scowls. “I am,” he says, rough hand tightening around the rope. Sabine takes a small step forward, and even though he is slighter than her husband was—was, what a lovely word that is, a perfect tense—the farmer makes no motion to retreat. Of course he doesn’t. After all, she is just a woman, isn’t she? Half-dressed. Alone. Buy the Book Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil V.E. Schwab Buy Book Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil V.E. Schwab Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget Her fingers drift up, tugging at the laces on her gown, exposing another inch of skin. “Where is your wife?” she asks, and sure enough, she can feel his heartbeat quicken. “Inside,” he mutters, the air around him thick with want. Simple and animal and raw. She takes another step, and then another, until she is right there, close enough to touch, to take, close enough he should notice the amount of blood on her clothes, the fact she isn’t wounded. “Are you a good husband?” she asks. His expression sours. “What?” “Does she love you?” “She is my wife,” he says bluntly. “She does what she is told.” Sabine’s mouth turns down. Her teeth click together. “Is that so?” He only nods. How strange, that he cannot taste her thoughts, the way she has tasted his. That as he grabs her arm, he is so sure that he’s the predator, and she the prey. By the time he realizes, of course, it is too late. She slams him back against the gate, teeth sinking deep into his throat. At some point, he drops the donkey’s rope. At some point, it flees through the open door. At some point, he swings out with the pitchfork, drives the tines into her side, and what she feels then isn’t pain, not as she once knew it. She is aware of the tearing flesh, the metal scraping against her hip, but it is nothing compared to the strength of the blood spilling in, filling her again. Sabine drinks, hoping it will steady the ground beneath her feet, and the farmer tries to scream, but his throat is already open, his voice nothing but a drowning breath. His heart pounds inside her chest, a stolen beat, but it dies there shortly after he does. His body slumps, lifeless, to the floor. Hers stays on its feet. She looks down, then, at the metal prongs piercing her side, driven finger deep. She pulls, and they slide free, like teeth. The blood on the tines is dark and thick, and when she grazes it with her tongue, the taste reminds her of the widow. Earth and ash, the tangle of salt and rotten sweet. No longer living. Far from dead. Sabine lets the pitchfork fall beside the farmer’s body and feels the flesh across her stomach sew itself together, stitch by invisible stitch, with a skill María never had, leaving nothing but smooth skin. She runs her fingers over it, impressed by this newfound resilience. She takes a step toward the barn door, only to feel the ground tip, the world sway. Still, she feels dizzy. Still, she feels sick. She looks accusingly at the open door, the light streaming in. It is thinner now, lower, too, the sky stained pink with the impending dusk, but the sight of it still hurts, more than the pitchfork did. Sabine doesn’t know for sure, but she suspects the sickness and the sun are somehow tethered, so she sinks onto the dead man’s back to wait, plucking bits of straw from her loose hair to pass the time. An hour later, when the sun has safely disappeared behind the hills, there is a tidy pile on the floor, and her copper locks lie smooth and plaited down her back. She rises to her feet and steps outside, and sure enough, as the day retreats, the illness recedes with it. She has not taken a breath—no longer needs to breathe, it seems—and yet, her entire body sighs in relief. She marvels at the change. Her head no longer aches. Her limbs no longer tremble. Across the field, a window glows with light. The farmhouse. She makes her way toward it, savoring the grass on her bare feet. The breeze whispering against her skin. There is no sign of the farmer’s wife, but the door stands open, and Sabine decides to let herself in. But she cannot. She makes it to the threshold, but there her body lurches to a stop. It makes no sense—the door is open wide, and she can see straight into the little house—but no amount of force will let her through. Suddenly she is the fish on the line, an invisible cord holding her back. Sabine hisses at this new obstruction. The widow only ever spoke of freedom, said nothing of these rules. She finds herself wishing she had some manner of instruction, wishing, perhaps, she had not drained the woman dry. But there is no purpose to regret. And Sabine is no lost lamb, in need of shepherding. She will decipher this herself. She is still testing the doorway when, from somewhere in the house, she hears the wife calling for her husband. The footsteps drawing near, and she does at least consider leaving, slipping away into the settling dark. But, despite the emptied body in the barn, she is still hungry. The farmer’s wife appears, a small, tired-eyed woman, who stops right before the door, nothing but the empty frame and half a stride between them. She startles at the sight of Sabine, surprise and suspicion rising off her like steam. Sabine stares back, appraisingly. The woman’s clothes are simple, boring, but they’re clean, and a glance says they will fit. “Where did you come from?” asks the farmer’s wife, glancing past her at the yard, the barn. Perhaps looking for her husband. “I need help,” Sabine answers. “I was robbed.” The woman’s gaze snaps back. Takes in the tattered dress. The bare feet. And then, the ruby glinting at her throat. Sabine curses herself softly, waits to see if the lie is ruined, but the woman only proceeds to ask if she is hurt, and unlike the farmer, there is at least an edge of worry in the words. “No,” she answers. “But if you give me shelter for the night, I’ll see that you’re rewarded.” She reaches up as she says it, unhooks the necklace for the first time since Andrés clasped it there. The jewel sloughs into her palm. The woman looks past her one more time, her thoughts so sharp Sabine can almost hear them. Where is my husband, I should ask him, will he be mad? But then Sabine holds out the necklace, lets the ruby catch the light, makes her fingers tremble for good measure. “Please,” she says. A small word, with so much weight. The farmer’s wife swallows, veins flashing in her throat. “All right,” she says. “Come in.” As soon as the words are out, Sabine feels the hook slip free, the hold give way. She takes a testing step, and this time, when her bare foot meets the threshold, there is no resistance. Nothing but an open door. She smiles, and steps inside the house. “Is that blood?” asks the farmer’s wife as the lamplight catches on her dress. “Don’t worry,” says Sabine as she reaches back to close the door. “Most of it’s not mine.” Excerpted from Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil, copyright © 2025 by V.E. Schwab. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil</i> by V.E. Schwab appeared first on Reactor.