Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (2)

“Well, I guess it’s time to get this show on the road. And you know what you did. So do I. We both know I can’t let you go. Like I said, baby,” I call to him over the music with a shrug. “Consequences.”

I light the fuse to the sound of Andrew’s renewed desperation.

“Ciao, sweetie. It’s been … something,” I call over my shoulder as I duck into the safety of the forest.

Andrew’s screams are a delightful harmony to the crescendo of music and the percussion of fireworks that crack and burst in the night. His suffering is a grand show of colorful sparks, a salvo of bright light and thunderous sound. Honestly, it’s more majestic of an exit than he deserves. Everyone should be so lucky.

It’s fucking magnificent.

I can’t be sure when Andrew’s wailing stops, not once the Triple Whistler bottle rockets start to go off. Those things are loud.

When the eruption dies and the last sparks are little more than falling stars, I step into the clearing. The scent of saltpeter and sulfur and singed flesh wafts from the blackened, smoking form in the center of the meadow.

With careful steps, I walk over to him. I can’t tell if he’s still breathing, and I’m not about to check for a pulse. It won’t make a difference for him anyway. Even so, I watch for a long moment, music still blaring behind us from where I left the speaker in the tall grass. Maybe I’m looking for signs of life. Or maybe I’m waiting for signs of life in me. A normal person would feel guilt or sadness, wouldn’t they? I mean, I loved him for two years. I thought I did, anyway. But the only regret I feel is that I didn’t see the real Andrew sooner.

Even that tinge of remorse is dulled beneath a feeling of accomplishment. One of relief. There’s power in finding secrets and blowing them up in a beautiful, bright light. And I’ve kept my promise. No one else suffers but the ones who deserve it. I took care of it myself. If a soul will be marked for this life taken, no one will carry that mark but me.

Never again.

A low moan pierces through the music. At first, I don’t believe it, but then it rises again in a puff of smoke.

“Holy shit, baby,” I say on the heels of an incredulous laugh. My heart sings beneath my bones. “I can’t believe you’re still alive.”

Andrew doesn’t answer. I don’t know if he can even hear me. His eyes are sealed shut, his skin charred and raw, blood seeping from warped edges of seared flesh. I don’t take my eyes from the fog that spills from his parted lips as I rummage in the depths of my bag until I find what I’m looking for.

“I hope you enjoyed the show. It was a great performance,” I say as I unholster the gun and press the muzzle to his forehead. Another quiet moan escapes into the night. “But I didn’t bring enough fireworks for an encore, so you’ll just have to use your imagination.”

I squeeze the trigger, and with a final explosion, there’s one less locust in the world.

And there’s only one thing I feel.

Fucking invincible.





SUBMERGED




Lark


“Don’t hold your breath,” I yell to the man in the sinking car as he pounds on the window and begs for my mercy. “Get it?”

I don’t think he heard me. But that’s okay. I just smile as I wave with one hand, my gun trained on him with the other in case the window budges and he manages to slither his way out.

Fortunately, the pressure of the climbing water makes it nearly impossible for him to escape, and in mere moments, the vehicle is submerged. Bubbles burst in the black water as the car slides beneath the gentle waves of Scituate Reservoir. The headlights point to the stars, flickering as the electrical connections succumb to the flood.

“Well, shit.”

This isn’t good.

Actually, it’s kind of amazing. But it’s also a giant pain in the ass.

I chew my lip and watch until the lights blink out and the surface goes still. When I’m sure everything will stay silent, I pull out my phone and open the contacts. My thumb hovers over Ethel’s number. She’s always been the one I’ve called when things have gone tits up. Admittedly, a car casket at the bottom of a lake might be a little beyond the usual definition of tits up, even if the timing wasn’t already making it impossible to ask for Ethel’s help.

With a sigh, I select the number just above hers instead.

Two rings and he picks up.

“Meadowlark,” my stepdad chimes on the other end. I roll my eyes and smile at his use of my childhood nickname.

My wary tone is his first indication that something might be amiss when I say, “Hi, Daddy.”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Is everything okay?”

“Sure …”

“Did someone puke on the carpet?” he asks. It’s safe to assume he’s had a few drinks at his own Halloween party if he hasn’t already clocked that there’s no thumping bass or raucous voices in the background from my end of the line. “I’ll have Margaret arrange some cleaners for you first thing. Don’t worry about it, honey.”

A final, damning bubble erupts from the lake like an exclamation point. “Umm, those aren’t really the cleaners that I need …”

The line goes silent.

I swallow. “Dad …? You still there?”