Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (94)

“How?”

“Think about Keanu.”

“No, don’t you dare ruin him for me with the power of eyeballs.”

“Feckin’ hell, okay. Shite.” A little wretch comes from Lachlan, and I bury my sweaty forehead into the crook of my elbow. “How the fuck does Sloane do this?”

“Just imagine it’s a marble,” Conor chimes. “Or one of those Trolli Glotzer marshmallow gummy eyeball candies. Have you seen those? Gabs loves those things. They’re filled with red sour liquid shit.”

I gag again as Lachlan releases a string of expletives, some of which might be in Irish, though I can barely make out his words over the blaring alarm and the heartbeats roaring in my ears. “Don’t bring up food, ya feckin’ gobshite. Bloody hell.”

“Yeah, fuck off, Conor. Leave my man alone.”

“The spoon thingy, Lark. Pass me the spoon.”

I heave. Lachlan gags. Conor cackles.

I manage to pull myself together long enough to grab the mini scoop and shove it into Lachlan’s hand. “Get that thing out, for the love of God.”

“This sounds like a window into your sex life—”

“Shut up,” Lachlan hisses. “Hand me the scissors, duchess.”

I pass him the scissors and a moment later, there’s a victorious sound of triumph. I find the jar of formalin and hold my breath as Lachlan drops the severed eye into the liquid. I don’t even have the lid screwed tightly shut before Lachlan has the bloodied tools packed away, hushed expletives still spilling from his lips.

The earpiece crackles with Conor’s laugh. “I was kidding, by the way. We don’t need the eye.”

“Fuck you, Conor,” we snap in unison as I pocket the eyeball. Lachlan zips up the body bag, wheeling Stan’s cart back into position along the wall.

“No, really, we do need the eye. But we also need you out. Fire trucks are a minute or two away.”

We take off running, retracing our path through the building and into the cold November night. As we sprint toward the van, we hear the wail of sirens in the distance. I can barely catch my breath, but the adrenaline exploding through my veins gives me a sense of power. I feel invincible. I don’t know if Lachlan feels this way after every job he does, this addictive rush, but I feel fucking amazing.

So amazing that I almost forget why we’re really here.

Lachlan smiles as though he can divine my conflicting thoughts from my wide-eyed, manic gaze as he passes the bag of fingers to Conor. I do the same with the jar, and Conor places both items in a small cooler.

“We should have everything we need to access Stan’s records. But if something happens and it doesn’t work, this could take weeks. The clock is ticking. If the killer stays on their schedule, they’re due to kill again in forty days. It might not be enough time.”

I nod and Lachlan reaches across the center console to give my hand a squeeze. There’s muted hope in the way he watches me. I can tell he wants to believe these pieces of Stan will unlock the mystery of the hunter that haunts us, but it’s as though he’s unwilling to put much stock in what feels like little more than witchcraft.

“Whoever is doing this, we’ll find them,” he says. He raises my hand to brush his lips to my knuckles. It’s as much a reassurance to himself as it is a promise to me. “And once we do, I’m going to show them what hell on earth looks like.”





WANDERER




The Phantom


It’s been two weeks since I delivered Mr. Tremblay to God, and now He has rewarded my diligence. My servitude. He has moved the pieces across the board and cleared my way to righteous victory.

For I know the plans I have for you. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.

And my plans are ready to come together.

I stand for a long moment at the door and watch the woman as she sleeps. The light casts lines of shadows across her body as it passes through the slatted window blinds. It illuminates every miniscule movement, every breath. I can almost smell the failure of her organs. The sterile environment and the industrial cleaners can’t mask the smell of impending death.

Almighty God, the shadow of death is upon her.

The tempo of her breathing changes. Perhaps a nightmare. Fluid collects in her chest and rumbles. She coughs, and when she opens her eyes, they pan across the room until they land on me.

“Who are you?” she asks. Her vision must be hazy with sleep and old age, but I still catch the suspicion in the milky depths of her eyes. I take a purposeful step into the room and pull the door closed behind me.

“Today, I’m known as”—I point to the stolen ID card I’ve pinned to my chest pocket—“Steve.”

“Today, I’m known as Bertha, so if you’re looking for Ethel, I’m afraid you have the wrong room.”

I grin at the old woman as I pull a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of my scrubs and slip them on. “You are not what I expected, Ethel.”

“I’ve been told that before. But men like you have been underestimating women like me since the dawn of time, so your surprise is not at all refreshing. In fact, it’s a little stale, if you’ll forgive the muffin pun.”

The old woman gives me a sharp and dismissive glare. Then she presses the button to adjust the incline of her bed. I stride forward, determined to stop her if she attempts to call for the nurse, but she only sneers at me. I know with that glance that she has either accepted her fate, or that she intends to attempt to fight me off herself.