Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(102)

“I guess that explains why the town is so empty,” Sloane says as she glances down at her watch. “Seven thirty. Do you think the killer is there?”

I shrug.

Silence stretches between us. An uneasy dread creeps into my veins. I glance over just in time to catch the dimple appear next to her lip.

“Oh no. Blackbird—”

“Hey, BMW,” Sloane chimes, and the car responds with a robotic “hello.” “Show me the route to 102 Magnolia Street.”

“I have found one route to 102 Magnolia Street,” the car says, sounding like it’s fully on board with Sloane’s mission to get her revenge for my costume antics. An alternative route appears on the dashboard display. “Should I take it?”

“Yes,” Sloane declares, at the same time as I say “no.”

“Okay. I’ll take you to 102 Magnolia Street,” the car says.

“Blackbird … no …”

“Butcher, yes.” Sloane’s wicked giggle is punctuated by the tick of the turning signal as she makes a U-turn to follow the car’s directions. “You’re the one who decided to spend six hours in a dragon costume.”

“And you love cosplay.”

“I also love winning.”

“But we have to get to the cabin.”

“And we will, after a brief detour.”

“Then I should really come with you. For safety purposes and whatnot.”

“Most definitely not,” she says as she turns down a rural road. The Magnolia Street sign seems to mock me as we pass. We can already see the barn ahead, cars parked in the clearing next to it, light leaking between the planks of its walls. “I hate to point this out, pretty boy, but you’re not really dressed for the occasion. This little getup of yours is not what I would call ‘discreet.’ So I guess you’d better just wait in the car.”

“But the woods—”

“Sorry.” She’s definitely not sorry. Not with that fake little cringe and the exaggerated pout that follows. But there’s nothing more murderously adorable than when she’s determined to get under my skin and flay it clean from my bones with her competitive edge. I think it’s my favorite version of Sloane Kane.

Even still … I fucking hate the idea of sitting behind in the car while she gets the jump on this year’s Annual August Showdown. Though I refuse to admit it out loud, she’s won more rounds of our murder competition than I have. And even though we’ve decided to extend our game indefinitely, it’s not like I need to lose yet another year to my beautifully vicious wife.

Sloane parks the car at the entrance of a farm field gate on the opposite side of the road from the barn, where the vehicle will be out of view. I blow out a long breath and try to settle into my seat, though my prosthetic horns aren’t making it easy to get comfortable.

“You look like you’re regretting your life choices,” Sloane says as she turns the engine off.

“Maybe one or two.”

“Then I’ll leave you with this lovely reminder that every time you try to take your teasing a little too far, karma comes along to bitch-slap you in the ball sack.”

“That’s … extreme. And also inaccurate.”

“Is it? Remind me, how was that rump roast at Thorsten’s? I could see if they have any ice cream at the barn dance, maybe?”

I cross my arms and glare through the windshield at the empty field of grass ahead. “Touché.”

I don’t have to look over to feel the radiant heat of Sloane’s triumphant smile. But I do still glance her way. Her hazel eyes dance in the dim light. Her dimple winks at me with mischief. “I’ll be back soon,” Sloane says as she opens the car door. “Maybe with snacks.”

Though I say her name in a final protest, she’s already closing the door, her devious cackle following in her wake.

I twist as much as my costume will allow and watch as she jogs down the gravel road toward the barn, the urge to follow her nearly consuming me. But she’s right. Though I’m sure this barn dance is a pretty close-knit affair where everyone knows everyone, Sloane at least has a chance of flying under the radar. I, on the other hand, do not.

“Rowan Kane, you feckin’ eejit,” I hiss as she disappears from view and I settle back into my seat. “You will never live this down if she wins.”

And then I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I’m debating whether I should get out and check on her when I look toward the barn and spot Sloane jogging back toward the car. It’s only been forty-five minutes, just enough time for the sun to set and the colors of the sky to deepen, but it feels like hours. Relief fills my chest when she pulls open the door and slides into the driver’s seat with a satisfied sigh.

“Productive?” I ask.

She shrugs, but her voice is just a hint too breezy when she says, “Not really.”

“Did you find anything useful?”

“Only this,” she says as she pulls a bottle of liquor from beneath her flannel shirt. She passes it to me with a grin so bright it blares her thoughts like a beacon—thoughts entirely centered on irritating the shit out of my broody older brother.

“What the hell is that?”

“Moonshine, probably. I overheard someone say it was whiskey but I have my doubts. So I hope dragons can sing, because I expect ‘The Rocky Road to Dublin’ at full volume tonight.”