Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(24)

It’s only a few moments before I hear the tailgate drop and a couple of cases of beer slide onto the bed beneath the tonneau cover. There’s some rummaging, and a moment later, the tailgate slams shut. My heart crashes against my bones as heavy boots smack the asphalt. With a grunt, Eric gets into the truck, clicks his seat belt into place, and a moment later we’re gliding away from the curb to the sound of country music and Eric’s off-key whistle. I hear the hiss of a can opening as he cracks a beer, as though that’s perfectly normal. Where are we headed? I have no fucking idea. But I’m sure it will be an adventure.

That’s how I have to think of it. An adventure.

Last time I tried to kill a man, it didn’t go well because I wasn’t prepared. Not that I’m really prepared now, but at least I have more of the element of surprise. And a better weapon too. Does the thought of those cocktail sticks quivering in Matt Cranwell’s eyeball still make me nauseated? Sure, a little, though right now it could also be Eric’s driving and this mildewy smell from the blanket. But the only way I’m going to get good at this is to practice on a deserving candidate. And it seems like everyone around here knows that Eric fits the bill.

Okay, the shop guy is just one person, but he’s old and grumpy as fuck, and if he doesn’t like Eric, that should count for the opinion of most of the town. So practice on Eric, I shall.

I just have to psych myself up.

And that’s what I do as we head through the town. I imagine how this time it’s going to go smoothly. He’ll park. I’ll spring up. I’ll slice his jugular. End scene. Maybe one or two doubts start to creep in, like how I’m going to dispose of the body, for one. I figure most problems can be solved with fire. Getting back to town might be another issue, especially now as we pick up speed and the town roads turn to country highways. But then Eric opens his third beer of the journey and places a call to Naomi to spend the next ten minutes berating her, and I can hear the broken notes of hopelessness and exhaustion heavy in her voice. I realize the issue of how to get home is a problem I can solve when I’m done, even if it takes all day to hobble my way back into town.




Gravel crunches beneath the tires as we take a right turn onto a side road. Then another turn onto an uneven surface, as though the road is rarely used and difficult to traverse. Eric hums along to a song on the radio, seemingly unbothered by the terrain, or his shitty-as-fuck attitude, or anything at all, really. At least, until a phone rings.

My phone.

Van Halen. “Somebody Get Me a Doctor.” I know Fionn’s name and face will be lighting up the screen. I scramble to silence the phone, but it slips from my pocket and drops between the rungs of my crutches, hitting the footwell with a damning thump.

“What the fuck,” Eric screeches as the vehicle swerves on the uneven road.

It’s now or never.

I toss the blanket aside as I burst from my hiding place, my shining new blade clutched tight in my fist.

“Ta-da, motherfucker.”





PUSH TO SHOVE


Rose



Eric screeches an octave higher than I thought possible, his eyes wide as they connect with mine in the rearview mirror. The truck careens off the road and into a field, and before he can figure out what to tackle first, I take my chance. I punch the point of my blade into the side of his neck and push. The sharpened steel slides into his flesh to the sound of his startled, liquid cry, and then I whip it back out in a rush of blood.

A garbled, choking cough fills the truck as blood sprays from the wound in pulsing bursts, coating everything. The windows. The seats. The hand he holds to the gaping wound. Me.

My stomach heaves and I puke on the smelly old blanket.

“Holy shit, that is so fucking gross,” I hiss as I shove the blanket aside. Eric is squirming in his seat but growing weaker with every moment that passes, his gurgling breaths shallow and labored. The truck rolls on through the field but it’s slowing down, bumping along through the prairie grass at a pace that’s not much faster than a walk. Eric is still gulping for air as I look through the blood-spattered windshield to get my bearings.




In the distance, there are more fields of long grasses, their tips bleached by the summer sun. Just beyond the front bumper is a shallow, washed-out thread of dry sand that must form a little creek in heavy rains. And in between?

A steep drop into a river.

Fuck.

“Gotta run,” I say as I sheathe my blade and open the rear driver’s side door, tossing one of my crutches into the grass. Eric gurgles and I struggle to swallow another wave of nausea when our eyes meet in the rearview. His face is smeared with blood, his skin pale. His half-lidded eyes are pleading. “Don’t look at me like that,” I snarl. “You know you’re a piece of shit.”

Eric slumps forward against the steering wheel and the truck keeps bumbling along. I toss my knife and my other crutch out the door, pocket my now silent phone, and jump out, landing in the grass with an aching thud. I roll over to watch as the truck nears the drop-off, veering into the sandy trail of the dried creek bed.

The vehicle slows. And it slows some more. No no no, get in the river. But the front wheels slide to the side, mere feet from the drop-off. The truck sinks into the sand. And then stops moving forward altogether.

The engine still runs and country music drones from the open door, the man in the driver’s seat motionless.