Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(4)

I glance down at the tiny carnation tattooed on my wrist. My fingers trace the initials next to it. V.R. I can’t let what happened last year happen again. Not ever.

Not only is it wrong to pass off the responsibility of ending a life to someone who might be ill-prepared to do it, it’s a bit boring too. I want to take someone like Matt Cranwell down with my own two hands.

At least, I think I do.

No. I for sure do. It’s right … ish … and I definitely have the urge, and maybe that will scratch the itch deep inside my brain that craves more.

Besides, there’s nothing saying I need to do it right this second. I just have to swing by and scope the place out. And then I’ve got a few days to make my move and we’ll be on to the next town. The next show. Always a next woman who lives in fear. Who asks for my help in coded messages and worried glances. A next man to take down.

I swing a leg over my bike and start the engine and then pull away from the parking lot and onto the country roads.

It doesn’t take long before I’m rolling to a stop just before an expanse of cornfields and a gravel driveway that leads to a small farmhouse and outbuildings. I park in a dip in the road where my bike will be obscured by cornstalks. My heart jumps up my throat as I pull off my helmet and just listen.

There’s nothing.

I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe an obvious sign. But nothing seems to come. I just stand at the end of that driveway and stare at the small but well-kept house that could be anyone’s. Swing set in the yard. Bicycles discarded on the lawn. A catcher’s mitt and a baseball bat next to raised beds of a vegetable garden. Flowers in hanging pots, a flag flapping in the breeze. An all-American country home.

For a moment, I wonder if I have the wrong house. Or maybe I imagined everything I thought I saw back in the tarot tent.

And then I hear yelling.

A screen door slams. The kids leave the house and head for their bikes, picking them up to peddle away from the chaos with their bare feet. They disappear around the back of the property. The yelling continues inside as though they never left. I can’t make out the words. But the rage in his voice is clear. Louder and louder until it feels like the windows will crack. The house is alive with it. And then a crash, something thrown inside. And a scream.

I’m halfway up the driveway before I realize what I’m doing. But it’s too late to stop now. I pull my helmet back on and the mirrored visor down. I pass the raised vegetable beds and scoop up the aluminum baseball bat just as the screen door slams and Matt comes stalking onto the porch. I freeze but he doesn’t even notice me, his attention locked on the phone in his hands. He trudges down the steps, a scowl imprinted in his weathered features, and starts walking toward the truck parked next to the house.

My grip tightens around the bat.




I could stop. Duck into the cornstalks and hide. He’ll turn around at any moment and see me. It will be unavoidable as soon as he gets into the vehicle. Unless I hide now.

But there’s one thing that keeps playing on repeat in my thoughts.

The show can’t start until you jump.

So I take my chance.

I stay on the grass as I rush toward him. Footsteps light. Tiptoes. Bat ready. He’s nearing the front of the truck. His eyes are still on the screen. I’m closing in and he still doesn’t know it.

My heart rams my bones. My breaths are quick with terror and exhilaration. My visor fogs at the edges.

I take my first step on the gravel and Matt’s head whips around. A second step and he drops his phone. I raise the bat. On the third step I bring it down on his head.

But Matt is already moving.

I hit him but the blow doesn’t strike hard enough. He ducks and drops, and the contact only angers him. It’s not enough to bring him down. So I swing again. This time he catches the bat.

“What the fuck,” he snarls. He rips the weapon from my hand and wraps his palms around the grip. “Fucking bitch.”

A moment of unsteadiness on my feet is all he needs. He swings the bat as hard as he can. It hits my lower leg with the force of a lightning strike.

I fall to the ground. Flat on my back. Gasping for air. For a brief, glorious moment, I feel no pain.

And then it consumes me like an electric shock.

Shattering agony climbs from my lower leg and up my thigh and through my body until it erupts in a choked sob. I gulp a breath of air. Not enough comes in through my helmet. What does carry through it is the scent of pi?a colada, the smashed fruit that’s tumbled from my torn backpack, the seams split with the force of my fall. It’s cruel. Sickening sweetness and blinding pain.

The bat comes down a second time and hits my thigh. But I barely feel it. The pain in my lower leg is so overwhelming that a third hit feels like a dull thud.

I see Matt Cranwell’s eyes through my visor. Just a heartbeat. Long enough to see determination. Malice. Even the cold thrill of a kill. The whole universe slows to a crawl as he raises the bat above his head. He’s positioned over my injured leg. If he hits my lower leg again, I know I’ll pass out. And then he’ll kill me.

My hand scrapes across the gravel. Nails dig into the dirt. I gather a fistful of sand and stone, and just as he’s about to take his swing, I toss it in Matt Cranwell’s face.

He pitches over at the waist with a frustrated cry, lowering the bat to work the gravel from his eyes. I tear the weapon from his grip, but he’s quick enough to grab it back, even with his eyes watering, leaking dusty tears down his face. I kick his hand with my good foot and the bat flies into the cornfield. Before he can regain his composure, I kick his leg at the knee, and he tumbles down to my level.