Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(89)

Leander hangs up for the final time.

It’s another twenty minutes before I’m finally pulling off the interstate and racing down Woodland Road in Portsmouth. I careen around the corner of a long drive next to a Montague Muffins sign and lurch to a stop in front of the industrial bakery facility, where Lachlan’s car is parked off to the side of the empty lot. The only other vehicles are a fleet of several delivery vans lined up near a loading dock. I’m about to get out of the car when I glance down at the passenger seat.

The tarot cards have been jostled from the stack I made earlier. Three are now faceup, though I don’t know how that could be possible. The first is the knight, riding into battle with his sword drawn. The last is the Four of Swords. I pick up the one in the middle. Death. His polished scythe sweeps above his skeletal head.




A chill races through the backs of my arms. It crawls up my spine. I try to reason this away. Coincidence. Physics. The fallacy of memory. But I know something is wrong.

I toss the card aside and run to the building.

The main door is unlocked, the foyer dark. I rush past unlit offices, glancing through their open doors for any sign of Rose, calling her name as I go. I get to the end of the corridor and push open the heavy steel door to the factory floor with enough force to send it crashing against the stopper, the sound echoing across the high ceiling and metal trusses.

“Rose,” I call out as I scan the factory. I pass machinery, polished silver tables. The smell of baked muffins lingers in the air as though it’s soaked into the concrete walls. “Rose.”

“She’s here,” Lark says from around a corner, her voice coming from the other side of the wide room, the far side lined with industrial batch ovens. Relief is a flood. They found Lark. She sounds okay. But as quickly as that relief comes, it’s washed away. “Oh my God—”

“Christ Jesus. Fionn, help—”

I round the corner in time to see Lachlan crash to his knees at Rose’s side, Lark following to crouch beside him, her blond hair matted with blood. My heart stops. Rose is lying on the cold concrete. Lachlan takes her head, lifting it from the floor. It lolls in his grasp, as though she doesn’t have the strength to hold it steady on her own. Her eyes lock to mine for just a moment. The light in them seems to dim, and then it goes out.

I close the distance between us.

“What happened?” I ask as I drop to her side. I glance toward the body of a man lying a short distance away, his eyes lifeless, a gunshot wound leaking blood and brain from the center of his forehead. I refocus on Rose as I press my fingers to her carotid artery. Her pulse is racing. Her skin is cool, covered in a thin film of sweat. I’ve seen her like this before. “Where is she injured?”

Lachlan shakes his head. “I don’t know—”

“Was she shot?”

“No, I don’t—”

“You promised me,” I snarl, methodically checking Rose for the source of her injury. There’s no blood on her head or neck. “You fucking promised me you’d look after her.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Rose, wake up. Come on.”

“Fionn,” Lark says, and when I turn in her direction, there are tears in her eyes. She holds up a tool, something long and silver with a sharp, straight edge. The metal is coated in fresh blood.

“Fuck.” I tear open the buttons of Rose’s plaid shirt and then I see it, the hole in the right side of her tank top, the torn edges stained crimson. I pull her shirt up. There’s not much external blood but the wound is deep, angled upward into her abdomen, skirting just below her last rib. He’s hit her liver. And it’s bleeding into her abdominal cavity. “Call the fucking ambulance.”

Lark dials 911. I pull my shirt over my head and press it to the wound as hard as I can, scanning the room. “There,” I say, pointing to a Uline first aid kit fixed to the wall. “First aid kit. Bring it.”

Lachlan runs to grab the kit while Lark speaks to the dispatcher, taking the woman through the key details, the address and phone number and the nature of the emergency. She puts dispatch on speaker as I motion her over. “My name is Dr. Fionn Kane,” I say as I get Lark to kneel down so we can elevate Rose’s legs on her lap. “The patient is female, age twenty-seven, unconscious, breathing is rapid and shallow, heart rate elevated. Stab wound to the upper right abdomen, possible liver damage. Internal bleeding.”




“The person or persons who stabbed—”

“Dead,” I say. “No other injured parties.”

I run through more details about the scene and circumstances and Rose’s condition as Lachlan returns with the first aid kit, opening it to withdraw the gauze pads for the wound and a rescue blanket. I pack the wound and apply pressure. It’s all I can do, and I feel so fucking helpless.

Lachlan’s eyes meet mine. Regret and distress stare back at me. Call Leander, I mouth as the dispatcher tells us the ambulance and police are on their way. He nods once, and though I know he doesn’t want to leave my side, his gaze still tracks to Lark. I know he’s worried about what will happen next. About keeping her safe when police show up to ask questions. A heartbeat later, he rises and strides a few feet away to speak to his boss in low and quiet tones.

“What can I do?” Lark asks.