Page 2 of Butcher & Blackbird
And for my part, I’m fuckingdisgusting.
Knotted hair. Stained, bloodied clothes. The worst breath ever to be breathed in the history of breathing.
“You’re not Albert’s usual type,” he says.
“What do you know about his usual type?”
“That you’re too old to be it.”
He’s right. Not that I’m old, at a mere twenty-three. But this guy knows it as much as I do, that I’m far too old for Albert’s tastes.
“And how would you know that, exactly?”
The man’s gaze slides to the corpse as a faint look of disgust passes over his shadowed features. “Because I’ve made it my business to know.” He looks at me once more and smiles. “I’m guessing you made it your business too, judging by the quality of the hunting knife stuck in his throat. Handmade Damascus steel. Where’d you get it?”
I sigh. My gaze lingers on the body and my favorite blade before I press my cheeks to my drawn-up knees. “Etsy.”
The guy chuckles and I pick up a little pebble in my enclosure just to drop it on the floor.
“I’m Rowan,” he says as he extends a hand into the cage. I look at it and toss another pebble, and though I make no move to accept his gesture, he still keeps his hand lifted toward me. “You might know me as the Boston Butcher.”
I shake my head.
“The Massacre of Mass…?”
I shake my head again.
“The Ghost of the East Coast…?”
I sigh.
I’ve totally heard of all those names, even though I’m not tellinghimthat.
But on the inside, my heart hammers my blood through my veins. I’m just glad he can’t see it ignite my cheeks with crimson flame. I knowexactlythe names he’s called by, and that he’s not all that different from me—a hunter who favors the worst that society can dredge up from the pits of hell.
Rowan finally removes his hand from my cage, his smile taking on a dejected quality. “Shame, I thought you might recognize my little nicknames.” He slaps his hands to his knees and rises. “Well, I’d best be going. Pleasure to almost meet you, nameless captive. Best of luck.”
With a final, fleeting smile, Rowan turns and strides toward the door.
“Wait! Wait.Please.” I clamor to my feet to grip the cold bars just as he reaches the threshold. “Sloane. My name is Sloane. The Orb Weaver.”
There’s a moment of stillness between us. The only sound to fill the space is the buzz of flies and the steady work of maggots as they consume decaying flesh.
Rowan turns his head, casting a single eye over his shoulder.
And in a heartbeat he’s there, right in front of me, his motion so fast it startles me back from the bars but not before he grabs my hand to shake it vigorously.
“Oh my God. I knew it. I fuckingknewthey had it wrong. It had to be a woman. The Orb Weaver! Such a cool name. The intricate fishing line, the fuckingeyeballs. Amazing. I’m such a huge fan.”
“Uhh…” Rowan continues to shake my hand despite my effort to pull it away. “Thanks… I guess…?”
“Did you come up with that name? The Orb Weaver?”
“Yeah…” I snatch my hand free so I can step away from this strangely enthusiastic Irishman. He grins at me as though awestruck and if I wasn’t wearing sixty layers of grime on my skin, I’m sure he’d be able to see the blush flame in my cheeks for the second time. “You don’t think it’s dumb?”
“No, it’s so great. TheMassacre of Massis dumb. The Orb Weaver is pretty kickass.”
I shrug. “I kind of think it sounds like a lame superhero.”
