Page 39 of Scythe & Sparrow
The legs of the chair scrape across the floor as my brother rises and heads straight for me. “Where the fuck have you been, dickhead?”
“Work, dumbass. I had to get some paperwork out.”
Rowan wraps me in a tight embrace. There’s tension in his arms. I might not believe in auras, but I can sense his distressed energy like a halo that lights up the room. We separate just enough for him to press his forehead to mine the way we’ve done since we were kids, and then he lets me go to stare into my eyes. I’ve never seen him so wound up. So … agonized. His focus shifts to the living room and sticks there, and I follow his gaze.
“This is Sloane.”
A woman with raven hair watches me from the couch, an angry boot print stamped on the center of her forehead, two crescent bruises beneath her lashes contrasting with her sharp hazel eyes. Her left shoulder hangs lower than the other and she cradles her forearm to stabilize it. She might be injured, but I’ve heard enough about her history from Rowan to know that she’s probably the most dangerous person in my house right now. Which is saying something.
I go to the couch with Rowan on my heels, so close I can still feel his nervous energy humming at my back. When I stop in frontof Sloane, he drops to a crouch at her legs. She lets go of her injured arm to take his hand. “I’m Fionn,” I say, and she lifts her gaze from the silent exchange she seems to be having with my brother and turns her attention to me. “Can I have a look at that shoulder?”
Sloane swallows and nods, wincing as she tries to pry her injured arm from her body. I palpate the joint, feeling the head of her humerus and the edges of the glenoid fossa and the acromion of her scapula. “How did this happen?” I ask as I prod the swollen tissue.
“I fell off a roof.”
“More like got tossed from a roof by that ugly motherfucker,” Rowan snarls.
“He got what he deserved. And I consider it a win for me.”
“Blackbird—”
“Murder games aside,” I interject, “are there any other injuries I should know about?”
“Other than this?” Rowan says, pointing to her bruised face. The look Sloane gives me is unamused. “No.”
I pull my hand away from her shoulder and gently press her nasal bones, but despite the dried blood that rims her nostrils, nothing feels noticeably broken or out of place. “Seems all right. Did you lose consciousness?”
“Yes, for maybe a minute.”
“And she vomited.”
Sloane winces, a hint of blush coloring her cheeks, but Rowan merely squeezes her hand. I hold my finger in front of her face and ask her to track it. Her dilated pupils lag slightly in following the motion. A concussion is likely, and she seems to already know it. “Yeah … You won’t want to be driving for a little while. Try to take it easy.”
“Figured.”
“And the shoulder?” Rowan asks. He might try his best to hide it, but I’ve seen fear in Rowan more times than I can count. It’s there in his eyes, in the tic of the muscle along his jaw. “Will she need surgery?”
“No,” I say, and his breath of relief is audible. “Normally, I’d advise going to the hospital for an X-ray to be sure nothing is fractured, but I’m guessing you want to keep yourselves as off the radar as possible, given the circumstances.” They both nod, and I glance toward Rose as she watches off to the side, her expression grim. “We need to get to my clinic so I can inject the joint with lido and manipulate the bone back into place. And it’s going to hurt. But it will feel a lot better after that.”
Rose’s crutches tap on the hardwood as she hobbles closer to the couch. “I’ve got some button-up shirts that will fit you. I’ll grab a few in case you’d rather cut that one off.”
Sloane’s expression softens and a tired smile spreads across her lips. “That’s really kind. Thank you.”
With a nod, Rose pats Sloane’s good shoulder and swings her way to her room. Sloane watches until she disappears from view. When Sloane meets my eyes, there’s so much I can read from them, so much she tries to tell me in a single, lingering glance. She likes Rose. She trusts her. But she doesn’t trust me. Even though I’ve been through medical school. Even though I’ve saved lives. Fixed injuries. Delivered the occasional baby. Held the most vulnerable life in my palms. I can tell Sloane sees right through me.
You are living a lie, she seems to say as her eyes stay fixed to mine.And if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.
I’m fucking paranoid. She’s probably not thinking any of these things. She’s a serial killer for Chrissakes, how else is she supposed to look at me other than unnervingly? I already know she likes to take the eyes of her victims and string them up in a web of fishing line, and according to my smitten brother, she does it while they’re still alive. Of course she’s unhinged, and I’m just a little freaked out about having her in my house. That’s all this is.
Sloane’s gaze finally disconnects from mine. It lands on my knuckles, where the scabs are still healing, their edges red. Then she turns her attention to Rowan, who doesn’t seem capable of looking at anything but her. He doesn’t miss the pointed glance she directs at my hands before I can hide them.
Okay, so she’sdefinitelyready to kill me.
“What have you been up to, brother?” Rowan asks as he grabs my wrist. I close my fist and wrench free of his grasp, and he grins. “Getting into some fights, are we?”
“None of your business, Rowan.”
“So that’s a yes.” I scowl at him and rise, heading to the kitchen for no other reason than to get away. Of course, being the annoying older brother he is, Rowan follows. “Got anything to do with the little banshee?”
