Page 93 of Scythe & Sparrow
“And you still love me. Now give us a kiss,” I say as I lean over the center console with my lips pursed. She can’t help but giggle this time as I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her closer, laying a kiss on her cheek as she squeals a protest that has noreal fight to it. My painted lips leave a green smear behind on her skin. As soon as I let her go, she flips the visor down and rubs at the mark.
“You did use actual face paint, right?” Sloane’s eyes slice to mine and narrow. “Please tell me this isn’t poster paint or some shit.”
“Of course,” I say convincingly, though her glare doesn’t soften. With a final grin at my wife, I key the engine, and we start making our way out of Boston. Do we get a few honks and hollers as we idle in the Friday afternoon traffic? Yes. Does Sloane groan and rub her forehead? Also yes. But every single time, it ignites her blush and summons her laugh. And I relish each flush of pink and every smile.
We stop once for gas and switch the driving responsibilities halfway through our six-hour trip, Sloane adamantly declaring that I’m either going to have to hold it or piss in a bush on the side of the road because she’ll “rough gouge” my eyeballs and leave “crusty edges” if I even think about walking around in public. When we roll into Linsmore, it’s nothing more than a gas station and a general store and a few dilapidated houses with weathered wood planks and cracked window panes and chipped paint. It’s beautiful in the golden hour, the kind of light that makes you feel nostalgic for a time and a place where you’ve never lived, but it still gives you an ache in your chest. The town seems deserted, though it’s clearly not with the mowed lawns and the stocked general store, but no one is around to prove it. A sign just past the town limits saysBARN DANCE AND BARBECUE, EVERY FRIDAY FROM 7PM TO 11PM, 102 MAGNOLIA STREET, in retro lettering that appears to have been recently repainted.
“I guess that explains why the town is so empty,” Sloane says as she glances down at her watch. “Seven thirty. Do you think the killer is there?”
I shrug.
Silence stretches between us. An uneasy dread creeps into my veins. I glance over just in time to catch the dimple appear next to her lip.
“Oh no.Blackbird—”
“Hey, BMW,” Sloane chimes, and the car responds with a robotic “hello.” “Show me the route to 102 Magnolia Street.”
“I have found one route to 102 Magnolia Street,” the car says, sounding like it’s fully on board with Sloane’s mission to get her revenge for my costume antics. An alternative route appears on the dashboard display. “Should I take it?”
“Yes,” Sloane declares, at the same time as I say “no.”
“Okay. I’ll take you to 102 Magnolia Street,” the car says.
“Blackbird … no …”
“Butcher,yes.” Sloane’s wicked giggle is punctuated by the tick of the turning signal as she makes a U-turn to follow the car’s directions. “You’re the one who decided to spend six hours in a dragon costume.”
“And you love cosplay.”
“I also love winning.”
“But we have to get to the cabin.”
“And we will, after a brief detour.”
“Then I should really come with you. For safety purposes and whatnot.”
“Most definitely not,” she says as she turns down a rural road. The Magnolia Street sign seems to mock me as we pass. We canalready see the barn ahead, cars parked in the clearing next to it, light leaking between the planks of its walls. “I hate to point this out, pretty boy, but you’re not really dressed for the occasion. This little getup of yours is not what I would call ‘discreet.’ So I guess you’d better just wait in the car.”
“But the woods—”
“Sorry.” She’s definitely not sorry. Not with that fake little cringe and the exaggerated pout that follows. But there’s nothing more murderously adorable than when she’s determined to get under my skin and flay it clean from my bones with her competitive edge. I think it’s my favorite version of Sloane Kane.
Even still … I fucking hate the idea of sitting behind in the car while she gets the jump on this year’s Annual August Showdown. Though I refuse to admit it out loud, she’s won more rounds of our murder competition than I have. And even though we’ve decided to extend our game indefinitely, it’s not like I need to lose yet another year to my beautifully vicious wife.
Sloane parks the car at the entrance of a farm field gate on the opposite side of the road from the barn, where the vehicle will be out of view. I blow out a long breath and try to settle into my seat, though my prosthetic horns aren’t making it easy to get comfortable.
“You look like you’re regretting your life choices,” Sloane says as she turns the engine off.
“Maybe one or two.”
“Then I’ll leave you with this lovely reminder that every time you try to take your teasing a little too far, karma comes along to bitch-slap you in the ball sack.”
“That’s … extreme. And also inaccurate.”
“Is it? Remind me, how was that rump roast at Thorsten’s? I could see if they have any ice cream at the barn dance, maybe?”
I cross my arms and glare through the windshield at the empty field of grass ahead. “Touché.”
