Page 1 of Love & Other Killers
Chapter 1
Specter
Foster a raven and it will peck out your eyes,I think with a smile as I take the bottle of whiskey from the man I’m going to kill.
“It’ll put hair on your chest,” he says, his lips peeling back to show crooked, yellowing teeth.
I resist the urge to groan. Barely. “Just what I always wanted.”
Something seems absent from his eyes as his grin broadens. It’s the kind of look I’ve seen before. A disconnect between the mask and the man who lies beneath.
“Buy one, get one half price.” He gestures toward his table of mismatched bottles, which have clearly been repurposed several times over, their surfaces scratched and cloudy. I tilt the bottle in my hand, watching the amber liquid coat the glass as I roll it side to side with a furrowed brow. When I meet his eyes, I cringe.
“I think one is enough, thanks,” I say, handing over my cash.
His smile falters. His left eye twitches.
I’m going to take that one first.
A couple barrels past, nearly colliding with us both before bounding away, as a Luke Combs song pounds through the speakers mounted around the barn. The man gives them a look that might seem unaffected, but I still catch the subtle signs of irritation in the way his graying brows pinch together and his eyes crinkle at the edges. When he turns back to me, he adjusts his hat over his close-cropped, greasy hair. The smell of ammonia wafts toward me.Munster & Son Farms, the oval logo says on his ball cap, the stained text lying over an embroidered chicken.
Gotcha.
“Carrie Winston,” I say, dredging up one of my fake names, this one a nod to my adorably evil cat, as I extend a hand toward him.
“Allan Munster.” He accepts my offered handshake. His hand is calloused and stained with engine grease, a thin line of dirt wedged beneath each short fingernail. “You visiting?”
I lift a shoulder. “Passing through.”
“Enjoying the dance?” he says with a nod toward the locals who bound through the space or stand around the edges of the barn to watch, plastic cups of beer or electric-blue coolers in their hands. “Goodbye Earl” by The Chicks starts up, and I suppress an amused gleam that threatens to brighten my expression into something delightfully menacing.
“It’s cool, yeah.” I offer him a faint smile. “Guess it’s something to pass the time, right? Anything else you recommend if I’m in the area?”
A spark flares to life in his eyes. “You like hiking?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“You could check out Sproul State Forest. Some good trails that way. Riverside Antiques is along the way, too, if you wanna shop for some old knickknacks or furniture. And if youchange your mind and need more whiskey, you can pop by my place down on Valley Road.” He points to the hat. “Munster Farms. Mostly do chickens, but I’ve been tinkering with my little homemade distillery.”
I examine the label on the bottle.Munster Moonshine Premium Whiskey.What a random-ass contradiction. The alcohol inside definitely looks more like the most budget-booze moonshine shit that I could imagine than a proper whiskey. There are flecks of sediment in the liquid that I’m pretty sure aren’t part of the standard distillery process, but I’m no fucking expert. One thing Idoknow, however, is that my lovely husband will surely be indulging in this garbage and then drunkenly singing “The Rocky Road to Dublin” within a few hours, and his older brother, Lachlan, will probably crack and have a few glasses, too, and the both of them will be too hungover tomorrow to make any decent progress toward our annual murder game of serial killing other serial killers. Everybody’s gotta have a hobby, even if it is hunting the most wretched pieces of shit on the planet in a blood sport competition, and I intend to maintain my run as champion of the Annual August Showdown.
I briefly reconsider the second bottle, but I just want to win the game, not kill Rowan in the process. “Cool,” I finally say.
“Want to try some?” he asks.
“Nah, I’m good thanks.”
“Why not? Not good enough for your city-girl tastes?” He smiles as though it’s a joke, but the little flare of irritation that twitches in his eye again tells me otherwise. There’s a menacing undertone etched in the lines that crisscross his face. I’m sure he would be surprised to learn that it’s a reaction I savor, though I try not to let on.
“Gotta head out soon. I’m sure you know what they say about some creature living in the woods around here. I’d better have my wits about me on these unfamiliar roads, you know? But hey”—I tip the bottle in his direction—“maybe I’ll stop by the farm sometime.”
His expression brightens, though something still seems absent in his gaze. I can’t help but imagine what mysteries might lie behind his eyes once I pull them from his face. If I were to slice open his skull, would I be able to see the network of abnormalities in his brain that make him unable to feel empathy? That dull and rewire his sense of fear? Would the physical evidence of a life spent torturing and killing be present in Munster?
What if those same traits reside within me?
They don’t,I think as I give him a nod and turn away with the bottle in hand. He and I are not the same. He hunts the innocent.
And I hunt his kind.
