Page 2 of Love & Other Killers
I move away from his table but stay close enough that he’s still in my peripheral vision, shifting long black strands of hair over my opposite shoulder to keep him in view. The moment Conor told us we were headed to Linsmore for the Annual August Showdown, I had my suspicion of who I was looking for. The Sproul Forest Specter. Not a cryptid like the legends claim, but some creature stalking the woods for human prey. A man.
I never believe those urban legends. But when there’s murder involved, they fascinate me all the same. The worst things in the world are always other people, and I love hunting the kind of killer who disguises themselves in a myth.
I scan the crowd gathered beneath the strings of fairy lights that hang from the rafters of the barn. The smell of sawdust and sweat lingers in the summer air. People aretalking, laughing. Dancing and drinking. I wonder if any of them has ever lost someone they loved to Allan Munster. A friend or family member taken by the Specter. Or if he’s only after people like me, the occasional outsider who wanders into his territory. A rare treat.
Maybe that’s why I can feel the weight of his gaze on my face as I pretend to focus on the barn dance. When I turn to face him, he’s watching me, just like I suspected. And I know my instincts are right. This man is a killer. He thinks I’m his prey. But he doesn’t realize that he’s the insect about to be trapped in my web.
Because I’m a killer too.
I give him a wink with my left eye, and then I leave the barn.
Chapter 2
Scales
Iknow exactly who he is,” I whisper to Rose and Lark. We glance over at the Kane brothers as they hold a rowdy conversation around the bottle of moonshine, three iterations of the same strong family genes. Dark hair. Strong jaws. Full lips, blue eyes. But all three unique. Lachlan, a battle-hardened, blocky wall of muscle with his tattoos and silver rings, one of them tapping on the glass of whiskey. Rowan with his finer features and cocky grin and a scar that cuts a straight line through his upper lip. And Fionn, the tallest of the three, who looks exactly like what he is—a youthfully handsome professional who’s starting to find his own way out of a buttoned-down life. His hair is a little longer than the last time I saw him, his stubble a little more rugged. My chest warms as I watch them joke and laugh with one another. It’s been so long since they’ve all been together, like pieces of a puzzle were missing and have finally snapped back into place. Though Lark and I knew that Rose and Fionn would be showing up this evening for the Annual August Showdown, Lachlan and Rowan did not. And while the reunion over our bloody game is mostly heartwarming,if a little macabre, it’s also a great advantage when you’re competitive.
My grin ignites. Because those Irish brothers are about to drink themselves into a vicious hangover.
“I can see that dimple, love. I know you’re up to no good,” Rowan calls, and my hand flies to the corner of my lip before I scowl at him. He runs a hand through his dark hair in a blatant attempt to show off the corded muscle of his arm, his full lips slanted in a smirk. “And now you’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“I’ll have to agree with my little brother on this one,” Lachlan says, wrapping an arm around Rowan’s neck and pulling him down to rub his tattooed knuckles over my husband’s hair as he protests. “You’re blushing.”
“You look cute,” Rowan grits out, trying to pull away from Lachlan’s hold. “Sets off your freckles.”
“She’s not cute,” Lark interjects, her crystalline-blue eyes shimmering like shards of malice. “She’smurdery.”
“You’re the worst,” I confirm.
“You love me anyway,” Rowan says. And he’s right, of course. I love him anyway. Maybe I love him especially because of his teasing nature and his underhanded schemes. This whole elaborate game of the Annual August Showdown was his idea, and without it, I wouldn’t have the family I have now. I would still be trying to convince myself that having Lark in my life was all I really needed. But the truth is, until Rowan came along, I wasn’t really living my life. I was hiding in it. And I felt alone.
Though the brothers continue poking a few shit-talking remarks in our direction, Lark pulls us a few steps away, and the men quickly dissolve into shit-talking each other instead.
“So? Who is it?” Rose asks. She blows a puff of air through the bangs of her dark, wavy bob and picks up herraccoon, Barbara, whose beady-eyed gaze bounces between us as though she’s just as eager to win this year’s game as we are.
“A guy named Allan Munster. He has a chicken farm not far from here. It’s about a two-mile hike over the hill.” I gesture with a nod toward the hill outside our cabin, where a web of trails leads through the woods. “I checked the map. It should take about an hour if we keep a steady pace.”
The three men let out a loudSláinte!behind us, clinking their shot glasses together before downing the murky amber liquid. All three of them cough and sputter as soon as the vile liquid is down their throats. “At this rate, they’re going to be hurting tomorrow,” Rose says. There’s no empathy at all in her mahogany eyes, only devious determination. And though I didn’t think I could love her and Lark—and okay, fine, the brothers, too, since I did marry one of them, after all—as much as I do, I still love my girls even more for wanting to win our first family version of the Annual August Showdown so badly.
“I almost feel bad for them,” Lark replies with a little pout that doesn’t seem all that genuine as she flips her long blond hair over her shoulder and toys with the ends. “Almost.”
I snort, darting a brief glance over my shoulder at Rowan, shifting my gaze away before he can feel my scrutiny lingering on his green-hued skin. “I don’t. For one thing, Rowan Kane deserves to be taken down a peg for that poster paint Sol cosplay fiasco. Look at him, he’s still fucking green.” All three of us look in his direction, and this time he meets our eyes.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.” Rose flaps a dismissive hand toward him. “Go back to your moonshine, dumpster goblin.”
Though he frowns and grumbles a protest, we ignore him, huddling closer. “Anyway,” I continue, “Rowan is the absolute worst winner on the fucking planet. If the guys win this year’sgame, he’ll be insufferable for the next twelve months. He’ll be rubbing it indaily. We need to get to the farm first.”
“And we will. The Sticker Bitch Crew is in it to win it.” Rose clinks her glass of red wine against Lark’s and then mine before we each take a long sip. I smile at the reference, Lark’s habit of whipping out gold-star stickers, and the resurrection of our little nickname. Now that Rose is finally with us, another puzzle piece is set back where it belongs. And this particular puzzle piece has a spark in her eyes that’s nearly as devious as the one glimmering in the black gaze of the raccoon in her arms. “I’m gonnacut that fucker up.”
Lark snorts a laugh, nearly losing a sip of her wine back into the glass. “Rose, I love you, but I thought you puked at the sight of blood.”
I grin into my Chianti. Rose might be a serial killer with over a dozen murders under her belt, but it doesn’t mean she’s particularlygoodat it. According to her own admission, her stomach likes to remind her that she’s squeamish about the blood and guts of it all. But she’s determined to try.
“I came prepared,” Rose says with a triumphant grin as she pulls a bottle of pills from the interior pocket of her leather jacket. “I brought meds. Even got one of those anti-nausea bracelets for backup.”
