Page 7 of Butcher & Blackbird

I snort a laugh and Sloane gifts me with a beaming smile. “My bad.”

Sloane turns her grin to the table before the nerves seem to creep in, and her gaze flits across the room. She takes a few fries, her eyes still shifting over the patrons and exits, before she pushes her plate of ribs toward the table edge.

She’s going to take off.

And if she does, I’ll never see her again. She’ll make damn sure of that.

I clear my throat. “You ever heard of a series of murders in the national parks in Oregon and Washington?”

Sloane’s attention snaps back to me with narrowed eyes. A faint crease appears between her dark brows. A little shake of her head is the only response she gives.

“The killer is a phantom. A prolific one. Exacting and very, very careful,” I continue. “He prefers hikers. Campers. Nomads with few connections in his hunting area. He tortures them before he positions each body facing East in heavily forested areas, anointed on the forehead with a cross.”

Sloane’s thin mask falters. She’s all predator beneath, scenting a trail. I can almost see her thoughts spiraling in the confines of her skull.

These details are tracks any talented hunter can follow.

“How many kills so far?”

“Twelve, though there could more. But it’s been kept pretty quiet.”

Sloane’s brow furrows. There’s a spark in the green and golden depths of her hazel eyes. “Why? For fear of spooking the killer?”

“Probably.”

“And how doyouknow about it?”

“Same way you knew who the Beast of the Bayou was. I make it my business to know.” I wink. Sloane’s gaze snags on my lips to rest on my scar before dragging back up to my eyes. I rest my forearms on the table and lean closer. “What would you say to a friendly competition? First one to win gets to kill him.”

Her back rests against the vinyl booth cushion as Sloane drums her chipped, blood-red manicure on the table. She gnaws on her chapped lower lip for a long, silent moment as she lets her attention flow over my features. I feel it in my skin. It touches my flesh. It ignites a sensation I’m always chasing but am never quite able to grasp.

There’s never enough risk to scare me. There’s never enough reward to satiate me.

Until now.

The drumming of her fingers stops.

“What kind of competition?” Sloane asks.

I flag down the waitress and motion for the bill when she catches my eye. “Just a little game. Let’s go for ice cream and we can talk it through.”

When I face Sloane once more, my smile is conspiratorial.

Wicked and wanting.

…Devious.

“You know what they say, Blackbird. ‘It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye,’” I whisper. “And that’s when the real fun begins.”

3

VENTRICULAR

SLOANE

ONE YEAR LATER…

The need.