Page 2 of Love & Other Killers

Scales

I know 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’s murdery .”

“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 her raccoon, 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 loud Sláinte ! 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’s game, he’ll be insufferable for the next twelve months.

He’ll be rubbing it in daily . 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 gonna cut 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 particularly good at 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.”

Lark does a decent job of hiding her doubts, though I know her well enough to still find them in her uncertain smile.

“Well, I guess just make sure to pack them all tonight. We’ll have to wake up early and get a move on.

” She turns her attention to me, a little thread of worry appearing in the crease between her brows.

“Do you have enough time to make your web?”

I tap the edge of my glass with a bloodred nail.

Normally, I’d have more time to prepare, mapping out the layers of fishing line with precision and care to create the foundation for my grisly three-dimensional art installation.

But I’m going to be under a crunch if the brothers are working together.

And judging by the way they whisper and gesture and scheme behind us, they’re already on Munster’s trail as well.

“We can help you,” Lark says. “You know how much I love crafting.”

Rose snorts. Barbara chatters.

“I would appreciate a hand. Otherwise, I’m not sure I’m going to get it all prepped in time.”

“We’ve got you.” Rose is about to say something further, but her mouth snaps shut and her smile disappears. Her eyes are caught on something behind me, and I turn as Lachlan saunters over.

He draws to a halt next to us, dropping an arm over Lark’s shoulders. “What are you birds talking about?”

“Are you laying the Irish accent on thick to try to charm me into giving up all my secrets?” she says as she threads her fingers between his, toying with the silver rings on his tattooed knuckles.

“Worked before, wouldn’t ye agree, Duchess?”

“For my mom and sister and Auntie Ethel, maybe. But I’m impervious.”

“Really?” Lachlan rumbles a deep, cocky laugh, his eyes catching on her lips and sticking there. A responding blush flares to life in Lark’s cheeks. “I certainly didn’t get that impression the night that we—”

“Shut it, Budget Batman. Not one more word.”

“Look, I’m just here to say that maybe we should work together.”

“That defeats the purpose of a game,” Rose interjects.

A lopsided smile tugs at one side of Lachlan’s lips. “We can give you some clues, and you can share some in return.”

“Thanks, but we’re good.” Lark lifts Lachlan’s heavy arm from her shoulders, patting his biceps before turning him back toward his brothers, who are watching with keen interest. “Why don’t you go off and let Rowan serenade you with ‘The Rocky Road to Dublin.’”

With that simple mention, Rowan’s smile ignites, and he grabs the bottle of moonshine before Lachlan can snatch it.

He wobbles as he steps up onto the log frame couch with its faded striped fabric.

And then, on the heels of a long swig from the bottle, he starts singing “The Rocky Road to Dublin” in all his off-key glory, Lark joining in just to annoy Lachlan even further.

Fionn and Rose are quick to follow, even though Rose doesn’t seem to know any of the lyrics, so she just makes up her own.

Even Barbara seems to join in, squeaking and squirming until Rose sets her down and she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

That chaotic little trash panda fits right in somehow.

And I just stand off to the side and watch it all, not realizing I’m smiling until Rowan catches my eye and winks.

My family. I never thought I’d have one.

Not until the day that Rowan found me trapped in a cage.

Even then, it took a few years to believe I was worthy of it.

After all the things I’ve done, all the lives I’ve taken, it just didn’t make sense that a person like me could deserve love like this.

If the right and wrong decisions I’ve made were balanced on a scale, would it tip in my favor?

How do you weigh the lives I might have saved and the souls I’ve avenged against the ones I’ve ended? Against the suffering I’ve delivered?

I don’t know if I deserve my beautiful, if slightly green, husband, or his brothers, who feel like brothers to me, too, or the two badass and murdery women who are more than best friends—they’re soulmates.

Even that damned raccoon, who Fionn has just noticed is on the kitchen counter, tearing into his bag of trail mix to spill seeds and dried fruit all over the floor.

Should I laugh so freely when he rushes over to pick her up as she mounts a violent protest with her dexterous little hands?

Maybe not. But I’m going to soak up every minute of this joy that might not feel deserved yet still feels earned.

The group is singing a second round of the same song when I get my backpack from our bedroom and start unpacking my supplies.

There are latex gloves and plastic drop cloths and spools of fishing line, glue and thread and dyed patches of fabric.

I lay them out on the kitchen table and start looking up maps of the local terrain and the names of the Sproul Specter’s recent victims on my phone.

A playlist takes over from Rowan’s terrible singing, and he heads to the kitchen to help Fionn clean up Barbara’s mess and start cooking dinner.

Gradually, the others come over to help.

They lay out drop cloths. They help measure fishing line.

They tie knots in the filament and glue it to the plastic sheets.

We take a break for a dinner of steak and mashed potatoes and salad, and then we continue on, laying the webs out just the way I want them until everything is ready to be rolled up for tomorrow’s hunt.

Somewhere over that hill, my prey is living his last night on earth. And whether it’s by my hand or my family’s, the world will soon discover that the real monsters lurking among us are far worse than their imaginations.

I’m staring down at the intricate web that surrounds me, the greatest piece of art I’ve ever made, because my family made it with me.

It’s just waiting for the final touches, the pieces of Munster that I’ll string into the network of threads.

Rowan stops next to me, snaking his arm around my waist. I run my fingers over the tattoo that covers his scar, the first art I’d made with color since my darkest days at Ashborne Collegiate Institute.

When I lean my head against his chest, I think back to that moment when I finally felt ready to use color again.

And though my heart stuttered with the first strokes of those jeweled hues, it wasn’t from fear.

It was the first beat of coming back to life.

“It’s beautiful, love,” Rowan says as he rests his chin on my shoulder and looks down at the network of shimmering filaments and strips of fabric in vibrant shades spread before us. “And you deserve it.”

I smile. “What, to win?”

“No.” He tightens his grip around my waist. Presses a kiss to my neck. “You deserve everything .”