“But feel free to keep him occupied,” I say, and then I head toward the house.
Autumn’s screams have gone blessedly silent in the torrent of the storm that still rains down on us. It will be slow going for her on foot with no shoes, but she’ll find help eventually if she follows the creek or double-backs to the front of the house to take the path that leads to the gravel road. It’s a fair distance to the nearest neighbors and the road doesn’t see much traffic, but we can’t bank on the remoteness working in our favor. I know we can’t stay too long.
Just long enough to have a little fun.
I don’t linger in the house, working quickly to collect what I need before heading back to the barn.
A string of expletives greets me as I near the old building. Rowan appears amused by the colorful vitriol as he hammers a metal spike through Harvey’s hand to keep him trapped against the ground, a similar implement already impaling his other palm. Rowan is so consumed by his work that he doesn’t notice me until I’m standing at the door.
It takes him a second to process what he’s seeing before he barks an incredulous laugh.
I drop what I’m carrying with my good arm and raise a finger to my lips around a fit of giggles. Tears cling to my lashes as hysterics threaten to consume me. I’m quite pleased with myself, I have to admit. This might just be one of the best ideas I’ve had in a long time. And I want to make the most of the impact, so with a few choppy hand motions, I manage to communicate that I want Rowan to block me from Harvey’s view. He nods and stands between us as I maneuver through the shadows, creeping closer with my coveted prize.
When I get to Harvey’s feet, I lay my little gift on his ankles and start sliding it up his legs.
Harvey groans when I graze his injured knee. He looks down the length of his body and meets the vacant eyes of his mother.
Harvey Mead lets out a blood-blistering scream.
“You’ve been a terribly bad boy, Harvey,” I say in my best imitation of an old woman’s voice as I continue sliding the corpse toward Harvey’s face. He struggles, trying to kick it off, but Rowan intervenes and holds his good leg down.
“Good boys don’t chop people up with chainsaws.”
Another desperate scream. He’s absolutely losing his shit and can’t do anything about it.
I take my sweet, sweet time. I enjoy every second of Harvey’s torture, slowly dragging Mama Mead up his torso as strained breaths saw from his chest. His pulse pounds in his thick neck. Sweat beads across his creased forehead, dripping down his temples as he shakes his head.
Mama Mead and Harvey finally come face to face.
“I think you deserve to be punished.”
“This is very dark,” Rowan says behind me, though he doesn’t sound like he’s complaining.
“Shush, you. Mama Mead’s got some things to say.” I jostle the corpse’s head around as Harvey screams and squirms. The dentures fall out of her mouth to land on his face and he enters another dimension of fear. “Oops, my bad.”
I set Mama Mead down on his chest so I can grab her brittle wrist, keeping my injured arm out of the way as Harvey tries to thrash her off. Her curved fingers stroke his face before I hook them into the corner of his mouth. “Hold on, son. I just want to crawl inside and have a look around.”
Harvey lets out a keening wail.
And then he gasps for air, gulps for it as though it won’t go in, his face a contorted grimace.
“Uhh…”
The veins in Harvey’s temples protrude. His flesh turns red and then rapidly drains of color. His lips turn blue.
“What the…”
A rattling breath leaves his chest. His eyes go dim. His pupils fix to the ceiling and dilate.
“Did he just have a heart attack?” Rowan asks. He stops by Harvey’s unmoving head to stare down at his bloodied face.
My shoulders fall with disappointment. “This is so uncool, Harvey.”
“You literally scared him to death. You should be proud.”
“I had so much more in me.” I give Mama Mead a petulant shove and she rolls off Harvey’s unmoving chest. “Do you think we should give him CPR?”
“If you want to, but I call dibs on not doing mouth-to-mouth.”
“...Dammit.”
Rowan grins when I look up. He walks around Harvey’s head, stopping beside me with his hand outstretched. “Come on, Blackbird. The adrenaline’s going to wear off soon and that shoulder will really start aching then. We’d better burn the place down and get going before that bird finds her way to help. Then I’ll get our things sorted at the motel and we’ll be on the road.”
I place my hand in Rowan’s and he pulls me to my feet. The scar through his lip lightens a shade as he smiles down at me. My gaze travels over his face, and I want to remember every detail, from his dark brows to his navy eyes and the faint lines at their edges, to the tiny mole on his cheekbone and the shine on his wet hair. Most of all, I want to remember the warmth in his kiss when he presses his lips to mine.
All too soon, he’s pulling away, but not without taking my hand as he leads us toward the house.
“On the road,” I say, his words finally surfacing from the haze of adrenaline. “On the road to where?”
“Nebraska. To see Dr. Fionn Kane,” he says. “My brother.”
15
IMPRINTS
ROWAN
S loane sleeps next to me in the passenger seat, a blanket I stole from the hotel covering her body, her black hair swept over her swollen shoulder. Her bra strap holds an ice pack in place over the joint, and though I know it probably melted an hour ago, I haven’t had the heart to replace it in case I wake her.
When I look at her, I can’t seem to pry one emotion away from the others. They all intertwine when I think of Sloane Sutherland. Fear is fused with hope. Care with control, with envy, with sadness. It’s fucking everything, all at once. Even the desire to turn this feeling off locks with the need to nurture it. The totality of it devours me.
And it only grows with every passing moment. Sloane bleeds into every thought. When we’re apart, her absence is an entity. I worry for her. I dream of her. And yesterday, I almost lost her. Killing bound us together, and it’s a compulsion neither of us can live without. This need, and now this game between us, consumes me as much as she does.
My obsessions push me to a cliff I’m bound to fall over, and there might not be an end to the drop once I do.
Sloane stirs and groans, and my fucking heart starts rioting. Maybe it hasn’t stopped since that first day in the bayou when she walked out of that bathroom at Briscoe’s, all wet hair and flushed, freckled skin and that Pink Floyd T-shirt tied at her waist. Every time I think of her, my heart reminds me I’m not as dead on the inside as I thought after all.