Scythe & Sparrow: EPILOGUE 1

“What in the fuck is that?”

“An upgrade.”

Sloane sighs and cocks a hip, trying to look as irritated as possible. She does an admirable job, but I can tell she’s biting down on a grin. And she knows I know. She has to look away, probably in the hopes it will make it easier to keep up her disgruntled display. But it doesn’t work.

“You told me once that no boys were allowed in the woods unless they had scales and a breeding kink,” I say with a wicked grin.

“That was four years ago.”

“So …? I’m just making sure I’ve got clearance, you know? I don’t see what the problem is. We’re going to be in the woods.”

“Not in West Virginia.”

“It’s still ‘the woods,’” I say with air quotes. “And the last time I checked, you kind of enjoyed the Sol cosplay. I’m just taking it up a notch.”

“Up a notch,” she repeats with a snort. I shrug, and Sloane levels me with a flat glare. Her cheeks flush beneath her dusting of freckles. It’s still my favorite shade of pink. “You think this is just a single notch?” She waves a hand toward my polyester dragon suit, this one enhanced by layers of scales glued to the fabric and even my skin, and a shit ton of green and blue makeup. “This is at least twelve.”

My bottom lip juts out and she groans. “What, you don’t think I’m pretty anymore? Are you embarrassed to sit next to me?”

“Yes,” she deadpans. “Hard yes.”

My prosthetic foam horns graze the roof of the car as I shake my head in feigned disappointment. I let out a deep, dejected sigh and Sloane curses, crossing her arms. I pat the passenger seat but she doesn’t move, her feet still planted to the sidewalk. “Come on, Blackbird. Just get in the car. We’ve got places to be.”

“If you’re trying to fly under the radar—”

“Great pun, love—”

“—maybe showing up to the location of our annual game in a full dragon costume is not the way.”

“It’s a cabin. In the woods. In the middle of fucking nowhere. I’m sure we’ll be just fine, love. Get in. We’re going to be late and I want to chase you and fuck you on the forest floor before the others get there.”

With another long-suffering moan, Sloane tosses her bag in the back and slides onto the passenger seat. “You’re the worst.”

“And you still love me. Now give us a kiss,” I say as I lean over the center console with my lips pursed. She can’t help but giggle this time as I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her closer, laying a kiss on her cheek as she squeals a protest that has no real fight to it. My painted lips leave a green smear behind on her skin. As soon as I let her go, she flips the visor down and rubs at the mark.

“You did use actual face paint, right?” Sloane’s eyes slice to mine and narrow. “Please tell me this isn’t poster paint or some shit.”

“Of course,” I say convincingly, though her glare doesn’t soften. With a final grin at my wife, I key the engine, and we start making our way out of Boston. Do we get a few honks and hollers as we idle in the Friday afternoon traffic? Yes. Does Sloane groan and rub her forehead? Also yes. But every single time, it ignites her blush and summons her laugh. And I relish each flush of pink and every smile.

We stop once for gas and switch the driving responsibilities halfway through our six-hour trip, Sloane adamantly declaring that I’m either going to have to hold it or piss in a bush on the side of the road because she’ll “rough gouge” my eyeballs and leave “crusty edges” if I even think about walking around in public. When we roll into Linsmore, it’s nothing more than a gas station and a general store and a few dilapidated houses with weathered wood planks and cracked window panes and chipped paint. It’s beautiful in the golden hour, the kind of light that makes you feel nostalgic for a time and a place where you’ve never lived, but it still gives you an ache in your chest. The town seems deserted, though it’s clearly not with the mowed lawns and the stocked general store, but no one is around to prove it. A sign just past the town limits says BARN DANCE AND BARBECUE, EVERY FRIDAY FROM 7PM TO 11PM, 102 MAGNOLIA STREET, in retro lettering that appears to have been recently repainted.

“I guess that explains why the town is so empty,” Sloane says as she glances down at her watch. “Seven thirty. Do you think the killer is there?”

I shrug.

Silence stretches between us. An uneasy dread creeps into my veins. I glance over just in time to catch the dimple appear next to her lip.

“Oh no. Blackbird—”

“Hey, BMW,” Sloane chimes, and the car responds with a robotic “hello.” “Show me the route to 102 Magnolia Street.”

“I have found one route to 102 Magnolia Street,” the car says, sounding like it’s fully on board with Sloane’s mission to get her revenge for my costume antics. An alternative route appears on the dashboard display. “Should I take it?”

“Yes,” Sloane declares, at the same time as I say “no.”

“Okay. I’ll take you to 102 Magnolia Street,” the car says.

“Blackbird … no …”

“Butcher, yes.” Sloane’s wicked giggle is punctuated by the tick of the turning signal as she makes a U-turn to follow the car’s directions. “You’re the one who decided to spend six hours in a dragon costume.”

“And you love cosplay.”

“I also love winning.”

“But we have to get to the cabin.”

“And we will, after a brief detour.”

“Then I should really come with you. For safety purposes and whatnot.”

“Most definitely not,” she says as she turns down a rural road. The Magnolia Street sign seems to mock me as we pass. We can already see the barn ahead, cars parked in the clearing next to it, light leaking between the planks of its walls. “I hate to point this out, pretty boy, but you’re not really dressed for the occasion. This little getup of yours is not what I would call ‘discreet.’ So I guess you’d better just wait in the car.”

“But the woods—”

“Sorry.” She’s definitely not sorry. Not with that fake little cringe and the exaggerated pout that follows. But there’s nothing more murderously adorable than when she’s determined to get under my skin and flay it clean from my bones with her competitive edge. I think it’s my favorite version of Sloane Kane.

Even still … I fucking hate the idea of sitting behind in the car while she gets the jump on this year’s Annual August Showdown. Though I refuse to admit it out loud, she’s won more rounds of our murder competition than I have. And even though we’ve decided to extend our game indefinitely, it’s not like I need to lose yet another year to my beautifully vicious wife.

Sloane parks the car at the entrance of a farm field gate on the opposite side of the road from the barn, where the vehicle will be out of view. I blow out a long breath and try to settle into my seat, though my prosthetic horns aren’t making it easy to get comfortable.

“You look like you’re regretting your life choices,” Sloane says as she turns the engine off.

“Maybe one or two.”

“Then I’ll leave you with this lovely reminder that every time you try to take your teasing a little too far, karma comes along to bitch-slap you in the ball sack.”

“That’s … extreme. And also inaccurate.”

“Is it? Remind me, how was that rump roast at Thorsten’s? I could see if they have any ice cream at the barn dance, maybe?”

I cross my arms and glare through the windshield at the empty field of grass ahead. “Touché.”

I don’t have to look over to feel the radiant heat of Sloane’s triumphant smile. But I do still glance her way. Her hazel eyes dance in the dim light. Her dimple winks at me with mischief. “I’ll be back soon,” Sloane says as she opens the car door. “Maybe with snacks.”

Though I say her name in a final protest, she’s already closing the door, her devious cackle following in her wake.

I twist as much as my costume will allow and watch as she jogs down the gravel road toward the barn, the urge to follow her nearly consuming me. But she’s right. Though I’m sure this barn dance is a pretty close-knit affair where everyone knows everyone, Sloane at least has a chance of flying under the radar. I, on the other hand, do not.

“Rowan Kane, you feckin’ eejit,” I hiss as she disappears from view and I settle back into my seat. “You will never live this down if she wins.”

And then I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I’m debating whether I should get out and check on her when I look toward the barn and spot Sloane jogging back toward the car. It’s only been forty-five minutes, just enough time for the sun to set and the colors of the sky to deepen, but it feels like hours. Relief fills my chest when she pulls open the door and slides into the driver’s seat with a satisfied sigh.

“Productive?” I ask.

She shrugs, but her voice is just a hint too breezy when she says, “Not really.”

“Did you find anything useful?”

“Only this,” she says as she pulls a bottle of liquor from beneath her flannel shirt. She passes it to me with a grin so bright it blares her thoughts like a beacon—thoughts entirely centered on irritating the shit out of my broody older brother.

“What the hell is that?”

“Moonshine, probably. I overheard someone say it was whiskey but I have my doubts. So I hope dragons can sing, because I expect ‘The Rocky Road to Dublin’ at full volume tonight.”

“Well,” I reply as I read the homemade label before I place it on the floor behind me, “this dragon can’t sing, but I’m certainly going to do it anyway.”

“That’s my Sol.” Sloane leans over the center console and presses her lips to mine. Her scent of ginger and vanilla floods my senses as though it’s permeating my skin, embedding itself where it belongs. I graze her cheek with my knuckles, tracing the constellation of freckles that dusts her skin, a pattern I know by heart. As my fingers thread into her hair, she sighs into my mouth, pressing her lips harder to mine, moving closer, and just as I deepen the kiss, she pulls away.

“Gross,” she says, her nose crinkling.

“Gross? Gross, Blackbird? I am mortally wounded.”

Sloane giggles as she opens the compartment in the center console to retrieve a tissue and wipe her lips off. “Your makeup. You can’t taste that?”

“I was committed to the bit. I must be desensitized.”

“That does not taste like lipstick, Rowan.” She pulls the visor down and checks that she’s rubbed any remnants of green from her mouth. With a sideways glance, she assesses my face, her eyes lingering on my lips before she returns her attention to the little mirror. “Are you one hundred percent sure you used face paint?”

“Umm … mostly …?”

Sloane’s head whips to the side and she pins me with a scrutinous glare. “What do you mean ‘mostly’?”

“It wasn’t staying on super well, so I … augmented it.”

“Augmented it … with …?” When I break my gaze away with a cringe, she whacks my arm. “Rowan Kane—”

“Poster paint.”

The car sinks into an eerie silence. This might be how I die. My wife will probably murder me and dump my body into a field. I weigh my chances for survival. I can cook, that has to count for something, right? And she thinks I’m pretty—at least, she does when I’m not in a full dragon costume complete with foam horns and layers of silicone scales. But she’s pretty fast. And stabby. And she goes for the eyes.

It takes a long moment before I look at her. When I do, I’m not sure she’s actually breathing. She’s so lethally still that I don’t know if I should maybe just take my chances and run for it.

And then she bursts out laughing.

It’s so loud and sudden that it startles me, and that seems to delight her even more. She laughs and laughs and fucking laughs.

“What’s so funny …? The bottle said it’s water-soluble,” I say, and she wheezes, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she parrots my words back to me through strained vocal cords.

“Did you test it?” she manages to get out, though only barely.

“No …” I flip my visor down and open the cover on the mirror. My face paint concoction has definitely stayed put. Which is maybe a bit concerning now that I think about it. It’s been on there for hours. Maybe too many hours. I swipe my thumb across my tongue and rub at a spot on my cheek next to the scales. While the top layer smears, the skin underneath is definitely still green. “Ahh … shite. There’s gotta be a way to get this off, right? Blackbird? You like makeup. And painting. So you know how to get this shit off, yeah? It’ll come off … right?”

Sloane cackles through my questions, her eyes still watering as she keys the engine and reverses onto Magnolia Street. “Somehow, I don’t think a homemade apricot-turpentine scrub is the best option. But don’t worry,” she says as she reaches over to pat my hand, “I still think you’re pretty, even if you’re permanently green.”

“Permanently …?”

By the time we reach the cabin, I’m sure Sloane regrets letting the word permanent tumble from her grinning lips. I pepper her with questions for the remaining thirty-minute drive, about skin and dye and just how bad would it really be if I tested out this apricot-turpentine scrub idea? That one earns me a much-deserved smack to the shoulder. I guess she’s right. Testing out new things on my face has apparently not gone so well for me today, so ramping it up to another level is probably not the best idea either.

In fact, the whole costume was definitely not my best idea, though it seemed like a good one at the time. I guess I didn’t anticipate a barn dance detour that would cost us a precious hour and a half of time. I was hoping to arrive early so I could chase my wife through the woods and make her laugh as I fucked her on the forest floor. At least I’m extremely successful in the laughter part. Too bad it’s not just my wife who’s delighted by my costume.

“You feckin’ dumb bellend. What in the Christ Jesus are you wearing?” Lachlan says from the porch as we exit the vehicle. Sloane’s grin is maniacal as she stands off to the side to watch our exchange with unrestrained glee.

“What the fuck does it look like I’m wearing, asshat?”

Lachlan makes a show of taking off his glasses and polishing the lenses with the bottom of his shirt before he slides them back on. “Looks like an idiot suit. Is that the right answer?”

Sloane bellows a laugh as Lark pushes open the screen door, drying her hands on a tea towel as she exits the rustic cottage. She lurches to a halt as soon as her eyes land on me. “Oh holy hell.” Her giggle is devious, a bright contrast to Lachlan’s derisive snort. “Is that suit clean?”

“Unfortunately,” I grumble.

“Oh, Rowan—”

“Don’t give him any sympathy, Lark. Pity makes him even more insufferable, the feckin’ twat.”

“But look at him. He’s all sad and horny.”

“Literally,” Sloane interjects, whacking one of my yellow horns as she heads toward the porch to give Lark a hug. “Also permanently green.”

“We need to talk more about ‘permanent,’ Sloane,” I say as I grab our bags and the moonshine and then follow after her, my dragon tail swishing across the gravel behind me. When Lachlan groans and runs a hand down his face, I exaggerate the sway of my hips just to annoy him.

“We’ve talked about it plenty.” Though Sloane doesn’t turn my way, I can almost hear her eyes roll. “Talk about it with your brother.”

“Eyeball Spider Lady,” Lachlan says as he wraps Sloane in a hug, “how do you tolerate that pain in the arse?”

“He usually makes up for it in other ways.” With a kiss on Lachlan’s cheek, she lets him go and joins Lark’s side. The two link arms to share a flurry of whispers, probably about whatever it was Sloane actually discovered at the barn. They head inside as I climb the porch steps to stop in front of my older brother.

“Give us a kiss, asshat.” Before he can get away, I wrap Lachlan in a bear hug and plant a smear of a green kiss against his cheek, one of my scales falling off in the process.

“Gobshite.”

“Bellend.”

When I let him go, Lachlan still can’t help himself. He lays his hand on either side of my head and presses his forehead to mine. “You’re still a reckless little shit,” Lachlan says, and though he tries to look serious, the glimmer in his eyes gives away his amusement. “But I still love you.”

“Love you too.”

With a clap to the side of my head, Lachlan grins and lets me go to pick up one of my bags and the bottle of moonshine, examining it with a furrowed brow. “What the fuck is this?”

“Homemade whiskey, apparently.”

“Christ Jesus.”

“Sloane found it at a barn dance in Linsmore. And judging by the way those two are conspiring, that’s not the only thing she found.” When I nod toward the two women whispering in the kitchen as they open a bottle of red wine, Lachlan follows my gaze and groans. “I think she’s got a jump on us for the game.”

“Well, I might have an idea or two myself.”

“I thought Conor wasn’t going to give you extra clues. Sloane will be so pissed if he is.”

“You bellend,” Lachlan says with an eye roll, keeping his distance from the two women as they head toward the living room with their glasses. When he seems to think they’re safely out of earshot, we take their place in the kitchen, and he cracks open the moonshine. “I am capable of doing my own research. And I promised the eyeball spider lady I wouldn’t mine Conor for information. I’ve seen what’s involved in eyeball removal. I don’t want her to make good on that threat,” he says with a shudder before he pours a glass and slides it across the counter of the island. “Trust me.”

Lachlan raises his glass in a silent toast and I do the same, and then we take a sip of the golden liquid. It burns my throat as it slides down to my stomach, where I’m pretty sure it’ll eat through my guts. “Fuck, that is atrocious.”

“Are you sure it’s not battery acid?”

“No. I’m not sure at all. Though it’s not going to stop me from drinking enough to serenade you.”

“I think it might kill us both before that happens,” Lachlan says as we both suffer through another sip.

“So you said you have information?” I say in a conspiratorial whisper as I lean closer across the island. “What kind of information?”

“Yeah, Man-guy,” a chipper voice says from right behind me just as I take another drink of moonshine that shoots up my nose and spurts past my lips in a spray that hits Lachlan right on the shirt. “I want to know too, what kind of information?”

I spin around to the sound of Lachlan’s “Christ Jesus” and the combined squeals of Sloane and Lark. The little banshee grins up at me, her dark eyes sparkling. She sets down a pissed-off-looking raccoon of all fucking things, though somehow, that tracks. “Rose, fucking hell. You scared the shit out of me.” I move to give her a hug but she backs up a step, her hands raised.

“Whoa, now. That’s a situation you’ve got there. You look like you’re starring in the busted version of Wicked.” She leans forward and pats my arm. “A for effort. Or … something.”

Though I hear Sloane snort from the living room, it’s my older brother’s voice that seems to echo in my mind.

“Rose …?”

Rose and I exchange a fleeting smile before I turn to look at Lachlan. I’ve never seen this expression on his face before, his brow furrowed, his eyes taking on a glassy sheen.

“Hi, Lachlan.”

Lachlan takes a few slow steps around the end of the island, steps that quicken until he’s rushing to embrace Rose, that shocked hope and guilt still etched into his face until he pulls his glasses off and wipes his eyes. They exchange whispers, things only the two of them are meant to hear, but words I catch anyway. Words about regret and choices. About time and promises. About how some vows are never meant to be made, because they are not in our hands to keep.

The screen door quietly closes, and Fionn steps inside the cabin. He lets his bag slide from his shoulder and drops it on the floor, never taking his eyes from Lachlan.

“I thought maybe you should have a doctor around. Just in case,” he says, clutching the back of his neck.

I turn back to Lachlan, whose heart has been shattered for so long that its sharp edges have scored the pain right into his face. His eyes glisten with tears. His hand trembles when Rose lifts it from her shoulder.

“Fionn,” is all Lachlan manages to get out, and then he’s striding across the room. The two lock in an embrace that lasts long enough that it reminds me of others they’ve shared. Like the time Fionn graduated from medical school. Or the time we landed in Boston from Sligo and set foot in our own apartment, our first safe place. Or even that hazy memory of the hospital that first day we met our little brother. There was a heart-splitting sadness that I was too young to fully understand. So much grief for the loss of our mother, a pain that weighed heaviest on Lachlan’s shoulders. But there was so much love too. It was there in the way Lachlan held our baby brother in his arms. Just like it’s here in the way he holds on to him now.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. In all our years together, I’ve never seen Lachlan’s shoulders shake like they do now. I’ve never seen him crack open and cry, not even when we were young. He grew up so fast. Spent his youth walking us through darkness, our beacon in a night that I once thought would never end. “I don’t know how to fix it. I’m just so feckin’ sorry, Fionn.”

“It’s not your fault,” Fionn says, pulling back just enough to look into Lachlan’s eyes. I notice for the first time how Fionn really looks different. Not like the man we thought he wanted to be, steeped in high expectations and buttoned-up formality. He looks … at ease. At peace. “I’m sorry, Lachlan. It was never your fault. And I would have gotten in touch or come home sooner, if I could have. I just … needed time. Time to reset myself, I guess. Time to figure things out without relying on you both to somehow do it for me. Well, maybe not him,” he says with a nod to me. “He looks like a dumpster goblin.”

Lachlan lets out a watery laugh and turns his glassy eyes to me over his shoulder. “I think we’ve just officially replaced your Shitflicker nickname. Dumpster Goblin suits you.”

“Especially now that it’s permanent,” Lark pipes up. When I glance her way, she’s wiping a track of tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand.

“I really need to know if this is actually permanent,” I say as I start peeling off a scale glued to my cheek. Fionn scratches his stubble as he watches me from beneath the arm Lachlan keeps slung over his shoulder. “Will it come off?”

“You didn’t tattoo it on there, did you?”

“Of course not, dickhead.”

“I’m sure you’re probably fine.”

“‘Probably’ does not inspire much confidence,” I say, but Fionn only shrugs.

“You’ll probably have to wait until the skin cells replenish.”

“How long does that take?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“A couple of weeks?” I parrot back to him as Sloane cackles in my periphery.

“Maybe. I mean, if you really scrub it twice a day. Otherwise, probably a month,” Fionn says. I look over at Sloane but she just shakes her head. I do my best to look dejected, which really isn’t so hard to do, and then I shuffle my way toward my brothers.

“I need a hug. Even dumpster goblins need love.” With my arms outstretched, I grab hold of my brothers and though they protest, they still wrap their arms around me in return.

“You’re an idiot,” Fionn whispers to me as the three of us press our foreheads together.

“And you’re a birdseed-eating twat,” Lachlan counters on my behalf.

“And you’re a broody asshat,” I say, and he grins, the shine still bright in his eyes. I swallow, trying to force the sting in my throat from burning its way into tears. It feels like a displaced bone has finally been reset, like I couldn’t take a breath without feeling a pain that dug between my ribs, and suddenly it’s gone. And judging by the way my brothers both look back at me, they feel the same way. “Neither one of you would make as good of a dragon as me, by the way. But I still love you both.”

“Yeah,” Fionn says. “Me too.”

Lachlan clasps a hand across the back of each of our heads. “Love you too, my boys. And I’m proud of you.”

When we release each other, Fionn takes a step back, making a slow pivot on his heel. He looks at each one of us before his gaze finally lands on Rose and sticks there. “Now that we’re all here,” he says, “I have an announcement to make.”

Rose’s gaze flicks to Lark and Sloane, then to me and Lachlan, as though any one of us might know what Fionn is up to. “Announcement …?”

“Well, really more of a question.” Fionn takes a few slow steps toward Rose. She looks like she might want to run, but she seems fused to the floor. “I wanted to tell you that I love you, Rose Evans.”

“I love you too,” she whispers, tears gathering in her eyes as Fionn takes her hand, the other buried in his pocket.

“When you showed up in Hartford, it was the single greatest event of my life. You crashed in and tore my reality apart. I had taped up the broken parts of my life and you showed me that those pieces couldn’t be sewn back together. They never fit in the first place. But you remade everything, Rose. I’ve admired you every single day I’ve known you. Your bravery. Your recklessness. Your huge, wild heart. Your willingness to embrace every part of yourself. You showed me how to care for the darkness, not to fear it or hide it away.”

Fionn withdraws his hand from his pocket as he lowers to one knee. Rose’s shoulders shake, the tears flowing down her skin.

“I love you, Rose Evans. I’m not letting you go. I never will.” He flips open the lid of the box in his hand. A stack of three separate rings rests inside, made to look like a sunset of orange sunstone over a sea of sapphires and blue diamonds set in hand-etched gold. “Marry me, Rose. Let me love you forever.”

Rose’s joy can’t be contained. It bursts from her in a cry and then she crashes into Fionn. He raises from his bent knee with Rose clutched in his embrace. There are tears and whispered words of love. They kiss. They laugh. And then Lark starts up a playlist as Lachlan breaks out a fresh bottle of whiskey. After a round of hugs and laughter and a toast with my family, I step away to finally get rid of my costume and scrub my skin beneath a hot shower.

When I return to the living area, the celebrations are still in full swing. I just stand back to watch for a minute. To marvel at the twists and turns that life takes. When I look a little more closely, I see the intricate pattern in the web. The map that brought us all together.

I’m watching my two brothers making up for lost time when I feel Sloane’s hand around my wrist. I lift my arm and she nestles into my side.

“Hey, Butcher,” she whispers.

“Hey, Blackbird.” I press a kiss to the crown of her head. Fionn laughs at something Lachlan says, his touch never straying from Rose as the two sit cuddled up on the couch. Sloane sighs and I look down to see a contented smile lingering on her face. “I’m going to hazard a guess that you had something to do with that,” I say as I nod in their direction.

Sloane shrugs beneath my arm. “Maybe.”

“I’m sure your partner in crime was involved?”

“You’re my partner in crime.”

“The other one.”

Sloane grins but doesn’t tear her eyes from the scene before us. “What can I say, Man-guy? Lark is a hopeless romantic.”

“Thought so.” I turn toward her, Sloane’s arms folding around my waist. I frame her face in my hands and press a kiss to her lips. “Thank you,” I whisper into her skin. “I love you, Sloane Kane.”

“I love you too, Rowan. And now that they’re occupied,” she says with a nod toward the living room, “wanna sneak away and go do karate in the garage?”

I smile down at my beautiful wife, those hazel eyes so full of love and joy, that dimple a flash of mischief next to her lip.

“I thought you’d never ask.”