Butcher & Blackbird: The Ruinous Love Trilogy
Butcher & Blackbird: Chapter 3

SLOANE

ONE YEAR LATER…

The need.

It starts like an itch. Irritation beneath my skin. Nothing I do releases the constant whisper of it in my flesh. It crawls into my mind and doesn’t let go.

It becomes pain.

The longer I deny it, the more it drags me into the abyss.

I must stop it. I’ll do anything.

And there’s only one thing that works.

Killing.

“I need to get my shit together,” I mutter as I glare at my burner phone for the fiftieth time today. My thumb slides over the smooth glass as I scroll through my short text exchange with the sole contact.

Butcher, it says beneath the photo I chose for Rowan’s profile—a single, steaming sausage on the end of a barbecue fork.

I decide not to unpack the various reasons I chose that picture and resort to visualizing myself stabbing him in the dick with the fork instead.

I bet it’s such a pretty dick too. Just like the rest of him.

“Jesus Christ. I need help,” I hiss.

The man on my stainless steel table interrupts my busy mind as he fights the restraints that bind his wrists and ankles, his head and torso, his thighs and arms. A tight gag traps his pleas in his gaping, fish-like mouth. Maybe it’s overkill to strap him down so thoroughly. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. But the thrashing of flesh on steel irritates me, stoking the itch into a biting torment like talons that scrape at my gray matter.

I turn away, phone in hand as I scroll back through the handful of messages Rowan and I have exchanged in the last year since the day we met and agreed to this admittedly crazy competition. Maybe there’s something I’ve missed in our limited conversations over the last twelve months? Is there an indication of how this game is supposed to play out? Some way I could be better prepared? I have no fucking clue, but it’s giving me an epic headache.

Wandering to the sink, I take a bottle of ibuprofen from the shelf and set my phone on the counter as I tap two pills into my gloved hand, reviewing our text messages from earlier in the week, even though I could probably recite them from memory.

I’ll text you the details on Saturday.

How do I know you’re not just going to get a head start to win this round?

I guess you’ll have to just trust me…

That sounds dumb.

And fun! *Gasp* you do know how to have fun, right…?

Shut your face.

My PRETTY face, you mean?

…ugh.

Saturday! Keep your phone handy!

And I have done exactly that. I’ve kept my phone clutched in my grip for most of the day, and it’s now 8:12pm. The tick of the huge wall clock, which is truthfully only mounted on the wall facing the table to further torture my victims, is now torturing me. Every tick vibrates through my skull. Every second scorches my veins with a pulse of need.

I didn’t realize how much I was looking forward to this game until the anticipation took root in my thoughts.

The man on my table startles when I turn on the faucet and the water pelts the stainless steel sink. “Calm your tits,” I toss over my shoulder as I fill a glass. “We’re not even at the fun bit yet.”

Whimpers and whines, muffled pleas. His fear and begging both excite and frustrate me as I swallow the ibuprofen and down the glass of water to place the empty vessel on the counter with a loud thud.

I check my burner phone again. 8:13pm.

“Fucking hell.”

My personal phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to read the notification. Lark. Her message is just a knife emoji and a question mark. Rather than text her back, I pull my AirPods from my pocket and call her, leaving my hands free for my work.

“Hey, babe,” she says, answering on the first ring. “Anything from the Butcher guy yet?”

I bask in Lark’s summer sunshine voice for a beat before I let the weight of a sigh leave my lungs. Aside from the wicked work of my hands, Lark Montague is the only thing in this world that brings me clarity when my mind descends into another dimension of darkness.

“Nothing yet.”

Lark hums a thoughtful note. “How are you feeling?”

“Antsy.” A little sound of thoughtfulness passes through the line, but Lark just waits. She doesn’t push or give her opinion of what I should or shouldn’t do. She listens. She hears, like no one else can. “I don’t know if this is an epically stupid idea, you know? It’s not like I know Rowan. This could be a reckless, impulsive thing to do.”

“What’s wrong with impulsive?”

“It’s dangerous.”

“But it’s also fun, right?”

A thin thread of breath passes through my pursed lips. “Maybe…?”

Lark’s tinkling laugh fills my ears as I head to the rows of polished implements lining the counter, the knives and scalpels and screws and saws gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

“Your current idea of…fun…” Lark says, her voice trailing off as though she can see the scalpel I pick up and examine. “Is it still fun enough for you?”

“I guess,” I say with a shrug. I set the blade down on the instrument stand alongside surgical scissors, a pack of gauze, and a suture kit. “But I feel like something is missing, you know?”

“Is that because the FBI isn’t figuring out the clues you’re leaving behind in the fishing line?”

“No, they’ll get it eventually, and if they don’t, I’ll send an anonymous letter. ‘Check the webs, you fucking idiots.’”

Lark giggles. “The files are in the computer,” she says, quoting Zoolander. She never fails to chime in with a random yet relevant movie line.

I snicker as Lark laughs at her joke, the shine of her bright light infusing the cool confines of my modified storage container as though she’s plugged herself into the electrical circuitry. The levity between us fades as I grip the edges of the tray and wheel it toward my captive. “There’s something about this competition that feels…inspiring, I guess. Like an adventure. Nothing has really broken through to make me feel excited like this in a long time. And I think—or hope—that Rowan would have tried to kill me already if he wanted to. I don’t know why, and this is maybe the most reckless, impulsive part of this whole idea, but I believe he feels like I do, like he’s looking for something to alleviate an itch that’s getting harder and harder to scratch.”

Lark hums again, but this time the sound is deeper, darker. I’ve spoken to her about this before. She knows where I’m at. Relief is harder to replace with each kill. It doesn’t last as long. Something is missing.

That’s precisely why I have this piece of shit pedo on my table.

“What about this elusive West Coast killer guy that Rowan told you about? Have you found any details on him?”

I frown, my headache needling my eyes. “Not really. I read about one murder that I think might be his from two months ago, out in Oregon. It was a hiker who was killed in Ainsworth Park. But there weren’t any details about anointing like what Rowan described. Maybe he’s right, maybe authorities are keeping things quiet to not spook the killer.” The man on the table lets out a keening wail around his gag and I slap a palm on the tray, rattling the instruments. “Dude, shut up. Whining isn’t going to help.”

“You’re sure in a spicy mood today, Sloaney. Are you positive you’re not—”

“No.” I know what Lark wants to ask, but I’m not spiraling. I’m not devolving. I’m not out of control. “Once this competition officially starts up, I’ll be fine. I just want to know the details of the first target, you know? I don’t deal well with waiting. I need to take the edge off, that’s all.”

“As long as you’re being careful.”

“For sure. Always,” I say as I wheel the suction machine toward the man as he tries to thrash himself free of the unforgiving leather straps. I press the switch and turn it on as the man’s desperate whimpers rise to a higher pitch. A thin film of sweat coats his skin. His wide eyes leak tears from the wrinkled corners as he tries to shake his head, his tongue working against the ball gag strapped in his mouth. My eyes narrow as I take in his tense features, his desperation seeping through his pores like musk.

“Got a worthy guest today, huh?” Lark asks as the man’s panic bleeds through the connection.

“Sure do.” The metal handle of my favorite Swann-Morton scalpel cools my fingertips through the latex gloves, a comforting kiss against my heated skin. The strain of concentration thins my voice to a thread as I focus on positioning the edge of the knife beneath the man’s Adam’s apple. “He’s a total shitbag.”

I guide the sharpened tip of the blade through the man’s skin, maintaining a straight line as I press down and pass it through his flesh. He screams into the silicone sphere trapped in his mouth.

“This is called the consequences of your actions, Michael.” I wipe away the blood that beads along the incision. “You want to talk to underage boys online? Show them your shriveled dick pics? Lure in the neighborhood kids with promises of puppies and candy? Since you like to talk so much, I’m going to take your voice first,” I say as I press my scalpel into the void of split flesh on Michael Northman’s throat for a second, deeper cut so I can access his vocal and ventricular folds. The suction machine gurgles as it sucks his blood through the control valve gripped in my free hand. “And then I’ll take your fingers for every disgusting text and threat you’ve sent, and I’ll shove them up your fucking ass. If you’re lucky, I’ll get bored and kill you before I get to your toes.”

“Jesus, Sloane,” Lark says, her dark giggle bubbling through the line. “Yeah, you know what? I think you really should do this competition thing with the Butcher guy. You need to let off some pent-up aggression there, missy.”

Yeah, I couldn’t agree more.

Michael Northman’s final screams flood my kill room as I say goodbye to my best friend and disconnect both the call and my prey’s vocal cords. When the surgical procedure is finished, I suture the wound for no other reason but to give him a false hope of survival, instructing Michael to keep his eyes on the clock before I turn to my tray of implements to grab my Liston bone cutting forceps. Maybe he won’t listen to my orders, but I’ve learned enough about the fragile human mind in this room to know that he’ll want something to focus on in the coming hours, and nothing is both more tempting and unforgiving than watching time slowly ticking toward your doom.

I’m about to head back to the man strapped to my table when my burner phone buzzes in my pocket.

My brother Lachlan is going to draw from a hat. He’ll text us both with the location. As soon as he does, the game is on. First one to kill wins. If neither of us replaces the target within seven days, it’s a draw. Then I guess we’ll have to rock-paper-scissors that bitch.

A heavy lurch pounds my ribs as my heart rate spikes.

You have a ridiculous advantage.

I watch the dots flicker in our conversation as Rowan types his response to my message.

Trust me when I say that Lachlan wants you to win, not me. I have no advantage here. He hasn’t told me shit.

My smile spreads. Michael Northman’s desperate thrashing and quickened breaths fall into a hazy backdrop as I tap out my reply.

I don’t know you enough to trust you. And if I replace out he’s feeding you info, I’ll kick your ass. Just laying that out there now so we’re on the same page, you know?

The chilled air seems heavier in the storage container as I watch the gray circles pulse in the lower left corner of the screen.

I think I might want you to win now too, so I’m okay with that…

You’re the worst.

Maybe… but at least you think I’m pretty!

Jesus H. Christ.

I know I’m smiling down at the device in my hands. I should feel stupid about it. It should feel as dangerous as it is. But the only thing I sense is a relief that settles into my marrow, an excitement that charges the chambers of my heart. It’s a current that soaks every cell in light.

I’m about to set the phone down and focus on my captive when it buzzes in my hand from an Unknown Sender.

Ivydale, West Virginia.

And good luck, eyeball spider lady, or whatever the hell your name is. Just think, little brother—your title of loser is about to be official.

My grin widens. A text from Butcher comes in on the heels of Lachlan’s message.

See? I told you so. See you in West Virginia, Blackbird.

I set down the forceps in exchange for the bloodied scalpel.

When I turn to the man strapped to my table, his eyes are wide with the kind of fear that brings me peace. His face is pale with stress and pain. Blood and saliva slip from the corner of his lips. He tries to shake his head as I twist the scalpel in the artificial light.

“I’ve got places to be, so I guess we have to cut this short, if you’ll excuse the pun,” I say before I drive my blade beneath his ear. Blood cascades over the table in a flood of crimson.

“It’s game night.”