Scythe & Sparrow: The Ruinous Love Trilogy
Scythe & Sparrow: Chapter 1

Rose

If you hit someone in the back of the head hard enough, you can pop their eyeballs right out of their face.

Or at least, that’s what I read somewhere. And that’s what I’m thinking as I shuffle my tarot deck, glaring at the sketchy-looking asshole thirty feet away as he pours alcohol from a flask into his soda and takes a long gulp. He wipes away the excess from his chin with the sleeve of his plaid shirt. A burp quickly follows, and then he shoves half his hot dog into his fuck-ugly gob before he takes another swig.

I could whack that big ol’ egghead so hard his marbles spring right out of their sockets.

And the woman sitting across from me? I bet she wouldn’t mind one bit.

I tamp down a dark grin and hope to fuck she hasn’t noticed the devious glint in my expression. But even despite the murdery vibes I’m probably giving off, and the distractions of Silveria Circus beyond the open door of my tarot tent, her attention seems stuck on the cards, all her concentration glued to them as I shuffle. There’s no light at all in her eyes, one of them rimmed with a fading black bruise.

Blood surges in my veins as I force my gaze not to creep back to the man. Her man.

When her attention finally lifts from the repetitive motion of my hands, and she starts twisting in her seat to catch sight of him, I abruptly stop shuffling to slap the deck down on the table. She startles more than seems normal, just like I thought she would. Just like I hoped she wouldn’t.

“Sorry,” I say, and I mean it. She looks at me with fear in her eyes. Real fear. But she gives me a weak smile. “What’s your name?”

“Lucy,” she says.

“All right, Lucy. So I won’t ask you what your question is. But I want you to keep it in mind.”

Lucy nods. I turn over the first card. I already know what it will be. Its edges are worn with use and the image has faded with time.

“Ace of Cups,” I say as I lay the card on the table and push it closer to her. She looks from the image to me, a question in her crinkled brow. “It represents following your inner voice. What does it tell you? What do you want?”

There’s only one thing I hope she’ll say: to take flight.

But she doesn’t say it.

“I don’t know,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper. Disappointment lodges itself like a thorn beneath my skin as she twists her fingers on the table, her simple gold wedding band scratched and dull. “Matt wants to buy another plot of land to farm next year, but I want to put some money away for the kids. Maybe it’d be nice to get out of Nebraska for a week, take the kids to see my mom and not be fretting about the price of gas. Is that the kind of thing you mean …?”

“Maybe.” I shrug and pick up the deck, giving it another shuffle. This time, I won’t guide the Ace of Cups to the top of the pile. I’ll let it tell her whatever she needs to hear. “What’s important is what it means to you. Let’s restart, and you keep that in mind.”

I do Lucy’s reading. Seven of Cups. Page of Cups. Two of Wands. Signals of change, that choices for her future are there, if she’s ready to have faith and embrace them. I’m not even sure if she’s open to receiving a message from my cards. I’ve barely finished the reading when her three kids pile into the tent, two girls and a boy, their faces sticky and stained with candy. They talk over one another, each wanting to be the first to tell her about the rides or the games or the upcoming performances. They have clowns, Mama. Mama, did you see the fire-breather? I saw a game where you can win a stuffy, Mama, come see. Mama, Mama, Mama—

“Kids,” a gruff voice interrupts at the entrance of my tarot tent. Their thin bodies go still and rigid at his sharp tone. Lucy’s eyes widen across from me. She doesn’t let her gaze linger, but I still see it. The dull smear of chronic terror in her eyes. The way it deadens her expression before she turns away. I look up to the man in my doorway, his spiked soda gripped in one hand, a fistful of ride tickets in the other. “Go on, take ’em. Meet your ma at the big top in an hour for the show.”

The oldest child, the boy, reaches for the tickets and grasps them to his chest as though they could be torn from him just as easily as they were given. “Thank you, Papa.”

The kids edge past their father, where he stands unmoving in the entrance of the tent. He watches them disappear into the crowd before turning his attention our way. Bloodshot eyes fixed to his wife, he drains his plastic cup and drops it on the ground. “Let’s go.”

Lucy nods once and stands. She places a twenty-dollar bill on the table with a brittle smile and a whisper of thanks. I’d like to give her the reading for free, but I know men like hers. They’re volatile. Willing to jump down a woman’s throat for the smallest perceived slight, like pity or charity. I learned a long time ago to stick to the exchange of value, even if he might yell at her later for spending money on something as frivolous as a message from the universe.

Lucy leaves the tent. Her husband watches her go.

And then he turns to me.

“You shouldn’t go fillin’ her head with crazy fuckin’ ideas,” he says through a sneer. “She’s already got enough of those.”

I pick up my tarot cards and shuffle them. My heart scrapes my bones with every furious beat, but I keep my movement fluid, my outward appearance calm. “I take it you don’t want a reading.”

“What did you tell her?”

The man takes a step into my tent to loom over my table with a menacing glare. I lean back in my chair. My shuffling slows to a halt. We pin our gazes to each other. “Same shit I tell everyone who comes in here,” I lie. “Follow your dreams. Trust your heart. Good things lie in your future.”

“You’re right about that.” A dark smile tugs at the corners of the man’s lips as he whips the twenty-dollar bill off the table and makes a point of folding it in front of me. “Good things do lie in my future.”

With a tip of his head, he slides the bill into his pocket and walks away, heading for the nearest refreshments stand, where one of his equally shady friends is standing. I glare after him until finally I close my eyes, trying to clear him from my thoughts, refocusing my energy as I resume shuffling my cards. I reach for my selenite crystal to cleanse the deck and sever the connection between us, but my thoughts keep wandering to Lucy. The image of the purple halo around her eye returns, no matter how hard I try to push it away. The deadened look in her eyes haunts me. I’ve seen that look so many times before. In the women who have come to draw the Ace of Cups. In my mother. In the mirror.

I take a deep breath. I draw my first card with a question in my mind.

Lucy didn’t ask for help. But she needs it. What should I do?

I turn over the first card and open my eyes.

The Tower. Upheaval. Sudden change.

I tilt my head and draw another.

Two of Wands. There are opportunities if you’re willing to venture beyond your castle walls. The land beyond might be rocky, but it’s vibrant. Take a risk. Try something new. A meaningful life is built from choices.

“Hmm. I think I see where this is going, and that wasn’t what I was asking.”

Knight of Cups. The arrival of romantic love.

“Stop it. My question was about smashing that dickhead’s skull in. Not falling in love or some bullshit. Tell me about my actual question.”

I shuffle the cards again. I keep my question in mind and draw the first card.

The Tower.

“Fucksakes, Gransie. Give it a rest.” A deep breath floods my lungs as I fidget with the edge of the card and look out at the fairgrounds beyond the door of my tent. I should really be getting out of here. Leave this exchange behind. Get myself changed and ready for my upcoming performance in the big top. Zooming through the Globe of Death on a motorcycle with two other performers doesn’t leave any room for error, and I need to be focused. But Lucy’s husband is still in my line of sight. And then Bazyli walks by. I’ll take that as the sign I was looking for.

“Baz,” I bark out, stopping the teenager in his tracks. His gangly limbs are tanned and marred with grease. “Come here.”

Sparks virtually shoot from his eyes. His lips stretch around a gap-toothed smile. “Gonna cost ya.”

“I haven’t even told you what I want yet.”

“Still gonna cost ya.”

I roll my eyes and Baz grins as he saunters into my tent with all the cockiness of a typical fifteen-year-old. I nod toward the fairgrounds. He follows my gaze. “The guy out there with the plaid shirt next to the grease joint.”

“The guy with the head that looks like an egg?”

“Yeah. I need his details. Just the driver’s license. And twenty bucks if he’s got cash in his wallet.”

Baz’s attention latches to my hands as I shuffle the Tower card back into my deck. “I’m not a thief. I’m a magician,” he says, and with a flutter of his hands, a flower appears on his palm. “The only thing I steal is hearts.”

I roll my eyes and Baz grins as he gives me the flower. “I know you’re not a thief. But Egghead over there is. He just stole twenty bucks from me and I want you to give it back to his wife over there. The one with the blond hair and blue top.” I nod toward Lucy in the distance as she makes her way alone toward a concession stand. “She’ll have three kids with her in the tent during the show. I want you to get the money back to her and the license to me.”

Baz faces me, his eyes narrowing. “Whatever you’re up to, I could help, you know.”

“You are helping. By getting me that license.”

“I’ll do it for free if you let me help.”

“No dice, kiddo. Your mom will string me up by the throat from the trapeze. Just get me that license. I’ll buy you a Venom comic.”

Baz shrugs. He twists the toe of his shoe into the trampled grass, trying to keep his attention away from me. “I have most of them.”

“Not from the Dark Origins series.” Baz’s eyes snap to mine. I try to repress a smile at the longing he can’t hide. “I know you’re missing the last two. I’ll get them for you.”

“Okay … but I also get to borrow your inflatable pool.”

I scrunch my nose and tilt my head. “Sure … I guess …”

“And I need bananas.”

“All right—”

“And a pineapple. Some of those little cocktail stick things too.”

“What the hell?” It’s not unusual for the other circus performers and crew to send me out for random items or treats from the towns we stop in. I’m one of the few who has a second vehicle to escape the grounds with. I don’t have to uproot my whole home just to go to the store. But that means I’ve had requests for an assortment of shit. Condoms, frequently. Pregnancy tests too. Vegetables in season. Fresh croissants from a local baker. Books. Whiskey. But … “A pineapple?”

“Mom said she’d get me a PlayStation when she finally gets a vacation. Since there’s a fat chance of that, I thought I’d bring the vacation to her.” Baz crosses his arms and squares up his stance as though he’s about to go into battle. “Take it or leave it, Rose.”

I thrust my hand in his direction, my heart a little warmer than it was before. “Deal. Just be careful, yeah? Egghead is trouble.”

Baz nods and pumps my hand once and then he’s gone, darting off to fulfill his mission. I watch as he weaves his way through children with their popcorn and cotton candy and stuffed animals, and teenagers chattering about the best rides, and the couples who come from the haunted house, laughing with embarrassment about how much our actors scared them in dark corners. These are the moments I usually love about my home with Silveria Circus. Moments of magic, as small as they might be.

But today, the only magic I’m after is the dark and dangerous kind.

I watch as Baz maneuvers close to the two men. My heart rolls against my ribs as he comes up behind Lucy’s husband and pulls his wallet from his back pocket when the man is occupied with a laugh. When Baz has it in his hand, he pivots a turn, just long enough to open the wallet and pull the license from its slot. The money is next, and he slips it into his jeans before he finishes his spin. Within a handful of heartbeats, the wallet is back in the man’s pocket.

Grabbing my tarot deck and selenite, I leave the tent, turning the OPEN sign at the entrance to CLOSED as I go, even though I’m about to miss another reading or two as another woman closes in on the tent with a twenty-dollar bill clutched between her fingers. I catch the brief flash of disappointment on her face, but Baz never leaves my field of vision. And I don’t leave his. We pass each other as I head in the direction of my RV. I barely feel it, only noticing because I know to expect it. A slight brush of a touch at my hip.

When I enter my motor home, I pull the license from my pocket. Matthew Cranwell. I open my phone and check his address on the map of Nebraska. Twenty miles away, close to Elmsdale, the next town over. One with a bigger grocery store than Hartford. Maybe more hope of replaceing a good quality pineapple. I run my thumb over the photo of Matt’s weathered face. With a faint grin etched across my lips, I change into my leather pants and tank top, slipping his driver’s license into the interior pocket of my motorcycle jacket.

It’s the first evening of performances here in Hartford, and the big top is packed with locals who have come from the surrounding network of towns to see the show. And Silveria Circus prides itself on a great show. I watch from behind the curtain as José Silveria introduces each performer. The clowns, with their miniature cars and their juggling act and their slapstick comedy routine. Santiago the Surreal, a magician who wows the audience with a series of tricks that he keeps as a closely guarded secret. Baz helps with the routine, always an eager apprentice, the only person Santiago trusts with his secrets. There are trapeze artists and aerial silk acrobats, Baz’s mother, Zofia, the lead performer of their group. The only animals we have are Cheryl’s troop of trained poodles, and they always delight the kids, especially when she calls for volunteers from the audience. And last up, the final act, is always me and the twins, Adrian and Alin. The Globe of Death. The scent of the metal mesh and exhaust fumes, the flood of adrenaline. The roar of our bikes as we speed through the cage that seems too small to fit all three of us. The rush of the cheering crowd. I love the speed and the risk. Maybe I love it a little bit too much. Because, sometimes, it feels like not enough.

I roll out of the cage after our set is done, stopping between Adrian and Alin as we wave to the audience. Matt Cranwell’s license burns in my pocket as though it’s branding my flesh.

The moment I can slip away, I do.

I exchange my dirt bike for my Triumph, my performance helmet for my custom-painted ICON, pocket my mini tool set, and then head to Elmsdale, the lowering sun chasing me through the straight, flat roads. I’m a whirlwind through the grocery store, grabbing bananas and a sad-looking pineapple and anything else that looks remotely tropical, along with a flimsy tube of cocktail sticks. When I’ve paid, I stuff them in my fraying backpack, resolving to replace a better one at a future stop.

On my way out of the shop I bring up my phone and double-check Matt Cranwell’s address, entering it into the map. The route is straightforward on the grid network of small-town streets. He can’t be any more than ten minutes out of town. The weather is perfect, the sun still high enough that if I do a little drive-by to scope it out, I’ll still be back at the fairgrounds before dark.

The memory of the Tower card lies over my vision of the map like an opaque film. My nose scrunches. I stop next to my bike and slide my phone into the mobile holder mounted to my handlebars.

Maybe this is a bit insane. It’s not my usual gig. But I’ve really wanted to change things up lately. I know I need to. I’ve known it for a while. If I’m going to keep helping women like Lucy to take flight, it’s not enough to just give them the means to do it anymore. If I’m going to go for it, I should really go for it, you know? Rev it up. Full throttle. Motorcycle references aside, it’s not right to be on the sidelines of the action anymore. I might be supplying the means to right a few wrongs, but I’ve always been a step removed from the actual doing.

I glance down at the tiny carnation tattooed on my wrist. My fingers trace the initials next to it. V.R. I can’t let what happened last year happen again. Not ever.

Not only is it wrong to pass off the responsibility of ending a life to someone who might be ill-prepared to do it, it’s a bit boring too. I want to take someone like Matt Cranwell down with my own two hands.

At least, I think I do.

No. I for sure do. It’s right … ish … and I definitely have the urge, and maybe that will scratch the itch deep inside my brain that craves more.

Besides, there’s nothing saying I need to do it right this second. I just have to swing by and scope the place out. And then I’ve got a few days to make my move and we’ll be on to the next town. The next show. Always a next woman who lives in fear. Who asks for my help in coded messages and worried glances. A next man to take down.

I swing a leg over my bike and start the engine and then pull away from the parking lot and onto the country roads.

It doesn’t take long before I’m rolling to a stop just before an expanse of cornfields and a gravel driveway that leads to a small farmhouse and outbuildings. I park in a dip in the road where my bike will be obscured by cornstalks. My heart jumps up my throat as I pull off my helmet and just listen.

There’s nothing.

I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe an obvious sign. But nothing seems to come. I just stand at the end of that driveway and stare at the small but well-kept house that could be anyone’s. Swing set in the yard. Bicycles discarded on the lawn. A catcher’s mitt and a baseball bat next to raised beds of a vegetable garden. Flowers in hanging pots, a flag flapping in the breeze. An all-American country home.

For a moment, I wonder if I have the wrong house. Or maybe I imagined everything I thought I saw back in the tarot tent.

And then I hear yelling.

A screen door slams. The kids leave the house and head for their bikes, picking them up to peddle away from the chaos with their bare feet. They disappear around the back of the property. The yelling continues inside as though they never left. I can’t make out the words. But the rage in his voice is clear. Louder and louder until it feels like the windows will crack. The house is alive with it. And then a crash, something thrown inside. And a scream.

I’m halfway up the driveway before I realize what I’m doing. But it’s too late to stop now. I pull my helmet back on and the mirrored visor down. I pass the raised vegetable beds and scoop up the aluminum baseball bat just as the screen door slams and Matt comes stalking onto the porch. I freeze but he doesn’t even notice me, his attention locked on the phone in his hands. He trudges down the steps, a scowl imprinted in his weathered features, and starts walking toward the truck parked next to the house.

My grip tightens around the bat.

I could stop. Duck into the cornstalks and hide. He’ll turn around at any moment and see me. It will be unavoidable as soon as he gets into the vehicle. Unless I hide now.

But there’s one thing that keeps playing on repeat in my thoughts.

The show can’t start until you jump.

So I take my chance.

I stay on the grass as I rush toward him. Footsteps light. Tiptoes. Bat ready. He’s nearing the front of the truck. His eyes are still on the screen. I’m closing in and he still doesn’t know it.

My heart rams my bones. My breaths are quick with terror and exhilaration. My visor fogs at the edges.

I take my first step on the gravel and Matt’s head whips around. A second step and he drops his phone. I raise the bat. On the third step I bring it down on his head.

But Matt is already moving.

I hit him but the blow doesn’t strike hard enough. He ducks and drops, and the contact only angers him. It’s not enough to bring him down. So I swing again. This time he catches the bat.

“What the fuck,” he snarls. He rips the weapon from my hand and wraps his palms around the grip. “Fucking bitch.”

A moment of unsteadiness on my feet is all he needs. He swings the bat as hard as he can. It hits my lower leg with the force of a lightning strike.

I fall to the ground. Flat on my back. Gasping for air. For a brief, glorious moment, I feel no pain.

And then it consumes me like an electric shock.

Shattering agony climbs from my lower leg and up my thigh and through my body until it erupts in a choked sob. I gulp a breath of air. Not enough comes in through my helmet. What does carry through it is the scent of piña colada, the smashed fruit that’s tumbled from my torn backpack, the seams split with the force of my fall. It’s cruel. Sickening sweetness and blinding pain.

The bat comes down a second time and hits my thigh. But I barely feel it. The pain in my lower leg is so overwhelming that a third hit feels like a dull thud.

I see Matt Cranwell’s eyes through my visor. Just a heartbeat. Long enough to see determination. Malice. Even the cold thrill of a kill. The whole universe slows to a crawl as he raises the bat above his head. He’s positioned over my injured leg. If he hits my lower leg again, I know I’ll pass out. And then he’ll kill me.

My hand scrapes across the gravel. Nails dig into the dirt. I gather a fistful of sand and stone, and just as he’s about to take his swing, I toss it in Matt Cranwell’s face.

He pitches over at the waist with a frustrated cry, lowering the bat to work the gravel from his eyes. I tear the weapon from his grip, but he’s quick enough to grab it back, even with his eyes watering, leaking dusty tears down his face. I kick his hand with my good foot and the bat flies into the cornfield. Before he can regain his composure, I kick his leg at the knee, and he tumbles down to my level.

I claw my way backward. My left hand slides through the slime of a mashed banana. Matt Cranwell crawls after me, half-blind with dust and rage. He reaches forward and I scramble around me for something to grab on to. A weapon. A shred of hope. Anything.

I sweep my hand through the gravel and a sharp point digs into my palm. I glance over just long enough to spot the cocktail sticks strewn next to my fingers. A bunch of them rest in the shattered plastic tube.

I grab them just as Cranwell wraps his hand around the ankle of my busted leg and tugs.

The scream I let loose is agony and feral rage and desperation. I pitch forward, the spikes clutched in my fist. And I drive their pointed ends right into Matt Cranwell’s eye.

He cries out. Releases my ankle. Squirms in the dust, a shaking hand hovering over his face. He turns in my direction as he thrashes from the pain he can’t escape. Blood tumbles over his lashes and down his cheek in a viscous crimson rivulet. Three cocktail sticks jut from his eye like a macabre kindergarten craft. Their little flags quiver with his shock. His lid tries to blink, a reflex he can’t stop. Every motion of his eyelid hits the highest wooden skewer and he jolts with a fresh hit of pain. He’s screaming. Screaming a sound I’ve never heard before.

My stomach churns and I retch in my helmet. I manage to swallow the vomit down, but just barely.

I have to get the fuck out of here.

I turn myself over and push up onto my good foot, the other dragging behind me as I limp to the bottom of the driveway. Matt is still yelling behind me, curses and pleas that tumble after me down the gravel track.

Tears stream down my face. My molars clamp tight, ready to crack. Every hop I take forces my broken leg to take the pressure of the step. Agony. It’s fucking agony. A spike of pain that drives from my heel to my thigh. That threatens to bring me down.

“Keep fucking going,” I whisper as I flip my visor open. My first breath of fresh air is the only thing that keeps me upright.

I don’t know what happens when you get poked in the eye with a fistful of cocktail sticks. His other eye might be squeezed shut. Or maybe he’ll be able to fight through the pain and run after me. But I can’t think about that shit now. I just have to get to my bike. Hold on to the hope that I can get away.

When I get to the bottom of the driveway, I glance toward the farm. Matt Cranwell is on his hands and knees, still yelling and cursing, spitting venom and dripping blood onto the gravel. And then I look toward the house. Lucy is there, standing behind the screen door. A silhouette. I can’t see her face, but I can feel her eyes on me. She can’t see me clearly from this distance, not with the helmet obscuring most of my face. She doesn’t know me well enough to recognize me from my clothes or my mannerisms. She knows something life-altering has happened, that something is very wrong with this moment, her husband screaming in distress on the driveway. But it’s not him she’s watching. It’s me.

She closes the door and disappears inside the house.

I leave Matt where he belongs, rolling in the dirt. I hobble to my motorcycle. When I swing my leg over the seat, something catches against the inside of my leather pants. Pain ripples up my leg. But I keep going. I start the engine. Close my hand around the clutch. Change gears and pull back the throttle and get the fuck away from this farm.

I don’t know where to go.

I just follow my instinct and ride.