‘I do.’ She wrenches free from my grip, her shoulders jerking violently as my grip slides. She stumbles back, her eyes locked onto a wooden crate with a lid. It’s rough-hewn wood with splintered edges, the lid barely holding.
What is she doing?
She snatches it up, the wood crate pressed tightly against her ribs, on her way, she snatches a box cutter and gloves. She unlocks the enclosure, the air thick with the scent of guano and rustling wings. She kneels, placing the crate beside her, and opens it with a soft creak.
‘We haven’t got time for this,’ I groan.
One by one, she reaches out, her gloved hands gently cradling the creature, its fragile body barely resisting as she places it into the box. With full tummies, they twitch, fold their wings and settle. There’s a reverence in her movements. No panic. No haste. One by one she scoops up her precious little monsters into the wooden crate like this is some sort of rescue mission. When the last bat is nestled inside, she lowers the lid and presses it closed.
Then she slits Ritchie’s throat with the box cutter, and collects his blood in a jar.
I stare at her, and she walks out holding the box. ‘What?’ she murmurs. ‘You said you didn’t want him to talk.’
She shoves the crate into my arms, and runs back inside the cottage before I can curse her. I turn, scanning my eyes out of the barn door. There are cars parked along the road, engines rumbling low, echoing across the field. Someone’s coming. Someone bad. She finally emerges, handbag in hand, and her crossbow slung over her shoulder like she’s bloody Joan of Arc, and a rucksack thrown over her other shoulder.
I don’t even bother hiding my disbelief.
‘Oh, brilliant,’ I mutter, voice thick with sarcasm. ‘That’ll scare them off. Bring an arrow to a gun fight,’ I snark, gesturing towards the parked cars in the distance. The kind of vehicles that don’t just carry people, they carry intent. And here we are armed with antique bravado and a weapon better suited for medieval cosplay. It sure is beautiful, but the elegance of the crossbow won’t stop bullets.
Headlamps cut through the dark like searchlights.
She smirks. ‘Well, excuse me, but this goes everywhere with me.’
‘You want to fire a bolt through six lads before they all laugh and put a bullet straight through your skull?’
She shrugs, unfazed. ‘I don’t know.’
I glare, but don’t want to waste anymore time. We pivot – running in the opposite direction, sprinting towards the open field. Grass whips at my legs as we tear through the open land, breath ragged, feet pounding as we distance ourselves from the cottage. Too late to look back. Too late to think.
We run.
Now I’m helping a murderer murder, while helping that murderer cover up a murder, committed by a murderer I was sent to murder – bloody marvelous.
CHAPTER 7
THE CURATOR
Four hundred meters out and the night swallows us whole. A blast tears through the silence, a deafening roar that rattles the ground beneath us. The shockwave that follows is hot – violent, pushing air outward from the cottage with brute force that sends us flying head first into the dry hay beneath our feet. Flames lick at the sky, hungry and wild.
My home.
A second later fragments of brick, stone, wood, and shattered glass rain down like a storm. Smoke billows, thick and choking, curling into the darkness as embers flicker in the wreckage.
‘They blew up my home!’ I whisper, my voice hollow, like it’s been carved out of me. The flames dance where my life used to be, licking greedily at the wreckage, crackling like they’re laughing. I want to scream. But Sal holds his hand over my mouth as if he knows. Instead, I stare. Everything I built. Burnt
The explosion rings in my ears, rattling through my ribs.
My bloody home.
Sal starts pacing, phone pressed against his ear, face half-lit by the glow of my cigarette as I take a slow drag. His voice is tight, as the other end of the call answers.
‘Yeah, Sal? You better have some good news. Like, the bitch is dead.’
‘Not exactly…’ Sal hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘The skin girl’s house just blew up.’
A pause. Then a chuckle. ‘Good! A bit dramatic for you, but good. When are you coming home?’
My mouth drops open.Good?He’s laughing.Bastard.
