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February 5 - February 16, 2025
Being a serial killer who kills serial killers is a great hobby … Until you find yourself locked in a cage. For three days. With a dead body. In the Louisiana summer. With no air conditioning.
No one here can love or understand me … Blackbird, bye, bye
“I’m Rowan,” he says as he extends a hand into the cage.
“You might know me as the Boston Butcher.”
“The Massacre of Mass …?”
“The Ghost of the East Coast …?”
“Well, I’d best be going. Pleasure to almost meet you, nameless captive. Best of luck.”
“Sloane. My name is Sloane. The Orb Weaver.”
“Oh my God. I knew it. I fucking knew they had it wrong. It had to be a woman. The Orb Weaver! Such a cool name. The intricate fishing line, the fucking eyeballs. Amazing. I’m such a huge fan.”
“Come on, Blackbird. I’m in the mood for barbecue. What do you say?”
The Orb Weaver. I’m sitting across the table from the fucking Orb Weaver. And she’s fucking beautiful.
“Well, be prepared, pretty boy. My stomach has been eating nearby organs for the last three days and I’m going to devour these fucking ribs in the most unladylike fashion possible.”
“How come you didn’t pick a name with Blackbird? Raven hair, flighty nature, the song … I’m going to hazard a guess it’s from your childhood, right? I heard you singing it back in the cage.”
“I came to hack off his limbs and enjoy his agonizingly slow death.”
“Don’t worry, Blackbird. I’ll deliver you right back to your smelly little cage. I’m sure it’s still standing despite the fire. Do you think any maggots survived? You can peck them from the ashes if so.”
“More like ‘foster a raven and it will peck out your eyes.’”
“I didn’t gouge them out, Butcher. I plucked them. Delicately. Like a lady.”
“You know what they say, Blackbird. ‘It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye,’” I whisper. “And that’s when the real fun begins.”
Lark Montague
“You’re sure in a spicy mood today, Sloaney. Are you positive you’re not—”
“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.”
You need to let off some pent-up aggression there, missy.”
So, essentially, he’s going to have his ass handed to him like the little bitch masochist he is.”
“Come back to Boston, Fionn. Stop wallowing like some Hallmark Movie Sad Man Cinderwhatever and come home to practice some real medicine.”
“She’s fucking hot. Definitely has a dark side—she likes to take her victims’ eyeballs while they’re still alive. The feds call her the Orb Weaver. Her actual name is Sloane Sutherland.”
You’re probably trying to infect me so I’ll be sick in my room with your manpox while you go and win our little competition.”
“Come on, Blackbird. I need some dragonman DP.”
“There are some great local trails. Elk River is a good place to start. The Bridges is a scenic loop. Just be careful if you head toward Davis Creek. It’s easy to get lost. A hiker went missing that way last year and was never found. Wasn’t the first time, either.”
“No. Christ. Now give me that dragon dick, Blackbird.”
“Good night, weirdo. I’m going to bed. Early bird gets the worm, you know. Might plan myself a solo hiking trip to Davis Creek. No boys allowed unless they have scales and a breeding kink.”
I’m about to step back from the wall. I really am. I’m starting to lean away when I hear a single word pass her lips. Rowan.
“Francis Ross.”
“That woman you were watching …?” My fingers tighten around his throat as he desperately nods. “She is mine.”
“Eyes over here, nose over there. Very artsy, Butcher. Embracing your cubism era. Cool.”
“Cat got your tongue, pretty boy? Didn’t think I’d see the day.”
“The scar on my lip. The one you keep staring at because it’s so damn sexy.”
“Lachlan and I killed him. It was the same night he gave me this scar. Smashed my face with a broken plate.” The motion of her hand slows as Sloane watches me. “And your mom?” “Died giving birth to Fionn.”
“He seemed so vulnerable, despite what he’d just done. I couldn’t leave him like that.”
“You could take a little trip to Boston to visit your Butcher man and see about ending that dry spell. Fill that well, sister.”
“In Boston, Blackbird. What are you doing in Boston?”
“No one competes with Sloane.” Rowan’s eyes anchor on mine, dragging me into the depths of a navy sea. “She just hasn’t realized it yet.”
“Just … hold … still …” Sloane says, gritting out every word over the man’s garbled cries. “I’d say it would hurt less if you stop struggling, but that’s a total lie.”
“You ate a fucking person,”
“Oh my God, Rowan, it was really gross. You stuffed it in. Couldn’t get enough.”
“Never.” I turn toward her and hold her wary gaze. “Well, maybe the yelling at neighborhood children part. I’ll always condone that. But this, Blackbird? This is art.”
“Fuck you, pretty boy.” “You could make so much money as a cat litter influencer on Instagram.”
“I love the sound when my victims beg too.”
“The price I could never pay was Lark.”
David is sitting on the counter, his legs swinging and his gaze vacant as he spoons what seems to be cookies-and-cream ice cream into his mouth straight from the tub.
Semen, milked April tenth to April thirteenth.’ That’s an interesting substitute to salt—”
