Page 42 of Property of Scythe
“They’re hanging by the back door. I’ll let you know what I find.”
As Boomer leaves, Scythe stands. “Listen, shit might go south faster than we plan. If that happens, you obey my orders. If I say run, do it. If I say hide or start the Hummer and leave without me, you follow through. Your safety is top priority.”
“You keep saying that.” I run my fingers over his angular jawline, loving the feel of the bristly hair. “I’ll listen.”
“Good. Let me change, and we’ll head out.”
“YOU’RE ALL CLEAR,”Boomer tells us through the car’s speakers. “Don’t see anything suspicious. Want me to stick around?”
“No. We’re on our way. Prospect should be there soon.”
“Let me know if you do.”
Boomer ends the call as we drive to my building. Scythe is unusually quiet.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Just trying to make sense of everything. There’s no reason for a killer to return to Raven’s Crest.”
Return? Oh, right. The serial killer from the 1970s.
“Do you think it’s connected? How would that make sense? If that’s true, how am I a target? I just moved here.”
“I know. It doesn’t make sense, baby. That’s what concerns me. Too many unknown variables.”
“I get it.”
“Hey, we’re not going to focus on any of that.”
We pull up to my building, and Scythe parks the Hummer. Outside, Chris sits on his bike. He waves as we open the doors.
“Hey, Lottie. Pres.”
“Hi, Chris,” I greet him, waving because we’re friends now.
“Keep watch, prospect,” Scythe orders. “We don’t plan to be inside long.”
Chris shuts off his engine. “I’m on it, Pres.”
Scythe ushers me into the building, and we wave at the concierge. He greets us before we step into the elevator. My biker man seems on edge. He’s fidgeting and tapping his fingers on his thigh.
“Is something wrong?”
“Not sure yet,” he growls.
“Well, everything is okay with my building.”
“I know.”
The elevator dings and the doors swish open. Scythe steps out first, reaching for my hand as we enter the hall.
I know it’s silly, but I feel a heaviness settle in the air. Almost a foreboding sense of danger. “Scythe?”
There’s no explanation for it, but I think it’s what he’s feeling too.
“We need to leave, Lottie.”
He says the words too late. We’re already at my apartment door, and it swings open, revealing Art the Clown wearing the same bloody costume Scythe described to me. The Terrifier. Right here. In my personal space.
