On His Watch (Vengeance Is Mine Book 1)

by Susanne Matthews

  Epilogue

  Nikki trembled with joy and excitement. Her wedding day. The only one she intended to remember for the rest of her life. While some of her memories had returned, she’d been spared most of the details of her life with Sam/Leo, although she recalled the times she’d shared with Danny and Mandy.

  Cassie adjusted the tulle veil on Nikki’s head as Trudy added a cotton-candy pink bow to Mandy’s curls. The child who’d chosen her own dress, waited anxiously with her basket of pink and white rose petals ready to precede her mother down the aisle.

  “You look fabulous,” Cassie said, dressed in a deeper shade of blue for her role as matron of Honor. The ivory silk wedding gown Nikki had chosen accentuated the slight tan she’d gotten. Beside her, dressed in strapless blue silk dresses, Angie and Trudy waited for the signal for the procession to start. “Deciding on a garden wedding here, in the house where your lives together really started is a wonderful way to end one chapter of your life and start another.

  “Two minutes, ladies,” Troy said, coming in to assume his role.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, smiling down at her.

  “I think I’ve been ready for this all my life,” she answered, smiling as broadly as she could. “Now, all I have to do is not start crying.”

  He chuckled. “I thought women were supposed to cry at weddings.”

  Angie laughed. “True, but not usually the bride.”

  “Happy tears are always welcome,” Cassie added, “but let’s do this. There’s a man out there waiting for you and a little guy waiting for me who’ll soon need to be fed.”

  With her arm in Troy’s, she stood in the doorway and waited for the music to begin. Felix Mendelssohn's “Wedding March” sounded, and Mandy giggled before assuming her place of honor and moving slowly out the door, down the front steps of the house and along the red carpet, strewing her rose petals as she did. Trudy and Angie followed her, with Cassie bringing up the rear.

  Nikki took a deep breath and stepped out into the June sunshine. Rick, as best man stood next to Jason who looked resplendent in his black tux. Beside him stood Buck and Nathan dressed in dark suits. Among the guests were those who’d been instrumental in her survival. Dr. Marion sat beside a very pregnant Pam who held baby Nick on her lap, Danny, lying on the grass at her feet. Nikki had asked her to be part of the wedding party, but she’d declined, offering to watch the baby instead. It might’ve taken Rick three years to pop the question, but he wasn’t wasting any time now.

  Brad and the rest of the geek squad were there as was Ivan, having come from France with her mother for the festivities. Nadia had remained at the château, assuming the role of hostess. Drug-free, clear headed, and recently divorced, her grin was as broad as Nikki’s.

  Clasped in her hand along with her bouquet, Nikki held a tiny white stick, the little pink lines on it easy to read. She planned to hand it to Jason as soon as she got to the front. Her happiness was complete. Today, she was marrying the man she loved, giving Mandy the father she wanted, and soon she’d bear him a child created in love at the darkest moment of her life.

  Fighting the tears of happiness, she grinned as Troy placed her hand in Jason’s.

  “May you always be as happy as you are now,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

  Jason looked down surprised when she slid the tiny stick into his hand. He frowned. Less than a second later, before the minister could open his mouth, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a loud resounding smack that had the guests laughing. He looked into her eyes.

  “You’ve just made me the luckiest, happiest man on earth.”

  He turned her to face the minister.

  “Now, where was I?” he said, looking out at the crowd. “Ah, yes. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here...”

  Jason had once said he would stay with her until it was over. It wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

  The End

  More From The Vengeance Is Mine Series: Book Two, Fire Angel

  Chapter One

  “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord. Well, not tonight, Buddy,” he said, knowing no one could hear him, but loving the sound of his words. “It’s my turn to mete out justice.”

  Never had he felt so strong, so powerful, so alive. He’d been trapped inside a chrysalis, waiting to become what he’d always been meant to be. Each of his senses was more attuned than it had ever been. He could hear the wings of the owl flapping as he chased his prey, see the chipmunk scurrying to get out of the clearing before the predator found it, even smell the tiny animals fear. His taste buds feasted on the heady, grass-like flavor of the joint, the smoke filling his lungs. Rubbing his chin, the tips of his fingers recognized the sandpaper grit on his cheeks from the five o’clock shadow there.

  It had taken months to plot his revenge and weeks to decide on his methodology. He’d tested it when he had to, but for the most part, he’d hidden his true nature behind the façade society had given him. Now it was time to reveal himself.

  He’d chosen his victims carefully. Each and every one of them had offended him in some way, and they would pay and pay dearly, none more so than the man who’d hit his dog and had driven off. He’d recognized the car. The son of a bitch hadn’t bothered to get the bumper fixed.

  That night, with the merciless rain bearing down on him, he’d fallen to his knees and wept, until the sky had cleared, and the light of the full moon had turned him into living silver. He’d picked up the broken body of the only one left who’d loved him and under that silvered glow, he’d evolved, drawing strength from heaven itself. Vengeance was his for the taking, and take it he would. But he needed to do it right. Each and every death had to be planned and executed carefully.

  No one had used this shack since old man Simmons had died in a supposed hunting accident four months ago. It appeared he’d shot himself when he tripped near a trapped raccoon. Who’d stunk the most? The dead man or the animal beside him? The scavengers must’ve had a field day. There was a lot of money to be made trapping animals and selling the pelts. That old man had no business criticizing others with his “holier than thou attitude” about humane methods and snapping traps before the animals could step in them. If they wanted to listen to a damn lecture, they would go back to school. It was amazing no one had killed him months earlier and saved him the trouble.

  The place belonged to Simmons’s grandson now, and the man had put it up for sale last month forcing his hand, but the time was right. Everything was ready inside. He’d dropped off the supplies earlier, driven home, and then hiked back late this afternoon to set things in motion.

  “Perfect night to die,” he mumbled, waiting for his prey to arrive.

  Tonight, the blue moon, the second full moon in a month, the source of his power and energy, had risen right on time, refueling him. The sky was still clear and not a single leaf trembled, but dark clouds crowded the horizon. It would be at least a couple of hours before the rain came.

  The sound of an engine in the distance told him the play was about to start. Tossing the butt next to the large rock where he’d been sitting, he ground the remnant into the earth with the heel of his boot and waited, watching the vehicle approach.

  “Hell, man, why did you pick this place for a delivery? I damn near didn’t find it, and my boss would’ve been pissed.” He got out of the van.

  “Bandit, relax. This won’t take long. I told you. It’s nice and private.” He indicated the right bumper. “Have a run in with something?” he asked.

  The young punk chuckled, sealing his fate.

  “Hit something over on River Road last year. Could’ve been a dog or a cat. Stupid thing was sitting there just asking for it.” He shook his head. “Been meaning to have Duffy fix it, but that guy wants too much money. It’s drivable, so I guess it doesn’t matter.” He shrugged. “Speaking of money, you got mine? I’m on the clock here. I’ve got half a dozen deliveries to make tonight.”

  “Come on in. The place isn’t much, but I�
��ve got your money in there. Got time for a beer?”

  The young man snorted and patted his large beer belly. “No, but I can always make time for what’s important. But I can only have one.”

  He chortled. “One’s all it’ll take,” he muttered, his heart pounding with anticipation.

  Entering the cabin, he cracked open two bottles of beer, dropped the four soluble tablets into one of them, and handed it to the dealer.

  “To your health,” he toasted, clanking his bottle against Bandit’s.

  “Organic. I’ve never tried that,” the dealer said, guzzling half the bottle in one gulp. “Not bad. You must be richer than I thought. Should’ve charged you more.” He tossed the paper bag he’d carried in on the table. “Here’s your stuff. Where’s my money?” He raised the bottle to his lips once more.

  “Right over here.”

  Before he could take a step, Bandit dropped like a stone.

  Stepping over to the fallen man, he kicked him in the ribs as hard as he could.

  “That’s for killing my dog,” he said.

  Striking the match on the cover, he lit the small angel-shaped candle he’d settled onto the Styrofoam plate in the center of the tinder he’d placed in the old fireplace, the sulfur filling his nostrils, and dropped the rest of the book of matches on the pile of sticks on the floor in front of it. Like the image on that poster his mother had kept in her room, he was the avenging archangel, his sword aflame, ridding this world of unnecessary vermin.

  The candle burned quickly and soon the paper under it caught and then the tinder. The rest of the matches in the book ignited as one. Glancing over his shoulder, he saluted the body on the bed, and moved over to the safe spot he’d created near the door. He wanted to watch the action as long as he could.

  “Don’t worry, asshole, you won’t find it cold in here tonight.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Wrapping him in the turpentine-soaked blanket and pulling him up onto the bed had been a chore. Would anyone even see the poetic justice of it? A drug dealer, wrapped in a drug-soaked cloth, set alight?

  The crackling of the growing blaze filled his ears as the infant fire moved through its tinder. As the flames and smoke increased, it didn’t take long before he heard the sizzle, crackle, and pop from the blaze—music to his ears. The only thing better was the whoosh as the conflagration grabbed the accelerant and lit him up like a torch. It wouldn’t take long before he would be able to hear the boiling of the sap inside the pine logs he’d brought in to help the blaze, but he would have to be outside by then.

  It wasn’t only the killing and the sound of the fire that appealed to him. He enjoyed the various scents and aromas from the caustic ones created by the chemicals released as it burned man-made items, to the unmistakable, unforgettable perfume of burning hair and flesh, and finally to the familiar, friendly, nostalgic aroma of apple wood or pine. Each was an aphrodisiac in its own right, but it was the second odor that had him almost creaming his jeans—so much better than animal fur. Man, that bastard’s hair had been long, and he was close enough to get a good whiff of the pungent perfume before it was just a memory.

  “Made you nice and comfortable for your trip to hell,” he muttered. “No one’s going to miss your sorry ass. Time for me to go.”

  Carrying the beer bottles—he’d poured out what was left of Bandit’s on the floor—he exited the building and walked around it to make sure everything was good. Tonight, he would be the only witness, but soon others could enjoy his handiwork, too.

  He pulled another joint out of the pocket of his jean jacket, flicked his Bic to set it alight, and took a deep satisfying pull. He was going to miss this shit when it ran out, but it looked like he had a sizeable amount of it in the back of Bandit’s vehicle, and this time, the price was right. There would be some angry customers and suppliers out there, but they weren’t his problem. Finding more of the date rape drug in the stash had been an unexpected bonus. He’d been afraid he would have to drive to Ottawa to score more, and finding a source had been a pain in the ass the last time he’d done it.

  Leaning against the hood of the van, left hand tucked into his pants’ pocket, he let the joint dangle from his right as he watched the cabin burn.

  The fire raged, and it was hungry. The more it ate, the more it wanted. Too bad Bandit hadn’t felt the bite of the flames as they devoured him. Maybe next time, he would use less of the drug and see what happened.

  The roof collapsed as the blaze consumed the shack and its unholy contents. He smiled before taking another deep drag, holding the drug in his lungs as long as possible before exhaling. The blaze mesmerized him with the constant shifting of its multifaceted flames. He appreciated that color and temperature were codependent and knew just how hot things had to get to suit his purposes.

  Fire had always fascinated him. He’d been burned a time or two, but wasn’t that the way with pets? Didn’t they always bite until they were firmly under control? He’d learned to release its energy in a variety of ways—slowly like a serpent slithering and coiling itself around a branch, waiting for its unsuspecting victim to come within range before crushing the life from it, or quickly, striking like a cobra and claiming its prey swiftly and smoothly. Each method brought its own level of satisfaction. His creation, the essence of what he’d become, of what they’d forced him to become, molded in the image he chose—no rules, no overseers, nothing to hinder him in any way.

  Fire was his mistress, a beautiful dancer writhing and gyrating just for him. Every single day, he went through the motions at work waiting until he could be alone with his one true love. She had a mind and personality of her own. Depending on her mood, she could be kind and helpful. At other times, she offered companionship and security, but when unleashed like tonight, she sterilized and destroyed at his command.

  He dropped the end of the joint on the ground and reached up to rub the muscles at the back of his neck no longer as tense as they’d been earlier. While he’d like another, he would wait until he got home. He still had work to do. He had to get rid of the vehicle before any one saw it. The bog was the perfect place.

  He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and took out another cancer stick as his mother had called them. What the hell did she know? She’d bitched his father into an early grave and blamed him for it, then complained herself into one, too. Too bad he hadn’t been able to build a pyre like this for her. Instead, after a little slicing and dicing, he’d placed her in a trash bag in the ground, under her precious petunias, flowers he made sure he “watered” regularly. Knowing the insects would ravage her was satisfaction enough. She’d always been Polly Perfect, complaining about this and that, threatening to tell people about what she called his illness. Let her go ahead. The worms and beetles wouldn’t listen to her either.

  Cracking open a third bottle of beer, he sipped it, alternating with drags on the cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs and the nicotine and alcohol add to the calming effects of the drug he’d taken. His two-pack a day habit was becoming problematic, especially with all the laws against smoking in public places. Hell, soon a man would have nowhere to smoke ... not even in his own damn house. The worst taste in the universe—even worse than his mother’s cooking—had to be that nicotine gum he was forced to chew at work to keep his cravings in check.

  As the fire burned, the tension within him slowly seeped away. Exhausted, he finished his beer and placed the empty in the back seat with the other two. Taking one last look at what was left of the cabin, he noted the fire beginning to shrink in on itself now that there was nothing new to consume. It would burn a while longer, but he was sated. Drops of rain splattered on the hood of the van. Right on time.

  “Soon, darling, soon,” he spoke to the dying flames. “I’ll let you out to play again.”

  Pulling on rubber gloves, he got into Bandit’s vehicle and started the engine. The smoke hung like fog in the darkness. It clung to his hair and to his clothes. He would dump the vehicle, go hom
e, shave, shower, and do a load of laundry. He had to be at work early tomorrow.

  Want to read more?

  Find all books by Susanne Matthews at: https://mhsusannematthews.ca/