by RJ Blain
Whipped cream, the canned stuff that drove Sassy crazy because she couldn’t help herself when it crossed her path, popped into existence over Tom Heatherow’s head. In a flash of golden light, a single cherry landed on his head.
The ants didn’t rain down from the sky, but swarmed from the roof of his house and teemed over the sweet-ladened man. They glowed with a faint, golden light, and the instant the first one reached his feet, Tom Heatherow screamed, dropped to the walkway, and flailed as though the fires of hell boiled beneath his flesh. My brows shot up, and I debated offering to help him.
Then I remembered the truth of what I’d asked of the archangel, clenched my teeth, and listened to him scream.
“Jesus Christ!” Sassy yelped, and she stuck close to the car. “What the hell?”
“Tell me, Tom Heatherow. Do you hear their voices?” Ghosts, pseudo-ghosts, it didn’t matter. Whatever landed the fucker in prison and kept him there until the end of his days. I’d have to thank the next angel I met for making certain justice was served. I reached over, plucked the cherry off his head, and popped it into my mouth. “Here’s the funny thing about what you’ve done, Mr. Heatherow. Yeah, you got Maxwell out of the way, but there’s always someone who is going to take his place. This time, that someone is me. And when I do, it’s going to be treacherous men like you I turn over to the courts. Did you really think you’d get away with murder?”
In retrospect, I doubted the bastard could hear me over his screams, but I didn’t care. I pulled out my phone and took pictures of him. One by one, the ants winked out of existence, although a few I recognized as good old Texan fire ants stuck around and continued to take offense to Tom Heatherow’s presence.
None of them bit me.
“Aaron?” In her bare feet, Sassy ran up the walkway. “What happened?”
“Just desserts,” I announced. “Would you like to give Chief Braneni a call? I’m sure he’d just love to hear about this.” While I’d rather the bastard fell over dead, I kept an eye on him to make sure he still breathed. Maybe mercy needed to temper justice in some cases, but if I could pick one man to stand trial of them all, I’d always pick him. “You might want to call for an ambulance, too. Who knows what that many ant bites will do to the fucker. We can start a betting pool to see how long it takes him to start singing like a canary. And once he does, he’ll get his day in court, and I hope he enjoys watching everything he worked for fall apart around him.”
Sassy’s eyes widened, but she retrieved her phone, dialed a number, and said, “Chief Braneni? I’m sorry to bother you, but Aaron wanted to give Tom Heatherow some information, but when he—” Sassy’s mouth dropped open. “He really did? You’re serious. He really did that? Aaron! How could you?”
I looked her in the eyes and said, “It was your idea. Except for the cherry on top. That was all me. Do I look like a miracle worker to you?”
Sassy blinked, lowered he gaze to Tom Heatherow, who continued to writhe and scream at my feet, and said, “Yes, you do.”
“Just request an ambulance, Sassy. He does us no good dead.”
Tom Heatherow survived the hundreds of ant bites covering his body. He held out an entire week, all spent at the hospital for observation, before the haunting voices of the dead and a single visit from a pale but very alive Sharon Gray broke his resolve and he begged for the torture to stop. A single call from the hospital summoned the police and the archangel, and luck alone had me down the hall to be the CDC’s guinea pig for various testing, to check on my virus levels, and otherwise determine I’d fully recovered from the shooting.
A quiet laugh from the archangel, a sound I suspected I alone heard, clued me in that luck had nothing to do with my presence at the hospital for the confession.
Tom Heatherow began with begging Sharon for forgiveness, claiming of all the women he’d been with, he hadn’t wanted her to be hurt, but she’d known too much. Sharon’s expression darkened, and she glanced at the archangel.
“You’re under no obligation to forgive him for his sins, Miss Gray, but you might find the burden of your experiences easier to bear should you decide against carrying the burden of his existence on your shoulders. Is he worth scarring your soul? Only you can decide.”
She nodded, watched Tom Heatherow, and said nothing.
Name by name, Tom Heatherow confessed his sins, and the waters had run deeper than we’d guessed. From victims to targets to accomplices, once he began to speak, he refused to stop until he’d aired every last one of them. Through it all, we listened, recorded his words, and waited for the archangel to confirm the truth of his words.
It took several hours for him to finish, and through it all, I worked through my grief and anguish, accepting the tangled mess that would one day become justice. It would take time, even with the word of an archangel driving the case forward. But one day, Maxwell would rest easy, as would the other victims killed through Tom Heatherow’s machinations.
Tom Heatherow turned to the archangel with wide, blood-shot eyes. “Tell them. Tell them! I told the truth. Every word true. I told them. Just make it stop.”
I wondered what Tom Heatherow had heard, and I wondered how much of it was old ghosts, ghosts of an archangel’s creation, or memories haunting the man.
~Memories are more potent that even ghosts, and nothing a ghost could do would surpass what he does to himself. Justice has been served.~ The archangel reached out and rested his hand on Tom Heatherow’s head. “You have spoken every word true.”
“Mercy,” he begged. “Mercy, please.”
I held my breath and waited for the archangel’s verdict, something no court could overturn. Would the man live? Would he die? Or would the archangel once again surprise me with the unexpected?
“Then I take it all from you. Everything you were and everything you are, I cast them away. Justice has been served, but mercy has been granted. Your life could never repay the lives of those lost at your hand. You are now a blank slate, and may you become something worth the air you breathe. When you require his testimony, call for me, and I shall stand in his place for he will never again be the man who believed he could seize power through the blood of children.” The archangel’s declaration shook the hospital, and startled cries rang out from down the hall. Before I could even release the breath I held, the archangel vanished in a flash of silvery light.
Tom Heatherow’s expression went slack, and in that moment, I understood the archangel’s decree was an absolute, and nothing short of divine intervention would bring the man back. I wondered who he’d become, but I decided it didn’t matter.
Justice had been served, and death wasn’t the only mercy. A man who’d never understand the crimes he’d committed wouldn’t face time in prison. His cause wouldn’t haunt the judiciary system for long, either.
The CDC would take over the case, the man would likely disappear from Dallas, and he’d be molded into a different and better man, one who wouldn’t ruin so many lives.
Sharon’s eyes widened. “What just happened?”
Tom Heatherow’s gaze slid to Sharon, and he smiled. “You’re beautiful. Are you an angel?”
“No, I’m not an angel,” Sharon replied, and her brows furrowed.
“Oh. You look like an angel to me. Will you be staying long?”
“No, I won’t be staying long,” she replied, her tone puzzled.
“That’s a shame. You look like an angel.”
The moment the woman realized what had happened to the man who’d terrorized her and almost cost her her life, her eyes watered, although no tears fell. “I’m no angel, but thank you.”
I slipped out of the room and left the consequences of the archangel’s decree for the hospital staff, and I wondered if anything remained of Tom Heatherow beyond our memories of everything he’d done.
I hoped not.
Sassy came down the hall, scowling when she spotted me at the door. “What happened? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I swear, they sent
me all over the hospital trying to figure out where’d you gone after testing.”
“He confessed.”
Her eyes widened. “He did?”
“About everything. There’s cleanup to do, but as far as we’re concerned, it’s over.”
“You got all the names from him?”
Mercy hadn’t come in a form I’d expected, justice wasn’t a conviction, but a promise the mountain would fall, and I found the combination both bitter and sweet. I wrapped my arm around Sassy’s shoulder and turned her around so we could escape the hospital and the inevitable scrutiny I’d face from the police for getting their prized confession, the word of an archangel, and the complete loss of the man who’d wrought so much tragedy. “He’ll never stand trial, but we’ve the word of an archangel he’ll give testimony to make sure the case is closed in the courts. That’ll have to be enough.”
“Well, I guess what they say is true. Huh.” Sassy leaned against me.
“What is true?”
“Angels are assholes.”
They sure were.
Epilogue
Nine Months Later
Had I known Sassy would need to deal with pregnancy and the rigors of the police academy at the same time, I might’ve attempted to veto our training cycle and earned myself an ass-kicking from my wife. Had I know she would go into labor during the graduation ceremony, which included our entire class of six lycanthropes, I wouldn’t have bothered to leave bed. I would’ve stayed home, kept Sassy home, and left her in the capable hands of our mothers before our trip to the hospital.
According to my mother, my job was to accept I’d have a broken hand by the end of the delivery and do my best to convince Sassy our firstborn children weren’t actually going to claw their way out of her belly and take over the world from birth.
I really needed to curtail her enjoyment of watching horror movies before bed. Every time she watched one, she concocted a new way our children would kill us all.
Twelve hours later, the twins we expected made their appearance along with one extra, a tiny boy who wanted nothing to do with being born. He voiced his complaints over his eviction from her belly in screams confirming he had healthy lungs. Our twins, the daughters neither of us had truly anticipated, cried as well, although they were easier to please.
They wanted their mother to nurse them immediately, and they were not having anything to do with the nurses who wanted to check their health. To my amusement, the babies won, although Sassy ultimately needed her mother’s help getting both babies situated and cradled while they drank for the first time.
As though accepting his fate as the custodian of two sisters, Maxwell waited his turn for a chance to nurse with admirable patience, and gave Joe and the nurses time to measure him, check him over, and otherwise confirm he had all of his pieces in the right place.
All things considered, I could only think of one thing to say. “I’m so sorry.”
The look Sassy shot me promised retribution later. “You’re exactly fifty percent to blame for this, Mr. Clinton.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I’m at least seventy-five percent to blame for this. The blue shoes are taking the other twenty-five percent, as you’re faultless.” I regarded my hand, wondering if she’d ever release it but decided I didn’t mind. When she let go, I’d need Joe to put my hand back together. Until she wanted me attending to my new fatherly duties, I’d stay where I was and do my duty as primary hand holder.
I had no idea how we’d manage caring for three infants completely dependent on us, but I was relieved neither of us was expected to begin working for three months. When we tested our new lives as cops, our parents would take up the roles as spoilers of grandchildren.
It still amazed me we’d managed to cram eighteen months’ worth of education into eight months.
“You’re so full of shit, Aaron,” she whispered, and as I’d been warned, her exhaustion left her shaking and ready to check out of life for a while. My next job would be to keep her awake long enough to bond with our babies.
Smiling, I leaned over her and kissed her cheek. “You’re perfect, and so are they, but you have mommy duties to attend to. After our voracious daughters are satisfied, little Maxwell needs a turn.”
“How’d we end up with three?” Sassy shrugged. “Oh, well. What’s one extra?”
I wouldn’t remind her we’d never sleep again from my understanding of the situation. We weren’t going to be sleeping with twins. Triplets would drive us to the limits of our sanity. “Exactly. What’s one extra? I think we’ll manage just fine,” I lied. “There are four eager grandparents with like a million kids between them who’d just love to babysit for us.”
My parents sighed while Sassy’s parents laughed.
“You’re right. Totally right. Now, I do believe we have an argument to resume, Mr. Aaron Clinton, as our entire list of boy names is now completely fucking useless!”
“If you’re expecting me to be apologetic that we have two daughters as beautiful as you, you’re going to be very disappointed.”
“Aaron,” she growled.
I smiled, lifted her hand, and kissed her knuckles. “Next time, please don’t break every bone in my hand, okay?”
“Next time? Next time? Why are you already thinking about next time? And what the hell are you talking about? I didn’t break your hand.”
Joe, deliverer of his newborn nieces and nephew, laughed from the doorway. “You broke his hand, but he’s been a great sport about it. I will say this much, though. Damn, woman. Next time Dad needs a vice, I’ll just tell him to talk to you.”
“The instant I can get up, you’re a dead man, Joe,” she snarled.
“He’s teasing you, Sassy. You’re fine, I’m fine, and the babies are fine. That’s all that matters.” The start of the rest of my life filled the room, and Sassy graced me with a tired smile. “Please don’t kill Joe. I need him to put my hand back together,” I teased.
“You will regret that, Aaron.”
“But will you make me regret it while you’re wearing the blue shoes? It’s important.”
“You are so lucky the babies are nursing, Aaron. So. Lucky.”
Yes, I was.
About the Author
RJ Blain suffers from a Moleskine journal obsession, a pen fixation, and a terrible tendency to pun without warning.
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When she isn't playing pretend, she likes to think she's a cartographer and a sumi-e painter.
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In her spare time, she daydreams about being a spy. Should that fail, her contingency plan involves tying her best of enemies to spinning wheels and quoting James Bond villains until she is satisfied.
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RJ also writes as Susan Copperfield, Trillian Anderson, and Bernadette Franklin.
If you enjoy using bookbub, you can follow RJ and her alter egos Susan and Bernadette there.
https://thesneakykittycritic.com
Pen & Page Publishing
Magical Romantic Comedies (with a body count)
Playing with Fire
Hoofin’ It
Hearth, Home, and Havoc (Novella)
Whatever for Hire
Serial Killer Princess
Owl Be Yours (Novella)
Last but not Leashed (Novella)
Fowl Play (Novella)
No Kitten Around
Blending In
Cheetahs Never Win
Saddle Up (2019)
Grave Humor (May 2019)
Dragon Her Heels (2019)
From Witch & Wolf World
Series: Witch & Wolf
Inquisitor
Winter Wolf
Blood Diamond
Silver Bullet
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Series: Wolf Hunt
Wolf Hunt (2018)
Wild Wolf (2019)
The Edge of Midnight (2020)
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Series: Nature of the Beast
Pack Justice
&n
bsp; Dual Nature (TBD)
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Series: Balancing the Scales
Karma
License to Kill (TBD)
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Standalones
Beneath a Blood Moon
Shadowed Flame
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Tales of the Winter Wolf
(Short Story/Novella Collections)
Omnibus - Volumes One-Five
Volume Six (Aftermath to Winter Wolf.)
Other Stories by RJ Blain
Jesse Alexander Novels
Water Viper
Steel Heart (late 2018)
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Requiem for the Rift King (Epic Fantasy)
Storm Without End
Storm Surge
The Tides of War (TBD)
Witch & Wolf World Reading Order
The Witch & Wolf world is all over the place. I’m sorry about that—really. I’m worse than a gnat sometimes, flitting from project to project, excited to write my next story. Here’s my preferred reading order of these books. While I wrote Inquisitor first, it actually happens after Winter Wolf.
Note: You can jump in on any series with the exception of Blood Diamond, Silver Bullet, and later volumes—they are dependent on events that happen prior in the series.
