Vengeance
Her scars ran so deep, her soul had been severed in two. Michelene had killed and run—but not far enough, or fast enough.
They’d found her.
Azriel had but one rule. No attachments. This rule had kept him alive. He’d lived by it—until her.
She’d found her savior in a man whose past was even darker than her own and whose soul held shadows of that dark. He made her body explode in ways she’d never imagined possible and gave her heart something she’d long given up... hope.
Michelene was his saving grace. The only thing which kept the darkness from consuming him. She was his to protect and cherish.
God help anyone who challenged that--because Vengeance would be his.
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© 2015 Shara Azod
Cover Art: Marteeka Karland
Editor: Katriena Knights
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Contents
Nice was just an illusion. Nice was the thing suburbanites liked to tell themselves they were, a pure delusion they needed to believe as they smiled and waved at their neighbors while secretly hating them, wanting to fuck their wives, wanting to live someone else’s life, wanting to crush things they didn’t understand.
Azriel wasn’t into self deception. He knew he wasn’t a nice man—nowhere close to ever being one. Nor would he ever pretend to be anything other than what he was. On the best of days he was a bastard, Most other times—well, given his chosen profession, being a monster was an asset.
Psychologists could probably have a field day analyzing him, trying to get to the bottom of his particular psychosis. Had he been held enough as a baby? Did he have abandonment issues? Had his parents beaten him viciously?
It was all bullshit, really. He’d had a remarkably unremarkable childhood. Neither cuddled nor ignored, he was the miracle child of older, intellectual parents who spent a great deal of time teaching him, talking to him, showing him all the things parents are supposed to as well as a lot of things most kids are never taught until college. No one yelled at him, hit him, starved him. When they were alive, his parents were ideal. And while they were alive, they believed the same of him.
The truth was simple: Azriel was just different. He’d been good to his mother and father because that was what was expected. Anything outside the norm invited attention, and he made damn sure never to invite any kind of scrutiny. Never had he been moved to give a fuck about anyone other than Mr. and Mrs. Seth. Maybe he hadn’t exactly felt love toward his parents, but certainly he was fond. He had to have been, as he cared enough to make sure their little world was never upset in any way.
But most of the swirling torment of emotions most people were subjected to seemed lacking in him. Frankly, he failed to comprehend why people bothered caring at all. It all seemed so very messy. He had no driving need to procreate. The very idea of children repulsed him. They were small, senseless and quite often a danger to themselves. Besides, why would he want a miniature person dependent on him for its very existence? His parents should be commended for keeping him; Azriel wasn’t so sure he would’ve done the same in their place. Wants and needs that went beyond basic things made no sense to him. At least they didn’t used to.
Until her.
For reasons he was extremely uncomfortable asking himself, Azriel was huddled in a dark corner in this shitty-ass neighborhood, waiting in the goddamn rain for a bus at one o’clock in the morning. He owned several cars, had a nice apartment uptown, a cottage up the coast—right on the beach—as well as various safe houses scattered about the globe. He wasn’t on a job, wasn’t scoping a potential job. There was nothing at all keeping him from being dry, out of this freak summer storm, sipping on a cognac or chugging a beer.
Nothing at all except
her
.
Grinding his teeth, he huddled back into the shadows as the city bus crawled to a stop. It was three minutes late, possibly because the driver had a severe drinking problem. The fact Azriel knew that pissed him off even more than he already was. There was no reason he should be researching anyone this thoroughly he wasn’t planning on killing. But then, she emerged from the squeaking doors of the bus, wearing the butt-ugly mustard-colored polyester uniform, her hair pulled tight in a bun on the top of her head. His breath caught and held as she shot a frowning glance up to the sky, then hurried down the bus steps, attempting to tug the top of her uniform over her chest. Azriel allowed himself a little scoff. As if she could force the unyielding material over that magnificent cleavage. His mouth watered just thinking about the moisture that might be gathering on those deep brown mounds. Licking his lips, he forced himself back deeper into the shadows lest he be tempted to do something completely stupid.
Without sparing a glance to the right or left, she hurried down the sidewalk, those generous hips swaying even though he knew she wasn’t trying to be provocative. With curves like that, she didn’t have to try. The way she moved was innately sensual, no matter how hard she tried to look unassuming. She may have been walking fast, but she walked with complete unawareness of her surroundings. She probably had no idea she was being followed. That was the very reason Azriel was there, or so he liked to tell himself. The woman had managed to attract herself a stalker. Maybe Azriel would be here, following unseen even if there wasn’t a predator watching her this very moment. Certainly he could’ve taken the guy out any time he wanted to, but he hadn’t. Instead he just followed, watched, waited.
Azriel understood the attraction. There was just something about her—a sweetness that should’ve been stamped out of her long before now, yet hadn’t been. Not once had he witnessed her ever fall victim to any of the vices so many residents of this part of time used to escape the horror of their existence. In a way, he was glad there was some sick freak out there stalking her. Otherwise, he would’ve been her stalker, and he didn’t like to think about that. Knowing there was a man out there who would do her serious harm made Azriel her protector. It gave him a solid reason to follow her, investigate her life. As long as he had an excuse. Any other reason would mean some form of emotion, and that would greatly upset his philosophy of life.
There was him, and then there was everyone else—all potential prey.
Nothing else could be allowed in his well-ordered life. There was no loyalty in his business. Everyone he dealt with was in one way or another a criminal. A man would be a fool to ever trust a criminal. The man who paid him on Tuesday to get rid of one of his enemies could very well end up the man he was paid to kill on Friday. That was life. By that same token, no matter how good he was at his craft, there was someone out there just as good or better. The man who paid him on Sunday would one day be the man who paid someone else to get rid of him on Monday. There was no room in his life for girlfriends, lovers, or even friends.
Careful to keep to the shadows, Azriel pushed such troubling thoughts away. Keeping his little bird in sight, he stealthily followed her through the pounding sheets of rain toward the dilapidated apartment building she called home. He would deal with the dilemma of this woman later. Maybe tomorrow he would kill her stalker and just be done with it.
Probably not though.
***
The mystery man was following her again. Michelene smiled at the secret knowledge her anonymous protector once again was walking her home. This made it the fourth night in a row. There was something about his presence that gave her comfort, especially since she’d acquired a certifiable stalker. The crazy man who cased her every move was out there too, but unlike her unseen protector, she knew the stalker wanted to hurt her.
There was no logical reason for Michelene to believe the first man only wanted to protect her. Other than a gut instinct, she had no way of knowing what was going on in the man’s mind. Really, she had no real proof he existed at all, nothing other than a
feeling
. But she’d lived through enough to to know she should always trust her instincts.
Since she was a child, her sixth sense had saved her over and over again. The few times she’d ignored that nagging inner voice, disaster had quickly followed. Against all odds, she knew he was there, and she knew he would never hurt her. Not in a bad way. But she also knew he was unsure of her. Moreover, he might be unsure of himself. There was a vibe she got every now and then, like he was confused why he was following her. Micheline wasn’t confused. She knew, even if he didn’t.
As for the real stalker
…
Shivering, she hastened her steps even more. There was proof the real stalker out there was a deranged son of a bitch who had fixated on her for some reason. The freak sent her emails with pictures of her at work, walking along the street, even buying tampons. How did he get her email address? How could he possibly know how many jobs she was forced to work? She used a different alias at each of her part-time positions.
Still, without fail, every month a box of chocolates appeared on her worn kitchen table on the first day of her period, which was beyond creepy. Flowers were left inside her apartment to mark the oddest anniversaries—the day she moved into this depressing neighborhood, the day she dropped out of the local junior college because she couldn’t afford to go to school and pay rent at the same time, as well as the most disturbing date of all—the day she ran far from the only home she’d ever known.
No matter how bad things got for her on her own, she would never regret the day she stole away and landed here, in the lap of abject poverty. Every year for the past four years there had been a flowery card left on her pillow with just two sentences sprawled in barely legible writting.
You are never alone. We’ll be together soon.
In her freaking bedroom! The freal had let himself inside and left her the card as if he were a lover.
What the heck did that even mean anyway? The police would do nothing because there was never proof he had been in her home, although she knew he had, and he had never approached her. Or maybe they just didn’t want to be bothered. They had enough “real crime” in this area to deal with. Michelene couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup if she tried; she’d never actually seen him. But he was out there. She was as sure of it as she was her protector was out there. And he was going to attack soon. Home invasions had become far more frequent. The sense of his growing malevolence was increasing. But when would he attack? More importantly, why her?
“Not tonight,” she whispered to herself as she unlocked her front door. Tonight she had a guardian on her side. Tonight her protector was here.
***
She was too good for this place. Unlike so many of the women in this neighborhood, she didn’t bring men to her apartment. She didn’t tease down at the bars, or strip at the seedy clubs. And never, never was she on the corner selling what should be preserved only for the man she married. Micheline was a good girl, a clean girl. No matter what she called herself now, she would always be his little Micheline. An angel fallen from heaven. Soon he would help her back to her lofty home. They would go together, so they would never again be apart. She was perfection, true wife material.
And she would love him. She already did. He had proof! All his presents were kept in a box under her bed. Oh yes, he had been in her apartment many times. He knew what was in her refrigerator, and he knew there were no naughty toys in her drawers, no scandalous searches in her computer history. Plain cotton underwear and sensible, serviceable bras were all she wore under plain, bland clothing. Sweats or jeans, never dresses or skirts unless it was a uniform. Nothing too tight, nothing revealing. One day he would reward her for that. Buy her pretty things she could wear for him before it was time to leave this filthy planet. He would even allow her to continue reading the silly romance books she bought from time to time. All second-hand. His sensible girl.
Yes, she was perfect. She’d see he was perfect for her too. Just as soon as everything was ready, she’d see, and she’d understand why it had to be this way.
Soon.