Chapter 6 Vengeance Will Be Mine
Vengeance Will Be Mine
Astrid Mathieson
The pictures from the Rome briefing fill my phone screen as I sit in my car outside Mom's house, engine off, streetlights casting long shadows through the windshield.
My hands shake as I zoom in on the wounds—two sets of puncture marks, exactly half an inch apart.
For years, I've measured every bite pattern we've come across, hoping to match the wounds from Dad's file. None have ever been right. Until now.
The attack pattern is messier than Dad's was, more chaotic, like the creature was injured or desperate.
There's a blurred security photo that shows something impossible—what looks like a lion's body, but massive, with strange horns or spikes.
Nothing like any creature we've catalogued before.
My heart pounds as I swipe through the photos again.
After all these years of searching, could this finally be a real lead?
Mrs. Jacob’s from next door peers through her curtains for the third time since I pulled up.
She recognizes my car—has for years—but still maintains her vigilant watch until she sees me enter the house.
The neighbors have grown fiercely protective since Dad died, especially when I'm away on missions.
They bring Mom casseroles, check her mail, invite her to book club.
Sometimes I wonder if they'd still deliver those homemade pies and concerned smiles if they knew what I really am—magickal.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ghost: Flight assigned.
Wheels up at 0600 Friday. Don't be late and bring me a gingersnap.
I snort and shake my head. Both Ghost and Sherlock love Mom's cookies.
Ghost, who trusts me to watch his back and tells me about his daughter's report cards.
Sherlock, who catalogs my every move now, documenting all the times I've walked away from fights without a scratch.
The bitter irony burns in my chest.
These people I've fought beside for years, shared meals with, protected—they'd turn their weapons on me in an instant if they discovered the truth. The same neighbors who bring Mom casseroles would call GUIDE to report us.
My stomach twists with the knowledge that every relationship I have beyond my mother exists on the knife edge of a lie. I've built my entire life on quicksand, and the foundations shift a little more each day.
I glance back at the house again.
A light flicks on in Mom's kitchen, warm yellow spilling across her herb garden. The front door opens. "Astrid." Mom's voice carries from the front porch, soft but clear. "Come inside, sweetheart. It's late."
I lock my phone, darkness swallowing the images. The same unnatural awareness I've felt since the courthouse incident buzzes under my skin as I grab my go-bag. It's different from the usual post-case jitters—more like an inexplicable pull, a compass needle spinning without finding north.
The porch steps creak under my boots. Mom stands in the doorway wearing her favorite quilted robe, grey hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes—the same deep brown as mine—scan my face with practiced concern.
"I saw what happened at the courthouse," she says quietly.
Of course she did. It was all over the news—”GUIDE agent compromised during high-profile trial”. The videos are probably still trending. I force a smile. "I'm fine. Nothing some sleep won't fix."
She doesn't buy it. She never does. But she steps aside to let me in, and the familiar scent of chamomile tea and herbs wrap around me like a blanket. For a moment, I let myself pretend I'm normal. Human. Just a daughter coming home to visit her mom.
But the phone in my pocket burns with images of fresh victims, their wounds too similar to ignore. Rome is calling, and this time, I might finally find what I've been hunting all these years.
"Tea?" Mom asks, already reaching for a second mug. The routine is as familiar as breathing—me coming home between missions, her brewing tea, both of us pretending this life I've chosen isn't slowly killing her with worry.
"Please." I drop my bag by the stairs and follow her into the kitchen.
My nerves prickle with heightened alertness, like the charged atmosphere before a lightning strike.
I lean against the counter, trying to find a comfortable position, but the sensation remains—present, insistent, and charged…
like standing too close to a Tesla coil.
Mom's hands pause in measuring loose tea leaves as she studies my face. She's always been able to read me better than anyone else. "Something's different tonight."
"Just tired." I roll my shoulders, but it doesn't help. "Long day."
"He attacked you specifically, didn't he? Because he sensed what you are?"
My stomach drops. "Mom—"
"Magic things can sense each other. That's why you're so good at finding them, and why they're drawn to you.
" She stops and looks up at me again. "Every time you go out there, you're risking exposure.
One of these days, they're going to figure it out.
And I'll have to watch them execute my only daughter. "
This argument has worn deep grooves in our relationship over the years, each repetition cutting the channel deeper. In the beginning, her words sliced me to the bone. Now I've grown calluses over the pain, though it never fully heals.
"I'm careful," I protest, but it sounds weak even to my ears. Especially after today's close call. Especially with Sherlock watching me now, and Hayes' suspicions. "They need me."
"Until they don't." Mom's hands shake as she pours hot water over the tea leaves.
The tremor tells me more than her words—she's had nightmares again.
The ones where she's forced to watch from the crowd as they chain me to the execution post, just another monster being put down for public display.
"Until you catch the one that killed your father, and somehow they realize you've been hiding in their ranks all along. "
"I'm not—"
"To them you are." She sets my mug down with more force than necessary. "I've been to those public executions, Astrid. Watched them kill people for far less than what you can do. Some of them were children."
Her words conjure the memory I've tried hardest to forget—the teenage girl in Prague.
My hands grow cold as I relive it. The way she screamed as the flames consumed her.
That heart-wrenching sound still echoes in my mind during sleepless nights.
I stood there in my GUIDE uniform, watching a child die for the crime of healing someone she loved.
But worse than her screams was her mother, who collapsed at the edge of the crowd, GUIDE agents holding her back as she reached for her daughter. I remember how her wails harmonized with her daughter's until the flames grew too intense and there was only one voice left.
The memory carves fresh waves of guilt through me. Mom's right—my own powers are far more dangerous than healing cancer. If they discovered what I am, they wouldn't just execute me. They'd make my mother watch every second of it.
I pull my phone out, fingers hovering over the screen. Mom hates seeing case files, hates being reminded of what happened to Dad. But after all these years, I finally have something real.
"I need to show you something." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "A new case came in today. From Rome."
Mom sets down her tea, worry lines deepening around her eyes. "Astrid..."
"Please. Just look." I pull up the photos, hands shaking slightly as I zoom in on the bite marks. "See the spacing? The depth? Two sets of puncture wounds, exactly half an inch apart."
She takes the phone, face going pale as she studies the image. After years of watching me obsess over wound patterns, she knows exactly what she's looking at. "You've never found matching marks before."
"I know." I swipe to the next photo, showing the chaotic attack pattern. "It's not a perfect match—this creature was messier, maybe injured. But those bite marks... Mom, this has to be connected. At least the same species as the thing that killed Dad."
Mom stares at the photos for a long moment, her hands trembling slightly.
When she looks up, there are tears in her eyes.
She sets the phone down and walks to the kitchen window, staring out into the darkness.
"And if it is? What then?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Say you find it. Say you kill it. Will that finally be enough?
Or will you keep hunting until you slip up and they catch you? "
The question hits too close to home. Because the truth is, I don't know. Vengeance has driven me for so long, I'm not sure who I am without it. What I'd be if I wasn't an Inquisitor. If I wasn't lying to everyone I care about.
Mom turns back, wiping her eyes. "Can we just..." She reaches across the table, taking my hand. "Can we talk about something else? Tell me about your team. How's Ghost's daughter doing in school? Is Sherlock still obsessing over that coffee shop owner?"
The normalcy of her questions makes my throat tight. This is what she wants—just to hear about my life, my friends. To pretend for a moment that I'm just her daughter, not a weapon, not a liar, not a monster hunting other monsters.
"Emma made the honor roll again." I manage a small smile, remembering Ghost's proud grin when he showed us the report card. "And yeah, Sherlock still hasn't worked up the courage to ask Sarah out. He's written about fifteen different versions of what he'll say."
Mom laughs, and for a moment, everything does feel almost normal. She gets up to pour more tea, asking about my apartment, whether I'm eating enough, if I've considered getting a cat for company. The same questions she always asks when she’s trying to avoid my work.
Then my phone rings.
The home office number flashes on the screen. That strange restless feeling surges as I answer, like my body knows something's coming. "Mathieson."
“Another body," Ghost's voice is tight, urgent in a way that makes my skin crawl. The background noise tells me he's already at headquarters—boots on metal stairs, the hum of the tactical gear room. "Same marks. Hayes is moving wheels up to midnight. How fast can you get here?"
I check my watch. 10:15 PM. "I'm at Mom's. Two hours to pack, say goodbye, and drive back to headquarters."
"Put your lights on. Make it an hour thirty." Something crashes in the background. "This thing's escalating, Blades. The vic—" He lowers his voice. "The pictures are bad. Worse than the others."
The line goes dead. When I look up, Mom's face has already closed off, that brief moment of normalcy shattered.
"You have to go." It's not a question.
"Another victim in Rome. They've moved up our departure." I'm already standing, gathering my bag. That pull under my skin is stronger now, almost like it's trying to tell me something. "I'm sorry, I—"
"You won't even get any sleep." The worry in her voice cuts deep. "Astrid, please. At least wait until morning."
"I can't. The longer we wait..." Another body. Another family getting the same news we got when dad was killed. "I have to go."
My phone buzzes again where it sits on the table between us.
The screen illuminates with the mission brief notification, marking the files as time-sensitive.
Mom's eyes drop to the glowing display, then lift to my face. I watch the fleeting emotions—first hope that I might ignore it, then the inevitable resignation when she realizes I won’t.
Her shoulders drop a fraction, that subtle surrender cutting deeper than any blade.
"The team needs me," I say softly.
"No." She sets down her untouched tea. "GUIDE needs their weapon. But you're still my daughter, and I need you alive more than they need another victory. Promise me you'll be careful in Rome. Promise me you'll come back."
"I promise." But we both know the promise is hollow. I hug her goodbye. She feels so fragile in my arms—this fierce, loving woman who raised a daughter whose very existence is illegal.
"I love you," she whispers.
"Love you too." I pull away before I lose control and start crying. I really needed this break, but duty always comes first. GUIDE doesn't allow for anything else.
Outside, Mrs. Jacob’s lights are still on, but I don't see her in the window. A magnetic tension radiates through my muscles as I start the car, like it's trying to pull me toward something—or warn me away. I've learned to trust my instincts, but this feels different. New.
I pull away from the curb, trying not to look in my rearview mirror.
Trying not to see Mom standing in the doorway.
.. alone again. Trying not to think about how every mission could be the one where my luck runs out.
Where Sherlock finally pieces it all together.
Where I become just another monster for GUIDE to hunt.
Rome is waiting. The beast is waiting. And somewhere between here and there, I have to find a way to be the weapon GUIDE needs without becoming the thing they trained me to destroy.
One more mission. One more kill.
One step closer to either vengeance or execution.
The sensation coils tighter in my chest, a compass needle straining toward an unseen pole. Or it’s my body recognizing a truth my mind can't yet comprehend.