Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

One month later…

Nellie

T he church is almost deserted. The new parish priest is younger than Sommers and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

We roped in the sexton and the old woman who plays the organ to be witnesses. They stand side by side, awkwardness radiating from them, and I can’t help but wonder whether they have a bit of a history. Outside, snow falls silently, piling up in the graveyard.

Sweeney is pure class in his pinstriped trousers and burgundy paisley waistcoat, with the black silk tailcoat pulling the whole ensemble together perfectly. His top hat is new, and his cravat is folded neatly.

He looks incredibly handsome, but as an outfit, I hate it. It makes him look like a person, someone who has morals and decency.

I’ll concede that he looks the part—every inch a man of stature, one of London’s fine and proper gentlemen.

But the illusion only holds from afar. Up close, his eyes betray him—dark and predatory, scanning, always hungry for something .

If clothes were a reflection of the man, he’d be swathed in a cloak woven from sinew and dyed with blood, billowing around him like a death shroud, but that would be a bit much for a wedding.

I gulp down an inappropriate snigger, and Sweeney smiles at me as the priest approaches the altar.

“What’s funny, treacle?” he whispers.

“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m off my rocker.”

“Well, fuck me, my love. Is that what it’ll take?”

His voice has a playful lilt, and I love to hear it. “And here I was, convinced of the veracity of your sound mental health, unperturbed by thoughts of your insanity even as you murdered sluts and rode me like a?—”

“Shhh!” I say, stifling a laugh.

The cleric stops before us and faces the non-existent congregation, preparing to embark on the time-honored ritual that will bind us by law for all to see.

Not that we need to be married to be irreversibly joined. He’s part of me, mixed in, blended, rolled, and baked together.

The priest somberly reminds us that God sees all and knows the secrets of our hearts. If that’s true, it’s generous of Him to allow this cursed union to be enacted under His roof.

The Lord could drop this vaulted ceiling on our heads right now and end our dynasty of death, but He does not. This leaves only two possibilities; He can’t or He won’t.

So, is God’s omnipotence enough to crush a great evil via His divine intervention? He’s shown up for less.

So where the fuck is His Almighty Beardness? He could strike us down here and now; there’d be some juicy irony to it.

Maybe our love is made from something too strong, too true for God to destroy. Yeah, that’s it. The only other option is that He prefers to leave us be, which doesn’t say much about the state of humanity.

I suspect He’s the deity of the oldest tradition, the one who got all rough with the fire and brimstone.

No wonder He tolerates us; Sweeney and I have both in spades and aren’t afraid to get our hands dirty.

“Do you take this man to be your husband?” the priest asks.

“I do.”

“And do you, Sweeney Todd, take this woman as your wife?”

He grins at me. “Absolutely.”

“Then I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Sweeney sweeps me into his arms. The name isn’t really his, and he’s barely a man at all, but it’s good enough for me.

As his lips crush mine, I feel the weight of it; the final step that locks us together in ways no one else can touch.

What matters is the meaning behind it, and I know for sure—my man is all in.

We have no wedding breakfast, and I leave my bouquet in the shocked hands of the organist. I don’t need it; besides, everything at our place ends up dead, flowers included.

The new sign is finally up at the shop, gleaming in bright brass letters.

I am now Mrs. Todd, and every time I pass beneath the banner, I’ll remember what he and I went through to get here.

I’m not opening the shop tonight, so I’m surprised when Mr. T opens the rear door that leads into the storeroom. He closes it again and turns to speak to me.

“I got you a present,” he says. “You know when you went to the seamstress earlier to collect your veil?”

I nod.

“Well, while you were out, you had a caller. A bloke.”

My blood chills.

Shit . I don’t have any admirers that I know of, but he might not believe me, and then what the fuck will he do?

“Mr. T?—”

He kicks the door hard, and it slams into the wall, sending up a choking cloud of dust.

Then I hear it; a muffled whine mixed with snorts and sobs.

“He’s been out of town for a while. Recognized you from that newspaper article about the shop and saw you’re doing well for yourself.”

I start to shake as I approach. There’s only one person it can be, but when I see him, it’s still a shock.

My father hangs upside down from the meathook, as Marianne did, but he’s not as lucky as she was.

He is alive, for now, his mouth and body wrapped in rope and bandages, and he writhes like a bait-worm, his eyes darting.

He looks smaller now, more pathetic than I remember. Once, he loomed over me, a monster in the night, but now?

He’s just a lump of meat, shaking and trembling.

“Damn,” I say, bending to look at him. His face is pulped, the nose at an unnatural angle, and blood congeals on the floor. “You kicked the shit out of him.”

“This cunt is fortunate to be alive,” Sweeney says, his voice dripping with the menace I so enjoy.

“Is he? Because I get the feeling that his immediate future will not be particularly comfortable. And why is he still breathing? So you could show him to me?”

“This bastard here,” he kicks my father, making him swing, “is your quarry, not mine. The fates continue to work for you, my pet; do you think I’d deny my wife her chance at revenge?”

My man trussed up my cunt of a father like a prize-winning ham and presented him to me, knowing I would revel in proving that I’m no longer a scared little girl.

Sweeney could have killed him—it would have been far easier—but he wanted to take back my power.

The little girl I once was wants to recoil, wants to scream, but her fear is smothered by the burning satisfaction that rushes through my veins.

My husband gave me a gift. A perfect wedding present.

My father always said I was crazy, a psycho, a bitch. It’s as though he genuinely thought touching me up at night in exchange for toffees should have created a well-adjusted young woman.

Rarely are consequences so satisfyingly clear-cut. This man I called father put his filthy hands on me when I was a child, snuffing out my innocence and leaving me to fend for myself.

That kind of hardship teaches a girl a thing or two, and if he hadn’t brutalized me in the first place, I wouldn’t be able to do this.

“And they said the fucking meek will inherit the Earth?” I exclaim. “Fuck that. Who wants it anyway?”

There’s a gleam in Sweeney’s eyes, an invitation. He knows what this means to me. He wants me to own this moment, to savor every ounce of retribution.

“That’s my Mrs. T,” Sweeney says.

He gestures at the tool rack. “What’s your poison? Not literally—I know that’s your party trick, but we haven’t got all day, so why not branch out?”

Why not, indeed . I know precisely what I want.

“Can I use one of your razors?” I ask.

He reaches into his inside pocket. “I always carry them,” he says. “You never know when someone will need my attention.”

The blade catches the dim light, gleaming with history—of lives taken, of debts settled. I sit cross-legged on the floor and remove my father’s gag.

“Don’t!” He cricks his neck, trying to shift to see my face better. “My poor Nellie. You’re wrong, my pet. Remembering things that didn’t happen. Your mother used to do that, too, she?—”

Sweeney’s boot makes contact with his temple, and he bellows in pain, crashing into the wall.

For a moment, the weight of the razor in my hand feels like too much. But as I look into my father’s eyes, something hardens inside me.

I don’t need Sweeney to finish this. I can do it myself .

“ I call her my pet,” Sweeney snarls, reaching for a mallet. “You lying son of a?—”

“Put it down,” I snap. “Don’t you dare, Sweeney. What were you just saying?”

I give my new husband my most withering glare, and he relents, replacing the mallet on the rack.

My father curses and twists against the brick, and I crawl to him, grabbing him by his tie and dragging him along the chain track.

“I remember what you did to me,” I say.

I unsheath the razor, holding it where he can see it, and he recoils in horror. “Admit it, and I’ll show you mercy.”

“Alright,” he says between shuddering breaths. “I had needs, and I was weak. Your mother knew, but she never said a word to me about it.”

He lifts his bloodshot eyes to mine. “I’m sorry.”

I turn and look at my man. He sees the tears fogging my eyes, and his expression darkens.

Sweeney understands me better than anyone, even myself. He knows that my hesitation isn’t weakness—it’s the weight of everything finally coming to a head.

“Look for his pulse, love,” he says gently. “Right there, see?”

Fear has my father’s heart racing, so it’s easy to see the artery throbbing in his throat. I put my fingers on it, astonished at how powerfully alive it feels, and he rolls his head, trying to bite me.

“What happened to mercy?” he spits. “You little bitch!”

“Fucking end him, treacle,” Sweeney says. He drops to his knees behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, supporting me.

“Straight across, fast, with some fucking feeling . Do it, Nellie!”

I swipe the blade cleanly and deeply, catching the spot in my father’s neck where the beat is most pronounced. Blood spurts forth, drenching all of us, and Sweeney and I scramble out of reach of his flailing hands.

My father is bleeding to death, and he knows it. He’s in pain, afraid, confused, just like I was when he stole into my childhood bed at night.

“Mercy?” I scream. “This is it! Dying in agony was my best fucking offer. The hands you put on me will be tomorrow’s sausage meat, and no one will mourn you, you filthy, perverted piece of shit!”

Once a good thick vein is open, blood tends to be in a hurry to get out, and it seems every drop he has is running over the stone floor.

I get to my feet, almost slipping in the ocean of crimson, and give my gargling father a firm kick to the jaw. It crunches beneath my heel, slipping out of place, but it’s too late to hurt him anymore.

My wedding dress and Sweeney’s suit are ruined, but I don’t care. I drop my head onto my husband’s chest, sobbing, and he holds me tightly, his words warm against my skin.

“Well done, love.” He kisses my blood-soaked lips. “That’s my girl.”