The Acceptance

Chapter 15

Luther saw the memories slipping through her thoughts, and he saw her reticence to share with him. He’d hurt her with his careless words, and now he’d have to make things right.

If he could.

“Gaby?” Catching the edge of her chin, he brought her face around. “Will you forgive me for losing my temper and saying things I didn’t mean?”

In the most relevant show of vulnerability he’d ever witnessed from Gaby, she avoided his gaze.

The moonlight limned her features. Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted. It was a romantic night—but with Gaby, that’d mean very little.

She glanced back at him. “Are you sure you didn’t mean them?”

“Positive. It’s just that I’m human, and sometimes prone to the same failings as any other man. I get pissed, and idiotic garbage spews from my mouth. It’s just venting, honey, not my real feelings.”

Gaby frowned. “So what are your real feelings? And be honest. I can take it.”

He cupped her chin again. “I think you’re one of the most intelligent women I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah right.” She made a sound of disdain. “Did you forget my lack of education?”

“With you, it doesn’t matter. You’re smart, sharp, perceptive, and savvy. And for all your lack of formal schooling, you have something better. You have street smarts.”

“So then why were you so pissed?”

Luther searched for the right words to help her understand. Gaby was smart, but she lacked the social skills that would enable her to understand the give and take, the ups and downs, of a relationship.

“I get insulted when you want to protect me, just as any six-foot, three-inch tall man would be. I lashed out—but I didn’t mean it.”

“So you know I could kick your ass?”

Luther stalled. Damn it, she always had to push him, but for once, it didn’t infuriate him so much as exasperate him. Trying for judicious neutrality, he said, “I know you’re exceptionally well trained in fighting. And that’s another question—who trained you?”

She shook her head in pity. “Poor Luther. You persist in trying to find logical explanations for every facet of my being.”

“Logic is good.”

“Sure. But it doesn’t apply to me, because no one trained me. I just know what to do and when to do it. Don’t ask me how I know, though.”

If she lacked formal training, then had a lifestyle of abuse fashioned her reflexes? He hated to think so, but . . . “And my other question?”

When she started playing with the grass again, Luther forced her to meet his gaze. He felt a fine tension in her that hadn’t been there moments before.

As gentle as he could be, he said, “You spent a lot of time in the foster care system. Not everyone is in it to help kids in need. And you had special concerns . . .”

“Guess you just answered you own question, huh?”

Hearing her say it devastated Luther. The thought of anyone hurting a child, but especially someone as sensitive as Gaby, made him want to rail against the world and all the injustices.

Uneasy, she chafed her arms and frowned. Somehow Luther knew it wasn’t the subject matter that affected her— but something extraneous, something unforeseen and exigent.

Reacting to her shift of demeanor, Luther went on alert. “What’s wrong?”

In a voice unrecognizable, she whispered, “I feel sick.”

Praying for a mundane cause, Luther asked, “Have you eaten?”

“No . . . but that’s not it.” She went to her feet in one swift, lithe movement, and turned a circle, seeking everywhere. “Something’s wrong.”

With the fine hairs on his nape at attention, Luther stood. “Tell me what you’re feeling Gaby.”

“Shhh. Let me think.” She stepped away from him, into the longest fingers of a streetlamp, and he saw her features, watched them sharpening, her muscles coiling.

She fascinated him, and she scared him. “Gaby . . .”

She took two steps toward the street—and a bedraggled boy appeared. He limped, crying, coming toward them.

Gaby poised for attack.

“What the hell?” Incomprehension smothered Luther’s unease. “Gaby, what are you doing?”

“It’s him.”

The kid’s clothes were torn, his arms wrapped around himself. Luther could hear him sniffling. “Listen to me, Gaby,” he said, trying to reach her while she grew more remote.

Before his eyes, she swelled with purpose, with depredatory intent. The air around them crackled with impending disaster.

“He’s a kid, Gaby.”

“No, she’s not.”

“She?” Luther looked into Gaby’s eyes—and saw a great void of emotion. It was as if she didn’t see him, didn’t see the kid, but saw something, someone, altogether different.

Spooked, he tried to take Gaby’s arm, and she shook him off so easily, his alarm escalated. He didn’t want to hurt her.

But he didn’t want her to hurt the kid either. “Gaby, stop.”

Instead, the kid stopped. And contrary to his abused appearance, he . . . smiled.

Caught up in a bizarre dream, Gaby’s dream, Luther faltered—and something stuck him in the neck. Not the bite of an insect, he knew, but not a knife blade either.

He twisted around only to see an elderly gentleman stepping back out of reach. Everything blurred.

Oh fuck.

Gaby had known, had seen it all, but he hadn’t trusted her. Fool.

His knees gave out and he fell into a black abyss.

The last thing he heard was Gaby whispering his name.

Blind with the sight, Gaby kicked out at the man who’d just assaulted Luther, and sent him to his back. Certain she’d broken a rib or two, she turned back to the boy, and an old lady jabbed her in the back with a needle. The odd sensation of a foreign substance filtered into her bloodstream, burning like fire, ravaging her senses.

Gaby snapped her elbow back into the woman’s face. Blood splayed, bone crunched, and the woman dropped in a heap with a broken nose, maybe more.

Moments slithered away. Gaby turned a circle, watching the man, the woman, and the kid in turn. The drug attacked her omniscient sagacity, slowing her movements, her thoughts.

And the kid said, “Settle down, whore, or we’ll cut his throat and leave him where he is to bleed to death.”

Unwilling to risk that outcome, Gaby gave up.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Even disoriented with drugs, her nature rebelled. “I can’t.”

The woman, spewing blood and vitriol alike, jammed another needle into her, then again and again, more for spite than anything else since she’d emptied the hypodermic on the first stab.

Her vision gave way to shadows, but her hearing remained acute.

“Stop it, you moron. I want her alive.”

“But, Oren—”

“Shut up and get the car.”

Fear for Luther left Gaby malleable; the drug distorted everything. Cruel hands half-dragged her to a car and shoved her into a backseat. Luther’s heavy frame landed against her.

And then, as the car drove away, a great black void swallowed her whole.

Oren danced in his seat. “You see how I got both of them so easily? It takes superior cunning and great planning—something you both lack—to gain such great rewards. Maybe now, as my cohorts, you’ll recognize my superiority.”

Aunt Dory sniffled and snuffled in a nauseating display. “But she broke my nose,” she complained in a nasal whine.

Seeing her bleed everywhere, Oren felt like slapping her. “Stupid bitch. I told you to watch her, to stay out of her reach. It’s your own fault for being fat and stupid.”

Uncle Myer cleared his throat. “Dory is slow, but it was more that the woman is so fast. Faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

“Not fast enough for me.” He twisted to look at her in the backseat. The big cop was out cold, boneless, defenseless. His head slumped against the passenger door.

But the woman . . . She remained more upright than otherwise, and her eyes hadn’t closed. They were the clearest blue, unseeing, unmoving. But looking right at Oren.

A shiver of concern scraped down his nape. Feeling almost . . . obeisant, he stared back. “She has the eeriest eyes I’ve ever seen.” Using caution, Oren waved a hand in front of her face. “She doesn’t blink, but I can almost swear she still has cognitive ability. It’s as if she’s looking right at me, even comprehending what I say.”

Aunt Dory wailed in new terror. “She’s a demon, Oren. That’s why she’s so fast. Please, let’s just cut her throat and dump her here. Right now.”

Animus cut through the layers of Oren’s generous nature. He stared at Dory with contempt. “Because of your pusillanimity, you want me to leave that much evidence behind? Must you always prove your stupidity?”

Aunt Dory snuffled. “Pusi what?”

Ignorant fool. “Oh, just . . . shut up.” Oren gave his attention back to the woman. He was invincible, he knew that now. If she was a demon, well then, she’d be the perfect adversary for him. He needed someone worthy of his ability. Maybe she’d be the one.

Look at all he’d done so far, all with nary a glance of suspicion cast his way. Why, he could cut Dory and Myer’s throats and no one would ever know.

More to himself than his relatives, Oren said, “My indomitable intelligence and keen understanding surpass the feeble effort of law enforcement. I can do just as I please— even to a demon whore.”

Uncle Myer glanced in the rearview mirror and almost caused a wreck. While trying to get the car steady again, he shouted, “Oh dear God, she’s smiling! She’s smiling!”

Dory screamed loud enough to pierce Oren’s eardrums.

Startled, Oren again looked over the seat at the woman, and saw her expression hadn’t changed one iota. Incensed beyond measure, he clouted Uncle Myer, chastising him for inciting a panic.

“She’s drugged, you buffoon. How can she smile?”

“I swear she did!” Myer insisted. “Jesus, God Almighty, Oren, I have a real bad feeling about this. Real bad. I don’t want anything to do with her.”

He sat between two fools, unworthy of his time or effort. “You’re both gutless recreants. If she frightens you so, then fine, she’ll be my treat, and mine alone.”

“Thank you, Oren.”

“But they’re a package deal. You don’t get the man either. I have plans to use him in order to break her down.” He laughed, imagining the scene, her helpless reaction. Oh yes, it’d be grand. Very grand. “Maybe I’ll even show you how it should be done.”

Aunt Dory and Uncle Myer stayed silent.

And although Oren spoke with great élan, he kept a wary eye on the woman for the remainder of the drive.

Pinpricks pierced Gaby’s brain by the thousands, little by little dissipating the drug-induced fog. She kept her head hanging, her hands loose.

Thanks to her omniscient replenishment, she’d never lost consciousness, only the ability to move or react. Her mind stayed sharp and she’d had plenty of time to devise her counterattack against evil’s little minion.

Throughout her years she’d known a lot of assholes, but Oren surpassed others in depravity. Luther was threatened, so this kill would be easier than most.

Rough ropes bound her wrists to wooden chair arms. Another rope cut across her throat, lodged just beneath her choker, and yet another around her waist.

But her legs were unbound, and that would prove to be Oren’s downfall.

Showing no obvious signs of awareness, Gaby flexed her muscles, testing her agility, ensuring her limbs didn’t still sleep.

In the background, she heard Oren talking, and she heard the clink of instruments being laid on the table.

Gaby lifted her head and did a quick assessment of the tableau of torture set before her. Knifes, clamps, saws, pliers, electrical cords, and more, all created a shining array of intent.

At the opposite end of a small, square wooden table, Luther had been bound in a similar fashion, but without the cord around his throat. Still unconscious, thank God.

He didn’t need to see what would happen.

In the corner, huddled together in fear, were the two idiots who’d accosted them. The woman’s grotesquely swollen nose gave testament to Gaby’s accuracy. The old man held his ribs.

They, Gaby realized, were astute enough to know the error in trying to take her prisoner.

Someone had stuck her knife, tip first, into the wood in the middle of the table, next to Luther’s gun. When Gaby got her hands on her knife, they’d realize the folly of that taunt.

Giggling, Oren fingered a pair of steel clippers. “I hope they awaken soon. I’m anxious to get started.”

“I’m awake now, asshole.”

Oren jerked around so fast, he stumbled. His mouth formed an absurd “o” of surprise—but his eyes . . . his eyes held fear and his brow revealed the cold sweat of a coward.

The woman wailed again.

“Shut up,” Gaby told her. She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t even sound particularly insistent. But she looked at the woman, and the simmering rage in her unequivocal stare encouraged the woman to clamp her lips together.

The man pressed to the wall, wild-eyed and ready to abscond at the next provocation.

Pointing at his relatives, Oren said, “Both of you, be still.” He snapped the clippers down onto the table and strode toward Gaby. “No one orders my aunt around except me.”

Gaby leaned as far forward as the rope allowed. “I’m going to kill your aunt, Oren. I’m going to slice open her fat throat and watch her blood spill out. And then I’m going to get your uncle, too.”

“Shut up!”

“Just as you cut off that abusive jerk’s jewels, I’ll remove your uncle’s. The skin there is thin, easily separated. I won’t even have to—”

Oren slapped her. “Shut up!”

Gaby’s head barely moved. Conjuring the deepest necromancy into her appearance, she stared up at Oren, and made a promise. “You I’ll kill last, and by then, you’ll be pleading with me like the pathetic little boy you pretend to be.”

Losing composure, Oren screamed in frustration and slapped her again, and again.

Then he bolted back, breathing hard, insane and irrational. The sting in Gaby’s cheek only made her more determined. She relished the proof of life—a reason to fight, and win. At all costs.

She narrowed her eyes. “You will beg, Oren. You will cry and beg and whimper. But it won’t do you a bit of good.”

Visibly rattled, Oren snatched up the clippers and moved toward Luther.

Gaby’s heart clenched. “Anything you do to him,” she warned, “I’ll do to you tenfold.” She looked at the older couple frozen in horror. “And to them.”

The man went white, his jaws flapping in horror. The woman fainted dead away, and fell off her stool to hit the floor, unheeded, in dreggy abundance. Her broken nose oozed blood again.

Oren faltered. Face screwing up, he turned to taunt Gaby with false bravado. “How can you do anything, you ignorant bitch? You can’t even move. You’re bound securely. I saw to that myself.”

“I know you did.”

His back snapped straight. “You don’t know anything!”

Gaby fashioned her lips into a spiteful sneer. “Oh, but I do.”

Oren straightened. “Impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible, not for me. You think you’re invincible? You think you’re my match? Not even close, Oren. And I’ll prove it—very soon.”

The man whispered, “You were looking at us. In the car, I mean. You were, weren’t you?”

Gaby didn’t take her attention from Oren. He stood far too close to Luther with those lethal clippers in his hand, clippers strong enough to cut through flesh and bone.

“Because of that foul drug, I couldn’t speak. But yeah, I heard every word, saw every movement.” And to prove it, even though she didn’t look his way, she said, “Your wife is coming to. Keep her quiet, or I will.”

He jumped to the floor, shushing the woman’s moans of confusion and fear.

Gaby tipped her head at Oren’s veiled surprise. “Oh, Oren.” She shook her head, ignoring the rope that rasped the soft flesh of her throat. “I know you think yourself superior in a sick, perverted way, but the truth is, you’re so fucked up in your head, you put other psychopaths to shame.”

Showing his teeth in a grimace, Oren bunched his shoulders. “I am not a psychopath.”

“Ah, come on, Oren. You’re the definition.” If Oren snapped and started hurting anyone, Gaby wanted the anger directed at her—not Luther. She’d do whatever she could to ensure that end. “Personality disorder, manifested in aggression. Check. Amoral, antisocial, and depraved. Check.”

She needed Oren closer to her. Very close. “Confused and alone?” Gaby snorted. “I’ve never seen anyone more confused. The mental ward would have a field day with a specimen like you.”

Trembling with hatred, Oren stared at her. “You’re wrong.”

The mockery cut deep, Gaby could see that. “And you know, Oren, that’s all you are, really—just one more pathetic, lamentable specimen among all the lame little mongrels of society. I see you for what you are—and to me, to the real world, you’re as insignificant as a gnat.”

Ready to come unglued, Oren paced away—going closer to Luther. Gaby prepared herself, willing to break her own bones to escape the bonds if it proved necessary to protect Luther.

But at the last moment, Oren paused. More composed, he turned back to her. He laid aside the clippers, and picked up Gaby’s knife.

“Careful,” Gaby taunted him. “That’s a real weapon, for a real woman.”

Oren’s head snapped up.

“What? You’re surprised I know? I already told you, I see right through your masquerade.”

“No.”

“You thought you fooled people?” She laughed, further riling him. “Now put down that knife. It’s not meant for a fucked up mental case who can’t decide on her own sexuality.”

That did it. Oren gave a banshee scream of rage and charged Gaby with the knife raised high in a clenched fist.

Finally. Gaby flattened her feet, clenched her knees, and just as Oren reached her, she kicked up and caught the maniac in the jaw.

Like the frail female she was, Oren pitched to the side and landed hard on the floor with a moan. Gaby’s knife clattered free, and skid a few feet away.

Oren’s uncle started shouting for Oren to get up, but it wouldn’t happen. Not now.

The aunt screamed and screamed.

Gaby stood the best she could, walked over to Oren, and with all the strength in her body, she stomped her wrist. The blow was hard enough to break all the delicate bones.

Oren cried out, tried to curl in on himself, and Gaby stomped the other arm, shattering an elbow.

The shrieks escalated to a cacophony of human terror from multiple sources.

It affected Gaby not a whit.

But it did cause Luther to stir. He was the type of man that, even drugged, couldn’t be immune to the panicked cries of humanity.

He twitched, mumbled quietly to himself.

Well hell. Not yet, Gaby prayed. Rushing now, she pivoted and slammed the chair into the wall, nearly rattling her brain loose. The chair held so she did it again, then once more. The force of the repetitive impacts would leave her spine and limbs bruised, but that beat the alternative. At last, with one more crash to the wall, the wooden seat and arms detached, still tied to her, but no longer hindering her.

Oh yeah. Gaby looked down at the wooden chair arms strapped to her from elbow to wrist. This would work. The wood served as the perfect blunt weapon.

She looked up at the aunt and uncle—and could smell their fear.

“No!”

“Yes.” With the uncle trying his best to flee, Gaby clubbed him in the head. He buckled, and fell to the dirty floor, out cold.

The aunt was too scared to move, and Gaby whacked her right across the forehead.

They were now unconscious, but that didn’t suffice. Not by a long shot.

None of them could leave here. Not ever. She wouldn’t trust the faulty judicial system to keep them away from gentler, more innocent society.

Luther moaned, tried to lift his head but couldn’t. “Gaby . . .”

Damn. He needed her, but she couldn’t go to him, not yet.

Urgency propelled Gaby to the concrete wall of the basement. In furious haste, she slammed her back against it, further splintering the broken pieces of the chair. With the rope on her throat loosened, she cracked the wooden arms against the wall until the wood broke away.

Please, Gaby prayed, let me finish this before Luther awakens. Please don’t make this one more wall between us. Knowing what had to be done, Gabe freed up the use of her hands. She needed to be able to flex her fingers.

She had to pull a trigger.

Groaning and grunting with pain, both arms broken and useless, Oren struggled into a sitting position. Blood oozed from his lip, and his jaw swelled enough that Gaby figured she’d broken it.

He looked at Gaby’s knife lying on the floor a few feet away.

“I don’t think so,” Gaby told him. Even knowing Oren couldn’t lift it, not with his smashed arms, she picked up the knife. It felt good in her hands—but she couldn’t use it. Not for this.

In a pain-filled mumble, Oren said, “You are a demon.”

“Yeah, I am. And you’re too stupid to accept that you’re a young lady, not a boy. What is it, Oren? A mean mommy? An abusive daddy? What happened to fuck you up so bad?”

“I was meant to be a man, that’s all. Women are only useless whores. All of them.”

Gaby shook her head. “You’re wrong, Oren.”

“My mother was a whore,” he spat. “After she died, my father had whores over all the time. Mean whores.”

“They were cruel to you?”

“What do you care?”

She cared. She hated to see society feasting on itself. Unfortunately, it happened all too often. The wicked begat more wickedness, and the cycle never ended.

“I’m omnipotent,” Oren bragged, splaying blood her way. The outburst depleted him, and he swayed, eyes drooping. “I’m powerful. Powerful enough that I decided to be a male years ago, right after I killed my father. No one knew. No one even suspected me.” His laugh sounded pained. “I fooled everyone.”

“You didn’t fool me.”

“You’re still calling me Oren,” he pointed out, with absurd, giddy delight. “You’re calling me by my male name.”

“Consider it a small concession to your insanity. I feel a little bit sorry for the criminally deranged.” Picking up Luther’s gun, Gaby took aim. “Unfortunately, you were too cruel to satisfy your sick yearnings with harmless fantasy, and that makes you too evil . . . to live.”

Seeing that barrel pointed at his chest, Oren blinked hard and fast. “No wait.”

But she couldn’t. Luther might awaken at any moment. “Sorry, time’s up.”

“Please!” Panicked, Oren again tried to stand, but his crushed arms offered no leverage, and he fell back down. “Please, no.”

Gaby drew in a breath. She took no pleasure in saying, “Told you that you’d beg.”

Tears fell. Blood gurgled from his mouth. “Please.”

With deadly accuracy, Gaby shot Oren in the heart.

The force of the gunshot drove him to his back again. His mangled arms flailed wide. He whined, gargled . . . and died.

The aunt and uncle hadn’t moved. Things needed to look authentic, believable, so Gaby walked back to the table. With one quick flick of the razor-sharp blade on her knife, she freed Luther’s hands from the restraints. The tight bindings had chafed his skin, leaving behind angry red welts—and destroying any regrets Gaby might have felt with her decision.

After throwing his restraints toward the center of the room to mingle with her own, Gaby curved Luther’s left hand around the knife hilt. She squeezed his fingers to imprint his identity. His natural reflexes kept the knife lax in his hold.

Next she put his gun into his right hand. As testament to the core of Luther’s nature as a lawman, he grasped it on his own. Even unconscious, he was one with the weapon.

Standing behind Luther, Gaby took aim, and from that distance, shot the aunt in the head, the uncle in the throat. By ensuring her and Luther’s safety, an instantaneous lifting of her rage-fueled intuition left her depleted. With the threat from evil ones obliterated, she’d completed her calling.

Gaby knew that she’d done the right thing, moral or not, but that wouldn’t help her in a world of legality.

Roused by the blasts of gunfire, Luther mumbled again, his voice stronger this time, and his gun hand flinched, lifted, dropped back to rest on the tabletop. To finish her chore, Gaby went to her knees beside him, put her head on his thigh, and rested.

She’d protected Luther, but at what cost?

Would he believe the setup? Or would this be the final straw in testing his gullibility?

A short time later, Luther came to with alacrity. He lurched into defensive mode, and Gaby hoped he wouldn’t drop the knife and slice her throat by accident. She kept very still, ready to play her part.

Ready to do whatever necessary to insulate Luther from the ugliness of her purpose in life.