The Acceptance

Chapter 1

Standing deep in the shadows of a tall brick building to avoid the glow of a streetlamp, Detective Luther Cross clenched his teeth together. Off duty, but determined, he stared down the sidewalk a good ten yards ahead. His eyes burned and his fury built. Even from that distance, with the moon high in the sky casting eerie shadows over the bleak surroundings, he recognized her.

Gabrielle Cody.

The bane of his existence.

The source of nightmares—and scorching-hot erotic dreams.

Her long thin legs, sleek and toned with muscles, showed beneath a denim miniskirt. Black leather ankle boots replaced her familiar flip-flop sandals, and a loose tank top revealed the outline of the sheath at her back.

Her short dark hair now had vivid purple streaks throughout.

She’d disguised herself in her idea of a whore’s garb, but Luther would know that stance, feel that cocky attitude, no matter her outward appearance.

For weeks he’d hunted her, lost sleep over her, worried and ruminated and raged . . . and there she stood, appearing as aloof and untouchable as ever.

Alone.

Deliberately distant.

Taunting him without even trying.

Unsure exactly what he’d say or do, Luther started forward. With her keen perception of her surroundings, Gaby might have picked up on his approach. Very little ever got by her.

But at that moment, a young, lanky boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years of age, came out of an alley. Blond hair showed from beneath a pristine ball cap. Dressed in clean jeans and a button-up shirt, a school-type backpack hooked over his thin shoulders, he bore no resemblance to the homeless or desperate runaways that often choked the crowded streets.

He didn’t appear the least shy or reserved about being out of place in the area.

Gaze unflinching, he perused the crumbling building that Gaby protected, sizing it up for some purpose that Luther couldn’t fathom.

Gaby focused on the boy.

And when Gaby focused, it was something awesome to witness.

She went rigid, her long bones gathering in defense as she straightened away from the building, then immediately relaxed in the deceptive way appropriate to natural-born combatants.

Not a good sign.

Gaby could attack without warning or mercy, fight with a frighteningly lethal skill, and her motives remained more elusive than a whispery phantom.

Luther knew this, and accepted it.

But why did the boy interest her?

Forgoing his own disgruntlement for the moment, Luther picked up his pace to reach her, to protect the kid from whatever Gaby had planned for him—but not in enough time.

The boy saw Luther and, for reasons of his own, bolted.

Like an animal of prey, Gaby saw his retreat as just cause to launch a pursuit.

Shit.

They darted around a dark corner, disappeared into the blackness of the night, and Luther, not being a complete idiot, slowed and pulled his gun.

He wouldn’t shoot Gaby.

But then again, he wouldn’t walk into a trap either.

He wanted her, but he didn’t trust her. Not anymore.

Maybe he never had.

Using necessary caution, he slunk into the narrow, muculent alley, closing his mind to the festering odors and willing his eyes to adjust to the extreme lack of light.

At the far end, he saw movement and slipped farther inside. Finally, with careful scrutiny, he spied Gaby. That long, lethal blade of hers was held tightly in her hand as she slowly pushed open a broken door.

Heart pounding, adrenaline rushing, Luther steadied his hands and his thoughts. “Not another step, Gaby.”

Other than a slight stiffening of her tender neck, she made no acknowledgment of him.

All her fervid scrutiny remained intent on whatever she saw beyond that door. Even from the back, in the murky gloom of the odorous alley, Luther noted the changes in her face, the tightening and subtle reshaping of her features that signaled her sense of threat.

He also noted the choker around her slender throat. The choker he’d given her.

No. He would not go down this road with her again—not without some explanations, not without him being in control.

He tightened his mouth, his heart, and deliberately attempted to breech her concentration. “Gaby.”

He wasn’t surprised that she didn’t look toward him; knowing her as he did, he wasn’t even certain if she’d heard him. In the past, during a rainstorm and times of danger, he’d witnessed Gaby going into a zone, oblivious to everyone and everything around her until an almost trancelike state enclosed her.

Unwilling to lose her again, even emotionally, he caught his breath, inched closer, and said in a harder, deeper voice, “Gaby, you will listen to me.”

By minute degrees, she exposed her awareness of him. It showed in the faint relaxing of her strong, proud shoulders, the ebbing of her immense tension.

Without altering her attention, she warned, “It’s not a good time, Luther.”

Not a good time. Ha! But just hearing her voice reassured and pleased him. Despite the current situation, his pulse slowed, calmed. “That’s too bad.” He flexed his fingers around the gun, pleased to feel somewhat in control. “Put the knife down—and your arms up.”

As she mulled over his order, her jaw worked. She must have decided to give in to him, because she eased back the tiniest bit—

Something shattered inside the abandoned structure, and Gaby, realizing her prey had found an alternate way out, slammed the door with absurd force.

“Son of a bitch.” In a rage ripened by frustration, she rounded on Luther. “You let him get away!”

Somewhat used to her and her odd manners and coarse language, Luther feigned a negligent attitude and asked, “Him who?”

Now that she faced him, Luther saw that some anomalous emotion had manifested itself in her physical appearance. She looked like Gaby, but then again, she didn’t.

He’d seen the odd transformation with her before. Like a quick slithering chameleon, she changed and shifted, her appearance altered subtly, almost imperceptibly. Luther had always been so strangely attuned to her that he picked up on it when, perhaps, others didn’t.

Was it a phenomenon left over from her childhood? Some strange illness that plagued her? Or was it just Gaby, as extraordinarily different as she was appealing?

Storming toward him, the knife squeezed in her grip and her pale eyes glittering, Gaby curled her lip. “Now that you blundered in, there’s no way for us to know who he is, is there?”

“That’s close enough,” Luther warned her. With Gaby, he was never entirely certain of her intent, of just how far she’d carry her anger in a physical response.

Disregarding his command, she crowded right up to him, nose to nose, hot breath mingling. “Is it?”

Jesus, he’d missed her ballsy bravado and brash disregard for common civility. He wanted to crush her closer, wanted to tell her . . . what?

What was it about her that drew him? Yes, she was different, but it was more than that. He wanted her—in a lot of ways inappropriate to his position as a police detective—to satisfy his suspicions about her involvement in a past case involving the sick slaughter of human beings.

He prayed that Gaby had no part in that. He had no real evidence against her. But he had those gut feelings, almost as staggering as his freakishly strong desire for her.

If he believed in such things, he’d think she’d put a spell on him, one meant to keep him awake at nights, and weary during the day, plagued by the memory of her and the confusion she wrought.

But while he couldn’t label Gaby, he knew she wasn’t a witch. She was too soft to the touch, too vulnerable despite her harsh attitudes, and much, much too alone.

In their current position, the barrel of his gun pressed into her bony sternum. That bothered him, whether she paid any notice or not. Grinding his molars together, Luther rasped, “Put. The knife. Away.”

Blue eyes sparking, Gaby scrutinized him. “Ah, what’s the matter, cop? You afraid of me now?”

Her sneer deliberately provoked—but she did reach around behind herself and sheath the lethal blade with an alarmingly practiced ease. As she did so, her small breasts pushed against the skimpy tank top.

The hidden dangers of the moment had tightened her nipples.

Despite what he knew to be right, to be sane, the sight of her femaleness, so incongruous with her balls-to-the-wall attitude, drew his attention and sent a fire to sear through his veins.

Anger and lust—it could prove a deadly combination, especially with a woman like Gaby.

A woman like no other.

Scraps of moonlight danced among the purple highlights in her hair. A light sheen of sweat touched her pale, smooth skin.

Her impossibly stubborn chin lifted.

And she smiled. “I won’t gut you, Luther.”

“Good to know.”

Slim brows burrowed down, giving her otherwise plain features a hint of threat. “Not,” she murmured low, “without reason.”

Since seeing her, Luther rode the edge of fury, and now that the knife didn’t pose a threat, he grabbed both her wrists and slammed her up against the brick wall. The gun he still held pressed into her tender flesh, but he couldn’t temper himself, couldn’t rein in his rage or take the time to holster the weapon, couldn’t reason with her or . . . anything.

Chest to chest, thick anger undulating between them, he sought words that would somehow convey all he felt—the resentment and relief, the concern and . . .

Fuck.

So much more.

Ignorant of his mental struggle, Gaby looked at his mouth. “How’d you find me, anyway?” She licked her lips, slow and sweet. “I’ve been quiet. I’ve been good.”

Luther couldn’t dredge up a single word.

At his lack of response, her gaze crawled up to his, challenging him and scorching him at the same time. “You know, Luther, I figured on never seeing you again.”

That notion didn’t seem to distress her at all. Luther wondered if his teeth would turn to dust, given how he ground them together.

Eyes narrowed, Gabrielle tipped her head. “But here you are.” She sucked in a substantial breath, which pressed her body into his. Drawling the words, she said, “Big. Tall. Strong Luther. That golden orange glow around you shows great self-control.”

God, she sounded the same, just as confusing and infuriating, as if nothing had happened, as if people hadn’t died and monsters hadn’t existed.

Her voice softened. “You’re holding back, Luther. But what? Anger?” Her attention returned to his mouth. “Or something else?”

Hoarse with an aberrant yearning, determined to maintain control of the situation, Luther pointed out, “You’ve been knocking around johns.” And thank God she had, because her abuse of the flesh-peddling clientele had enabled him to locate her again.

Quiet satisfaction chased away the last remnants of her odd transformation, showing him the Gaby he’d grown to know so well—or at least, as well as anyone could know an enigma like her.

“Only when they deserved it, Luther.” She relaxed her shoulder blades against the wall, tilted out her hips to press into his groin. Uncaring of how he held her wrists so tightly, nonchalant to any threat he might pose, she said again, “Only when they deserved it.”

God almighty, would he ever figure out her many quirks and idiosyncrasies? Now that he had found her, would she find a way to slip away from him again?

Would she forever unbalance him with a desire so foreign to his nature that he couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t decipher it or even name it?

“Why, Gaby?” He hadn’t meant to growl, to show his loss of discipline, but, damn it, there were so many unknowns with her. A million of them.

Hopefully she caught all that the simple question encompassed.

All that he wanted from her.

Stupid, stupid bitch! Heart pounding in a mad relay, he ran farther, down an alley, across an empty lot.

Looking back one last time—and seeing no one—Oren Paige squeezed through a broken fence post to enter a closed-off garbage area for a local convenient mart.

A rusty, protruding nail gouged the tender flesh of his arm. Flinching, he examined the wound. “Oh God, no.” Tears sprang to his eyes. “Blood!”

Oren stared at the gaping wound. It hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought back tears.

A girl would cry.

He would not.

Bottom lip trembling, a soft white hand over the injury, he turned to lean his back against one rotted plank of wood. Bone-deep fear urged him to run; his straining lungs demanded that he catch his breath, get a handle on his astronomical fright.

Slowly, his free hand tightened into a fist and his temper began to boil, chasing away the pain. He had to suppress his fury or he’d be shouting in a temper tantrum that would draw the pathetic hordes looming in the night in this godforsaken area.

This was all her fault.

Why had the girl chased him? What did she want? No way had she seen through the disguise.

No one ever did.

He hadn’t done anything to her to warrant that absurd pursuit. He’d only wanted to lure a whore, and nobody cared about whores.

They were nasty. Foul. Useless to a better society.

Just as his mother had been.

Nobody missed whores. Nobody wanted them around.

He sure as hell didn’t.

He performed a service by ridding the community of their sort, giving them only what they deserved—and allowing his aunt and uncle to partake of the pleasure.

Oren smiled. The bitch he had now . . . well, she wouldn’t last much longer. Aunt Dory had yet to learn how to meter her rage, and Uncle Myer couldn’t pace himself. All night long, Oren had listened to the stupid bitch scream.

And scream and scream.

Until he’d shut them all down.

Because Oren held the purse strings, his aunt and uncle could be controlled. When threats of disinheritance didn’t work, drugs did.

And that boorish slut . . . well, he told her that he’d cut out her tongue if she made another sound. With the other already-mute bitch bleeding to death beside her, she hadn’t needed further convincing.

Remembering, Oren’s smile turned to a grin.

His uncle’s slack mouth.

His aunt’s eyes, rolled back in her head.

The whore’s white-faced fear.

Shoving off from the rickety wall, refusing to look at the ghastly slash on his soft, pale arm, Oren started back to where his ride waited—in a nicer section of town. To facilitate the rest of his journey, he removed his backpack and dug out what he needed.

Later in the week, he’d return to this hellhole. He’d be sure to avoid the skinny dark-haired girl, and then he’d be more successful. No one would get in his way.

He wouldn’t allow it.

What worked on Aunt Dory and Uncle Myer would work on others.

If he didn’t keep his aunt and uncle occupied, they’d venture out on their own, and they were so brainless, ruled only by their base desires, that they ran the risk of blowing their whole setup.

But Oren liked things as they were. He liked the house, the freedom, the control he had over others . . .

In his mind, he pictured the dirty tramp, tied to the sparse frame . . . almost broken, almost there.

He laughed out loud.

Yeah, he liked it a lot.

Knowing Luther watched her every tiny move, Gaby turned her head to the side and smirked. Little by little, the grip of the righteous calling subsided, pulling its sharp talons out of her soul, releasing her to deal with more earthbound issues.

Like Luther.

It hurt to keep looking at him, to see how he looked at her.

After the hell of her life, she’d thought herself tough, strong enough to stay alone, to relish her isolation from the pathetic society surrounding her.

But God’s truth, walking away from Luther weeks ago had almost destroyed her. She’d needed a purpose, any purpose other than the agony God saw fit to strike her with at His whim.

Luther’s breath heated her neck right above the collar that she always wore. Like her association with divine forces, the choker gave her solace.

“Answer me, God damn it!”

The blasphemy bothered her far more than the bone-crushing grip on her wrists. “You know why I left.”

“Tell me.”

Temper snapping, she jerked her hands loose and shoved him back several feet. That felt good enough that she went ahead and shoved him again, her attack taking him by surprise enough that he stumbled backward and nearly fell on his ass.

As he took a stance against her, his nostrils flared. “Gaby . . .”

“Luther,” she mocked. She might be skinny, but when enraged, she had undeniable strength, with or without God’s influence.

Leaning in to him, stalking him, she snarled, “I left because I wanted you, all right?”

He planted his big feet and stopped retreating.

His savage expression didn’t impress her one iota. “You showed me things you shouldn’t have, Luther. But then Mort died and I . . .” The harsh memory of losing her only friend caused the words to strangle in her throat before emerging as a faint whisper. “I felt so guilty, I had to leave.”

Straightening on a deep sigh, Luther surveyed her, shook his head, and holstered his gun. “Gaby,” he said again, not as a warning this time, but with softened exasperation and what sounded suspiciously like condolence.

“Don’t do that.” She turned her back on him, resisting the urge to slap her hands over her ears. “Don’t talk all gentle and sweet when nothing can ever happen between us.” To reinforce that fact, more to herself than to Luther, she said harder, “Never.”

He had the audacity to laugh. “Bullshit.”

Whirling on him, she opened her mouth—

“It’s happening, Gaby.” To emphasize his point, Luther closed the insignificant space between them. “Believe it. Accept it. I can’t say when, but I know it will.” He looked her over. “You know it will, so stop fighting that much, at least.”

Meaning he knew she fought everything else? Her commiserable life? Her very existence?

Her purpose on earth?

Okay, so they had that unsettling sexual chemistry thing churning between them. She did accept that. But the rest?

Not possible.

So why did he have to hunt her down and start teasing her with impossible things again? As a paladin, a warrior for God, her life wasn’t normal, would never be normal.

She was abnormal—in every way.

Luther couldn’t know what she did, and he wouldn’t believe why she did it. Normal people weren’t summoned by God.

Normal people didn’t destroy life in any grisly manner necessary.

Normal people didn’t behold the abominable evil that showed itself clearly to her, the evil she was ordered to annihilate.

Like spilled oil in a dirty gutter, it all came back to the surface: her duty, and Luther’s inability to ever grasp or accept it. He was a damn cop, and given half a chance he’d arrest her, see her prosecuted, and stand by while unknowing normal people saw her locked away.

For life.

And that hurt more than anything could.

Ready to disguise her anguish with anger, Gaby charged forward, and Luther held up a hand to stop her.

“Mort’s not dead, sweetheart.”

She drew up short. Sweetheart? What sappy shit was that? No one called her . . .

Then the rest of what Luther said sank in and Gaby’s world tilted. Her knees felt weak. Her heart punched hard against the wall of her chest.

Not dead? But . . .

Weeks ago, Mort had died. She knew it.

She’d seen it.

Images burned through her mind with a flash-fire intensity that seared her soul and inflamed her agony.

She saw Mort bravely staying behind in the abandoned building after she’d dispatched the zombielike souls and the monstrous doctor who’d created them. She saw Mort showing his first signs of personal pride, practically glowing with his sense of purpose—God’s purpose.

And then . . . Mort falling beneath a madwoman’s lust for blood, buried in ashes and dust . . .

“No.” Lost on the night breeze, her whispered denial faded into oblivion. She wheezed, trying to draw in needed oxygen, but instead her lungs bloated on the nastiness of depravity and the craven sense of despair.

“Yes, Gaby.”

Luther’s reassurance didn’t touch her. Reaching out, she braced a palm on the roughened surface of broken bricks, her eyes burning and her throat constricted. “I saw . . .”

“What?” New anger sparked in Luther’s brown eyes. “What did you see?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. She couldn’t let Luther know that she had been there, a part of it all, the biggest part—the part that butchered, hashed, and permanently destroyed atrocities too vile to survive.

He didn’t buy it. “You were there, weren’t you, Gaby? Mort lied about that much. Admit it.”

Luther didn’t approach her, didn’t touch her. He just waited, watching her, judging her reaction the way he always judged her—with suspicion and cynicism.

He was a good man.

Auras of strength and purpose always surrounded him, a protective halo to remind her of all the ways they contrasted.

That he remained distrustful of her was one good reason to keep her distance. If a do-gooder seraph like Luther ever found out what she did, he’d never be able to deal with it.

Reminding herself of that gave her strength, enough to amass her wits and face him again.

She steadied her palpating heart and locked back her jellied knees. Suspicious, hopeful, she surveyed him. “Mort’s really alive?”

Fed up, Luther reached for her—but this time Gaby was ready. Exhilarated by the idea that her old landlord and only true friend might have survived, she ducked out of Luther’s reach and came up behind him.

Her right arm clamped tight around his throat, tight enough to squeeze his windpipe. “Take it easy, big boy.”

The taunt sent him over the edge.

He reacted so quickly, he caught Gaby off guard. In a series of well-timed movements, she found herself slammed back up against the wall, this time with Luther’s big, imposing body plastered to her. Unless she decided to hurt him, and she didn’t want to do that, she couldn’t defend herself.

Her bones, her joints, protested and her pride prickled . . .

But oh God, jubilation filled her. Euphoria erupted. She was better than ecstatic.

Morty was alive.

Luther wouldn’t lie about that. He couldn’t. Somehow, by some divine intervention, Morty had survived.

Damn, but she couldn’t wait to see the little weasel again. When she did, she’d give him hell for sure.

Incredulous, Luther snarled. “Don’t you dare smile, Gaby.” He bracketed one big, hard hand around her throat, and with the other pinned both of her wrists high. “Don’t you dare act like nothing is wrong.”

Throughout most of her lamentable life, Gaby had had no reason for joy. Now she felt it in spades, and damn it, she couldn’t suppress it. Even Luther’s pissed-off attitude couldn’t dampen her buoyant spirits.

Gaby eyed him, lifted one brow, and when the happiness threatened to implode, she kissed him.

Luther jerked back—but she followed and kissed him again, needing to celebrate the foreign emotion of pure, undiluted happiness bursting inside her.

She’d never felt it before, and she loved it, wanted to cherish it and this moment. It was a first for her, a sign that somewhere in her blackened heart, a real woman lived and breathed and accepted influence from the world that had rejected her so harshly.

Breathing hard and fast, Luther resisted her impetuous onslaught for only a nanosecond before the hand at her throat softened, his fingers slid up into her hair, and he positively devoured her mouth.

Kissing was as new to her as joy, but doubly thrilling. As a creature of instincts, Gaby rubbed herself against him. When that didn’t appease, she groaned and bit him.

He jerked back, panting, his face red and his eyes burning like the devil himself.

They stared at each other. Gaby said, “I like kissing you, Luther.”

An internal struggle manifested itself on his features. He fought hard, making his beautiful brown eyes blaze and his sensuous mouth tighten.

He swallowed, worked his jaw, then flattened her by asking in a brisk, but affected voice, “Why were you chasing the boy?”

The wind left her lungs. Fucking asshole. Her pride bristled at such a harsh rejection. “Let me go.”

“Not until you answer me.”

She shook her head; not in denial, but because she didn’t have an answer for him. “I don’t know why.”

“What?”

Because she detested being uncertain in any way, she snapped, “Clear out your ears, cop.”

His left eye flinched. “So now we’re back to insults, is that it?”

“Hey, I clearly wanted to fuck. You’re the one—”

He released her so quickly, Gaby almost fell. Before she could regain her bearings, he’d turned his back on her and paced away. One hand rubbed the back of his neck, the other clenched into a fist.

In a perfect world, Gaby would try to figure him out. She’d want to understand her sudden hurt and why she’d ever, even for a single second, thought a man like Luther, a good, kind, beautiful man, would want any part of her.

But this world was imperfect, in part because of her, in other ways, in spite of her.

Best if she just left, right now, while she still could. She started to do just that.

Luther said, “Please don’t go.”

“No reason to stay.”

Without making a sound, he came to her and his hand closed over her shoulder. In a harsh, hungry whisper, he said, “I want you, Gaby. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“Yeah, I could tell.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “You’ve been hanging out with prostitutes and now suddenly you want sex. With me. I haven’t seen you in a long time. Hell, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again. When last I did see you, you made it clear that sex wasn’t an option. Hell, you cursed me for making you want sex.”

“I have a good memory, and you’re saying sex an awful lot for a man who just turned it down.”

Gently, he turned her to face him. “Just moments ago, you told me it would never happen.”

“And it won’t.”

It was his turn to smile, halfheartedly, crookedly. It made him look so appealing. “I already promised you that it will. But not in a moment of insanity where you might regret it later.” Both hands cupped her face. “When I get on top of you, and I will, we won’t be in a dirty alley, or in a hurry, and we’ll both be clear about what we want.”

Those words affected her so deeply that she hid her response. “Whatever. You done with me?”

“No, I’m not. Not by a long shot.” With a hand at her back, he started her walking out of the alley toward the street where lamps filtered through a growing fog. “Tell me why you chased that boy. And no bullshit about not knowing why. You always know what you do. You’re a very decisive woman.”

Okay, so maybe she did know. Something about the kid had . . . reminded her of herself. Oh, he was better dressed than she’d ever been, clean and fresh and healthy. He had normal weight, where she’d always been frail. His eyes were bright instead of sunken with depression and pain.

But something about him, some ethereal aura showed his confusion about his purpose in life.

She was good at reading auras.

It was a talent, not unlike her talent in destroying rancorous evil.

As a child, she’d been adrift in incomprehensible pain and confused direction. The more she fought against it, the worse it got. At times, the pain would ease, but it never completely left her.

That is, not until she accepted her insights, and exterminatedthe immoral malevolence surrounding her. Then, and only then, could she draw an easy breath.

The blind, the unknowing, summoned doctors for a cure, but they couldn’t name the ailment.

Authorities refused to acknowledge it as real.

The foster families who occasionally allowed her into their homes thought her a fraud, a faker, and they punished for the pain.

No one understood, and no one knew how she escaped the agony—no one, except Father Mullond. And that good man encouraged her, coached her, helped her gain direction to her purpose and deception to cover her tracks.

As a man of God, he understood her duty more than she ever could have. He made it crystal clear that if anyone found out, she’d be labeled a murderer, and the rest of her days would be spent in prison, or an asylum—where the pain would gnaw on her all the rest of her days.

And so they’d worked together, Father Mullond and her, an odd pair matched by God. Gaby told Father of her auras, shared with him the first niggling of discomfort, and he, through the confessions of a priest, learned the truths behind her visions.

And ultimately, he gave his blessing to each and every slaughter.

Father had changed her life with his understanding, his guidance.

Then he’d changed it again—with his death.