the summons, to follow an urge to the rightful conclusion.
She wouldn't die. God wouldn't let her, even during the lowest points of her life when she'd pleaded for death.
The same couldn't be said for Father.
Long before she'd been ready to face the world on her own, he'd been taken from her. Not by the evil so many feared, but a disease just as heinous: cancer.
Never again would she open herself to that depth of emotional devastation. Fighting a league of demons alone was much, much easier than losing a beloved friend.
Drawn into herself, concentrating fiercely on the mental trail, Gaby had traveled nearly two blocks when a wolf whistle split the air, startling her out of the disturbing memories.
Without noticing, she'd come alongside the local bar overflowing with idiots who never went home, or didn't have homes to go to. Given the slums she lived in, lewd comments and sexual harassment were as common as the decayed-brick scenery.
A muddy brown aura hung in the air, indicating that evil lurked here, preying on the despondent, the emotionally weak. Pausing by a lamppost, Gaby surveyed the area with a dispassionate eye. Leering men pushed away from the doorway to encircle her.
One by one, Gaby looked at the drunks—and dismissed the taint of their influence. Most of their destruction would be wreaked inwardly, on their own persons.
Stupid bastards.
She would have walked away. Unfortunately, for them, they didn't allow her to do that.
Chapter Two
Gaby braced herself.
'Don't go jumpin' out of your skin, baby girl,' said one man as he closed the distance to her. 'I jus' wanna get to know ya.'
From right behind her, another said, 'Damn, you're a tall drink. Ain't never seen a bitch so tall.'
'Who gives a fuck if she's a giant? She smells clean.' A misshapen nose sniffed the air around her.
Childish name-calling could neither distract nor insult her. She had to too much to do.
Gaby started to step around the men. One brazenly blocked her way. 'You might be tall, but you ain't got much in the way of tits, now do you?'
A lot of knee-slapping and roaring good humor followed that gibe.
Gaby said, 'Drop dead,' and shoved past him. But she'd taken only two steps when she got worried. She glanced at the vast sky and whispered, 'Just kidding, okay?' She didn't really want some sad sap dead on her account—not that God listened to her all that often. But just in case…
A hand circled her upper arm, drawing her to a stop.
Shit. She did
'Uppity bitch,' the drunk complained. 'Why're you in such a hurry?'
The other losers snickered, egging him on.
Gaby didn't want to hurt anyone—not yet anyway. In her current mood, her control would be iffy at best. If she let go, she might kill the miserable fool by mistake. No loss to humanity, but her conscience could only take so much baggage.
In motions slow and precise, she pivoted to face him. Even slouched with drink, he stood tall enough to meet her eye to eye. Jesus, he smelled like ass and looked like death.
She slipped off her sunglasses to give him the full brunt of her discontent.
A spasm of surprise slackened his mouth, and the damp fingers clutching her arm flinched, then tightened with obvious dread.
Yeah, when in the zone, she had that effect on people. She didn't know why—maybe she appeared more menacing, or her determination became tactile. Whatever, most people in their right minds got out of her way.
This guy didn't, which only proved that too much drink had addled his common sense. More out of shock than deliberate intent, he hung on to her.
The stench of sweat, combined with the oily, alcohol residue of his skin and breath, sent a lurch through Gaby's stomach. She had to force herself to continue looking at him, to open her mind to him.
An atmosphere of depression and desolation heaved around him. Disturbed, yes, but not demonic. Definitely not the one who had gotten her out of bed.
When she didn't react, he shored up his nerve and reached for her rear, filling his hand with one cheek. At least he hadn't touched the small of her back and discovered her knife. Gaby considered that far more serious than a little grab-ass.
Laughing like hyenas, his friends shouted encouragement and suggestions.
Emboldened, he squeezed and cuddled her, saying, 'A tight ass, too.' His mean smile showed discolored teeth. ''But I don't mind much.'
She didn't move away as he'd probably expected her to. She didn't cower, or tremble. Her rage built in tandem to his nervousness. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and tracked a slow path down his temples; his hand stilled. Even the slowest of minds felt the power within her when she had the call.
Gaby was already in motion when he let go and started to back up, too late to avoid her attack. She smashed her bony knee into his jewels. Face contorting on a soundless wail, he collapsed forward, and she struck his nose with the heel of her palm, finishing him off.
His friends scattered as he sank backward, wheezed once for breath, and keeled over. His head clunked hard on the concrete walkway. Lucky for him, he had enough alcohol in his system that he didn't get back up. If he had, she'd have done more damage to him.
Dangerously on edge, Gaby lifted her penetrating gaze to the onlookers. No longer could she see them clearly, only the haze of their nervousness, the blistering of their fear.
Knowing she'd wasted too much time, Gaby sucked in a slow, calming breath, turned to leave—and ran face first into a hard chest. Acting on instincts, she struck out, left hand, right elbow, fast and hard. Swifter movements blocked each blow before large hands curved over her upper arms, alarming her.
But these hands weren't damp or cruel. They definitely weren't weak.
Holding her secure, keeping her upright, they burned through the fog of her purpose.
An atavistic montage of alarms scuttled throughout Gaby's system, not unlike what she experienced when receiving her call of duty. Only…
Only the acute pain
And that couldn't be good. She needed the pain to keep her focused, to keep her instincts sparking.
Wary over what she might see, Gaby took the time to gain her breath, to clear her head. Once she had her rage tempered, she looked up by small degrees, taking in a trim waist belted by black leather, buttons of a pressed white dress shirt, the loosened, burgundy-printed tie, a tanned throat, a strong chin.
Filled with trepidation, she raised her gaze to a face—and fell into calculating chocolate eyes that contrasted sharply with fair hair and a frown that bespoke concern rather than anger.
Jesus, he stood taller by a good three inches.
Beneath the nice suit, broad shoulders gave testament to incredible power. And he smelled of goodness, an unfamiliar, drugging scent.
Whorls of soft yellow, pink, and orange framed him with the same serenity of a sunset. The colors showed optimism, strength, purpose, and compassion. She didn't dare acknowledge the way her knees weakened and her stomach bottomed out.
Tugging her closer, keeping her on her tiptoes, he asked, 'Are you all right?'
That deep, resonating, and somehow alarming voice caused Gaby to shrink back. But he didn't let her go far.
This man would be much more trouble than the drunks, mostly because he affected her in some odd, freakish
