The Acceptance

distance.” Jimbo started away. “That attic wasn’t livable before she moved in. It sure as hell ain’t a place to visit now that she’s in there.”

Dismissing Jimbo from his thoughts, Luther turned and went into the building. Dim lighting left long shadows in the foyer. Two metal-legged chairs with cracked plastic seats sat at the bottom of a tall staircase. Under the front window sat a loveseat, and on that was a woman curled into the corner, sleeping soundly, her clothes as much off as on.

A wooden desk, rotted with age, carved with graffiti and sticky with unknown substances served as a check- in point. Behind it, keys on plastic rings hung from a pegboard on the wall. All but three keys were missing from their hooks.

No one sat at the front desk, and Luther didn’t bother ringing the bell. Taking the dark stairs two at a time, he went up. He heard coarse laughter, a few squeals, some crying. Bedsprings squeaked. The sound of a slap rang out.

His stomach cramped.

He didn’t want Gaby here.

But where else did she belong? He didn’t know her well enough to say.

At the top of three stories, only a narrow staircase remained. It led to the attic.

Gaby had chosen to be here. There had to be a reason.

This time, before she escaped him again, Luther would get some answers—one way or another.

Chapter 3

As she traversed through dreary shadows, avoiding streetlamps and caustic denizens, Gaby festered on her damning misconceptions. So much wasted time, so many spent emotions that she didn’t have to spare.

After seeing Morty die—or thinking he had died—she’d given up writing her popular graphic novels. Because Mort had served as her contact to the publishing world, writing and illustrating the novels seemed pointless. Sending the completed novels to an unknown source could initiate unwanted exposure.

It was too risky.

But without an outlet for her pain and despair, a yawning, caliginous wasteland had split open inside her. At times it had felt alive, devouring her one painful bite at a time.

Knowing that Morty lived opened up endless possibilities. Stories ripe with both fabrication and fact winged through her beleaguered consciousness. An extant drive to put pen to paper conflicted with the urgent need to see Mort, to have his survival as a visual fact, not just a repeated truth.

A loud voice shattered her ruminations.

Up ahead, uncaring of who might see, an obese woman snatched up a stocky kid and shook him hard, berating him for following her.

The boy looked about ten.

He wanted his mamma; she wanted a john, possibly to pay for food, more likely because she was no more than a base whore lacking emotion for the well-being of her child.

Gaby’s heart wrenched, and she fought the urge to intercede. Only the truth that she couldn’t change the woman kept her away.

Sinking back against a wall, Gaby watched as the boy turned and, with a broken expression, ran away.

Just as she, at that age, had so many times run—even when there’d been nowhere to run to. Not until she’d been almost grown. Not until . . . Father.

For one awful, desperate moment, their initial meeting crept into her memories. If only she’d known him when she was that young and needy. If only he’d been there to help her deal with the duties heaped on an adolescent paladin.

But it wasn’t until she’d turned seventeen and was on the streets alone that Father found her. Whenever she thought of those desperate times, she again tasted the fear that filmed her throat and left its burning scum on her teeth and tongue. She felt the rippling agony of demand for action, and the incomprehension of what to do about it.

Father had stumbled upon her in her weakened state, and to his credit, he’d tried to help.

No one else had approached her, asked or listened. No one else had encroached at a time when her defenses were lost to her.

* * *

“What’s in your mind, child?”

The voice came from far away, biting into her agony. “Death. Death.”

“For yourself?”

The torment twisted her, bowed her body like a soul possessed. “No,” she whimpered. “For another.”

A cool hand touched her brow. She shied from the aberrant act of comfort.

“And that would be . . . ?”

“I don’t know his name.” Speaking of her sins, her darkest cravings, should have cast her straight to hell. Instead, it freed her. “He’s there. At the end of the alley.” She curled tighter, squeezing her arms around herself, begging herself to be silent, but the words erupted. “I don’t know why, but I need to destroy him.”

After a thoughtful pause, he said, “Wait here.”

The priest left her, as was right and proper. But within minutes, he returned. Without a word, he sat beside her in the abominable alley, uncaring of his robes or the refuse that surrounded her, that was her.

Finally, after a long time, he said, “You would truly kill him?”

“Yes. Oh God, yes.”

“I don’t see how.” He lifted her hair back, put his hand around her upper arm. “You’re so young, a small child . . .”

“I would rip him to shreds with my bare hands!” The demonic voice sounded like someone else, but just saying it sent a fire raging through her, making the pain wan beneath a surge of pernicious strength. She panted hard, looked at the priest and saw his shock, his fear, and his curiosity, perhaps even understanding.

Sickened, expecting the worst, she tried to turn away.

He held her face. “Look at me.”

And when she did, he said, “Do it.”

Permission energized her. The strength amassed, so powerful that she felt inhuman. Superhuman.

“If you can destroy him,” Father said with a calm that soothed her, “then you should, because my dear, no one else will.” He smiled, patted her cheek, and said without judgment, “I’ll wait here.”

* * *

“Gaby?”

She jerked. Still held by the bellicose nostalgia, she reacted on instinct. Grabbing her confronter, she put him in a deadly hold—and heard a choking laugh.

“God, Gaby, I’ve missed you,” the strangled voice said.

Mort. “You idiot!” She loosed him with a shove of temper. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on me?”

“Sneak?” Even in the darkness, she could see his grin. “I almost walked into you, you’re standing there so still.” He threw his arms around her, and she was stunned by his strength.

Morty Vance, landlord and wannabe friend, had always been just shy of a complete wimp and a spineless worm.

Now he had muscle tone; Gaby could feel the new strength in his limbs. And he exuded . . . confidence.