L.L. Foster - The Kindred

Finally, more than an hour later, she made her way to Mort’s.

Fabian watched as every minion took nourishment off the woman. He wouldn’t allow them to finish her, but by allowing them all to take part, he ensured their commitment to the act, and their devotion to silence.

That she was attractive made it more acceptable to them. As a being superior in intelligence, he’d made many observations about mankind. There were vast correlations in how people reacted to cannibalism . . . and to sex.

A beautiful woman was preferable to a hag, a young woman more desirable to the palate than a matronly elder.

As with sex, the thought of dining off a relative, or even a close friend, repulsed at the same level as incest.

And children . . . oh yes, those most sacrosanct of God’s gifts, exempt from all perversions by most. Society thought children were to be protected, cherished. They didn’t see the potential, the delectability of young, tender flesh.

It was the most reviled of taboos—and perhaps that’s why it tantalized Fabian so.

He would bend them to his will. He would convince them, force them if necessary, but they would do as he requested.

For Fabian, that was perhaps the biggest thrill of all.

“That’s enough.” The stupid whore lay sprawled, all but unconscious, stained by blood and saliva. Bruises marred her pale body, evidence that many of his followers still lacked control.

They would learn with time and practice.

Reluctantly, the last man pulled away. He licked his lips and breathed deeply, still in the throes of profound enlightenment.

Yes, they pleased him. They took proper enjoyment as they should, and reacted promptly to his orders.

“Because our last meeting residence was compromised, we need to make this new building home. I know it is not ideal.” The abandoned property, once owned by an elderly woman who had no close relatives, was cold and musty and cluttered with ridiculous furnishings and knickknacks.

The lack of decorating finesse assaulted his senses, but the water and electric remained on, and the solid basement walls would ensure secure attachment of necessary manacles and chains.

Located on isolated land, long forgotten by the nearest neighbors, it provided all they needed. No one would come here; they would be free to do as they pleased, for as long as Fabian deemed proper.

“I’m needed at the shop soon, but before that, I want to see her cleaned and her wounds tended. After that, secure her so that she cannot escape.” With a benevolent smile, he told them, “We will use her for as long as she lasts.”

They accepted his edict without comment, as they should. Like mutts, they hungered for a single kind word from him.

He’d found it beneficial to align himself with society’s outcasts; the mentally challenged and the psychotically cruel. Every being, he’d found, had a use—be it for taking orders, accepting blame, or supplying nourishment.

“No one is to feed from her without my permission. Is that understood?” After each man and woman nodded in compliance, Fabian glanced at Georgie’s gory body. “I’ll get an industrial freezer out here soon, but in the meantime, carve him up and place all salvageable parts in coolers. When I return, I’ll dispose of the waste.”

Fabian trusted no one else for that particular task. It was a tricky thing, dumping bodily remains in a way that would lead others away from them instead of to them. Not that he worried overly about capture. The only link to him would be Georgie’s tattoos, and those would be in a freezer with his meat attached, where police would never see them.

“All of you,” Fabian added as he looked around the dank room of the building, “after she’s properly secured, do what you can about cleaning the place. I want this blood mopped up, and the cobwebs removed. Someone buy some air freshener. It reeks of the old lady who died here.”

Knowing he required his own share of cleaning, given that blood stained his face and shirt, Fabian rushed through the rest of his instructions.

He nodded to one sturdy fellow possessed of a low IQ and a fevered bent toward sadism. “You, begin fastening the restraints into the wall. Adjust them for her height so that her feet reach the floor. I want her able to stand.” Delight glimmered. “To watch .”

Knowing his order would be fulfilled, Fabian bestowed his attention on a small woman afflicted with a twisted need to please men. “You can secure what we need from the hospital?”

“Yes.” Her head bobbed in animated enthusiasm. “I work tomorrow, and I’ll gather the items then.”

As a nurse’s aide, she had access to the anticoagulants necessary to keep the blood flowing freely. However, the sedatives Fabian used to keep their cattle calm were obtained from a local thug, a miscreant of the worst order.

Fabian neither liked nor feared the crude brute, which made him tedious to endure. But Bogg delivered without fail and he didn’t ask questions, and those redeeming qualities kept him a valuable asset.

He supplied the most modern and effective selection of tranquilizers. Victims could stay endlessly in a realm of surrealism, without ever realizing the fate they faced—until the key moment.

Seeing their fear was part of the rush for Fabian, so when they decided to feed directly from her again, he would let the numbing effects of the drugs wear off.

It elated him to get the proper reaction from his prey.

“Complete your tasks,” he told his audience, “and you’ll soon be rewarded with a special treat.”

A low buzz started over what the treat might be, but Fabian chose not to say any more. If he told them now, they would rebel. He needed to present the gift to them first, to work them into a frenzy of wanting it, so that their flagging and seldom-used morals and scruples would be put to rest.

After he procured their special meal, he would entice them into committing the gravest perversion.

Thinking of that moment, he could barely contain himself. Best that he remove himself now before he gave anything away.

With all in order, he headed upstairs to where water and a change of his clothing could be found. He needed only the most rudimentary of cleansings, just enough that no one would notice him. When he reached the tattoo parlor he owned, he could be more thorough.

Despite his proclivity for cannibalism and drinking of blood, he was a fastidious man who always presented himself in a complimentary light. He was handsome, well built, and a good businessman who had turned Sin Addictions into a thriving business—with a believable façade for his predilection.

Peering through the pristine front window of the comic book store, Gaby spied Mort with customers. He didn’t notice her, so she bypassed him and, using her key, went into the connected two-family and up the stairs to the living quarters separate from his.

She wanted to visit Bliss.

Proving she could be a wraith when it suited her, Gaby located Bliss in the kitchen without being heard.

Bliss stood at the stove, stirring what smelled like stew and appearing just like a little Martha Stewart. Since transitioning away from her debased existence of prostitution and into Mort’s upper apartment—the apartment that used to be Gaby’s—Bliss had transformed.

Brassy highlights no longer tinged her soft brown hair, and harsh makeup didn’t age her pretty blue eyes. Instead of wearing clothing that exposed too much skin, she dressed in casual jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.

Now eighteen, Bliss looked like any other teenager instead of a homeless, mostly unloved girl who’d once sold herself to anyone willing to drop a few bills for the pleasure.

The thought of Bliss’s past life stabbed into Gaby’s heart with the force of a poisoned spear.