L.L. Foster - The Kindred

While she’d always felt akin to a lethal tool used to bludgeon evil, now she sensed her own humanity. She remained an aberration, but hand in hand with that, she was a woman with a mind of her own, making her own decisions.

Looking to the sky, hoping He heard her, she whispered, “This feels as right as anything could. This is the path I choose for myself now.”

The sky didn’t fall on her, so Gaby accepted that God allowed her the growth. With Luther.

It had probably been His plan all along, and if she hadn’t remained so stubborn, she might have realized it sooner.

Gratitude, for what He had bestowed, and what Luther shared, burst inside her, leaving her chest tight again. Emotion could be a son of a bitch when it came at the wrong times.

Headlights hit them and Luther turned, walking backward, as he verified Ann’s arrival. “Right on time,” he whispered.

Gaby glanced back, too. Ann didn’t look at either of them, didn’t in any way give up her association or her purpose in being there.

“I like her,” Gaby confided.

“Since when?”

“Since she showed up at Bliss’s with several bags of necessary and not-so-necessary stuff for the girls. Dacia was speechless, disbelieving in that way of hers because not much good fortune has come her way. But Mali . . . she turned into a chatterbox. I could hear her laughing over the phone, so loud that Bliss got drowned out.”

“When this is done,” Luther told her, “we can take them to the park. And the movies, and the zoo. I’d love to see you at an arcade. You’d probably break the machines with your reflexes.”

Gaby didn’t know anything about an arcade, and just then, she didn’t care. She nodded ahead of them.

Luther turned back around and the tattoo parlor came into sight.

“Everything okay?”

Gaby nodded. “Yeah, I’m just adjusting to the idea of doing this your way.”

“As opposed to your way, which would be . . . what?”

He didn’t need to ask, and they both knew it. “I’d kill him, no questions asked. I look at him, and I see his black soul, the ugliness of his purpose, the sickness of his pleasures.” She put her hands in the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt. “If shit doesn’t roll out right, I’ll kill him still. Gladly.”

Luther waited.

“But I’m willing to give it a shot your way first.”

“That means a lot, Gaby.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Luther grinned, but the show of humor faded under the weight of the task before them.

Through drawn blinds, a faint light shone in the front window of the tattoo parlor. It gave the illusion of warmth inside.

But outside, shrouding the tidy brick-and-mortar building, a brume of depravity slunk and swirled, shifted and regrouped.

“He’s inside, plotting, anxious.” Gaby shook her head. “The sick fuck is giddy about something.”

Because Luther looked ready to drag her away, Gaby changed the subject. Luther didn’t understand about auras, or about her special sight that showed things even he, an intuitive cop, couldn’t see.

“I asked around about tattoos so I’d know the process. I don’t want him to slip something into my skin that could poison me.”

Far from bolstered, Luther drew up short. “I hadn’t even considered that.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll know if he tries that.” Gaby kept walking, giving Luther no choice but to keep up. The sepulchral thudding of his boots on the pavement echoed over tall brick façades and crumbling stucco, faded into alleyways.

Gaby made no noise at all. “Stay here.”

Luther started to protest, and she said, “I’m trying it your way, but you’ve got to compromise a little.”

He nodded. “If you’re not back around front in one minute, I’m coming after you.”

Gaby left without further discussion. She followed the perimeter of the building to the side, where she checked an old window and found it secure. In the back, she twisted the doorknob. Locked. The other side of the building didn’t have a window. Back around front, she told Luther, “Everything looks fine.”

The front door opened. Palest light radiated from inside, backlighting Fabian’s body, casting a sinister glow around his cadaverous form. “Of course.” White teeth shone in the darkness. “Were you expecting a trap?”

“Still am,” Gaby told him as she took the lead up the stoop and to the door. “So don’t fuck up—or I’ll kill you.”

Luther acquainted himself with the shop under the pretext of awe. Dark green paint and wood trim accented yellow walls. Padded stools, a special chair, and wood cabinets had been organized efficiently.

Image suggestions lined each wall, and glass cases displayed a variety of body jewelry. Some of it was beautiful, but some of the heavier pieces looked deliberately painful.

“I had no idea tattoo parlors were so heavily equipped.” On shelves, he saw tattooing guns, inks, sterilization machines, a copying machine, and a supply of alcohol, swabs, and bandages.

A more private room, possibly an office, jutted out toward the rear, leaving a narrow hallway that led to the back door. On the other side of the hall, a closed door indicated a storage room.

Luther listened, but heard nothing more than his own breathing. The room smelled mostly sterile, with only a faint hint of ink.

Fabian had set out a tattooing apparatus and sealed needle, along with a selection of paints.

Ignoring Luther, he gestured to the chair. “Sit, Gaby.”

She bestowed on him the most noncompliant look imaginable.

Fabian amended the order with, “Please.”

Gaby sat. She eyed the many ink bottles and said, “Just black. Nothing fancy.”

“I understand. But I thought we could edge it in blue or purple—”

“No.”

Shooting for pragmatism, Fabian crossed his arms behind his back and took a breath. “I am not without experience in this. I know what will look best, how to give the tattoo depth and light and movement.”

“Just. Black.”

Luther stood behind Gaby, staring down at her head. She was so cold, so distant, he didn’t know what to think. Was it part of the act, or a real reaction to Fabian?

“Yeah,” Luther said, “I like the idea of simplicity, myself.”

Jaw clenched, Fabian nodded. “As you wish.”

To lighten the mood, Luther asked, “Is that your license on the wall?”

“I display it for the comfort of patrons. Getting a tattoo can be a big decision. I want them to know they’re in good hands.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Luther grinned, but the bite remained in the words.

Fabian took his seat. “Remove the sweatshirt, please.”

Gaby pulled it off over her head and handed it to Luther. Left in a thin T-shirt, she retook her seat and said, “Can we get on with this?”

“In a hurry?”

“Let’s just say I’m not one for idle chitchat.”

Fabian studied her. “You’re worried about the pain? I hadn’t expected that.”

“She’s not,” Luther told him with great certainty. Gaby couldn’t care less about a little pain. But he couldn’t very well tell Fabian that it was his black soul disturbing her.

Unconvinced, Fabian broke into what sounded like a rehearsed speech for his customers.

“Pain tolerance is a unique thing. Everyone reacts differently. In case you didn’t know, the ink is injected into the dermis, the deeper second layer of skin, not just the top layer. I can liken the sensation to being stung hundreds of times by a hornet. Some find the pain nearly unbearable.”

Luther snorted for Gaby. “She’ll be fine.”

But it worried him. Gaby was tough as they came, and she never experienced discomfort as much as others did. But this would be different.