L.L. Foster - The Kindred

“Yeah, I got it. You’ll keep shooting him.” Gaby started toward Fabian.

“Ah, ah, ah. Not another step, daughter dear, or your boyfriend will be wearing some new holes.”

Gaby stopped.

“Get rid of the knife.”

Shrugging, Gaby slid it into the sheath at her back—not even close to gone, but out of sight at least.

Fabian let it go.

“Into the tub.” He gestured with the gun. “I want to see you drink. I want to witness your understanding when you feel all that beautiful, slippery blood on your skin, soaking in, redefining you, elevating your strengths.” He breathed hard, and then as if he’d just snapped, he yelled, “Do it!”

“All right, all right. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” Gaby went over and looked into the tub. Blood still dripped from the woman’s body, sending ripples across the surface of the bath. She could smell the fresh blood, tangy, thick, and dark. And she smelled the woman’s death, her fear. The scents commingled in a nauseating emanation, a tumultuous assault on her senses.

“Don’t do it.”

Luther’s voice was raw, hurting.

Gaby looked over her shoulder at him. “You know, Luther, before you, I didn’t know anything but destruction and duty and pain. I didn’t know how to smile. I didn’t know how to . . . love.”

Luther’s back stiffened. His jaw locked, his eyes glistened. “You don’t have to do this for me. Not for anyone.”

She smiled, proving her words. “Don’t you know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you?” At peace, Gaby stepped into the tub. While she crafted her next move, blood soaked into her shoes, the bottom of her jeans.

It still held warmth from the woman’s body.

But the scabrous circumstances didn’t faze her—they inspired her. Luther thought she was without options? He had to know her better than that.

“I’m glad you’re so willing to accommodate me.” Keeping that gun on Luther, Fabian edged over to the side and grabbed Mali.

Her struggles only seemed to further excite him, but Gaby knew she couldn’t calm the girl right now.

“Drink it, daughter.” Fabian licked his lips while stroking up and down Mali’s side. “Drink your fill, and then we’ll feast on this one together.”

When Dacia would have raced across the room, Luther caught her and tucked her behind his back. “Shh,” he said to her, to all of them. “Trust Gaby. Always.”

Yeah, trust me—please. She made a sound of disgust. “Do you expect me to drink from that dirty tub?”

“It’s not dirty.” Fabian spoke around his accelerated breaths, so excited that he could barely talk. “It’s brand-new, I promise you.” A maniacal light shone from his eyes. His laugh sounded demented. “Drink.”

“Not from the tub. No, sir.” Knowing what she would do, Gaby lied, “I’ll take her down and find a fresh vein.” She reached up and gripped the chain above the cold, hard handcuffs.

“No.” Fabian lowered the gun, distraught at her actions.

“Hang on,” Gaby told him, pretending to misunderstand. She put a foot to the wall for leverage—and pulled.

Fabian went crazy. “What are you doing?”

Gaby pulled again, and felt the bolt loosening from the ceiling. “Actually, Fabian, at this moment”—she tugged again, straining, any second now—“I’m thinking of the many ways I’m going to kill you.”

“God damn you!” Screaming, hauling Mali up off her feet, he rushed toward Gaby.

The bolt in the ceiling popped free.

Going with the momentum and using her hold on the chain, she wielded it like a medieval mace. With Mali in range, the aim was close. She utilized extra care, swinging hard and fast, and the heaviest part of the restraint missed Mali, but struck Fabian’s temple.

The sick thud of impact rebounded in the small room.

As blood gushed from Fabian’s head he went stumbling backward, releasing his hold on the girl. Mali raced back to her sister.

Fabian’s lips pulled back from his terrifying, sharp-edged teeth and he fell, dropping the gun.

Gaby eased the corpse down into the bath of her own blood. Evil or not, this pathetic girl hadn’t deserved such a death.

Luther fetched Fabian’s gun and held the other three at bay, not that they’d posed much threat. Without Fabian directing their every move, they caved to their own cowardly natures, behaving like the cattle Fabian thought them to be.

Looking around, Gaby tried to decide what to do next.

Bliss looked to be in shock, white-faced and too still.

The girls were huddled together, bawling their eyes out, sobbing so pitifully that Gaby couldn’t swallow.

Mort knelt down and made soothing sounds, trying to reassure them.

They were all so scared, so wounded by what they’d just seen.

Gaby couldn’t go to them. Not like this, not covered in blood. What to do?

“Evil bitch.”

Gaby jerked around—and found Fabian propped up against a file cabinet, one drawer open, a smaller handgun held loosely in his fist. Fresh flowing blood filled his left eye, ran over his mouth and lips, along his jaw, and into the creases of his neck. He licked at it—and smiled, a smile so diseased that Gaby felt the short hairs on her neck stand on end.

“You won’t send me to jail,” he told her. His words slurred, and he wobbled. “I won’t waste away there among the servile scum of humanity’s mistakes.”

Blood and spittle punctuated each uttered word.

“You, you wicked bitch, are no daughter of mine. I disown you.” He spat toward her. “I curse you to everlasting hell.”

“But we were just getting to know each other.” Trying not to spook him, Gaby reached behind herself for her knife. Did he remember her blade?

A demonic light shifted in Fabian’s eyes, glittered with purpose. “You have to pay.” He tried and failed to lift the gun.

“Everyone pays, eventually,” Gaby agreed. As unsteady as he was, she didn’t think he had it in him to shoot her. She could just as easily—

“Goddamn you,” he swore. “I will kill you.” He used the cabinet for leverage, almost fell, and tried again. The gun lifted . . .

A blast sounded.

Gaby jerked, stunned that he’d gotten a shot off. But she hadn’t felt a thing.

And then she saw the blossom of blood on Fabian’s forehead. In an anticlimactic finish, he slumped back to the floor. His head drooped to his shoulder, and his life ended.

Gaby spun around. Luther stood there with the gun in his hand, his expression set, defiant, and satisfied.

“You didn’t have to kill him.” But it was one hell of a good shot.

“I love you, Gabrielle Cody.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. He’d shot Fabian. For her?

Luther Cross, by-the-book super-cop, had put a bullet in her father’s brain. “You could have . . . could have overpowered him.”

“I love you,” he said again. “Now. Always.”

Well, crap. She had friends waiting for her to finish this, to ease them, reassure them. She couldn’t go all mushy emotional. Not right now.

“Gaby?” This time Luther’s voice was softer. “Baby, I love you.”

Gaby nodded. She looked at Fabian, gone forever from her life, and the greatest relief washed over her. “He needed killing.”

“I know. But not by your hand.”

Luther had spared her. Because he . . . loved her. Wow .

Gaby looked at Luther again, but he had turned away to remove Mort’s gag and untie his hands, while still keeping the gun trained on the three stooges who were lost without Fabian’s leadership.

Causing additional commotion, Ann charged in, gun drawn, shouting for Luther and Mort. She saw the blood everywhere and drew up short. “Dear God.” Looking around in horror, she spotted Mort, and quickly got it together. “I called it in,” she assured Luther. “Units are on their way.”