L.L. Foster - The Acceptance

A shifting shadow caught Gaby’s attention, and she looked across the street at an abandoned, tireless car in the unlit lot of a failed business. It looked as if it had been there some time. “Well, it’s old news now, and Luther already found me. If anyone else bothers you, send him my way.”

A faint shift in what should have been a stationary shadow made her eyes narrow. Someone lurked there. She sensed it.

Given she had no divine warnings raping her body, Gaby decided it wasn’t the worst of corruption, not the truest of evil.

Not the evil she hunted.

But all the same, she sensed a malicious cretin. Through the onerous years, Gaby had learned to trust her prescience, and knowing she was about to engage intoxicated her.

To protect Mort from any fallout, Gaby moved in front of him. “Stay back.”

With panic filling his voice, Mort asked, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Don’t know yet.” Going still inside, collecting her sui generis abilities around her, Gaby stared across the way into the aphotic lot. She willed the vague shapes of re-fuse into recognizable forms. The car was a good distance from them, but after a time of concentration, Gaby picked out a hunkered, human form.

Before the thought had finished forming, she had her knife in her hand. “Something is about to happen, Mort.” Her heartbeat thickened with excitement. “Maybe you should go.”

He stunned her by saying, “Not on your life.”

Lacking time to argue, Gaby said, “Then stay the fuck out of my way. I’ll try not to hurt him, but he doesn’t share the same intent toward me, and this could get vicious.”

Moving the threat away from Mort the best she could, Gaby stepped out to the street just in time to meet the nigrescent apparition charging toward her. A macabre mask of sunken eyes and distorted, gaping mouth concealed the attacker’s face. Dark clothing obscured the body type.

A stray beam of moonlight reflected off a long, heavy pipe swinging from one substantial arm.

Oh yeah. This fellow meant business.

He meant to maim her—or more.

Perfect.

Satisfaction aggrandized, sending a flow of torrid anticipation through Gaby. She braced her booted feet apart, flexed her rock-steady knees, and whispered, “God, I needed this. Thank you.”

In the next instant, the pipe came crashing down toward her with thunderous force. Reflexes on automatic, Gaby ducked the pipe before bringing her elbow back hard and fast. She smashed it into the masked face, heard the crunching of nose cartilage, and waited to see if that would end the fight.

A rank curse brought a brief pause, but didn’t quell the attack. The pipe swung again, and again missed her. She was too fast, too agile for the likes of this cretin.

This time Gaby kicked out a knee, and watched the attacker’s leg buckle. He almost fell, stumbled instead, and took another vicious swing at her head.

An enthusiastic opponent, for sure.

Determined and stupid.

Leaving her few choices in the matter.

The weapon hit the paved street with a deafening clash. She thought she might have heard Mort scream, but she tuned out all distractions to get in the zone, to deal with this threat.

To . . . destroy it.

Taking advantage of the assailant’s bludgeoned state, Gaby brought her blade straight up—and felt it burst through vessels, fat, and muscle.

She joined her hands together, pushed hard and deep, and experienced the satisfying sensation of deflecting off a bone.

An agonized scream rang out, this one from the man pierced by her blade.

Thanks to his persistence in trying to do her harm, it was even easier to ignore than Mort’s distress.

Tugging out the knife against the natural resistance, the suck and drag of wet, fibrous flesh, Gaby stepped to the side and, for only a heartbeat, waited.

As she assumed, her strike ended the fight.

The clunky pipe dropped to the ground with a clattering echo. Her adversary’s knees buckled. The body slumped.

Disappointed that she’d had to use such extreme measures, Gaby muttered, “That was hardly worth the effort.”

Gigging this son of a bitch had done little to alleviate her burgeoning belligerence.

The recondite disguise served no purpose now, but what did she care who her attacker might be? Craven souls, both insignificant and exalted, crawled over the surface of the earth with annoying sedulousness.

The more Gaby accepted her life’s duty, the more she relished taking on them all, with or without God’s specific mandate.

No, she didn’t care who this inconsequential gnat might be.

But Mort did. Creeping closer, he asked, “Good God, Gaby. Who is that?”

Knife still in her hand, now crimson with gore, Gaby shrugged her tense shoulders. She kicked the fallen figure with the toe of her boot. “Hey, my friend wants a name.”

She said it, and then it struck her all over again.

Her friend .

Would she ever get entirely used to the concept?

Mort wanted details on this attack because he cared for her. She sensed his misguided tendency to protect her—never mind that, moments before, he’d screeched like a little girl.

As a dark puddle of blood blossomed around him, the assailant slumped to his side in a protective curl more appropriate to the womb than a dirty street.

Voice shaking, faint, he said, “Carver hired me . . . to kill . . . you.”

“Yeah?” Gaby knelt down, curiosity now piqued. “You failed big-time, huh?”

In a barely audible whisper, the man said, “He’ll kill me now.”

“Nah, I doubt it. You’ll be dead before he can get to you.”

Mort said, “Gaby,” with a lot of worry. “Why would anyone want you dead?”

“I don’t know.” She nudged the man. “How come he sent you after me?”

There was a strange gurgle, then the body went flat, sprawled on the pavement, limp and still.

She looked back at Mort. “Think you ought to call someone before he really does expire?”

Mort chewed his bottom lip, his brows pinched. “I suppose.” But he didn’t rush to do it, further surprising Gaby. “He wanted to kill you, Gaby. He tried to cleave your head open with that pipe.”

“Shake it off, Mort. The clown wasn’t even close.” She stood again and held out her hand. “Give me the phone.”

With grave reluctance, he said, “No, I’ll do it. You need to clean that knife.”

“True.” Bending at the waist, she jerked off the man’s ridiculous mask, saw a face gone slack in near death, and said, “I don’t recognize him. You?”

Shaking his head hard, Mort said, “No.” He looked at Gaby. “Who’s Carver?”

“No one important.” She used the mask to clean off as much of the blood and gore as she could. To the naked eye, the knife looked spotless. The naked eye wasn’t good enough. Soon as possible, she’d do a thorough job.

She slid the weapon back into her sheath.

“You should probably go,” Mort told her.

Not a bad idea, really. As he punched in 911, she asked, “What will you say?”

“That I couldn’t see much, but after the fight broke up and a body was on the ground, I figured I’d better call.” He held up a finger, and spoke into the phone. “Hey, yeah, I have an emergency. Yeah, a guy’s been stabbed. He’s hurt real bad, might even be dead.”

Gaby marveled at the lack of emotion in his tone. Sure, he’d screamed out during the attack. But after that, he’d quickly gathered himself.

The Mort she used to know would have been a nervous wreck after witnessing an altercation that resulted in a limp, bleeding body.

This Mort took charge, accepting that some things were inevitable—and necessary.

After giving the police their general location, Mort disconnected the call.