L.L. Foster - The Acceptance

He’d impressed her, and it took a lot to do that these days. “Thanks, Mort.”

“Thank you. For coming back. For being my friend.” He turned solemn, distraught, far too grave. “Thank you for doing what others won’t. What they can’t.”

“If you get maudlin, I’m smacking you.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up, and for the very first time since meeting him, Gaby thought he might not be such a slimy-looking little guy.

Confidence, control, changed his appearance as much as a summons changed hers.

“No, I won’t,” he said. “But I’ve thought about you a lot, Gaby, about the burden you bear.”

She reared back, threatening him, and Mort laughed before holding up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I know you don’t need my thanks. Now go before they get here. And make sure you scrub that knife clean.”

Bossing her? He really had changed. “I know what to do.”

Silent, he walked beside her toward an oppressive alley no doubt filled with more human vermin. “We need to know why Carver wants you dead.”

What the hell? Gaby glared at him. “Wrong, Mort. We don’t need to know anything. Go back to your place and visit with your girlfriend. Forget about this.”

His sigh was loud enough to send a rat scurrying away. “Gaby—”

“I can take care of myself, and you know it. As for Carver, you can leave that numb-nut to me.”

Drawing back, Mort stared at her with disapproval. “You know why he’s after you, don’t you?”

Good God. Bossing, questions—was there no end to his intrusion? “You want me to go, or stick around to chat with the cops?”

Frustration put back his scrawny shoulders. “Go. But, Gaby? Promise you’ll come to see me again.”

“Yeah, sure. Eventually.” It wasn’t a lie. She’d be back.

After she wrote the rest of the newest Servant novel.

And had a little one-on-one chat with Carver.

And met again with Luther . . .

“Damn,” she said, only half under her breath, “having friends can be a pain in the ass.”

Mort smiled, lifted a hand to wave, and when she was almost out of range to hear, he said, “I love you, too, Gaby.”

She nearly tripped over her own feet.

A masked man with a pipe hadn’t fazed her.

Mort’s affection, on the other hand, scared her half to death.

Oren travelled up the clean, wide street to the stately mansion. Unlike the area he’d just left, in this community the crime rate was almost nonexistent. Money had its uses, and in these aloof environs it ensured privacy and well-being, forming the perfect purlieus to the atrocities committed in the basement of the mansion.

Oren unlocked the front gate with a passkey and, forgetting himself for only a moment, practically skipped up the long, paved walkway to the curved stairs leading up and into his lavish world.

Beneath the high, covered porch, no light penetrated, and he let the giggles escape. Before long, he’d have a new one—but for now, he’d make do with the slut they already had.

Except for prominently displayed paintings and sculptures, the cavernous foyer was empty when he let himself in. To his left was the massive formal dining room. Aunt Dory sat at the end of the long mahogany table, nursing a whisky and talking to herself.

Oren detected blood on her hands, and worry wormed through his deranged giddiness.

What had the stupid cow done now?

To his right was the study, and through the open door, Oren saw Uncle Myer sprawled in a leather chair, his close-cropped graying hair standing on end, his shoulders slumped. He wore only dirty boxers, gaping open to expose his withered member.

Lip curling, Oren let the rage boil. God, he despised their ignorance and slovenly ways. They sickened him—but they were his cross to bear.

And they afforded him the life he craved. The power. The salacious immorality.

Neither of them made note of his entrance, so he ignored them both and went through the family room to the kitchen. Taking the elevator down to the unused servant’s quarters, his anticipation bloated. He neared the deep bowels of the magnificent stone house, but heard no sounds.

No whimpers.

No muffled pleas for mercy.

Only a silent peace filled the air, and buzzed like annoying gnat in his brain.

By the time Oren reached the basement, his heart punched a fevered crescendo against his ribs, so hard that it pained him. Nearing panic, he vaulted out of the elevator, rushed through the game room, and burst into the extra storage area.

He drew to an inflamed halt.

Eyes wide and unseeing, mouth agape in a now silent scream, the lifeless body of the woman hung in an obscene sprawl from tightened restraints.

Bruises mottled the body.

A trail of semen splattered her white thighs and belly.

Oren swallowed back bile and disgust. Almost by rote, his expression affixed in loathing, he walked past the body to the wall where multiple devices of torture hung in disarray.

Stupid bastards couldn’t even put their tools away properly.

Without quelling the odium he felt for his family, he stared at a clamp, a knife, various prods and whips . . . and settled on a short, vicious crop. He turned with steely resolve.

When he reached the upstairs again, he saw that Aunt Dory hadn’t moved.

He paused in the doorway, letting his rage ripen. As he calmly entered the dining room, prepared to dispense with his own form of justice, she finally looked up.

At first, her muddy brown eyes went to his clothes, before leaping back to his face. Would she dare mention his garb?

Of course not.

“Now, Oren . . .” Voice trembling, she looked at the crop.

Fat people lacked speed and agility and she couldn’t quite get out of her chair fast enough. “It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t mean to—”

The crop landed across her shoulders, and that felt so good to Oren, so satisfying, that he drew back and landed another, and another.

Her screams exceeded the punishment, bringing Uncle Myer rushing in.

“Oren!”

Seeing the depraved man he called “Uncle” by need, only incensed Oren further. He turned his back on Dory. Myer’s flaccid and overused cock hung out from open unwashed boxers.

A perfect target.

Uncle Myer backed up, but not fast enough. The crop lashed across his lap, cutting into exposed flesh and causing a dehiscent burst of blood and screams.

Uncle Myer fell to his knees. He curled both hands over his privates, but that only allowed Oren to lash his vein-riddled hands, his rawboned arms.

Between his aunt and uncle, the cries were deafening. Breathing hard, detesting the shrill assault on his ears, Oren threw the crop across the room.

“Now,” he snarled in accusation, his voice nowhere as deep as he would have preferred, “we have to dispose of the body.” He looked at Dory. “Tonight.”

Her tears mingling with the snot shining on her upper lip, Dory said, “But, but shouldn’t we wait until—”

Fury spun Oren toward her, and he kicked out at her bulging ankles, her padded shins.

“ Wait? ” he screamed. “You want to wait?” He kicked her again, and she fell from the chair in gargantuan array. “You know how dead bodies start to stink. If she stiffens up, it’ll be twice as hard.”

“Stiffen up? But . . . she just died.”

Killing her would only cause Oren more grief, so he reined in the desire and tugged on the long, unleashed length of his hair. He didn’t like his hair loose, but at times like this—as in other times—it served its purpose. “It only takes a couple of hours for it to start, and by tomorrow morning she’ll be in a complete state of rigor mortis. Then we’ll have to wait for the proteins in her muscles to decompose. It could take several days.”