L.L. Foster - The Acceptance

“Trust me. He’s good. He knows what he’s doing. It won’t be long now.”

Thanks to that last volley of compliments, Oren’s fury faded. They respected him and what he could do. They nearly revered him. Because of that, he’d let them live.

For now.

But Uncle Myer was right. He no longer needed either of them. Living without them wouldn’t be his choice right now. He liked things the way they were. But if he heard Dory blabbing about females again, he’d cut her fat throat and watch her gurgle to death.

Oren pictured it in his mind: Dory’s fat face jiggling with fear, her blood running warm and wet down her flesh, her life slowly draining away until finally, her eyes went flat and empty. Yes.

He’d enjoy that.

He’d enjoy that a lot.

It was something to think about. For the future. When he got bored.

Luckily for Dory, he had other, more pertinent things to attend to right now.

Stationed out front of the flophouse, mirrored sunglasses reflecting some of the late-afternoon sunshine, Gaby slumped against the outer wall. Gaze ever watchful, senses attuned to any misdeed, she heard Jimbo raise his voice and turned her head to listen.

He issued orders to the hookers, demanding that they move up the block to get more business.

Stupid prick. Lazily rousing herself, Gaby climbed to her feet, dusted off her ass, and looked toward Jimbo with a caustic intensity she wanted him to feel.

Uneasily, his gaze slithered her way. He ignored her notice and went back to berating the women, who hesitated to budge from the safety of Gaby’s realm.

She’d spooked them all, being deliberately graphic in her depiction of the dead woman’s body in the river, and the attempted abduction of Bliss. She wanted them to be scared enough that they’d defy Jimbo’s orders in favor of their own safety.

It worked, as now all the women packed together and refused to budge.

Trying to brazen his way past Gaby’s disapproval, Jimbo straightened to his full, meager height and raised a fiduciary fist at Alma.

“I wouldn’t.”

Jimbo redirected his anger at Gaby. “Stay the fuck out of this.”

Pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head to sear him with the full impact of her hostility, Gaby strolled closer to the contretemps. “You and I need to have a talk, Jimbo.”

“Fuck that. You might’ve spooked Carver with your witchy mumbo jumbo bullshit, but I’m not buying it.”

Witchy mumbo jumbo? Seeing the fear in Jimbo’s eyes, Gaby decided hey, whatever works. She stepped closer. “You do buy it, Jimbo. Even now, your pulse is sputtering and you’re getting sweaty.”

“It’s hot out here!”

“Wise up, Jimbo. What good will dead hookers do you? As long as they’re close by, I can keep them safe. But if you scatter them, I can’t be everywhere—”

He slashed a hand through the air, coming within a millimeter of striking Gaby. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move other than to narrow her eyes, and that gave him visible pause.

He gulped, and argued, “One dead hooker doesn’t put the rest in danger.”

Fed up with his recusant stupidity, her gaze level with his, Gaby tsked. “You couldn’t be more wrong, dumb ass. The same person who killed Lucy also tried to get to Bliss. He wants another body to play with. Then he’ll want another after that. And after that, too.”

“Unless you stop him? Right.” Jimbo tried to shove her out of his space, but Gaby didn’t budge an inch, and that, more than anything else, washed the color from his face. “Look, you don’t even know for sure it was the same guy after Bliss.”

“I know.”

“How’s that possible? Bliss doesn’t even know who came after her.” He tried for a laugh that fell flat. “I heard that one minute she says it was a guy, and the next it was a woman. You know what I think? She’s fucked up and saying whatever she needs to say so she can keep resting on her lazy ass.”

Deliberately bumping her chest into his, Gaby snarled through her teeth, “You want me to kill you, Jimbo, is that it?”

“God damn, bitch. Bring it down a notch, will you? I’m just saying—”

“You’re saying all the wrong things.”

Gaby’s knife, which she’d withdrawn from her sheath without Jimbo even noticing, pressed against his balls. The second he realized the placement of the blade, his eyes bulged in terror.

Nudging the knife snug against him, Gaby said, “What I want you to say is that you comprehend the seriousness of the threat. I want you to say that you won’t do anything to put any women at risk, especially these women who look to you for protection. I want you to acknowledge that I will get the bastard doing this, but until then, you’ll damn well do as you’re told—or suffer the consequences.”

Beads of sweat rolled down Jimbo’s temple. “You’re fucking insane.”

“Bet on it. Insane enough to castrate you without a single qualm.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed hard. “Jesus, Gaby. I . . . I gotta make my money.”

Gaby thought about slicing him, just a little, just enough to gain compliance. Her razor-sharp blade would cut through his denim as cleanly as surgical steel sliced flesh.

She pondered the idea—and then she felt it, the transuding of depravity into her being.

He was near.

Triumph ripped through her before the calling could devour her.

She wouldn’t wait for God’s command. Not this time.

She’d hone her omnipotent numen and seek out the evil on her own recognizance.

Under her own tutelary power.

She’d be in charge.

“Jesus, bitch, you’re cutting me!”

Oh hell. Refocusing on the idiot before her, Gaby withdrew the knife a safe distance from his crotch. “Do we understand each other, Jimbo?”

Hands cupping his jewels, he hissed, “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just back the fuck off.”

She gave him one more long look, but in light of this new challenge, Jimbo meant little enough to her. As Gaby reached back to replace her knife in the sheath, Jimbo struck out, intending to slug her straight in the face.

Fool.

Gaby dodged the blow, caught his arm, and wrenched it behind his back. His spine bowed as she added pressure to his wrist. “You would dare, Jimbo?”

Defiant even in the grip of pain, he shook his head. “You’re making me look like a chump in front of everyone.”

“No,” Gaby said, and needing expedient measures, she twisted hard enough to make him yell out in agony. “You did that to yourself.”

Releasing him with a shove, she stepped away.

The whores ran over to Jimbo, offering sympathy and assistance—and getting cursed for their efforts. Gaby walked away from them all. She didn’t want to be followed, so she didn’t dare run.

The invading affliction boiled to the surface, but didn’t yet take over. She had time.

She’d get him. Or her.

And when she did, God Himself wouldn’t interfere.

Nervousness kept Oren walking fast down the third dark, narrow alley. He had to make it quick to hedge off possible harm to himself. So far, he hadn’t had much luck. Evening would prove a better time for his goal, but he lacked the courage necessary to wander the alleys, in the slums, during the dark of the night.

Like engorged veins, broken pipes climbed the outer walls enclosing the alley, trickling fluid, making the way slick. Mold grew rampant. Rats fed off refuse.

It was all so distasteful—and yet, so necessary.

Because of her.

Because of that damned cop.

Up ahead, at the bottom of concrete stairs leading farther into the bowels of hell, Oren saw what appeared to be a shrouded head.

His third, rapid target for the day.