L.L. Foster - The Awakening

Hacked off? The odd stubbiness of his hands flashed briefly in Gaby's mind. So that hadn't just been part of the apparition. "Why?"

"We can't know for sure, but my guess is so there wouldn't be any fingerprints."

Realization dawned. Without dental records or fingerprints, no one could identify him—whoever he might be. "Dear God."

Cross laughed without humor. "I doubt God had much to do with any of this."

Gaby knew that he couldn't be more wrong. God had sent her to kill the demon; that made Him very involved.

Remembering the way evil had pursued her earlier before the rain, thinking of the black omen she'd encountered in the woods, Gaby decided she needed time to ponder things.

"This is all… disturbing," she lied. "If you're done annoying me, I'd like to go in now." She started to do just that, and Cross stopped her.

"I asked you where you were today."

"Out walking. Far as I know, that's not a crime."

"No, it's not. But you had a blade on you, and while I don't think you have the strength to commit that grisly murder—"

"Why not?"

He looked at her in disbelief. "You can't weigh more than a hundred pounds." His gaze went to her upper arms. "You don't have enough meat on your frame to cut through bread, much less bones. No, whoever diced that old guy up had to be a big son of a bitch."

"Yeah?" Luckily, Cross was as clueless as everyone else. "So what do you want with me?"

His mouth opened, and then he shook his head and closed it again. "That's a loaded question, Gaby."

Not again. "Quit wasting my time."

He shifted position. "I don't think you did the damage, but that doesn't mean you can't be working with someone else."

Her smile taunted him. "I work alone."

"Got any witnesses?"

Her snort was deliberately rude. "Just those goons you already spoke to."

Luther crossed his arms and surveyed her. "Ah. The guy you flattened, and his cronies."

"We already agreed he had it coming."

"Maybe." He came closer to the steps, staring up at her with blatant suspicion. "They didn't know much."

"About me or anything else, I know. Dunces, all of them." She kept her stance calm, bored, and insulting. "But I don't make a habit of chatting up the locals, so they're the best I've got."

"Meaning you have no way to confirm your whereabouts."

Now she needed confirmation? "I asked you this once today, Detective, but it seems I need to ask again. You planning to arrest me?"

"No." He looked plenty annoyed that he couldn't. "At least, not yet."

"Then I'm done talking." Gaby jerked the front door open and walked face first into a dead, mangled creature hanging from the overhead hall light.

Drying, sticky guts swung back and forth, almost slapping her in the face. The awful smell of it assaulted her nose.

For one of the few times in her life, surprise brought a shout of horror from her throat.

In one agile leap, Cross shot up the steps, only to draw back when he saw the ghastly thing dangling there. "Shit."

"Smells like," Gaby agreed. She stared at the unrecognizable creature that had surely been dead for at least a week.

Mort's door hit the wall and he ran into the hallway. "Gaby! Are you—" He, too, nearly collided with the animal remains hanging from the foyer light. In terror and revulsion, he stumbled back, lost his balance, and fell on his ass. Eyes bulging with fright, face gone pasty white, he whispered, "Oh my God."

Mort wore only his yellowed underwear; his eyes were puffier than before, his nose red and watery. Fuck, fuck, fuck .

Forgetting the disgusting animal remains, Gaby demanded, "Are you still crying?"

Mort stared at the dead critter, mute. He looked ready to barf. Or faint. Or both. He put a hand over his mouth and gagged.

Pathetic . "Suck it up, Mort. It's only roadkill." Using her knife. Gaby cut it down and. holding it by the rope used to hang it, tossed it out the door and into the corner where the buildings met. Blocking Moil's sight of the door with her body, she said, "Just someone's sick idea of a joke, that's all."

Cross growled behind her. He stared at the rotted animal corpse, then slowly brought his gaze up to zero in on Mort.

"Or maybe," he suggested, "it's a threat."

Gaby didn't like the sound of that. "Don't deliberately scare him. Detective."

Cross looked from Gaby to Mort and back again. "Why the hell is he crying?"

Mort objected to that. "I'm not!"

She shrugged. "He's not."

Unconvinced, Cross continued to look between them. "You two have a fight?"

Gaby just glared at him, but Mort—looking more morose and guilty than any man should—swallowed hard and shook his head. "No."

Eyes narrowing, Cross whispered, "A lovers' spat, then?"

Gaby considered slugging him again. "You're warped."

The detective just shrugged. "After three years together, you two claim to barely know each other." One brow arched up. "But now I'm getting a different impression."

"Good night. Detective." And to Mort, "Get rid of that carcass, will you? It'll stink up the place."

Distaste wrinkled Mort's nose; he gagged pathetically and nodded. "All right, Gaby."

Making sure Gaby would hear him, Cross said, "I'll help, Mort. Then you and I can talk some more."

"Talk? About what?"

"About you and Gaby having a dispute."

Meddling prick . Gaby stomped up the rest of the stairs, went into her room, and slammed the door.

But she couldn't sleep, and trying to hear the detective over the outside noise of traffic and human chatter was a waste of time. With nothing much else to do, she sprawled out in the bed and let her thoughts drift away.

Evil had stalked her, taunted her, and then escaped her.

Unthinkable.

Definitely unacceptable.

Tomorrow she'd start the hunt. One way or another, she'd figure things out. Evil didn't stand a chance.

It never did.

Shoving aside the stack of reports and his empty coffee mug, Luther sat back in his leather chair. Even two days after tangling with Gaby, a twinge in his ribs had him rubbing the spot—and smiling in memory.

Maybe Gaby was right. Maybe he was warped. Why else would a lingering ache, caused by her dead-on kick, amuse him?

"Something funny?"

He looked up at Ann Kennedy, a veteran detective and longtime friend. "Not really."

She propped her perky ass on the corner of his desk. "You're rubbing your ribs. Get in a scuffle?"

Luther dropped his hand. "Not really, no." But he believed Gaby when she said she could have hurt him if she'd wanted to. Which meant… she hadn't wanted to.

"Being evasive?" Her gaze turned speculative. "C'mon, Luther. Spill it. You know I'm not going away until you do."

"It's nothing. Really." Swiveling to face her, he asked, "You ever heard of a disease that sort of… morphs a person's expression?"

Both brows lifted. "Morph?"

"Yeah." He straightened in his chair. "You know." He moved his hands around his face. "Makes you look different."

"In a weird way?"

"Not so much." It was all too freaky and strange, but never at any point had Gaby looked weird. Maybe otherworldly. But still a woman. "Just… not the same."

Ann laughed. "Well, that'd be different." She tipped her head. "So who'd you see morph?"

Earnest, even eager, to figure Gaby out, he still wanted to protect her—why, he couldn't say. She'd already proven she could protect herself. "Just a lead I'm following."

Ann looked ready to launch into more questions when Gary Webb dropped mail on his desk and said, "Maybe it's like in Servant ."

Both Ann and Luther peered up at him.

"Oh, come on. Are you two so old you can't keep up with pop culture? Rhetorical question. You're both ancient."