The Kindred s-3

by L. L. Foster

  He ran a bloody hand over his face, adding a sinister taint to his punkish appearance. “We were just messin’ with you. Honest. We ain’t never killed no one before.”

  “You guys bragged about forcing women. You expect me to just forget that?”

  “It was bullshit, I swear. We . . . we took some shit that fucked us up, that’s all. We weren’t thinking straight.”

  At his pleading, Gaby eased a little. “I’ll say you weren’t.”

  Panic added an urgent edge to his pleading tone. “It was a fucking stupid mistake, okay? We didn’t mean no real harm.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” Unwilling to give an inch, Gaby said, “What if you’d harassed someone other than me? What if you’d pulled this shit on a”—she almost said “normal person”—“a woman less skilled?”

  “I’m sorry. We’re both sorry.” His voice went high and shrill. “Please, he’s my brother. Let him go.”

  Gaby had a soft spot for siblings—since she had none. But the mention of drugs intrigued her. “What are you high on? What’d you take?”

  “I don’t know. Some strong shit. Stuff we bought earlier.”

  Huh. “Stronger than usual?”

  “Yeah.” He shifted his stance. “Usually that shit is cut, ya know? This might be, too, but not as much.”

  Gaby returned the pressure of her knee into his brother’s chest. “Where’d you get it?”

  Fear flashed over his ashen face, and he shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”

  That exacerbated Gaby’s already pissy mood.

  “Don’t make me ask twice, you dolt.” She did all she could to suppress her fury, marshalling her remaining control to keep the rage at bay.

  “But . . . ”

  “I want to kill him,” Gaby explained, and it was only a partial lie. She didn’t want the boy’s death on her conscience, but the need for violence churned within her. “Be smart and don’t push me.”

  The guy blanched. “We . . . we used to buy from some dude named Bogg. But someone ’bout killed Bogg and left him for the Five-O. They hauled his sorry ass off to some high-security hospital hellhole. His brother stepped up to handle the biz.”

  Clarity burst inside Gaby. This was why she’d ended up here, tackling these boys today. She glanced heavenward, shook her head at the subtlety of the message, and the fog of murderous rage cleared as a gust of determination washed in.

  Oh yeah. Now she felt more like herself, like the Gaby she knew and understood.

  The Gaby with a specific purpose.

  Clenching her jaw, she tucked her chin in with gleeful anticipation. “Give me the dealer’s name.”

  “I don’t know. I swear it. He was handing out stuff free, looking for any word on who got his brother. We took the shit and split. That’s all I know.”

  “All right. Then tell me what the asshole looks like, and where I can find him. I’ll take it from there.”

  His gaze going to his brother’s purpling face, the guy swallowed and rushed into speech. “He’s tall, a real skinny fucker. But mean, ya know? He shaves his head and has this bitchin’ tat on the back of his skull. Like a demon or some shit. He was hanging out on Race Street.”

  “Near where the kids play?”

  “Yeah. Where the cops nabbed his brother. You might be able to find him there again tonight.”

  “Oh, I’ll find him. Count on it.”

  Drowning in his own strangling fear, he begged, “Please don’t tell him you heard it from me. He’d kill me for sure if he knew I sent you.”

  “And you think I won’t?” Gaby stood, allowing her prey to suck in a strangled gulp of air. He rolled to his side and promptly puked around his gasping breaths.

  She paid no mind to his struggles. The numb-nuts would live, and maybe now he’d think twice about who he tried to bulldoze.

  Stalking over to the other boy, she locked eyes with him. “Listen up, shithead. You’ll never know when I’m around, but believe me when I tell you that I see a lot. Everything that’s important.”

  Something in her gaze convinced him, because he nodded fast and hard. Gaby knew that sometimes an otherworldly light shone through her eyes. Luther had told her she morphed some, just as her evil prey did.

  She fucking hated that, but what the hell. For now, it worked to her advantage.

  “If I catch you bullying anyone else, if I see you hopped up, if I see you so much as eyeball a dealer, I’ll not only kill you, I’ll fucking well take you apart piece by piece. You got that?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it.” He walked a wide berth around Gaby and, anxious to be on his way, helped his brother to his feet.

  “You’d better.” Looking at them both, seeing how terror had replaced their cocky attitudes, Gaby felt devilish and pretended to lunge for them.

  They scrambled away, hobbled by painful injuries.

  It almost made her snicker, but laughter was so contradictory to her existence that she didn’t quite know how to get it out.

  If she stuck with Luther long enough, would she turn into one of those twittering fools who found humor everywhere, regardless of the suffering that existed in everyday life?

  Did she maybe . . . want that? Did she want to conform and become like every other mundane person in life, oblivious to the reality of iniquity?

  If it meant keeping Luther, then she would try.

  Now that he had shown her something so special, the thought of losing him left her hollowed out with an invasive sense of despair.

  Despite the conflict she’d just concluded, she still twitched with an abundance of energy. And no wonder, considering that she needed to destroy a cannibal, shut down a drug dealer, and save a child.

  And she needed a way to do it all without alienating Luther.

  She touched the choker around her neck. It was a gift from him—the first gift she’d ever received in her entire life.

  Replacing the earbuds in her ears, she turned on the music Luther had chosen for her.

  So many remarkable ways that he’d influenced her. He’d shown her a side of life that she’d never before experienced. In a way, that cognizance of everyday normalcy helped her because now she could understand why people chose to remain oblivious to the truth of their own frailty.

  With every step, Gaby felt her newest gift from Luther, a narrow cell phone, which was wedged into the back pocket of her jeans.

  He’d taken over, changing her irrevocably, and the awful truth was that she craved the changes, scary as they might be.

  But could she change enough to make it all matter?

  A pale sun attempted to peek through gray clouds as Gaby finished her stroll to Mort’s. The old neighborhood lent her a moment of serenity. The debris-covered walkway felt familiar beneath her feet. The smoggy air smelled the same, and the depressed people hadn’t changed much.

  More than anywhere else, this was her home.

  Here, in the apartment above Mort’s, she’d found her first friendship—and recognized her own humanity in the bargain. Before Mort, she hadn’t felt human.

  She hadn’t even felt real.

  She located him on his front stoop, sitting there with legs stretched out, propped back on his elbows, doing nothing.

  Many times she’d sat in that exact same spot, waiting for duty to call, suffering her own existence.

  At the sight of Mort, something warm and mellow spread throughout her.

  She liked him. Hell, she probably loved him, though she couldn’t be sure. Caring was a very new concept for her and she wasn’t sure what it felt like. The only strong emotion well known to her was the driving, all-consuming need to destroy evil.

  And lately, her profound desire to be with Luther.

  Frustrated by that, Gaby kicked a rock, and Mort looked up.

  When he saw her approaching, his face lit up with pleasure. Good old Mort. His devotion to her left her humbled and befuddled.

  She was the creepiest person he had ever met, and yet he revered h
er.

  Good old Mort—the impetus that had set her on an unknown track.

  She owed him much, more than she could ever repay.

  Now on his feet, he hailed her with a wide smile and blooming energy. “Gaby! I didn’t know you were coming to visit.”

  It didn’t make any sense, considering what an utter putz Mort used to be. But he looked good. For a man who had previously presented himself with stoop-shouldered insecurity, a paunch, and loads of desperation, he now exuded good health, confidence, and maybe even sex appeal.

  Why else would women give him second glances? Men eyed him with respect. Hookers did their best to entice him.

  But Mort had eyes only for Ann.

  Ann, the miracle worker. Ann, the savior of all pathetic souls. Ann, of beauty and grace, a woman who accepted the faults and lacking nature of others, including Bliss and Mort and . . . Gaby herself.

  The woman should be canonized. Her presence made Gaby’s faults and shortcomings more conspicuous than ever, and for that, Gaby resented her.

  Thanks to Ann’s influence, Mort’s body was more fit now, leaner and harder than ever before, and his self-assured demeanor gave him a striking edge.

  She waved him back to his seat. “You didn’t have to get up.”

  “Of course I did.” Laughing, he reached for her and dared to draw her into a tight, friendly hug.

  Solid, that was the word to describe Mort: solid in form and in friendship.

  “It’s always great to see you, Gaby, you know that.” He let her push out of his arms, and added, “Especially today.”

  Why? Gaby wondered. What made today special?

  “Let’s go in for coffee. Or would you rather have a cola?”

  “Cola,” Gaby said, no longer feeling the need to rebuke Mort’s every gracious effort.

  They passed through the front door and Gaby paused inside, looking at the stairs that led to the upper rooms where she used to stay. Much had happened here, and she felt a poignant loss for what she used to be. Her life back then had been stark and bleak and simple.

  Now the complications filled her with fear at what she was becoming.

  “Gaby?” Mort touched her shoulder, startling her and drawing her from her thoughts. “You okay?”

  She jerked away from long-dead memories and nodded toward the upstairs apartment. “Bliss cooking anything? I could eat.”

  He frowned in concern. “You all right?”

  “Just hungry, that’s all. Luther and I missed both breakfast and lunch.”

  Assuming they’d been pleasurably occupied, Mort smiled. Gaby didn’t bother to tell him that in their urgency to hunt down clues on a cannibal, they hadn’t thought about food.

  “She’s out interviewing for jobs, but I can put together a sandwich for you.” Mort turned to lead the way toward his kitchen.

  Thanks to Ann-the-fucking-paragon, Mort’s place was now tidy and organized. Everywhere Gaby looked, she saw Ann’s influence. The old kitchen table remained, but now it looked pristine, matching the rest of the kitchen. Place-mats decorated the tabletop, with matching curtains at the window.

  It made Gaby want to puke.

  She jerked out a chair and dropped into it. “So Bliss wants a job, huh?”

  Mort nodded. “Sure, why not? Ann set up interviews for her with several nice places. We’re hoping she lands a job today.”

  Getting colas from the refrigerator, Mort said, “It’ll really help Bliss’s self-confidence to earn her own way, instead of relying on friends to help her. Not that I mind having her upstairs.”

  “But you need the money,” Gaby said as he handed her a frosty can.

  Confusion stalled him. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Luther pays her rent, so I’m not out anything.”

  Gaby paused with the foaming can almost to her lips. No, she hadn’t known that. But this added example of Luther’s compassion warmed her. True, in the depressed area with an apartment so small, the rent wasn’t much at all. That’s how Gaby had afforded it. Still, it was a real kind thing for Luther to do.

  To hide her surprise, Gaby took a long drink, burped, and set the can on the table. “I suppose Luther can afford it.”

  “He says he can. I tried to tell him not to worry about it. Truth is, I like having the company here, whether Bliss could pay or not. She’s a nice girl. But Luther insisted.” He gave her a look. “He knows you care about Bliss, and he doesn’t want you to worry.”

  Gaby grunted. “So it’s my fault he’s spending his life savings?”

  Sticking his head in the fridge again, Mort ignored that to ask, “Ham and cheese okay?”

  “Anything’ll do.” Along with now being sensitive to cold, exhaustion, and despair, Gaby grew ravenous several times a day. Feeding herself was a pain in the ass, but it beat the growling in her stomach.

  Mort set out pickles and chips, too. “Don’t worry about the rent, okay? I doubt Luther will let himself go broke.”

  Gaby set out the cell phone. “He might if he keeps buying me stupid gifts.”

  Mort glanced at the phone. “Nice. Now I can call you to chat.”

  Just peachy. That probability hadn’t occurred to Gaby. “I’m not real used to it yet,” she hedged. “Don’t count on me answering all the time, okay?”

  Mort laughed. “Here, I’ll get your number and program in mine for you. If anything comes up, you know, like with Bliss or whatever, I can let you know.” He cast her a quick smile while fidgeting with the phone.

  Mort made it look so easy as he pushed buttons, clicked here and there, and then put her phone back on the table.

  “I’m getting your number, too. I can share it with Bliss.” He opened a drawer and got a slip of paper, wrote the number on it, and put it on the front of his fridge with a magnet shaped like an apple. “Bliss will love being able to reach you.”

  Double fuck. The last thing Gaby wanted to do was indulge small talk on a phone. “Make it clear that the phone is only for emergencies.”

  “Got it.” Grinning, Mort went back to the food preparation. It occurred to Gaby that he was now a multitasking man, when he used to be pathetically ineffective at all he did. He was different, better, but still the Mort she knew and felt comfortable with.

  If Mort could change so easily, then maybe she could, too.

  But then again, Mort wasn’t a freak of nature.

  “So,” Gaby said, harking back to his earlier comment, “what’s special about today?”

  He glanced at her between layering meat and cheese on white bread. “I was talking about the investigation and everything.”

  “Some creepy shit, that’s for sure.” To a guy like Mort, the grisly murders had to be scary.

  He glanced up. “I know it’s routine for Ann and Luther, but aren’t you worried about tonight?”

  Trying to hide her ignorance, Gaby narrowed her eyes. She didn’t know about anything happening tonight.

  Hedging, she asked, “Is there some reason I should be?”

  He withdrew a butcher knife to slice the sandwich in half. “I forget that you don’t freak out about stuff the way the rest of us do. But let me tell you, I’m plenty spazzed about it. I looked it up on the Internet, and those underground raves are nothing but sex, addiction, and perversion. A lot of people go into those things and never come back out.”

  Raves?

  Mort handed her the sandwich, and before he could step away, Gaby caught him by the upper arm.

  Slowly, she reeled him down so that he bent at the waist, his nose almost touching hers. “Okay, Mort, one time, and one time only.”

  His brows went up. “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s how many times I’m going to ask. Just once. Got it?”

  “Um . . . yeah.”

  It burned her ass to admit Luther had left her in the dark. But if she wanted details, and she did, she had no choice. “I don’t know shit about a rave, or about what Luther and Ann h
ave planned for tonight. But you’re damn well going to explain it all, every detail, and you’re not going to make me ask twice. Understood?”

  Mort puckered. “Uh . . . Luther didn’t say anything to you?”

  Her hard stare proved answer enough.

  “Right.” Sighing, he pulled out a chair, sat down, and propped his head in his hands. “Ann told me, so I just assumed . . . ”

  The mention of Ann kindled Gaby’s smoky temper. “What? That Luther and I share the same kind of relationship? Get real, Mort.”

  Mort flopped back in his chair and gave in with enthusiasm. He seemed more than gleeful to share what he knew. “Ann said they’ve been keeping tabs on a few gang members with these weird tattoos. She said they have this vampire obsession that she’d always considered harmless, but now . . . ”

  “What kind of tattoos?”

  “Ann said that one of them has this huge, vicious bite mark tattooed on his shoulder, like maybe someone tried to take a chunk out of him. She said it looks totally real and is pretty sick. Another one is a set of perfect fang marks on a woman’s neck, with blood dripping all the way down over her chest.”

  “What does that have to do with this underground party you mentioned?”

  “It’s called a rave. According to Ann, all raves have two main ingredients—loud music and plenty of drugs. They keep breaking up the raves when they know about them because there’ve been so many rapes, and a lot of deaths.”

  “Yeah, sounds like a party to me.” Gaby rolled her eyes. “So people go there and get murdered?”

  “Not exactly. Someone takes a pill that someone else hands to them, and then later dies. Ann said it’s hard to trace back to the raves, but they know a lot of ecstasy gets passed around. Usually though, it’s that something was cut into the ecstasy and that’s what kills.”

  Having only a rudimentary understanding of drugs, Gaby frowned. “Someone tampers with them?”

  “The dealer, I guess.” Mort shrugged. “I’m not an expert, but I read that said ecstasy could be mixed with anything from caffeine to cocaine. Some sickos are passing off an ingredient in cough syrup as ecstasy. Sounds harmless, right? But mix that in with all the wild dancing and sweating, the alcohol and other drugs, and . . . ” He shrugged. “Kids die with heatstroke or something.”