The Kindred

by L. L. Foster

  “Recruiting. Now get off me.”

  When he started to rise, Gaby leaned on the knife again. Blood gurgled out around his wound, soaking his shirt and causing him to saw his perfect teeth together around a guttural, animal groan of pain. The fist on his good arm thumped the ground.

  To her, his agony mattered not a whit. The animals had mattered. The kids mattered. That little girl’s aunt and uncle mattered.

  This jerk did not.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Bogg, so forget it. You get to greet the cops, but without me.”

  “What the fuck do you care about any of this?”

  “I don’t like you, Bogg. In fact, I loathe you.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “Sure I do.” Gaby rested her wrists on her knees, at her leisure. “You’re a miserable bully, a drug dealer, a murderer, and on top of that, you abuse animals. But it’s your lucky day.” She caught his chin and turned his head so he had to look at her. “Much as I’d like to, I won’t kill you.”

  No, if she cut his throat like she wanted, Luther really would have a fit. And somehow, she just knew he’d find out. Luther might not possess her extraordinary abilities, but he had something almost as effective: a cop’s intuition and a golden aura of purity.

  Bogg eyed her. “Glad to hear you don’t have killing on your mind.” He jerked his chin free of her hold and his look turned calculating. “Here’s the thing, baby girl—”

  “I like that even less than bitch, so save it.”

  “But I have a little over ten grand on me. How about we—”

  Gaby interrupted the bribe. “Even though I’m going to let you live, I can’t take a chance that you’ll get away from the cops, that you’ll taint another animal or threaten another kid or”—she looked at him—“burn anyone else.”

  He was quick to scoff at her accusation. “You can’t hang that rap on me.”

  “Course not.” Gaby looked over his wounds, his lanky, strong body, and made a decision. “On second thought . . . I guess it’s not really your lucky day after all.”

  She slid the knife free of his body, impervious to his raw, shuddering moan.

  The dismal sky cast no shadows. Rustling wind agitated the abhorrent scents of fear, and stirred dead leaves that clung tenaciously to brittle, barren trees. An expectant hush poised in the rank air.

  Being sure that she positioned herself in a way that shielded his body from the view of the young onlookers, Gaby pushed Bogg to his side and, without remorse, slashed the blade across the back of his right knee.

  The knife sliced through skin, sinew, and tendons like warm butter, leaving behind a gaping, exposed wound. Bogg’s hysterical screams cleaved the silence, sending blackbirds into frantic flight and causing the crowd to back up a step.

  Gaby eyed her handiwork and nodded to herself. Bogg wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  Dropping his cash, Gaby let the bills flutter around his writhing body. She tossed the packets of pills between his legs, into a puddle of pooling blood. She glanced to the gun to make sure it was visible enough that the cops wouldn’t miss it.

  One down, two to go.

  No way would she let any of them walk, hobble, or even crawl away. They didn’t get the end she wanted to mete out, but they would get Luther’s form of justice. And if somehow the cops failed, well then, she’d be back.

  But until then . . .

  Bloody knife in her hand, Gaby stepped toward Tylek. In tangible horror, he tried to scramble away, but he didn’t get far. Flipping the knife around in her hand, Gaby again shielded her actions from the onlookers. With a nimble wrist, she slicked the blade across the back of both of his thighs, all but severing the muscles, definitely rendering the leg useless.

  He went down like a rag doll in a soggy swamp of his own gushing blood.

  J.J., that poor schmuck, still hadn’t stirred. Maybe she’d given him a concussion. Maybe he’d never revive.

  Didn’t matter to Gaby.

  Lifting his right foot, she cut his Achilles tendon, and even that didn’t bring him around.

  Glancing up, she saw that the young Hispanic girl had remained nearby, watching in horror. All around her, festering carnage proved just how effective Gaby could be.

  Trust her? Ha. The girl would hate her now. But at least she’d be a little safer, a little less threatened by the monsters that scoured the earth.

  The scream of the sirens reverberated around the area; the cops were on the same street now, closing in.

  Time to go.

  And as Gaby turned, the girl stepped forward and raised a hand.

  A simple wave—but for Gaby it felt like a harbinger of acceptance, maybe even . . . understanding.

  Her arm burned and a thin trickle of blood exuded from the sleeve of her sweatshirt, down her wrist, and over the back of her hand. Her blood commingled with the blood of her victims still staining her knife.

  She’d have a lot to deal with—later.

  For now, she had to distance herself from the bloodbath. And fast.

  Gaby weighed her options, and decided on heading up the street. Sprinting, she made the intersection in no time at all. But even as she fled, she again looked at that tattoo parlor. SIN ADDICTIONS.

  She knew she’d be back.

  In fact, a tattoo might be just what she needed to obscure the gunshot wound on her arm.

  Mulling that over, she cut across the street, down an alley and through an old abandoned building, and emerged into another alley. Rats scrambled at her disruption. A crow took angry flight.

  By the time the police parked at the playground, Gaby was far enough away that she could hear nothing beyond the low drone of distant sirens.

  Being resourceful, she had no problem swiping a different sweatshirt, this one advertising some sports team. Using her old sweatshirt, she bandaged her arm the best she could with limited means.

  Finally, more than an hour later, she made her way to Mort’s.

  Chapter 5

  Fabian watched as every minion took nourishment off the woman. He wouldn’t allow them to finish her, but by allowing them all to take part, he ensured their commitment to the act, and their devotion to silence.

  That she was attractive made it more acceptable to them. As a being superior in intelligence, he’d made many observations about mankind. There were vast correlations in how people reacted to cannibalism . . . and to sex.

  A beautiful woman was preferable to a hag, a young woman more desirable to the palate than a matronly elder.

  As with sex, the thought of dining off a relative, or even a close friend, repulsed at the same level as incest.

  And children . . . oh yes, those most sacrosanct of God’s gifts, exempt from all perversions by most. Society thought children were to be protected, cherished. They didn’t see the potential, the delectability of young, tender flesh.

  It was the most reviled of taboos—and perhaps that’s why it tantalized Fabian so.

  He would bend them to his will. He would convince them, force them if necessary, but they would do as he requested.

  For Fabian, that was perhaps the biggest thrill of all.

  “That’s enough.” The stupid whore lay sprawled, all but unconscious, stained by blood and saliva. Bruises marred her pale body, evidence that many of his followers still lacked control.

  They would learn with time and practice.

  Reluctantly, the last man pulled away. He licked his lips and breathed deeply, still in the throes of profound enlightenment.

  Yes, they pleased him. They took proper enjoyment as they should, and reacted promptly to his orders.

  “Because our last meeting residence was compromised, we need to make this new building home. I know it is not ideal.” The abandoned property, once owned by an elderly woman who had no close relatives, was cold and musty and cluttered with ridiculous furnishings and knickknacks.

  The lack of decorating finesse assaulted his senses, but the water and electric rema
ined on, and the solid basement walls would ensure secure attachment of necessary manacles and chains.

  Located on isolated land, long forgotten by the nearest neighbors, it provided all they needed. No one would come here; they would be free to do as they pleased, for as long as Fabian deemed proper.

  “I’m needed at the shop soon, but before that, I want to see her cleaned and her wounds tended. After that, secure her so that she cannot escape.” With a benevolent smile, he told them, “We will use her for as long as she lasts.”

  They accepted his edict without comment, as they should. Like mutts, they hungered for a single kind word from him.

  He’d found it beneficial to align himself with society’s outcasts; the mentally challenged and the psychotically cruel. Every being, he’d found, had a use—be it for taking orders, accepting blame, or supplying nourishment.

  “No one is to feed from her without my permission. Is that understood?” After each man and woman nodded in compliance, Fabian glanced at Georgie’s gory body. “I’ll get an industrial freezer out here soon, but in the meantime, carve him up and place all salvageable parts in coolers. When I return, I’ll dispose of the waste.”

  Fabian trusted no one else for that particular task. It was a tricky thing, dumping bodily remains in a way that would lead others away from them instead of to them. Not that he worried overly about capture. The only link to him would be Georgie’s tattoos, and those would be in a freezer with his meat attached, where police would never see them.

  “All of you,” Fabian added as he looked around the dank room of the building, “after she’s properly secured, do what you can about cleaning the place. I want this blood mopped up, and the cobwebs removed. Someone buy some air freshener. It reeks of the old lady who died here.”

  Knowing he required his own share of cleaning, given that blood stained his face and shirt, Fabian rushed through the rest of his instructions.

  He nodded to one sturdy fellow possessed of a low IQ and a fevered bent toward sadism. “You, begin fastening the restraints into the wall. Adjust them for her height so that her feet reach the floor. I want her able to stand.” Delight glimmered. “To watch.”

  Knowing his order would be fulfilled, Fabian bestowed his attention on a small woman afflicted with a twisted need to please men. “You can secure what we need from the hospital?”

  “Yes.” Her head bobbed in animated enthusiasm. “I work tomorrow, and I’ll gather the items then.”

  As a nurse’s aide, she had access to the anticoagulants necessary to keep the blood flowing freely. However, the sedatives Fabian used to keep their cattle calm were obtained from a local thug, a miscreant of the worst order.

  Fabian neither liked nor feared the crude brute, which made him tedious to endure. But Bogg delivered without fail and he didn’t ask questions, and those redeeming qualities kept him a valuable asset.

  He supplied the most modern and effective selection of tranquilizers. Victims could stay endlessly in a realm of surrealism, without ever realizing the fate they faced—until the key moment.

  Seeing their fear was part of the rush for Fabian, so when they decided to feed directly from her again, he would let the numbing effects of the drugs wear off.

  It elated him to get the proper reaction from his prey.

  “Complete your tasks,” he told his audience, “and you’ll soon be rewarded with a special treat.”

  A low buzz started over what the treat might be, but Fabian chose not to say any more. If he told them now, they would rebel. He needed to present the gift to them first, to work them into a frenzy of wanting it, so that their flagging and seldom-used morals and scruples would be put to rest.

  After he procured their special meal, he would entice them into committing the gravest perversion.

  Thinking of that moment, he could barely contain himself. Best that he remove himself now before he gave anything away.

  With all in order, he headed upstairs to where water and a change of his clothing could be found. He needed only the most rudimentary of cleansings, just enough that no one would notice him. When he reached the tattoo parlor he owned, he could be more thorough.

  Despite his proclivity for cannibalism and drinking of blood, he was a fastidious man who always presented himself in a complimentary light. He was handsome, well built, and a good businessman who had turned Sin Addictions into a thriving business—with a believable façade for his predilection.

  Peering through the pristine front window of the comic book store, Gaby spied Mort with customers. He didn’t notice her, so she bypassed him and, using her key, went into the connected two-family and up the stairs to the living quarters separate from his.

  She wanted to visit Bliss.

  Proving she could be a wraith when it suited her, Gaby located Bliss in the kitchen without being heard.

  Bliss stood at the stove, stirring what smelled like stew and appearing just like a little Martha Stewart. Since transitioning away from her debased existence of prostitution and into Mort’s upper apartment—the apartment that used to be Gaby’s—Bliss had transformed.

  Brassy highlights no longer tinged her soft brown hair, and harsh makeup didn’t age her pretty blue eyes. Instead of wearing clothing that exposed too much skin, she dressed in casual jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.

  Now eighteen, Bliss looked like any other teenager instead of a homeless, mostly unloved girl who’d once sold herself to anyone willing to drop a few bills for the pleasure.

  The thought of Bliss’s past life stabbed into Gaby’s heart with the force of a poisoned spear.

  She must’ve made a sound, because Bliss turned and saw her standing there.

  “Gaby! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Something in Bliss’s expression put Gaby on alert. “Just got here.” She strode to the table and pulled out a chair. “Whatever that is, it smells good.”

  “You hungry?” Before Gaby could answer, nervous energy carried Bliss across the kitchen to get a bowl and spoon. “It should be ready enough for you.”

  Eyes narrowed, Gaby studied Bliss’s frenetic aura. Something was wrong, but she’d give Bliss a little time before she grilled her. “Thanks.”

  Bliss dished up enough stew to feed two grown men.

  Gaby looked toward the empty coffeepot and sighed. She could really use a kick of caffeine. “What’s up, Bliss?”

  Her narrow shoulders stiffened. Keeping her back to Gaby, she ladled in yet another serving of the aromatic stew. “Nothing . . . probably.” She jerked around with a forced smile. “Are you just visiting or is . . . anything wrong?”

  “So I’m to go first?”

  Bliss rolled in her lips, and nodded. “Yes, please.”

  “All right.” Gaby lifted her arm. “You got a first-aid kit around here anywhere?”

  “What?” Bliss almost dropped the bowl. “Oh my God, Gaby. What happened?” She rushed forward, plopped the bowl on the table, and stared wide-eyed at the seeping wound. She swallowed twice. “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s a little flesh wound, that’s all.” But she wanted to have it properly cleaned and bandaged before she returned to the tattoo parlor and, ultimately, to Luther.

  “You’re not hurt anywhere else?” Her hands twisted together. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m fine.” Bliss had a burgeoning special ability that she’d yet to master. Had she seen something happening to Gaby?

  “I think Morty keeps a kit downstairs. I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait.” Detaining her with a hold on her arm, Gaby met her gaze and infused her tone with command. “This is just between us, Bliss. Got it?”

  “I won’t say anything.” She patted Gaby’s hand on her arm and tried another tentative smile. “I’ll be right back.”

  Gaby pulled the stew around in front of her and started to eat. Before Luther, she’d never paid much attention to food. She could go days without eating, and often only fed herself out of boredom, or when she saw oth
ers eat and remembered that she should, too.

  Mort, much like an anxious lapdog, had taken great pleasure in badgering her into sharing meals with him. For the longest time she had resisted his efforts at friendship. The idea of anyone caring about her, knowing her beyond a brief exchange, had been . . . unsettling.

  And sure enough, the moment she decided to accept the idea of friends, she’d become inundated with them. Mort, Bliss, Luther . . . and Ann. They were all unique, different not only from Gaby, but from each other.

  And Ann was the oddest friend of all.

  Morty and Bliss she could understand. Like her, they had survived the dredges of society, accepting abuse as commonplace, taking it as their due. That sort of background bred familiarity, an affinity that outsiders couldn’t fathom.

  And Luther, well, he claimed some bizarre sexual chemistry—and more. He wanted her, and maybe after that happened he would lose interest. She wasn’t versed enough in men, or relationships, to be sure.

  But Ann proved an enigma. She was a beautiful, confident, educated woman with a career in law enforcement. She had breeding and class, and one of the biggest hearts ever.

  Gaby would never comprehend why any of them wanted to be a part of her life, but the idea grew on her each and every day.

  She had just wolfed down her last bite when Bliss returned with an armful of ointments and bandages and such.

  Setting it all on the table, she pulled around a chair for herself and reached for Gaby’s arm. “Let me see.”

  “I can do it. But if you want to help, make some coffee, will you?”

  Bliss hovered, her big eyes wounded and worried.

  “Bliss, seriously, it’s not that bad.” Something other than her meager injury had spooked the girl. Gaby would find out what it was before she left.

  “You really do want coffee?”

  “Desperately. It’s colder than a dead witch’s left tit in a brass bra out there.”

  Choking on a snicker, Bliss moved away to start coffee preparations. As Gaby unwrapped her makeshift bandage, she asked, “The food was good. When did you learn to cook?”