Fed up, Luther reached for her—but this time Gaby was ready. Exhilarated by the idea that her old landlord and only true friend might have survived, she ducked out of Luther’s reach and came up behind him.
Her right arm clamped tight around his throat, tight enough to squeeze his windpipe. “Take it easy, big boy.”
The taunt sent him over the edge.
He reacted so quickly, he caught Gaby off guard. In a series of well-timed movements, she found herself slammed back up against the wall, this time with Luther’s big, imposing body plastered to her. Unless she decided to hurt him, and she didn’t want to do that, she couldn’t defend herself.
Her bones, her joints, protested and her pride prickled . . .
But oh God, jubilation filled her. Euphoria erupted. She was better than ecstatic.
Morty was alive.
Luther wouldn’t lie about that. He couldn’t. Somehow, by some divine intervention, Morty had survived.
Damn, but she couldn’t wait to see the little weasel again. When she did, she’d give him hell for sure.
Incredulous, Luther snarled. “Don’t you dare smile, Gaby.” He bracketed one big, hard hand around her throat, and with the other pinned both of her wrists high. “Don’t you dare act like nothing is wrong.”
Throughout most of her lamentable life, Gaby had had no reason for joy. Now she felt it in spades, and damn it, she couldn’t suppress it. Even Luther’s pissed-off attitude couldn’t dampen her buoyant spirits.
Gaby eyed him, lifted one brow, and when the happiness threatened to implode, she kissed him.
Luther jerked back—but she followed and kissed him again, needing to celebrate the foreign emotion of pure, undiluted happiness bursting inside her.
She’d never felt it before, and she loved it, wanted to cherish it and this moment. It was a first for her, a sign that somewhere in her blackened heart, a real woman lived and breathed and accepted influence from the world that had rejected her so harshly.
Breathing hard and fast, Luther resisted her impetuous onslaught for only a nanosecond before the hand at her throat softened, his fingers slid up into her hair, and he positively devoured her mouth.
Kissing was as new to her as joy, but doubly thrilling. As a creature of instincts, Gaby rubbed herself against him. When that didn’t appease, she groaned and bit him.
He jerked back, panting, his face red and his eyes burning like the devil himself.
They stared at each other. Gaby said, “I like kissing you, Luther.”
An internal struggle manifested itself on his features. He fought hard, making his beautiful brown eyes blaze and his sensuous mouth tighten.
He swallowed, worked his jaw, then flattened her by asking in a brisk, but affected voice, “Why were you chasing the boy?”
The wind left her lungs. Fucking asshole. Her pride bristled at such a harsh rejection. “Let me go.”
“Not until you answer me.”
She shook her head; not in denial, but because she didn’t have an answer for him. “I don’t know why.”
“What?”
Because she detested being uncertain in any way, she snapped, “Clear out your ears, cop.”
His left eye flinched. “So now we’re back to insults, is that it?”
“Hey, I clearly wanted to fuck. You’re the one—”
He released her so quickly, Gaby almost fell. Before she could regain her bearings, he’d turned his back on her and paced away. One hand rubbed the back of his neck, the other clenched into a fist.
In a perfect world, Gaby would try to figure him out. She’d want to understand her sudden hurt and why she’d ever, even for a single second, thought a man like Luther, a good, kind, beautiful man, would want any part of her.
But this world was imperfect, in part because of her, in other ways, in spite of her.
Best if she just left, right now, while she still could. She started to do just that.
Luther said, “Please don’t go.”
“No reason to stay.”
Without making a sound, he came to her and his hand closed over her shoulder. In a harsh, hungry whisper, he said, “I want you, Gaby. Don’t ever doubt that.”
“Yeah, I could tell.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “You’ve been hanging out with prostitutes and now suddenly you want sex. With me. I haven’t seen you in a long time. Hell, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again. When last I did see you, you made it clear that sex wasn’t an option. Hell, you cursed me for making you want sex.”
“I have a good memory, and you’re saying sex an awful lot for a man who just turned it down.”
Gently, he turned her to face him. “Just moments ago, you told me it would never happen.”
“And it won’t.”
It was his turn to smile, halfheartedly, crookedly. It made him look so appealing. “I already promised you that it will. But not in a moment of insanity where you might regret it later.” Both hands cupped her face. “When I get on top of you, and I will, we won’t be in a dirty alley, or in a hurry, and we’ll both be clear about what we want.”
Those words affected her so deeply that she hid her response. “Whatever. You done with me?”
“No, I’m not. Not by a long shot.” With a hand at her back, he started her walking out of the alley toward the street where lamps filtered through a growing fog. “Tell me why you chased that boy. And no bullshit about not knowing why. You always know what you do. You’re a very decisive woman.”
Okay, so maybe she did know. Something about the kid had . . . reminded her of herself. Oh, he was better dressed than she’d ever been, clean and fresh and healthy. He had normal weight, where she’d always been frail. His eyes were bright instead of sunken with depression and pain.
But something about him, some ethereal aura showed his confusion about his purpose in life.
She was good at reading auras.
It was a talent, not unlike her talent in destroying rancorous evil.
As a child, she’d been adrift in incomprehensible pain and confused direction. The more she fought against it, the worse it got. At times, the pain would ease, but it never completely left her.
That is, not until she accepted her insights, and exterminatedthe immoral malevolence surrounding her. Then, and only then, could she draw an easy breath.
The blind, the unknowing, summoned doctors for a cure, but they couldn’t name the ailment.
Authorities refused to acknowledge it as real.
The foster families who occasionally allowed her into their homes thought her a fraud, a faker, and they punished for the pain.
No one understood, and no one knew how she escaped the agony—no one, except Father Mullond. And that good man encouraged her, coached her, helped her gain direction to her purpose and deception to cover her tracks.
As a man of God, he understood her duty more than she ever could have. He made it crystal clear that if anyone found out, she’d be labeled a murderer, and the rest of her days would be spent in prison, or an asylum—where the pain would gnaw on her all the rest of her days.
And so they’d worked together, Father Mullond and her, an odd pair matched by God. Gaby told Father of her auras, shared with him the first niggling of discomfort, and he, through the confessions of a priest, learned the truths behind her visions.
And ultimately, he gave his blessing to each and every slaughter.
Father had changed her life with his understanding, his guidance.
Then he’d changed it again—with his death.
Chapter 2
The memories sent a shaft of pain slicing through Gaby. She pressed a hand to her gut, and glanced at Luther for a needed distraction. “That boy didn’t belong here.”
Eyes keen and wary, Luther watched her. “It’s a free country, Gaby.”
“No, it isn’t, not really.” A rusted can blocked her path; she crushed it with her heel. “But either way, it doesn’t change the fact that he was here for some reason, and he shouldn’t have been.”