The lack of decorating finesse assaulted his senses, but the water and electric remained 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 others eat and remembered that she should, too.