The Acceptance s-2 Read online

  The Acceptance

  ( Servant - 2 )

  L.L. Foster

  Gabrielle Cody has accepted her destiny as God's warrior, charged to destroy all evil, but she wasn't prepared to see Detective Luther Cross ever again. He's the beacon of reality in her life, the one thing that makes her feel human, like a real woman.

  But Gaby must resist involvement with Luther now, for she is protecting streetwalkers. Her life of retribution is far too dangerous, and this time, it's not just their hearts that won't come out unscathed.

  The Acceptance

  (The second book in the Servant series)

  A novel by L L Foster

  Prologue

  Boredom was her newest enemy, and since running off from Luther—make that Detective Luther Cross—she’d been bored more than not.

  Until now, she hadn’t realized how much . . . excitement he’d brought to her life. You’d think a paladin would have her hands full enough that a nosy cop bent on seduction would have been mostly an annoyance, perhaps even a threat.

  Instead, he’d been fucking wonderful. The most wonderful thing to ever happen in her miserable, cursed life.

  Shit. Gaby walked along the broken concrete walkway in front of the aged, blackened building until that bored her too, then she leaned back against the rough brick, trying to ease her mind, her body.

  Her soul.

  Hanging out with hookers was a distraction, but it just didn’t fill the space the way he had.

  She needed something to happen, anything, to keep her from . . . Whoa. Just then, her instinct kicked and she felt the presence of evil, in her bones, in her guts. Her throat burned, she looked up—and she saw him.

  A kid.

  Clean-cut and unafraid.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  The defenses screaming silently throughout her body said that he was the wrong person, in the wrong place—and there could be nothing right about his presence here tonight. Pickled with immorality, riddled with holes of depravity, his black aura clung to him like a wet cloak.

  He sickened Gaby.

  He challenged her.

  And it didn’t matter to her if he was ten or fifty.

  Evil was evil.

  Tonight, her boredom would end.

  Chapter 1

  Standing deep in the shadows of a tall brick building to avoid the glow of a streetlamp, Detective Luther Cross clenched his teeth together. Off duty, but determined, he stared down the sidewalk a good ten yards ahead. His eyes burned and his fury built. Even from that distance, with the moon high in the sky casting eerie shadows over the bleak surroundings, he recognized her.

  Gabrielle Cody.

  The bane of his existence.

  The source of nightmares—and scorching-hot erotic dreams.

  Her long thin legs, sleek and toned with muscles, showed beneath a denim miniskirt. Black leather ankle boots replaced her familiar flip-flop sandals, and a loose tank top revealed the outline of the sheath at her back.

  Her short dark hair now had vivid purple streaks throughout.

  She’d disguised herself in her idea of a whore’s garb, but Luther would know that stance, feel that cocky attitude, no matter her outward appearance.

  For weeks he’d hunted her, lost sleep over her, worried and ruminated and raged . . . and there she stood, appearing as aloof and untouchable as ever.

  Alone.

  Deliberately distant.

  Taunting him without even trying.

  Unsure exactly what he’d say or do, Luther started forward. With her keen perception of her surroundings, Gaby might have picked up on his approach. Very little ever got by her.

  But at that moment, a young, lanky boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years of age, came out of an alley. Blond hair showed from beneath a pristine ball cap. Dressed in clean jeans and a button-up shirt, a school-type backpack hooked over his thin shoulders, he bore no resemblance to the homeless or desperate runaways that often choked the crowded streets.

  He didn’t appear the least shy or reserved about being out of place in the area.

  Gaze unflinching, he perused the crumbling building that Gaby protected, sizing it up for some purpose that Luther couldn’t fathom.

  Gaby focused on the boy.

  And when Gaby focused, it was something awesome to witness.

  She went rigid, her long bones gathering in defense as she straightened away from the building, then immediately relaxed in the deceptive way appropriate to natural-born combatants.

  Not a good sign.

  Gaby could attack without warning or mercy, fight with a frighteningly lethal skill, and her motives remained more elusive than a whispery phantom.

  Luther knew this, and accepted it.

  But why did the boy interest her?

  Forgoing his own disgruntlement for the moment, Luther picked up his pace to reach her, to protect the kid from whatever Gaby had planned for him—but not in enough time.

  The boy saw Luther and, for reasons of his own, bolted.

  Like an animal of prey, Gaby saw his retreat as just cause to launch a pursuit.

  Shit.

  They darted around a dark corner, disappeared into the blackness of the night, and Luther, not being a complete idiot, slowed and pulled his gun.

  He wouldn’t shoot Gaby.

  But then again, he wouldn’t walk into a trap either.

  He wanted her, but he didn’t trust her. Not anymore.

  Maybe he never had.

  Using necessary caution, he slunk into the narrow, muculent alley, closing his mind to the festering odors and willing his eyes to adjust to the extreme lack of light.

  At the far end, he saw movement and slipped farther inside. Finally, with careful scrutiny, he spied Gaby. That long, lethal blade of hers was held tightly in her hand as she slowly pushed open a broken door.

  Heart pounding, adrenaline rushing, Luther steadied his hands and his thoughts. “Not another step, Gaby.”

  Other than a slight stiffening of her tender neck, she made no acknowledgment of him.

  All her fervid scrutiny remained intent on whatever she saw beyond that door. Even from the back, in the murky gloom of the odorous alley, Luther noted the changes in her face, the tightening and subtle reshaping of her features that signaled her sense of threat.

  He also noted the choker around her slender throat. The choker he’d given her.

  No. He would not go down this road with her again—not without some explanations, not without him being in control.

  He tightened his mouth, his heart, and deliberately attempted to breech her concentration. “Gaby.”

  He wasn’t surprised that she didn’t look toward him; knowing her as he did, he wasn’t even certain if she’d heard him. In the past, during a rainstorm and times of danger, he’d witnessed Gaby going into a zone, oblivious to everyone and everything around her until an almost trancelike state enclosed her.

  Unwilling to lose her again, even emotionally, he caught his breath, inched closer, and said in a harder, deeper voice, “Gaby, you will listen to me.”

  By minute degrees, she exposed her awareness of him. It showed in the faint relaxing of her strong, proud shoulders, the ebbing of her immense tension.

  Without altering her attention, she warned, “It’s not a good time, Luther.”

  Not a good time. Ha! But just hearing her voice reassured and pleased him. Despite the current situation, his pulse slowed, calmed. “That’s too bad.” He flexed his fingers around the gun, pleased to feel somewhat in control. “Put the knife down—and your arms up.”

  As she mulled over his order, her jaw worked. She must have decided to give in to him, because she eased back the tiniest bit—

  Something shattered inside the abandone
d structure, and Gaby, realizing her prey had found an alternate way out, slammed the door with absurd force.

  “Son of a bitch.” In a rage ripened by frustration, she rounded on Luther. “You let him get away!”

  Somewhat used to her and her odd manners and coarse language, Luther feigned a negligent attitude and asked, “Him who?”

  Now that she faced him, Luther saw that some anomalous emotion had manifested itself in her physical appearance. She looked like Gaby, but then again, she didn’t.

  He’d seen the odd transformation with her before. Like a quick slithering chameleon, she changed and shifted, her appearance altered subtly, almost imperceptibly. Luther had always been so strangely attuned to her that he picked up on it when, perhaps, others didn’t.

  Was it a phenomenon left over from her childhood? Some strange illness that plagued her? Or was it just Gaby, as extraordinarily different as she was appealing?

  Storming toward him, the knife squeezed in her grip and her pale eyes glittering, Gaby curled her lip. “Now that you blundered in, there’s no way for us to know who he is, is there?”

  “That’s close enough,” Luther warned her. With Gaby, he was never entirely certain of her intent, of just how far she’d carry her anger in a physical response.

  Disregarding his command, she crowded right up to him, nose to nose, hot breath mingling. “Is it?”

  Jesus, he’d missed her ballsy bravado and brash disregard for common civility. He wanted to crush her closer, wanted to tell her . . . what?

  What was it about her that drew him? Yes, she was different, but it was more than that. He wanted her—in a lot of ways inappropriate to his position as a police detective—to satisfy his suspicions about her involvement in a past case involving the sick slaughter of human beings.

  He prayed that Gaby had no part in that. He had no real evidence against her. But he had those gut feelings, almost as staggering as his freakishly strong desire for her.

  If he believed in such things, he’d think she’d put a spell on him, one meant to keep him awake at nights, and weary during the day, plagued by the memory of her and the confusion she wrought.

  But while he couldn’t label Gaby, he knew she wasn’t a witch. She was too soft to the touch, too vulnerable despite her harsh attitudes, and much, much too alone.

  In their current position, the barrel of his gun pressed into her bony sternum. That bothered him, whether she paid any notice or not. Grinding his molars together, Luther rasped, “Put. The knife. Away.”

  Blue eyes sparking, Gaby scrutinized him. “Ah, what’s the matter, cop? You afraid of me now?”

  Her sneer deliberately provoked—but she did reach around behind herself and sheath the lethal blade with an alarmingly practiced ease. As she did so, her small breasts pushed against the skimpy tank top.

  The hidden dangers of the moment had tightened her nipples.

  Despite what he knew to be right, to be sane, the sight of her femaleness, so incongruous with her balls-to-the-wall attitude, drew his attention and sent a fire to sear through his veins.

  Anger and lust—it could prove a deadly combination, especially with a woman like Gaby.

  A woman like no other.

  Scraps of moonlight danced among the purple highlights in her hair. A light sheen of sweat touched her pale, smooth skin.

  Her impossibly stubborn chin lifted.

  And she smiled. “I won’t gut you, Luther.”

  “Good to know.”

  Slim brows burrowed down, giving her otherwise plain features a hint of threat. “Not,” she murmured low, “without reason.”

  Since seeing her, Luther rode the edge of fury, and now that the knife didn’t pose a threat, he grabbed both her wrists and slammed her up against the brick wall. The gun he still held pressed into her tender flesh, but he couldn’t temper himself, couldn’t rein in his rage or take the time to holster the weapon, couldn’t reason with her or . . . anything.

  Chest to chest, thick anger undulating between them, he sought words that would somehow convey all he felt—the resentment and relief, the concern and . . .

  Fuck.

  So much more.

  Ignorant of his mental struggle, Gaby looked at his mouth. “How’d you find me, anyway?” She licked her lips, slow and sweet. “I’ve been quiet. I’ve been good.”

  Luther couldn’t dredge up a single word.

  At his lack of response, her gaze crawled up to his, challenging him and scorching him at the same time. “You know, Luther, I figured on never seeing you again.”

  That notion didn’t seem to distress her at all. Luther wondered if his teeth would turn to dust, given how he ground them together.

  Eyes narrowed, Gabrielle tipped her head. “But here you are.” She sucked in a substantial breath, which pressed her body into his. Drawling the words, she said, “Big. Tall. Strong Luther. That golden orange glow around you shows great self-control.”

  God, she sounded the same, just as confusing and infuriating, as if nothing had happened, as if people hadn’t died and monsters hadn’t existed.

  Her voice softened. “You’re holding back, Luther. But what? Anger?” Her attention returned to his mouth. “Or something else?”

  Hoarse with an aberrant yearning, determined to maintain control of the situation, Luther pointed out, “You’ve been knocking around johns.” And thank God she had, because her abuse of the flesh-peddling clientele had enabled him to locate her again.

  Quiet satisfaction chased away the last remnants of her odd transformation, showing him the Gaby he’d grown to know so well—or at least, as well as anyone could know an enigma like her.

  “Only when they deserved it, Luther.” She relaxed her shoulder blades against the wall, tilted out her hips to press into his groin. Uncaring of how he held her wrists so tightly, nonchalant to any threat he might pose, she said again, “Only when they deserved it.”

  God almighty, would he ever figure out her many quirks and idiosyncrasies? Now that he had found her, would she find a way to slip away from him again?

  Would she forever unbalance him with a desire so foreign to his nature that he couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t decipher it or even name it?

  “Why, Gaby?” He hadn’t meant to growl, to show his loss of discipline, but, damn it, there were so many unknowns with her. A million of them.

  Hopefully she caught all that the simple question encompassed.

  All that he wanted from her.

  * * *

  Stupid, stupid bitch! Heart pounding in a mad relay, he ran farther, down an alley, across an empty lot.

  Looking back one last time—and seeing no one—Oren Paige squeezed through a broken fence post to enter a closed-off garbage area for a local convenient mart.

  A rusty, protruding nail gouged the tender flesh of his arm. Flinching, he examined the wound. “Oh God, no.” Tears sprang to his eyes. “Blood!”

  Oren stared at the gaping wound. It hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought back tears.

  A girl would cry.

  He would not.

  Bottom lip trembling, a soft white hand over the injury, he turned to lean his back against one rotted plank of wood. Bone-deep fear urged him to run; his straining lungs demanded that he catch his breath, get a handle on his astronomical fright.

  Slowly, his free hand tightened into a fist and his temper began to boil, chasing away the pain. He had to suppress his fury or he’d be shouting in a temper tantrum that would draw the pathetic hordes looming in the night in this godforsaken area.

  This was all her fault.

  Why had the girl chased him? What did she want? No way had she seen through the disguise.

  No one ever did.

  He hadn’t done anything to her to warrant that absurd pursuit. He’d only wanted to lure a whore, and nobody cared about whores.

  They were nasty. Foul. Useless to a better society.

  Just as his mother had been.

  Nobody missed whor
es. Nobody wanted them around.

  He sure as hell didn’t.

  He performed a service by ridding the community of their sort, giving them only what they deserved—and allowing his aunt and uncle to partake of the pleasure.

  Oren smiled. The bitch he had now . . . well, she wouldn’t last much longer. Aunt Dory had yet to learn how to meter her rage, and Uncle Myer couldn’t pace himself. All night long, Oren had listened to the stupid bitch scream.

  And scream and scream.

  Until he’d shut them all down.

  Because Oren held the purse strings, his aunt and uncle could be controlled. When threats of disinheritance didn’t work, drugs did.

  And that boorish slut . . . well, he told her that he’d cut out her tongue if she made another sound. With the other already-mute bitch bleeding to death beside her, she hadn’t needed further convincing.

  Remembering, Oren’s smile turned to a grin.

  His uncle’s slack mouth.

  His aunt’s eyes, rolled back in her head.

  The whore’s white-faced fear.

  Shoving off from the rickety wall, refusing to look at the ghastly slash on his soft, pale arm, Oren started back to where his ride waited—in a nicer section of town. To facilitate the rest of his journey, he removed his backpack and dug out what he needed.

  Later in the week, he’d return to this hellhole. He’d be sure to avoid the skinny dark-haired girl, and then he’d be more successful. No one would get in his way.

  He wouldn’t allow it.

  What worked on Aunt Dory and Uncle Myer would work on others.

  If he didn’t keep his aunt and uncle occupied, they’d venture out on their own, and they were so brainless, ruled only by their base desires, that they ran the risk of blowing their whole setup.

  But Oren liked things as they were. He liked the house, the freedom, the control he had over others . . .

  In his mind, he pictured the dirty tramp, tied to the sparse frame . . . almost broken, almost there.

  He laughed out loud.

  Yeah, he liked it a lot.