The Debt Collector (Season 1)

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  It’s like they’re engaged in a macabre make-out session.

  My stomach heaves, but I can’t tear my gaze away. She’s enjoying it—or at least she didn’t exactly put up a fight with Valac. And she’s draped on Renald, soaking up the buzz as she sucks away his life. He has years of it left, apparently, because it’s taking forever. It goes on and on, and I keep staring, my brain searching for a justification—that she has to do it—but the queasiness in my stomach knows this is wrong.

  Valac’s arms are crossed. He’s admiring her. “She’s a master of the slow pull.” He flexes his right hand, the one with the multitude of scars, then curls it into a fist. “I was never that patient. But then she’s always been better at all of this than I am.”

  He glances at me, then steps up to Ophelia and taps her on the shoulder. She leans away from Renald, taking her hand with her. The man slumps in the chair, mouth hanging slack. A small moan escapes as he squeezes his eyes shut. I’m dumbfounded that he’s not dead. Ophelia hops up from the chair, reaches up to kiss Valac on the cheek, then she twirls a dance in the middle of the cramped apartment, arms flung wide, silver dress flaring. Her long black hair fans as well. When she comes to a stop, she giggles and skips over to wrap her arms around my neck. She kisses me square on the lips, but I’m so stunned I don’t react.

  She flits away from me and literally spins out into the hall.

  Valac tilts his head in her direction, motioning Burn Man to follow her. She’s flying higher than a kite, pumped with who knows how many years of life energy. I’m actually glad the thug is going after her, in case she decides to take a swan dive down the stairs.

  “Your turn,” Valac says.

  I swing to face him, and we stare at each other a moment. “And if I don’t?”

  Valac shrugs, like my resistance doesn’t concern him in the slightest. “It’s your funeral.” He glances at Renald. “My tank is full right now, thanks to Ophelia, but I can still make room for whatever Renald’s got left.” He leaves the rest unspoken, but I see it when the hard look returns to his eyes: he’ll be the one to drain me himself, if I don’t do this.

  Renald is dead either way. Valac will let me walk out of here, if I kill his wayward donor wrangler for the sin of sending life force donors to other mob bosses. It will buy me time to find a way out of this life. Give me a chance to get Ophelia out of the mob as well. And yet… I still can’t make my feet move.

  I swallow and pour my anger into a glare. “Someday, Valac, it’s going to be your funeral. I plan to be there.”

  Valac smirks as I unlock my legs and stride quickly over to Renald. He sees me coming, but he’s too drained to do more than cringe in his chair. His scrawny arms flail in front of him, like he can ward me off. I smack my palm down on his forehead, pinning his head against the crook of the chair arm.

  Life energy surges into me. I grit my teeth as the heat flares on my palm and travels through my still-injured tracker arm. The blinding hot burn grows and grows and just when I don’t think I can keep the scream inside, it ceases. Renald’s body slumps.

  I peel my quivering hand away from his head, the skin on my overheated palm sticky with sweat.

  Then I feel it.

  The high hits my brain full force. I can’t feel my feet. Energy is bursting out of me, every molecule of my body electrified. I leap back from the chair and rush at the two-pints thug who’s watching us from the door. I catch him off guard, but I have no control. We both go down, sprawling on the dirty carpet of the hallway. His hands grab at me while I kick and punch him. I have a fleeting thought of trying to find his gun.

  Something yanks me off the floor by the back of my silk shirt. The top button chokes me until Valac releases my clothes and grabs me by the neck. The wildness starts to drain from my body as he sucks the life away. I struggle against him. I find an open spot of skin on his hand and try to pull back the life energy he’s stealing from me. His face is close, intense, but not angry.

  “You’re going to be okay, little bird,” he says.

  I’m still fighting him, but I’m losing. He shoves me away. I stumble into the banister and nearly tumble down the stairs, but I catch myself. I’m panting, but the high is gone. Energy still pulses inside me—Valac only took the edge off. A huge hit still swims through my cells. I don’t know how much. Maybe a year.

  My palm aches. There’s another burn mark on it. The two form an X that crosses at the center of my hand.

  Valac straightens his collar and smoothes his long hair back over his ears. “If you’re quite finished with that nonsense, we have an appointment to keep.”

  I bite back my urge to tell him to go to hell. I need to be smarter than this to have any chance of us staying alive long enough to get away. I peer over the banister, looking for Ophelia. She’s nowhere to be seen, but her giggle echoes up the stairs. I nod to Valac, and he sweeps his hand out, indicating I should go first. I march down the stairs, my imported shoes making sharp clacks on the cracked wood with each step.

  I don’t want to think about where we’re going next.

  The black sedan ride is longer this time, and silent except for Ophelia’s soft giggles to herself and whispered laughs to Valac. He’s sitting between us now, and I’m almost glad. After she willingly drained Renald like it was no big deal, I’m not sure I could take having her drape on me the way she is Valac. Who seems to be having a good laugh at her expense, only she can’t see it. Or is so high she doesn’t care.

  My leg bounces, the energy pent up inside making me shake all over. Valac sends me sideways glances, but I spend my time staring out the window, dully watching the cracked and broken city morph into taller buildings and tidier streets. My reflection in the glass is a pale, shaking ghost that stares back, separate from and floating over the sliding landscape.

  I killed a man.

  My shoulder twitches extra hard as the memory of my first kill rushes back, unbidden. It was a woman. Mrs. Harms. She was ninety-two and ready to die. She patted my hand and called me sweetie… and I killed her. I couldn’t sleep for days. Not until I finally drank myself into a stupor so deep I could forget her kind, blue eyes. Her soft, wrinkled face. Her gravelly voice telling me in that gentle, grandmotherly way that she forgave me.

  Something touches my hand, and I jerk so hard in my seat that my head bangs against the window. My reflection looks shocked, like it’s seen a ghost and it’s me. I close my eyes and put both hands to my face, trying to rub the look of horror from it. My hands shake so bad, I can hardly control them.

  “Give me your hand, Lirium,” Valac says softly.

  I take a deep breath and open my eyes. “I’m really not in the mood to hold hands with you, Valac.” I focus on a single rivet in the bullet-proof glass between the back of the sedan and the thugs riding up front. I need to pull myself together. So what if I killed a man? So what if it was a mob hit instead of a state-sanctioned debt collection? It wasn’t like I had a choice. And it will happen again if I don’t get my shit together and get us out of here.

  Valac isn’t saying anything, so I finally look at him.

  “Give me your hand,” he says again. “You need to be presentable for our next stop.”

  I hold my left palm up, and it visibly quakes in the air. I focus on it, trying to get it to stop. The movement mutes a little, but I still look like I have palsy. I’m wondering what he’s going to do to my screen this time, but he reaches for my collecting hand instead. He turns it over and lays his palm on mine.

  “I’m pretty full up right now,” I say as he pulses a small hit of life energy into my hand. The last thing I need is the jitter-high of another transfer. But the hit is so small it just swims in the life energy floating inside me. And the burn on my palm, the one I got from killing Renald, stops stinging. I hadn’t even noticed the pain before, but now that it’s eased, my tremors seem to calm a little as well. Maybe it’s Valac’s hair-of-the-dog treatment for life energy overdoses.

  Valac stops the tr
ansfer and releases my hand. There’s a slight crinkle around his eyes. I think he’s laughing at me inside, although I’m not entirely sure about what. Ophelia is busy peering out the window, so I do too. We must be closer to the west side now—most of the businesses are actually in business, and the street is shadowed by the towering buildings of the rich and famous who live above the smog.

  “What’s our next stop?” I ask.

  “We have a party to attend,” Valac says. The sedan pulls to a stop outside a luxury apartment building. The entranceway gleams brass. A doorman in a ridiculous red uniform guards the door, but the real security is a man in a black suit that’s perfectly tailored for his overmuscled arms. He doesn’t have an obvious weapon, but the suit could hide at least three.

  “A party,” I repeat. If Ophelia and I simply ran down the swept-clean street, I wonder how far we would get before Kolek’s thugs shot us in the back. None of the shiny businesses here would willingly give us refuge. But they’re also less likely to be armed than the shopkeepers on the east side, so threats from a debt collector might convince them to help. Or at least hide us until Kolek’s men give up. What we’ll need is a distraction, though, something that would allow us to make a run for it without getting a bullet for our trouble.

  Kolek’s men climb out of the car and open my door. As I step out, an older woman in high heels exits the building carrying a dog the size of a large rat. It’s cradled in her arm like it’s her child. A man strides out behind her, talking into his hand and wearing a suit that looks like it costs more than my monthly collector wages. Valac emerges from the car and helps Ophelia out, her silver dress reflowing to hug her curves as she stands. Our upscale clothes make more sense to me now, although I wonder what kind of party requires high-end dress but occurs at ten o’clock in the morning.

  Kolek’s thugs lead the way. A simple nod from the security guard grants us access to the building. Valac is careful to stay behind us again, sandwiching our bodies between him and the thugs to limit our chances for escape. The elevator ride leaves my stomach behind. Its walls are mirrored: I guess rich people like to look at themselves. I avoid my reflection, having had more than enough of that in the car, and stare at the buttons as they light a path to the party on the hundredth floor.

  That’s a hundred floors to get lost in, to hide in, if we can just break free of Valac’s hold.

  Our stop is a short hallway. On one side of the elevator is an emergency stairwell door. A black-suited security guy, the twin of the one at the ground level, stands at the end of the hall next to a double door that appears to be made of solid gold. It matches the ridiculous opulence of the gold trim glittering from the baseboards and ceiling, as if baroque gilding has made a sudden comeback among the moneyed set that lives up in the clean air above LA. We’re quickly ushered through the golden door, and discover the inside of the apartment is more art deco than Versailles. Uncomfortable-looking chairs in odd shapes are paired with angular-legged tables. A couple of elongated couch-benches with a tiny veneer of cushion stand nearby. My psych officer, Candy, would feel right at home.

  A dozen women stand in twos and threes around the furniture, martinis in hand, ignoring the spectacular view of LA that beams through the wrap-around windows encasing the room. The women were talking before, but with our entrance, a hush falls, and one of them peels away, gliding toward us with a clink of too many silver bracelets on her wrist.

  She’s older and has a strained loveliness, like her beauty has the power to hold back the tide of age. Only it’s not natural—she has the radiance of someone who’s been getting regular hits. Illegal hits. I suddenly have a clue as to what kind of party we’re attending. I’d heard of them before, but never gave them much thought. They’re not the kind of thing people like me do. If I were ever in a room where people were buying illegal life hits, it would be filled with junkies, not high potentials or their wives.

  “How lovely of you to come!” she says, greeting us like we’re her friends from the yacht club who’ve just made time in our busy schedules to drop by.

  “Of course, Mrs. Kirchoff,” says Valac. He doesn’t offer his hand, and she doesn’t extend hers either. “Mr. Kolek sends his regards. How is your daughter? I heard she made summa cum laude at Yale.”

  Mrs. Kirchoff smoothes back her golden hair, even though there isn’t a strand out of place. “She’s doing so wonderfully, thank you for asking. She’s brilliant, just like her father.”

  “And beautiful, just like her mother.”

  Mrs. Kirchoff’s face lights up, but she holds back the smile, as if she’s afraid she might wrinkle if she shows too much expression. My stomach starts to churn. Ophelia stands mute next to Valac, the bouncy giddiness finally gone. She surveys the crowd, which is edging toward us. The eager looks on their faces makes my stomach twist harder.

  “I have two new collectors to share with you today.” Valac puts an arm around my shoulders, and I paste a smile on my face. “This is Lirium, and he’ll be taking care of you ladies.” He beckons Ophelia with his hand. She dutifully slips close enough for him to slide a hand around her waist. “Ophelia is just observing today, but I’m sure she’ll be back for your next party. If your guests are ready, we can start any time.”

  Mrs. Kirchoff can’t hold back the smile this time. She twirls and steps lightly toward the encroaching mob of her friends.

  Valac releases Ophelia and whispers in my ear. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

  I fold my arms and watch Mrs. Kirchoff gather up small black cards from each of her friends, waving her hands around to herd the women together into some kind of line.

  “How much do you want me to give them?” I ask, not looking at Valac. I have plenty inside, but the prospect of doling out a dozen payouts at once, even if the hit is small, is playing havoc with my stomach.

  Valac’s hand is still on my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze. “They’re only paying for two weeks, but if you want to give them a kiss along the way, I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  I give him a disgusted look and pull away from under his arm. Small lines sprout around his eyes. He’s definitely laughing inside.

  “Why don’t you pay out?” I ask, arms still crossed. “Seeing how you’re all tanked up from the life you stole out of Ophelia.”

  His eyes lose their humor, and he gives me a tight smile. “We don’t talk about donors at a payout party. Don’t want to ruin the mood, now do we? If you can’t join in, I’ll have to tell Mr. Kolek how you disappointed his very good friends and business partners.”

  I draw in a breath and count in my head, keeping my arms locked over my chest. The society ladies are queuing up, Mrs. Kirchoff leading them with her fistful of black debit cards.

  Valac’s all smiles as he takes the cards from her. He fans them like they’re his hand in Texas Hold ‘Em. “I’ll start swiping these. Why don’t you ladies get started with Lirium?” He gives me a very brief look of warning, but Mrs. Kirchoff’s gaze is already on me, so she doesn’t see.

  Two weeks times twelve high potential wives is twenty-four weeks of payout. Nearly half a year. I took over a year when I killed Renald, so I have plenty, but paying out a half a year at once… the shakes are starting to come back just thinking about it.

  Mrs. Kirchoff steps up first. She stands in front of me, expectant, her gaze roaming my face. Her friends chatter to themselves and peer around her to look at me. I clench my hands to stop the shakes, lick my lips, then reach for her forehead.

  My palm adheres to it, sticky with my sweat, and it’s a wonder she doesn’t cringe away. Instead, she closes her eyes and waits for it. I glance at Valac, but he’s busy passing the debit cards, one by one, across his palm screen scanner. Ophelia has a drink in her hand, chatting with one of the ladies in line. My stomach hollows out with the sight. She’s so casual, her silver dress blending in with the brushed bronze and shimmering black cocktail dresses of the wives. It’s like she’s already been absorbed into it, unquestioning, just float
ing in the insanity of being a mob collector.

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” Mrs. Kirchoff shifts slightly under my palm. Her eyes are open, wide open, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

  “Fine.” I adjust the contact of my palm on her forehead and start giving her the hit. I clench my hand against the urge to run or hit or at least lurch away. My hand claws at her perfectly placed blond hair, gripping her through the transfer. Her face flushes, and a puff of her breath warms my forearm. I make it through the two weeks, then pull back quickly. I draw in a deep breath, drop my hand, and wait for her to leave.

  She opens her eyes, smiles, and turns to give an even bigger grin to her friend behind her.

  The next one steps up, and I don’t even look at her, just grit my teeth and plant my hand. I dose her and she moves on. Same with the next one. My transfer hand is cramping. The fourth transfer feels like it carves a hole in my stomach. I have to stop to catch my breath and breathe through the pain. The shakes are back. I gut my way through two more transfers, but I’m not sure I can hold my hand still enough to make contact with the next one. How many is that? I’m losing track… six, I think. Halfway. I’m in danger of throwing up on Mrs. Kirchoff’s polished wooden floors. They’re shiny with the bright morning sun that streams from the high altitude windows, but black spots invade my vision, swimming like tiny spooks trying to coalesce so they can form one specter and blot out my mind altogether.

  Before I can land a hand on the next faceless payoff, something touches the back of my neck. I flinch and almost jerk away, but then I realize Valac is pumping life energy into me. It chases the spooks away. My chest relaxes and I can breathe again.