My body begins to quiver with the overload. Too fast. Need to slow down. It’s been too long, and my body’s greedy for it. Hungry in a way that can’t ever be satisfied, but that doesn’t stop it from trying.
There’s a distant banging. Fists on wood. Or metal.
I pop open my eyes, dizzy at first, blinking to see in the low red-tinted light of the dark-slashed bedroom. The banging comes again. I whip my head around. It came from down the hall.
Someone’s at the door.
Shit. I yank my palm away from Odel’s head and scramble backward off the bed. I belatedly notice his arm has flopped to the side, and his hand is curled under his bedside table. He’s pressing something there. He’s called security.
God dammit.
I turn and run out of the bedroom, the high-sailing jitter-rush making me stumble halfway down the hall. I’m leaving Odel alive, for better or worse. Although he’ll feel like hell for a couple days, and I’ve shaved a good year or two off his lifespan. That’s what I intended from the start, so in a way, it’s just as well he pressed the secret alarm button before I got too carried away.
As long as I don’t get caught. That’s something I can’t come close to affording.
I skitter around the corner of the living room. The front door is jumping and rattling. Any second, the idiot security guard will figure out how to use the key instead of trying to bang the door down. I dash to the window controls, and my shaky hands press all the buttons at once. There’s a whirring sound, but nothing happens. I growl at the hapless controls, blink, try to focus, and finally see something in the dim light that looks like the universal sign for “open.” I press that.
Still nothing happens.
I turn my back on the windows and scan the living room for a place to hide or an alternate escape or something to get me out of the hot mess I’ve created by lingering just a little too long over Adrien Odel. The collection of ivory-handled daggers catches my eye, but holding a weapon will just get me shot. Better to appear defenseless, then pull the life energy out of whoever stands in my way.
The banging on the door stops. In the silence, I hear the wind whipping through the living room.
The wind?
I twist around. The wide center window has rotated open, leaving a clear space just the right size for a woman in a skin-tight suit.
I grin and sprint for it. I hear the front door slide open behind me.
“Hey, stop!” A rough voice calls from the door, but I’m only two steps from the edge.
One. Two.
I launch myself into the night.
Arms flung to the side, head down, I’m riding the high of the collection straight toward the pavement a thousand feet below. The wind crackles away any sound that might float up from the ground or down from the apartment. The thrill of the jump and the massive excess life energy pound through my body. Exhilaration bleeds out my ears.
I should pull the chute… only I don’t want the rush to end. There are only a few moments like this when I get to feel truly alive. A few instants when life races through my body like an electrical fire, and I forget about all the death that surrounds me. All the collectors like me who are reaping the lives of the innocent. All the mourners at my father’s funeral who will go back to their full lives while mine remains empty. All the trafficking in life energy that belongs to everyone but me. And the very particular death that I’ve meted out with my own body, unknowing but still culpable. Because once you’ve killed, no matter how it happens, you’re no longer innocent. Not ever again.
The ground is rushing at me.
Someday, I will ride the high all the way down. Someday, I’ll live it out in a blaze, then let my sin spill out on the pavement and be done. Someday, I’ll pay for everything.
But not today.
I slam my fists against my sides, then fling my arms and legs wide to catch the wind. The chute flies free behind me. For one heart-lurching beat, I don’t know if it will open… or if I’m too late, and that day is today. Then the chute yanks me out of the fall like a god plucking me from the sky and saving me from my own folly.
I’m still falling. Fast. And I hit the ground hard.
But not hard enough to kill me.
It’s nearly an hour cab ride to the east side, but no matter where I collect, no matter what west side high rise or downtown luxury apartment I find fertile for hunting, there’s only one place I want to be when I’m bursting with life energy and need to pay out: Madam Anastazja’s.
Throughout the ride, I’m a jittery mess. The overload of life energy makes me resemble a skeet addict, and the landing wasn’t pretty this time. I banged up my leg, I tore my suit, and halfway through the cab ride, I’m still bleeding. The driver keeps throwing looks over the seat, like getting blood on his ratty old floor mat is the worst crime I could commit. By the time I arrive at Madam A’s, the shakes are in full form, and I can barely swipe my palm to pay the cabbie. I give him an outrageous tip, and he accepts it without speaking. It’s enough to clean the cab twice over, but mostly I hope it will stop him from talking… just in case my nighttime jump caught someone’s attention. I try to fling the jitters out of my hands, then climb the three-step stoop to bang on the back door of Madam Anastazja’s rehabilitated-church-turned-brothel-turned-hospital-ward.
Madam A is a complicated woman.
She runs a legit sex worker operation, unionized and everything, yet that’s not her true mission. In fact, the original Mission architecture of the church she rehabilitated belies her true purpose: saving souls. Madam A and her sex workers rescue dying children before the debt collectors can cash them out and give the last of their life energy to some asshole like Odel. Madam A’s girls may not be able to cure the kids’ heart-breaking diseases, but they ply their trade to give them a chance—and as much life energy as they can earn, borrow, or steal.
I’m in the stealing department.
Only with my three-week dry spell, I’ve been away so long, Madam A probably thinks I’m dead. Meanwhile, her kids haven’t been getting the life energy they need to keep battling their diseases. Even though I know most of them will eventually lose the fight, guilt stabs me like a hot iron poker. Not to mention Madam A’s going to be extremely pissed, and she’s not the best person to have for an enemy.
But I’m back now, here to fix everything.
I pound again on the rust-covered back door of the brothel. The heavily-plastered white walls of the church have turned gray with the streetlights and the smog—it’s late, but someone’s still up, judging by the amber light seeping through the papered-over windows. Trash tumbles past the stoop, and a junkie in the alley turns over, complaining loudly that I’m interrupting his sleep. He pulls a box over his head, and I ignore him.
The shakes make me grip the railing next to the door while I wait. I don’t want to frighten the kids with my wild-eyed look and bizarre black suit. Usually I change before paying out, but in my haste to get here, I forgot. Maybe I can put up my hair—a wild, wind-tangled mop is great for intimidating targets, not so much for paying out to sick kids. Maybe Madam A’s right hand woman, Grace, will have something—
The door opens.
The man answering it frowns. “Can I help you?”
He’s really more of a boy than a man: dark hair and bright blue eyes with a young-faced kind of pretty that makes me think he’s barely out of his teens. But he’s wearing the standard black trenchcoat and jackboots, and I’m a thousand percent certain he’s a debt collector. Which means there’s only one reason why he’s here: the same one I am. I’ve never crossed paths with another of Madam A’s debt collectors before, very much by design. In fact, I’ve never been face-to-face with any debt collectors, not counting the one in the mirror.
I swallow. “I’m here to see Madam A.”
He looks me over, his frown creasing a little more when he sees my banged up leg. But he’s not opening the door any farther. “Her debt collectors usually come in the front door, so I’m
guessing you don’t have an invitation.”
Damn. He’s not an idiot. I suppose it was inevitable he would figure out what I was, once he opened the door, but it still makes my stomach churn. I’m screwing this up... with the rush of the collection and the swan dive off the high rise… I should have called first and avoided the pretty-boy answering service.
I return his narrow-eyed look. “She’ll want to see me. Tell her Wraith is back.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “Okay, lady.” He fixes me with a stare. “But if she says no...”
I grit my teeth. “If she says no, I’ll clear out, okay? I’m not here to cause trouble.” It grates hard on my shaky nerves that this boy is trying to keep me out. I’m swimming in life energy that needs to be paid out, and he’s standing in my way. His face pinches in a little more, and he closes the door in my face. I think he’s going to get Madam A, but I’m not entirely sure.
As the seconds tick into minutes, my agitation grows from a small churn in my stomach to a live beast clawing me from the inside out. Collecting is one thing. The thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of meting out richly-deserved justice, not to mention the high itself… all of it floods my body with juice and brings me alive. The addict in me adores it all. But I don’t want to keep it. The second part of a collection—the paying out—is the most important part. Not just because it returns the life energy to those who rightly should have it, but because the burden of carrying all those souls around inside me is almost too much to bear. It’s like guilt, multiplied by a thousand, given animation, and then trapped inside my body.
I’m about to pound on the door again, when it opens. Relief gushes through me when I see Madam Anastazja standing there with pretty boy looming at her back. She throws her usual imperious look at me with that fierce, tiny Asian face. Her name is just a cover—easier for dealing with the mostly Slavic mobs on the east side—but the scowl she has for me is all real.
“Wraith.” Her glittering black eyes scan me, and her bright red lips purse. “I was not expecting you. In fact, I’m surprised to see you have returned at all.” She’s always dressed to intimidate. The red silk Mandarin dress wrapped tight around her petite frame and the wild gravity-defying hair definitely give the impression she’s crazy enough to shoot you. If not, the miniature pistol she keeps tucked in the back of her dress will do the job.
But none of that concerns me. “Sorry for the radio silence. I’ll make it up in payouts. I was just in a hurry to get here is all.”
She arches one perfectly manicured eyebrow, then casts a look to the pretty boy still glaring at me over her shoulder. “It’s all right, Lirium.” She turns back to me. “I suspect Wraith has something we both will want.”
She steps back, opening the door wide. The other debt collector, Lirium, gives me room, but not much. I edge inside, but keep my distance from him.
Madam A notices. “Why don’t you give us a moment to catch up?” she says to Lirium.
He looks back and forth between us, but gives her a nod and strides out of the room. The receiving area is actually Grace’s apartment, but I don’t see her. And it looks like she’s turned it over to one of the kids. There’s an empty hospital-style bed in place of her regular one, with monitors propped on metal posts around it.
Madam A waits until Lirium’s gone, then gestures to me with her long, blood-red fingernails. I follow her deeper inside the stuffy warmth of the brothel. The center of the rehabbed church holds many small beds, but we pass those and march up the stairs instead. I’m about to protest the delay, but she stops at the balcony that overlooks the open, two-story area where the kids sleep. A massive crucifix hangs at the end, the symbol of a blameless god who bled for the sins of his people. I’m not sure why it’s still there, but it watches over an altar that’s now a nursing station, complete with metal trays and two nurses in pink scrubs. The rest would look like a children’s dormitory, if it weren’t for the IV drips snaking in between the teddy bears. There are fewer than a dozen little forms in the beds, which I’m both glad to see—less sick kids is better—and strangely anxious about. I have a lot to pay out, and I can’t do it all at once. With so few children… and the fact that their small bodies need to take it slow… I’m not sure how this is going to work tonight.
I look away from the patients. Madam A is inspecting me and my bleeding leg. It’s not like she’s never seen me in the suit, but I’m more of a mess than usual.
“How is the justice business going?” she asks. A small smile lifts the corners of her red-lipsticked mouth.
“I’m back in it, so I guess it’s going well.”
“I assume your personal business has been taken care of?” She arches an eyebrow again. Madam A doesn’t know my father died, much less who he is or what he does. Did. Past tense. Because being the daughter of the most famous anti-debt-collector activist in California doesn’t mix well with being an actual collector myself.
“I’m sorry my personal business took me away for so long.” I’m genuinely apologetic for my absence from the kids and Madam A’s work. “A loss in the family hit me pretty hard. But I’m back now.”
“That’s good to hear, Wraith. But many things have changed while you were gone.” Her voice holds a hint of warning. “You will notice we have fewer children now.”
“That seems like a good thing.” I peer down. That other debt collector, Lirium, is sitting with one of the children, but he’s not transferring to her. I don’t usually get involved with the kids—it’s too heartbreaking to watch them die, again and again—but I do know their faces. I don’t recognize the little girl with the long brown hair and big eyes.
“That good thing is putting me out of business,” Madam A says.
“What do you mean?” I shoot a look to her.
She’s got a smile on her face. “Perhaps you saw it on the news?”
I frown and shake my head. I haven’t watched the news in weeks. At first, it was the coverage of the murder that was too difficult... then everything was too much to take. “I’ve been a bit preoccupied.”
Madam A nods. “Then you missed the story about a rogue psych officer who was using debt collectors to prey on sick children and cash them out illegally.”
“Wait…” I vaguely remember that story making waves at the office. “Was that the Agency scandal?” The vast corruption in the government’s Debt Collector Agency was an article of faith with my father, so the story didn’t exactly shock me. And of course I knew someone was illegally cashing out kids due to my involvement with Madam A’s work. It’s a measure of how deep I was in the darkness that I didn’t connect the two.
She lifts her chin, gesturing toward the debt collector below. “Lirium exposed them. We haven’t had a new patient since.”
“That is good news.” Good for the kids, without question. But it leaves me high and dry. I drag my pinched look up to meet her cool stare. “I guess you don’t need me anymore, then.” The roiling in my stomach steps up a notch, and a bit of panic crawls up my back. I definitely should have checked with Madam A before I collected.
“Perhaps,” she says, meeting my stare. “Or perhaps you can work with Lirium to cure those who remain.”
“I don’t work with other debt collectors,” I say automatically. She knows this. I’ve already made it clear in my previous visits that I have no desire to cross paths with any other collectors. “Wait… did you say cure?”
She smiles and throws a glance below. Lirium has edged closer to the girl on the cot, and now he’s placing his hand on her wrist. The transfer is invisible to any observing party, but it’s easy enough to see the glow spreading on both their faces.
“This collector,” Madam A says, approvingly, “has an ability I’ve never seen before. He can focus the life energy so that it doesn’t just wash through the body, but stays right where it is most needed.”
I stare at him. “That’s… not possible.” I’ve paid out to hundreds of kids. It brightens their cheeks. It gives them a fi
ghting chance, strengthening their bodies to fight their disease. But one thing I know about life energy is that it dissipates. It spreads throughout the body, rejuvenating every cell. Giving life energy to a dying child is like filling a leaky bucket—you can temporarily fill the bucket, but if you don’t plug the holes with an actual medical cure, it will simply leak away. Paying out can’t cure something that won’t fix itself eventually. It only speeds the process in people who would heal anyway. Life energy certainly doesn’t “focus” on anything.
“I agree, it’s impossible.” The smile on Madam A’s face beams in the dim light. “And yet, one by one, he is curing them.”
Is this Lirium character flat-out scamming Madam A? The rational part of my mind insists that’s highly unlikely—Madam A’s savvy, and if he was some kind of quack, he would already have one of her bullets in his body. But if he’s not a fake, then he’s figured out how to do something I hadn’t even dreamed was possible. He’s not just moving energy around—a sordid trafficker in life like every other debt collector—he’s doing something actually good with this horrific power we’ve been cursed with.
A pang of jealousy rips through me.
“I can still use your help, Wraith.” Madam A is eyeing me now.
My raw jealousy is slicing my insides, but I nod. “Even if he’s curing them, I can still give them a boost. I’ve brought some with me. I can pay out now, help them along their way.” My mind is spinning. That would relieve me of my burden tonight. But if the kids’ numbers are dwindling, and this Lirium guy is taking care of the ones left, then I’ll need to find a new place to pay out. It’s not like this city is lacking for people in need, but Madam A’s was safe. A place where my secret could stay kept.
“I was hoping for something a little different.” Madam A’s still studying me. “Lirium has the skills to do this work. You have the life energy. If you transfer to him instead—”
The Debt Collector (Season Two) Page 2
