I frown and look into his dark brown eyes, trying to figure him out. “You keep doing that,” I say.
“Doing what?” He looks wary.
“Watching out for me.” I bite my lip, unsure if I want to hazard a guess as to why out loud. His gaze is drawn to my lips again, so I stop. “Why?” I figure it’s easier to ask.
He pulls back a little, and the temperature between us cools. “I’m your welcoming committee, remember? I’m just trying to keep you alive long enough for Moloch to realize how useful you can be.”
He’s not telling me the truth. Or at least not the whole truth. I can’t decide if he’s actually hot for me or just a habitual flirt. Or maybe he wants something else, although I can’t imagine what that would be.
“Okay,” I say. “I’d prefer to stay alive as well. I’ll try to keep my tongue in check.”
His smirk jumps back to his face, and he drops his arm to let me pass. I step through and watch the ground for hazardous materials. The crumbled pavement is tricky in my heels, but I manage it and follow behind Zachariel’s flapping black trenchcoat to the main door of the shack. It’s two stories tall and seems to go deep into the rusted remains of the junkyard. The boarded over windows and sagging porch were painted once, but now are mostly bare, weathered wood. There must be a sensor buried in the door, because Zachariel swipes his palm, and it slides open. Inside is a tiny abandoned office, if the thick layer of dust on the single chairless desk is any indication. He waits until the front door slides shut before opening the second door in the wall just past the desk.
Beyond that is like another world.
The space opens to an opulent two-story receiving room. It’s an Art Deco fest of black-lacquered furniture, black and white leather couches, and angular stainless lamps. The walls glow softly between mirrors and panels of brushed steel. I’ve seen a lot of high potential apartments, and this rivals the most luxurious among them. It takes me a moment to register that Moloch is perched on the edge of one of the couches. The woman next to him rises as soon as we enter.
I can’t help but be transfixed: she’s stunningly beautiful.
Not just model-pretty or even life-hit enhanced, but with the kind of high cheekbones, pouted lips, and porcelain skin that holo-fantasies are made of. Only she’s in the flesh. Her long brown hair falls in soft waves over her bare shoulders. Her black dress flows to the floor and pools at her feet. The room is deathly silent as she walks toward us, her hips swaying as she fixes her oddly pale blue eyes on me. The silky puddle of her dress floats above her hidden feet, like she’s Aphrodite arriving from the sea on a foam of darkness.
I manage to drag my gaze from her to glance at Zachariel. He’s watching her like she’s a cobra winding across the floor. My attention flips back as she arrives. I realize how tall she is when I have to look up, even with my five-inch heels.
Zachariel clears his throat. “Ishtar meet Wraith.” His voice is strangely tight. “Wraith, Ishtar.”
“Hello, Wraith.” Her voice is deep and sensual, and her gaze is intense in holding mine. It’s like her presence fills the room and chokes off all the air around me.
I blink and shake off whatever’s muddling my head. “Nice dress.”
A smile slowly curves her lips, and somehow it steals a little of her beauty. Like it has revealed some of the live-wire danger lurking just below her skin. I glance to Zachariel again to see if I’ve already said the wrong thing, but he’s busy scowling at her.
Then he peers around her and calls to Moloch, who has remained on the couch, “Told you she’d come through.” He’s talking about me. I think.
Moloch rises from the couch. “Yes, we were quite entertained by your performance, Ms. Sterling.” He takes his time crossing the room, but when he reaches us, he slides a hand around Ishtar’s waist. She turns to him, and they exchange a few smiles that seem to be an entire conversation. I have no idea what it is, but I’m certain it’s about me.
My heart rate kicks up a notch.
Moloch lifts his chin to me but speaks to Ishtar. “Why don’t you find Wraith something more appropriate to wear? She has some collecting to do.”
I frown, but before I can ask for more information about that, Ishtar turns to me with her danger smile again.
“It would be my pleasure,” she says, only it sounds like she’s having me as the main course for lunch, not helping me find a change of clothes.
Very freaking odd.
“I’m sure I could find her something,” Zachariel says. And I’m glad: I don’t like the idea of leaving his side, either.
Moloch gives him a dark look. “Ishtar will take care of her.” He releases Ishtar’s waist, and she steps back, beckoning me to follow.
Zachariel’s lips are pressed tight, but he doesn’t say anything.
I’m thinking I don’t actually have a choice, so I follow this Ishtar woman as she floats across the marbled floor. There’s a spiral staircase of wrought iron and black steel that twirls up to the second floor, and she throws a smile back as she climbs. It bristles out the hair on the back of my neck, the ones that are free from my tightly wound updo. On the second floor, the décor continues its black-white-and-chrome theme with silver tables and mirrors in between a half dozen doors lining the hall.
As Ishtar passes one of the mirrors, I half expect her to have no reflection. She seems not quite real, somehow both transcendent in being inhumanly beautiful, but also straight-up otherworldly, like a fiend who is only visiting our earthly realm, but doesn’t really belong here.
She passes a palm over one of the doors, and it slides open.
Ishtar’s bedroom makes Aiden Odel’s look like a kindergarten. It’s dominated by an oversized bed with midnight-black silk coverings, but it’s the paintings that freeze me in the doorway. Soaked in red splashes and black jagged streaks, they’re half impressionistic, half frenzied couplings of… things. Some are recognizably human, others more demon-like. One woman with an ecstatic expression on her face is also clearly dead… or at least so pale she has to be drained of life. But I’ve seen that expression before: it’s the face of someone receiving a life hit.
I have to look away.
Ishtar slides open a door to a closet that spans the wall. Racks of clothing and stacks of shoes fill it floor-to-ceiling. Every stitch of fabric is black, with occasional glitters of dark jewels or metallic shine. She strokes a hand across the hanging outfits, finds one, and pulls it out.
“This should work.” She hands it to me and steps back. Then she runs a slow examination of my body, from my black stilettos up to my red tailored jacket. “I’m afraid it may be a little long.”
I check out the hanger. It’s a complete debt collector outfit, all in black: silk shirt, slacks, and a trenchcoat, only in leather, unlike the government-issued flat-black gabardine. She’s dressing me up to collect, and apparently I’m going as the standard grim reaper.
“Thanks,” I say, although the idea of wearing a trenchcoat like any other debt collector turns my stomach. “Where do I change?”
She curls up that danger smile again. “Here is fine.”
I wait for her to leave or something. She doesn’t move. I frown, but remember Zachariel’s warning about not rubbing them the wrong way.
Fine. I don’t play for Jax’s team, but it’s obvious Ishtar does. My cheeks heat up—partly embarrassment, partly anger that she’s forcing me into this. I step over to the bed and lay the clothes down. I turn half away and try to ignore the fact that she’s watching my every move, getting a kick out of seeing me undress. I move through it as quickly as possible, stepping out of my heels, shucking off my jacket, camisole, and skirt, and slipping on the black collector wear. Surprisingly, it fits well enough, although she’s right: the jacket dusts the floor even when I’m standing straight.
I don’t look at her again until I’m dressed.
The smile is hungrier now, and it thoroughly creeps me out.
I give her a tight smile. “Not m
uch on privacy around here, are you?”
She steps toward me, and I’m suddenly wishing I had kept my mouth shut and just let her look. She’s close enough that I can see she doesn’t have any kind of makeup on. Her lips are just that red, all by themselves. Her skin glows. There’s something about her beauty that’s… mesmerizing. Especially up close. Jax would be on her knees, but I just blink and wonder why it has any effect on me at all—I’m not attracted to her in the least. Maybe it’s the raw power she exudes. Another quick glance at the room décor—the ecstatic paintings of death, the closet of utter blackness—and it all fits together. Like death and sex are all wrapped up in one tight arsenal in Ishtar’s world. And her beauty is one of her major weapons.
Something touches my hair, and I jerk back.
Ishtar smiles, her hand poised above my head. “You should let your hair down,” she says in a voice that’s still purring, but not quite so aggressively sexual. “We can’t have you looking quite so corporate where you’re going.”
“Where am I going?” I ask, but I don’t make any move to unpin my hair.
She shrugs as if this supremely doesn’t concern her. “Some place where there’s a pool of life energy awaiting you.”
She reaches for my hair again, and I lean away. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks.”
I reach behind my head to start loosening the pins—there’s about a dozen to contain my wild curls, so it will take a minute—and Ishtar gives me a little space. But a slow smile builds on her face again. I have the feeling she’s just as happy to watch… which again, thoroughly creeps me out.
“Look,” I say, tossing the first of the pins on the bed behind me, “how about you find me some shoes in your magic closet? Unless I’m going in corporate heels to this event?”
She ignores my attempt to distract her. “I think Zachariel is right. I think Gehenna could use someone just like you.”
This focuses my attention. After all, I’m here to figure out what Gehenna does and how to stop it. Not getting killed is the first step in that process, but if I’m truly going to convince them I can play, I need to have some idea of the game.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
Her smile dims a little, and more of the fierceness comes out. “The future Moloch is building will be like nothing you’ve ever seen.”
“So I’ve heard.” I wince as one of the pins pulls a chunk of my hair with it.
“I know it sounds… strange.” Her smile softens to something almost natural. “I thought he was insane when I first met him.”
“I take it you’ve changed your mind about that?”
“Most visionaries are thought to be quite out of their minds. And in a way, they are. It takes an extraordinary person to be able to step out of the ordinary world and envision a future that is radically different from everything we’re immersed in.”
I toss two more pins on the bed. “And sometimes they’re just crazy.” Although I actually know what she means. My father was one of those people: envisioning a world that could exist, but didn’t yet. I’m dead certain Moloch’s vision is the complete opposite, even though I’m not quite sure what he has in mind.
She gives a low, throaty chuckle. I’m struggling with a pin, and she moves forward, reaching slowly to help, while watching my face: she doesn’t say anything, but she’s silently asking for permission.
I decide to take the leap and let her. I drop my hands. The smile that takes over her face almost makes me regret it. But I’m hoping that keeping her hands busy will also keep her talking.
“So what does this vision look like?” I ask softly, because she’s close now, her bare arms reaching around me to loosen the pins from my hair. I can already feel it falling. She’s so gentle, I haven’t even felt the pins loosen.
Her smooth forehead wrinkles ever so slightly. “I can’t tell you that, yet, my lovely.”
The pet name almost makes me pull away, but I grit my teeth and stay. “How about a hint? And besides, why me? I wouldn’t have thought I would make Moloch’s top ten list of collectors to recruit to his… cause.” I almost said cult, but pulled it back at the last second. Not sure who is offended by what, at this point.
She looks away to attend to my hair, pulling more and more pins. Or maybe she’s just running her fingers through the free strands. Hard to tell without looking, and I’m definitely not going to look.
“You’re smart,” she whispers as she plays with my hair. “And not just with that towering scientific intellect that runs in your family. You handled the irrepressibly stupid members of the senatorial committee with considerable talent as well. Moloch has a vision for the future which will include only a select few at the top. And those few need to be the ones who are capable of shining the very brightest.”
She’s done with my hair, or at least her handling of it, because she leans back to admire her handiwork. Only then do I see the debt collector standing at the door: male, late twenties, not Moloch or Zachariel. In fact, I’m quite sure I’ve never seen him before. I would remember a face like that—his rugged male beauty is almost as arresting as Ishtar’s.
“I wouldn’t go making promises we’re not going to keep, Ishtar.” His stare is cold. It’s not just for me—although I seem to be a special target for his contempt—but also for the close-huddled position Ishtar and I still are in. “When the day comes, I’d just as soon see Alexandra Morgan Sterling as one of those left behind. Or dead. That works for me as well.”
“Now, Seth.” A look of boredom transforms Ishtar’s face into something more plain. “Don’t go planning Wraith’s funeral before her time. I’m quite sure Moloch has yet to make up his fusty British mind about her.”
Seth steps into the room. His dark hair hangs with a slight curl on his forehead. Several days worth of beard shadow his face, fighting with his sparkling black eyes and carved cheeks for which feature can make him look the most dangerously handsome.
“Zachariel sent me to see if you were dead,” he says to me.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, before I remember I’m supposed to be curbing my wit.
Seth is unamused, but Ishtar smirks. She twirls away in a spin of ink-black dress, returning to the closet for something and leaving me with Seth. He steps close enough that I can smell him: his leather trenchcoat has a certain earthiness that balances the rich cologne he’s wearing. He peers into my eyes. Whereas Ishtar’s gaze oozed an unwelcome attraction, Seth’s dark eyes hold nothing but hatred for me. Normally, it’s a look I would echo back, but at the moment, I’m trying to make friends, not enemies.
“Now that Ishtar is done playing with you,” he says, like that fact bothers him more than it should, “don’t make any long term plans. Moloch may not have figured you out yet, Sterling, but I know your kind. You don’t change just because you happen to be born a collector. And your kind is definitely not the type we should keep around.”
I’m not entirely sure what he means by my kind, but the rest is clear enough. My heart rate picks up. I feel like I should say something, but I’m biting my lip in order to keep the retorts inside. Ishtar returns with a pair of black boots that could double as weapons: spiked metal heels and studs sharp enough to cut leather. I take the boots and work at putting them on so I don’t have to answer Seth’s words or his glare.
“Seth, my lovely,” Ishtar says, lightly tapping his face. “Don’t be jealous.”
He leans away, but his look for her softens. “Just don’t get attached,” he says.
Which runs a chill through me.
Seth throws his glare at me again. “They’re waiting for you downstairs.” Then he turns and leaves in a flapping of his leather trenchcoat.
When he’s out of earshot, I say to Ishtar, “I don’t think he likes me,” just to lighten things up and attempt to regain my footing. I stand straight in the killer boots and adjust my trenchcoat so that it’s not sliding off me quite so much.
“Don’t worry about him,” she says, the
purr back in her voice.
I’m not interested in Ishtar, but having her on my side seems like a legit way to stay alive.
I give her a nod, then tip my head toward the door. “We should go then.”
She looks over my new attire with an approving nod. “Good luck, Wraith.” This time, her smile isn’t entirely creepy. “I hope you’ll come back.”
That doesn’t sound promising. And apparently she’s not coming with me. I’m both relieved and worried about losing her thin veil of protection.
I swallow and head out the door on my own.
This time Zachariel and I have a car, a distinctly upscale black sedan that he acquired from somewhere in the junkyard, and we’re using it to travel to our “collection.” The idea is making my stomach loop into knots. Of course, I’ve collected before. Many times. It’s just that I’ve always known it was justified. Righteous. A well-overdue penance for some high potential who had stolen from the needy. I’m certain this collection will be none of those things. I’m just not sure how awful it will be. And if I can bring myself to do it.
“So why exactly are we going on a collection?” I ask Zachariel, who’s brooding in the driver’s seat.
He doesn’t look at me. “Moloch wants you to get your hands dirty.”
I hold in the grimace. I’ve already decided that if they ask me to cash someone out, that’s a line I won’t cross. Which means this collection could mean my death, rather than someone else’s. It brings out the gallows humor in my head, but I keep those thoughts inside. Instead, just in case I’m not going to die in the next hour, there are other questions I’d like to ask. Ones Zachariel just might answer.
“So,” I start, “Seth seems pretty convinced I’m unworthy of your cult, um, organization.”
The Debt Collector (Season Two) Page 11
