Agony (Debt Collector 2)

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  “What am I going to do with you?” she asks.

  I have a feeling her answer to that question isn’t the same as mine.

  “Medical needs would be perfect—”

  “Lirium,” she cuts me off, leaning forward so I have a really good view of the tattoo. It’s a barbed wire that disappears into her jacket. “You’re not ready for medical needs training. Not yet.”

  I give the tattoo a good long look, since that seems to be what she wants, then let my gaze slowly travel up to her green devil eyes.

  “What would I have to do to be ready?” I’m willing to pay whatever price she wants, so we might as well cut to it. I’m in no shape to negotiate anyway. I almost didn’t make it out of that elevator under my own power today.

  She smiles, enjoying my leer, I guess. Then she leans back, examining me again.

  “Wash outs make me look bad, Lirium,” she states in that out-of-left-field way that she does sometimes. I swear, they must give psych officers advanced training in how to mess with collectors’ heads.

  “I’m not washing out. I’m fine.” I’m not convincing anyone, least of all myself.

  “You look like you’ve been hiding under a rock, drinking to excess, not sleeping, and smoking skeet.”

  “I’m not doing drugs.” Life force hits are my drug of choice. She knows this. I hold in the sigh of relief that doing mercy hits wasn’t on her list of bad acts.

  She raises one perfectly manicured brow, but lets the rest of the list slide. “Just one rough collection is enough to make you look like… this?”

  I nod. It’s not hard for me to look pathetic.

  “This is a tough business.” Her voice has gone soft. She looks at me like she wants to cuddle me up in her perfectly tailored lap. I barely hold in the shudder. “I’ve already lost one collector this week to retirement, and I’d rather not lose you as well. Like I said, wash outs make me look bad, and besides,” she gives me a lascivious grin, “you’re pretty to look at, even when you’re beat up. I’d like to keep you coming round my office.”

  I blink and say nothing, holding my breath to see where she takes this.

  “Do you know what the average wash out age of debt collectors is?” she asks.

  Of course I know, but I dutifully answer anyway. “Ten years of collecting.”

  “Ten years,” she says solemnly. “And that’s the ones who live long enough to wash out. Life expectancy is actually shorter. Did you know that?”

  I know, but I shake my head to humor her.

  “Collectors who last, the ones who manage to live past the average wash out age and keep collecting, have figured out how to stay in the game, Lirium.” Now she’s turning Life Coach on me, which actually might be the one thing I can use. “Sometimes they figure it out on their own—that’s for the best, because each collector has their own pathway, their own rituals, which allow them to keep looking in the mirror every morning.”

  I don’t mention that’s something I avoid whenever possible.

  “You’re performing a vital function in our society.” She prim crosses her legs at the knee. “You are the grease that makes things run. You facilitate the smooth, efficient operation of our world, moving the most precious resource we have—life itself—from where it’s least needed to where it’s most needed. You do it all within the confines of our laws and regulations and at no small personal cost.” She smiles kindly at me, morphing into a freakish simulacrum of a caring mother figure. “Society appreciates what you do, or we wouldn’t go to such great pains to make sure you are able to do it. But sometimes collectors need help. That’s my job, Lirium, to get you the help you need.”

  “I’m not washing out,” I say, desperation creeping into my voice. “I just need a change of pace.”

  “You need someone to help you figure out how to manage the stress of collection,” she says with finality. “I’m assigning you a mentor.”

  Shit. “Candy, I’m fine, really—” I can’t have a mentor. It’s like having a round-the-clock babysitter. A full-time spy for my psych officer. If Candy had any idea what my life really looked like, she would have already shipped me off to retirement.

  She slides off the desk and stands in her six-inch heels, looming over me. My nose comes up to her navel, and her heavy perfume assaults it. “I’m not giving you a choice, Lirium.”

  I lean back in the chair, staring sullenly at my hands clenching each other in front of me. “A mentor sounds like a fantastic idea.”

  “That’s better,” she says. “I want you to take the full twenty-four hours with this collection. You’re in no shape to pay out right now, and I’d like you to talk to your mentor before you do, anyway. Don’t check in with Flitstrom until tomorrow. I’ll send the mentor by your new place tonight.”

  “Can’t wait.” I’ll have to hide the vodka bottles before this mentor shows up, or Candy will pack me off to rehab without blinking. Rehab, for a life-force addict like me, isn’t as bad as retirement, but it’s really just the first step to sending you there. Besides, life-force addicts don’t get rehabilitated. They wash out.

  And that’s the one thing Candy and I would both like to avoid.

  It’s seven o’clock, and I’m still waiting for my new mentor to arrive.

  The swelling on my lip has gone down, and fresh bandages cover my busted knuckles. I’ve cleared out the vodka bottles, laundered the few clothes I keep, and disinfected my small apartment, trying rid it of the smell of squalor that took hold while I lay festering in my misery. I had to stop indulging in sex workers when I moved out of my old apartment two weeks ago, but that part of my ritual is sorely missed, leaving just a sea of wódka to get lost in. But as long as Madam Anastazja is giving random, unscreened hit-seekers my house number, staying there is a ticket to the morgue for me.

  In the end, it isn’t too difficult to clean up the place.

  I’ve paced the confines of my new apartment a dozen times now. It’s a little more spacious than the last one. The bedroom has room for more than just the bed, and I have an actual kitchen, not just a corner with a hot plate and cold box. There’s even a table with two chairs that I never use. I try to imagine sitting down with my mentor over bowls of corn flakes… and fail utterly. I don’t eat here. I drink and pretend to sleep, but mostly pass out. If I’m feeling well enough to eat, I get my sorry ass outside into the smog-filtered sun and find a place that won’t poison me with week-old milk and weevil-infested cereal.

  I have a small panic moment when I realize my cold box and pantry are empty. Unless my mentor’s an idiot, he’ll realize why in an instant. And Candy won’t send an idiot—she’ll send a spy who will figure me out in two seconds. My hands shake as I open my palm screen and wonder if I have enough time to run out and get groceries.

  7:03 pm

  I have no idea where the nearest grocery store is, but all of a sudden, leaving the apartment sounds like a tremendous idea. If I come back with groceries, all the better. That looks responsible. Like I have my life under control. I practically run to the coat closet by the front door and rip my trenchcoat off the hanger. I have it half on, the hanger still swinging, when a tone sounds from the front door.

  I look back and forth between the door and the closet, frozen, then hastily hang the coat up before striding over to punch the front door button.

  It slides open to reveal a girl in a black trenchcoat. Her hands are on her hips, parting the coat to show a form-fitting black dress that covers everything above her knees. A tiny flash of thigh peeks between the clinging dress and her knee-high stiletto boots. Her hair is raven-black and shiny, hanging in a sheet that falls well past her shoulders, competing with the jacket to cover her chest. She’s smirking at me with full lips and dark, twinkling eyes. If she’s a veteran collector, she has to be near thirty, but her pale, rosy skin is flushed with the youth of a thousand life force hits. She has an ageless beauty that has me thinking about angels and tempting demons. My first coherent thought is that the male
debtors she visits probably don’t mind so much that she’s come to collect.

  “Are you going to invite me in, Lirium?” Her voice is deep, somehow dangerous and sexy at the same time. It runs an electric spark through me that feels like a life hit.

  I shut my gaping mouth and step aside.

  She strides past me, shucking off her trenchcoat as she inspects my apartment with one glancing sweep. She turns to face me, standing only in the sleeveless black dress and her boots, holding her coat out to me. I belatedly take it and welcome the chance to hang it in the closet, just to be able to stop staring at her like an idiot.

  Get a grip, I tell myself. She’s a spy for your psych officer. I take my time with the hanger, then avoid her gaze as I step to the door and punch the button to close it. When I finally turn to face her, I’ve somewhat regained my composure.

  We stare at each other a moment. She looks me up and down in a way that, astoundingly, makes heat rise up in my cheeks. I am in such trouble here.

  She smirks again. “So, Candy’s worried about you, is she?”

  “Didn’t she give you my case file or something?” I put some bite into my voice. “Tell you how messed up I am? Or are you just doing a cursory visit so you can report back to Candy with cause to retire me?”

  “Whoa, Lirium.” She holds up her hands. Her fingers are pale and delicate, spread wide as if to hold back my accusations with a force field emanating from them. “I’m not your enemy. I’m just here to help you out.”

  “Help me out?” I fold my arms across my chest.

  She takes a casual step closer. “Candy’s your psych officer,” she says, very seriously. “And your psych officer always, always has your best interests at heart.” It takes me a beat to realize she’s joking, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to get the joke until she smiles.

  She edges up close enough that I can smell her oddly sweet perfume. I can’t quite place it. “So, do you have a name?” I ask. “Or should I call you Mistress Mentor?”

  She gives me a wicked grin. “Oh, you’re a one of those, are you?”

  I have no idea what she means, but I can’t help smiling in return.

  “You can call me Ophelia.”

  “Ophelia. Seriously?” It has to be her collector name.

  “You don’t like Shakespeare?” Her eyes shine with mischief again. “How about Mara? I’m always a fan of a good Death God.” She places her hands on my chest, and the scent of her bare-skinned arms wafts up. I finally place it: roses and lilies. Funeral flowers. “Mara, the wicked one, the Hindi spirit who specializes in seduction, temptation, and death.” She slides her hands up to my shoulders, and I stop breathing. “Funny how those always seem to go together, isn’t it?”

  “I think I like Ophelia better,” I manage to get out, even though all the air has escaped my lungs with her touch.

  She smiles and reaches her right palm for my forehead. I realize what she’s doing at the last moment and whip my head away, stumbling back from her. “What the hell?” I say, but my voice is soft, more stunned than angry. I’ve never had another collector reach for me that way, not even in training.

  “Oh, Lirium.” She shakes her head sadly. “I have so much to teach you.”

  She steps closer again. I’m wary now, but she simply takes my right hand in hers. Her skin is soft and warm. I don’t realize my hand is clenched until she slowly unfolds my fist and strokes my palm like it’s a kitten that she’s soothing. My hand warms with her slow touch. She raises it and places my palm flat on her forehead. I jerk back at the contact, eyes wide at what she’s doing.

  “Shhh, Lirium, baby,” she says, like I’m a dove she’s coaxing in from the windowsill. “I’m a collector, honey. You’re a collector.” She gently tugs my hand back to her forehead. “The Candy Kane Thornton’s of the world will never understand us, never know what we see, what we feel, every day, with every transfer. She doesn’t know what it’s like. And no matter what she wants, no matter what her aims are—because, believe you me, that she-devil has hidden aims you don’t even want to know—she does know one thing. Only one collector can understand another, baby. And right now, you need to trust me. I know what you need, and I’m here to help you.”

  My hand is on her forehead, and it’s even softer and warmer than her hands. My fingertips kiss her satiny black hair. I’m not sure I could pull away now if I wanted to. And I don’t. Her deeply dangerous voice is pulling me in.

  “Give me a taste, Lirium.” Her voice is a purr. My last collection is still swimming in me. The bean counters will tally it up later, but for now, I can spend my cut if I want to. And Ophelia, with her big, dark eyes gazing up at me, her forehead under my hand, is damn hard to resist.

  A trickle of life force drains through my hand into her. Her smile relaxes, her eyes flutter close, and a slow, full breath leaks like a whisper from her parted lips. Just watching Ophelia take a hit intoxicates me, and the light-headed feeling I have is unrelated to the small drain of energy I’m giving her. In fact, I hardly feel the transfer. I stop it after a tiny hit, but don’t pull away.

  Her eyes lazily open, and she reaches for my forehead again. I flinch, but stay close.

  “Trust me,” she says, and for some completely irrational reason, I do. Her palm heats my skin where she touches me, and I immediately feel the hit. She’s cycling it back to me, the same energy I just transferred to her, and it’s a warm gush even more intense than the life energy I collect through my hand. I suck in a sharp breath, and a smile spreads across my face. When she stops, I’m back to the same level of life force I started with, but the transfer has left me buzzing.

  She snuggles in closer. “Again,” she breathes. I pulse another hit into her and feel her lean into my palm. She cycles it back to me, and the second hit doesn’t add onto the first, it multiplies. I have no idea how this is possible, this passing back and forth of life energy, but the last thing I want to do is stop.

  We keep cycling the energy, and with each turn, I inch closer to her, drawn into her body like the transfer is physical force pulling us together. Finally, my lips find hers, soft and willing. My hand slips from her forehead around to weave into her hair and bring her harder into the kiss. It breaks the connection, but I don’t care. The transfer is rushing through my body in waves, and I’m already high as it is. My other hand remembers that it can move and slips around her back, gripping the thin, silky fabric of her dress in my fist. Our tongues twist together, hot and fervent, and I can almost taste the transfer on her, small electric sparks jumping at the places we touch: our mouths, my hand on her back, the warm skin at the back of her neck.

  She pulls away, ending the kiss with a gentle bite on my lower lip that stings, but I don’t mind the pain. My lips trail after her, but she’s pushing me back with two hands on my chest.

  There’s a smirk on her face. “You are adorable, just like Candy promised.”

  Adorable?

  Her smirk turns into something more wicked. “And delicious. And a very fast learner. But I’m afraid I don’t sleep with collectors.”

  “I… maybe I… want something more than that.” What am I saying? I definitely want to sleep with her, as soon as possible, preferably right now. But that’s it. Then I want her out of my apartment as soon as Candy will allow it.

  Ophelia gives a small laugh, and wiggles a little further away, at which point I realize my hands are still trying to draw her in.

  “Oh, those baby blues eyes,” she says, patting my cheek, “and that adorable little face…” She bites her lip. “You certainly tempt a girl to break her own rules. But sleeping with collectors is a sticky enough problem. I certainly don’t make the mistake of dating collectors. Especially not a guppy like you, baby.”

  Guppy?

  I’m an adorable guppy. I drop my hands and give her my best stone cold look.

  She laughs, covering her mouth with her hand like this is hysterically funny. “Oh don’t give me that,” she says lightheartedly, pr
essing a hand on my chest to nudge me away. “You know we’re not that type. Collectors in love? It would be a comedy that writes itself, if it weren’t so pitifully tragic. I can’t lead you down that path, lover, it just wouldn’t be right. And what would Candy think if I sent you back even more messed up in the head than when I got you?”

  “So… this was…” I gesture between us, meaning the transfer exchange, the cooing, the kiss, all of it. Is she just toying with me? Testing me?

  She shrugs. “Just trying to get you back on an even keel.” She turns her back on me and drifts toward the couch, a small saunter in her walk. “You looked like you needed a boost,” she calls before gracefully dropping onto the couch. She props her shiny boots up on my coffee table and looks entirely at ease in my apartment. Like she has already moved in and is just surveying her new domain.

  I swallow and decide I’m entirely out of my league with Ophelia. The best strategy is probably to follow her lead, play along, and hopefully figure out what she’s really after before she has me marching willingly off to retirement.

  I take a few calculated steps toward the couch, drawing her attention away from inspecting the bare contents of my apartment. I travel light. What personal effects I have are still in a box in the bedroom closet. She watches me with humor-filled eyes as I sit next to her, not too close, my arm draped across the back of the couch. I hope I look casual and less like a guppy to her shark.

  “So this transfer exchange we just did,” I say, the buzz still making my body tingle, “how does that work exactly?”

  She sweeps her long black hair back over her shoulder and props her head in her hand to study me. “Mostly the transfer works the same as it usually does. Same rush when you transfer in. It’s not the life energy that’s giving you the high, baby, it’s your body’s reaction to the sudden infusion of energy. If you do it enough, you’ll eventually lose a tiny bit of life force along the way, but otherwise you can cycle indefinitely. It’s called a boost, or boosting if you ride the merry-go-round more than once, like we did.” Her eyes are alight with secrets she’s not telling. “Did you notice that it’s not as draining to transfer out to another collector?”