The Debt Collector (Season 1)

by Susan Kaye Quinn

“I didn’t think so,” I say. “So, what is it? Valac letting me out to play again?”

  “He wants you to come on collections today.” She looks up at me. “I can tell him you’re still healing. You don’t have to go. I can do them myself.”

  “I told you. I’m fine.” And more importantly I need to collect again to build up my strength. I don’t want to fight Ophelia, but if I have to go up against her—or Valac—I can’t afford to be drained and half-dead. Valac is right: Ophelia is a survivor because she’s smart. She doesn’t make stupid mistakes, and she doesn’t waste her life hits trying to cope with the horror of what she does. I need to be stronger than that to have any chance of getting out.

  Ophelia frowns, like she doesn’t think it’s wise for me to leave my room. Like I’m still a wounded puppy.

  I give her my best stone-cold look in return. “Do I need to dress up for collections this time? More life hit parties?”

  Ophelia gestures to her club-ready dress, like it’s obvious.

  “Right,” I say. “Tell Valac I need some new clothes.”

  I’m riding with Ophelia and Valac in the mob-mobile, the same black sedan we used on my first adventure out with Kolek’s two henchmen. The same two who turned my chest into a mosaic of their fist-prints. Ophelia’s boost has gone a long way in easing the lingering aches and pains, but I’ve hardly forgotten. I’m sure they haven’t either, judging by the smirks Nico keeps sending my way from the front seat.

  I’d say something, but the bullet proof glass between us is fairly sound proof as well.

  I glare at Nico until he turns forward and says something to the two-pints-of-ice-cream thug, whose name I still don’t know.

  I turn to Valac. “Are these guys going to be a problem?” I flick a look up front. Nico’s having a laugh with two-pints, at my expense, I’m sure.

  “Just don’t give them a reason to do anything,” Valac says. “Kolek is very unforgiving when his minions damage his debt collectors. Unless it’s by his orders.”

  “Well, then, we should have no problems.”

  Valac gives me a sideways look. He’s even more fashion-forward today, in a starched gray-silk shirt and a tie that is a dead match, both of which contrast with his black leather pants. The patches on Valac’s jacket echo Ophelia’s midnight-metal dress and silver stiletto heels. My black silk shirt and tailored pants complete the set. We’re obviously coordinated, but I can’t decide if it’s Ophelia or Valac dressing us. Probably Valac.

  “Nice jacket,” I say, just to throw him off guard. It does so… spectacularly. His blond eyebrows fly up, then furrow, like he’s trying to figure out if I have a head injury. “It suits you,” I add with a smirk to confuse him more, and he half-turns in his seat to regard me anew. Ophelia rolls her eyes behind his back, and I try to tame the grin, not wanting to be too obvious. I want to convince Valac I’m fully on board with being a mob collector, but being too chummy will only make him suspicious. “So, who are we all dressed up to impress this time? More socialites getting high on life hits?”

  Valac hesitates, still thrown by my brief fashion commentary. “No, little bird.” He gives me an intense look, like he’s trying to figure me out again. “I was starting you out easy before.”

  “Life hit parties are beginner level?” I ask. “What’s advanced? Resurrecting someone from the dead?” We’re only inches away in the car, and I just touched a live-rail from Valac’s past—that someone died. Someone he couldn’t save. I know it. He knows it. Even Ophelia leans forward a little, trying to gauge Valac’s reaction, but his gaze is locked with mine. The moment gets a bit thick, so I break it off, smoothing the fabric of my slacks, and saying, “Well, whatever it is, I’m up for it. I’ve had plenty of rest. I’m ready for more.”

  Valac nods, but I’m not sure he agrees. “We’ll be collecting first.” Something over my shoulder, outside the window, catches his eye. The car rolls to a stop. “And… we’re here.”

  We climb out, one by one. The neighborhood is run down, but still alive. A couple of businesses have people wandering in and out, but the main traffic is a gambling salon with wall-sized screens that showcase all the online and social gambling games available. I frown as I check out the steady stream of decidedly low-rent customers trailing into the salon. With most gambling online, the few physical casinos tend to cater to high-potentials with lots of cash to burn. You can get anything from a high-end sex worker to a Broadway show at the casino palaces, but this place is no palace. And the people shuffling past the blaring screens aren’t the kind to lay down serious money on a show.

  We head toward the casino, but then veer from the main entrance of the salon and enter a building with a plain, concrete façade next door. Kolek’s thugs lead the way up a set of rotted-out stairs to the second floor. Valac brings up the rear, like there’s still a possibility I might make a run for it. We enter a room that’s filled with hard-backed plastic chairs, the uncomfortable kind that hospitals use. The people in them look just like the customers filing into the casino next door—low-rent, mussed hair, some appear to be junkies coming off a bad run of skeet.

  A chill silences the room, all eyes on us. At first I think it’s our clothes, or the fact that Kolek’s thugs are oversized enough to warrant that response. But then I see one end of the room is a wall of screens, each with a different view of the casino. A small line of customers shuffles by a short, scraggly man who looks like Renald’s cousin—the donor wrangler Valac made me kill for selling out to one of Kolek’s brothers.

  Then it hits me. Of course. The casino is a front for Kolek’s mob. And since we’re here, that means a front for trafficking life energy. And maybe more, judging by the bookie. His stringy hands fuss over an old-fashioned lap screen. He’s taking information from each of the customers and handing them a swipe card from a stack next to him. Are they being paid for their donations? Or are they placing off-book bets? Either way, I’m sure the lap screen is off grid. Gambling, in general, is legal. But running odds on life energy transfers is as illegal as the trafficking itself. I look back to the wall screens and there’s a list of names. Celebrities. Politicians. They have odds and dates.

  Mortality stats.

  There’s a really good, long-odds bet on the President’s life.

  Before I have a chance to process all that, Valac drapes an arm across my shoulder and pulls me close. “I’m not sure you’re really ready for this, junior,” he says with a small smirk. “There’s a lot of life energy in this room, and I’d hate to see you go crazy with the high and attack one of Kolek’s men, like you did with Renald. That wouldn’t end well for you, Lirium.”

  “Maybe you can teach me, then. Oh wait—” I glance at the burn marks across his palm. “That’s right. You’re not that patient.”

  “I’m not,” he says, holding my gaze. “I don’t linger. I don’t take it slow. I take what’s mine and get the job done quickly. I just don’t fly off the handle and do stupid things with the high.”

  “My mistake,” I say, like I don’t really mean it. “Still, I think Ophelia would be a better teacher. Not to mention she’s more fun.” Taunting Valac has entertainment value, but mostly I need to convince him that I’m over the beating and seriously in the game.

  He drops his arm from me. “Ophelia,” he says without looking at her. “Why don’t you teach your Guppy how you manage a slow burn.” Valac turns away, and I think he’s actually miffed. He strides to the bookie, who is slowly processing the line of people and sending them to wait in the chairs.

  Ophelia’s heels tap metallic strikes against the cracked tiled floor until she arrives at my side. She has a knowing smile on her face. “He’s a lot like you, you know.”

  Not what I want to hear. “I doubt that.”

  “It’s true.” There’s a laugh in her eyes. “You’re both reckless. Naïve. Care too much about people.”

  I eye Valac as he menaces the bookie, probably making sure he has enough donors lined up for us. “Yeah, we
ll, I think he’s gotten over it.” I look back to her. “Are you ever going to tell me the history between you two?”

  “You should ask him.”

  I flick a look to Valac. He stares at us, then nods to Nico, who’s hanging out next to the donors in the hard-back chairs. The shaking addict next to him shrivels into his chair, nearly spilling out in his attempt to keep his distance from Nico.

  “Time to get to work.” I stride over to the donor. He isn’t much older than me. Maybe twenty-five, but his brown eyes are bloodshot and watery, like he’s much older than that. He doesn’t look like he’s a voluntary donor. None of them do. He probably knows the drill better than I do.

  The queasiness in my stomach isn’t helping.

  Ophelia says to Nico, “How much did he sign up for?”

  “Six months.” It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak. His gravelly voice sends an involuntary shiver down my spine which I work hard to repress. I drop a mask of indifference over my face that I plan to keep for the duration.

  Ophelia turns to the addict. “Is that right?”

  He nods, but it’s such a jerky motion, it could just be the shakes. Or his fear. I can’t tell if he’s more afraid of Nico or us.

  Ophelia takes my right hand in hers. The two crossed burn marks show my Guppyhood in striking relief. She strokes my palm, opening and relaxing it, then places it on the junkie’s forehead. He twitches under my touch, then grips the back of his chair, bracing himself.

  “Your body will want to pull as fast as it can.” Ophelia’s voice is soft, whispery. Even the addict calms as she strokes the back of my hand and brushes the man’s hair at the end of my fingertips. “You have to narrow the access point. Restrict it. Visualize the energy as a giant pool of water, and your hand is covering the opening of a spigot. You’re stopping it from gushing and draining the entire contents of the pool.”

  The addict twitches under my hand. The pool is his life. I can understand why he might not want us to talk about draining it.

  “So I just visualize less… gushing?” I try not to sound like a complete beginner, but I need to understand. Mastering this will be key to convincing Valac I’m fully converted to the mob life—or at least that I can manage it. And prove my worth to Kolek, so he’ll keep me alive.

  Ophelia presses the back of my hand, making the contact tighter with the man’s forehead. “If you try to resist the gush, you’ll only burn yourself out with the effort. The key is not to resist, but to command. To create a smaller spigot. Visualize the access point as shrinking until only a trickle can escape from the pool.”

  “Smaller spigot?” I ask, really not getting this at all. “How about I just use a finger. You know, instead of the whole hand.” Definitely sounding like an idiot now.

  She smirks up at me, confirming it. “That’s a good way to lose a finger.”

  I swallow. “Okay, spigot. How does that work, exactly?”

  “Try.” She presses her hand flat against the back of mine. “It will be easier to show you.”

  I’m not quite sure what she means, but I start the transfer anyway. It gushes and heats my hand, but Ophelia pulls the life energy out before it can travel up my arm and hit my brain. I feel her reaching through my hand, and the gush slows to a trickle. I push past the contact point between my hand and the man’s forehead, feeling the infinite pool of life energy that teems inside his body. Ophelia’s presence is there, narrowing the access point of the transfer to just a pinprick that leaks slow dribs and drabs. I focus on that spot, widening it a little; more trickles out. Ophelia pulls back and suddenly the point expands to a wide-mouthed pipe. Life energy surges through again. I close my eyes with the effort, visualizing the pipe narrowing. It helps that Ophelia’s still draining the energy, so my mind stays clear.

  “Good,” she whispers. “Play with it. See how much you can control it.”

  I open the spigot a little more, and the trickle becomes a wave, lapping heat into my hand, which Ophelia sweeps away. I have to consciously fight my body’s desire to turn the spigot on full blast or pull the energy back from her. I understand now what Valac meant by impatient. My body craves the buzz that’s sidetracked into Ophelia; it’s all I can do to resist.

  It takes a full ten minutes at this agonizing crawl to drain down the donor’s six months. By the end, the man’s shivers are worse than before. His eyes have black rings underneath. I hope he’s getting some kind of payment from the mob, and they’re not just shaking him down for his life energy. Even if it isn’t voluntary, he should get some kind of compensation for what we’re taking.

  The man struggles up from the chair, nearly tipping it, and Nico gestures us to the donor in the next seat. It’s a woman. She’s dressed like a sex worker, but not one of Madam A’s high-end types. The kind that walks the streets.

  “I want to try this on my own,” I say softly to Ophelia. Her cheeks are rosy from the hit we just took from the addict. Or rather, the hit she took. My craving for it just got worse through the drain. Besides, I want to show her I can handle it.

  She nods and asks Nico, “How much?”

  “Six months.”

  Original. Must be the standard “donation.” The woman looks even more nervous than the man before her, and actually jerks away when I lay my hand on her forehead.

  “It’s all right,” I hear myself saying. As if stealing six months of her life is in any way all right.

  She lets me touch her. I start the transfer too fast, and it floods my brain with the hit. My palm is on fire, but I fight my way through the buzz to reach just past the point of contact between us. I have to struggle against the pull of my own body and the need for the buzz. I close my eyes again to concentrate and it helps: I can visualize the spigot. I shut it off completely in my first try, then slowly open it again, small, jerky steps at a time. Eventually I get it right, and life energy flows steadily into me, but not too fast. My hand is hot, uncomfortably hot, but not burning. The buzz lights up my brain, but I can still feel my feet. I’m not wild with it.

  I pull my hand away when the six months are up. It went faster than the donation with Ophelia, so I’m done sooner, but when I turn my hand over, there’s no burn mark. Ophelia gives me a nod of approval that makes my insides warm. My anger at her starts to wane. Or maybe it’s just the high. I still don’t trust her, but maybe she can make up for betraying me by teaching me something useful.

  Then I look ahead. A dozen more people are lined up behind the sex worker. She’s crying: wet streaks mar her makeup. A sick twinge inside me fights against the high. I look away, reminding myself that I have to do this. I have to get through this, manage it, convince Valac that I’m in the game. Or I’m never going to get out of this alive.

  The next person in line is another woman. She has a child with her, so small I didn’t even notice before. The girl’s maybe three or four, melting into her mother’s side like she’s glued there.

  I frown at Nico. His impassive face doesn’t change. I look back to the woman, suddenly unsure if I can do this.

  “How much?” Ophelia asks Nico, her voice having none of the hesitation I feel cramping my chest.

  “A year.” I shoot a look to Nico, but his lumpy face is devoid of human expression.

  Ophelia eyes me. “Can you handle a year?”

  Can I handle a year? From a mother of a child who doesn’t come up to my waist? Before I can answer, Valac parts from whatever business he was doing with the bookie and strides toward us.

  “Yes,” I say quickly to Ophelia. “I can do a year. No problem.”

  I reach for the mother, but Nico stops me with a dead-pan voice. “Not the mother. The child.”

  “What?” My hand freezes mid-air, and my heart seizes with it. There’s no hint on Nico’s face that he’s toying with me.

  “What?” the mother echoes me, a cry in her voice. “No! I didn’t agree to that!” She pulls her child fully into her lap, covering the girl’s forehead with her own hand. As if th
at could stop me.

  “Is there a problem here?” Valac asks. He’s standing behind Nico.

  “Your henchman has a bad sense of humor,” Ophelia says, giving Valac a look that makes him frown.

  “Oh?” Valac asks. Nico shrugs but doesn’t say anything.

  “You signed up to donate a year, right? Just from you?” Ophelia asks the mother. She nods fervently.

  “Lirium?” Ophelia says, pointing to my hand still suspended in the air.

  I glare at Nico, then slowly reach for the mother’s forehead. She keeps her hold on her daughter, which turns into an intense grip once I start the transfer. The girl squirms out of her mother’s arms and hides behind the chair. The mother is caught in the horror of the life energy drain, unable to respond. I grit my teeth, opening the spigot as much as I can, but still keeping control, so it doesn’t burn me. Or send me into an uncontrollable high where I take out my anger and loathing on Nico like I’m imagining in my head. Dr. Brodsky’s words come back to me. I will take it. But I will not enjoy it. I clench my hand, the one I’m not transferring with, and I understand those words better now, bracing myself against the buzz I’m forced to take from this woman, even though neither of us wants it.

  I focus on being glad it’s her and not the girl.

  When it’s done, I jerk my hand free. The woman collapses in the chair, arms bent and hands curled into a simulacrum of death. The little girl climbs out of her hiding spot and into her mother’s arms, gently putting her small hands on her mother’s sunken cheeks.

  I can’t watch. I shuffle forward to the next chair, but one of my shoes bangs the edge of the mother’s chair in my haste. I stumble, but quickly right myself. I straighten my shirt and turn to face Valac, because I know he’s watching me.

  His blue eyes are neither warm nor cold. They give nothing away.

  “Are you going to join the party?” I ask him. “Or are you just observing today?” I manage to keep my voice level. I almost sound calm, successfully masking the raging storm of emotion and high and nausea that churns inside.