A razor thin man sees us and hurries over. His gray silk shirt and tailored pants look the height of fashion for the tech industry, which is no-doubt courted in these political functions. I don’t know who the candidate is, or why Gehenna is supporting him with free hits for donors, but even with my life-energy soaked brain, I tuck that information away.
“You’re late,” the man hisses under his breath. “I’ve had to start with other things.”
“Well, that was a bad choice on your part, Ethan,” Zachariel says, not sounding at all concerned. “Do you have some test kits? Because we’re not doing hits without them.”
Ethan runs a hand through his perfectly-styled hair, mussing it slightly. “Yes, yes. Fine. Come with me.”
He leads us into the main room, where we gather a few arched eyebrows and sideways glances, but no one stops us from ascending one of the twin, wide marble staircases in the center of the house. The entire place is trimmed in marble and brass and wrought iron, giving it a Greco-Roman feel. I expect to see a mud pit or communal bath at any moment, but the top of the stairs is simply a wide hall with more granite columns. Ethan leads us into an enormous bathroom, that does indeed have a bath worthy of the style, but that’s not what we’re here for.
There’s an over-forty man occupied with a woman propped on an extensive marble countertop. She’s spilling out of her floor-length red dress, and his black silk shirt is half-undone. If she’s not a high end sex worker, then political groupies are higher class in Sacramento than I thought. It takes them a moment to notice us, and I expect us to retreat. But apparently life hits outrank make outs, because Ethan doesn’t hesitate to interrupt them.
“Mr. Smith,” he says with a flutter of hands to shoo back the sex worker. “We’re ready for you now.”
Mr. Smith gives the woman a sloppy kiss, which is really just straight disgusting, then pushes away from the counter and turns to us. It’s like she ceases to exist as soon as his back is turned. Ethan is fishing through the drawers of the bathroom for something. Mr. Smith buttons up the front of his shirt and leers at me as he takes a few slow steps toward us.
He starts to unbutton the cuff of his shirt. “I want the girl to give it to me.”
I’m not sure who he’s talking to, but Zachariel answers him. “Test first. Mr. Smith.” Obviously not his real name, but I’m slightly surprised Zachariel is taunting him about it.
Ethan arrives with some kind of micro-syringe in a tiny plastic holder. He holds it up to Mr. Smith, who waves it away.
“I’m not using.”
“No test, no hit,” Zachariel says, then he surprises me further by nudging me with his elbow and indicating that we’re leaving.
Before I can move, Mr. Smith pipes up, “All right, all right.” To Ethan, he says, “Make it quick.”
Ethan swoops in and jabs Mr. Smith’s bared arm with the small plastic holder. A bright red dot wells up where he pricked, which Ethan expertly patches with an almost invisible bit of Nu-skin. I throw a questioning look to Zachariel while Ethan watches his plastic test kit for the result.
Zachariel leans in and whispers, just for me. “No recreational drugs. Don’t want Mr. Smith coding out on us.”
Which I guess I should have known—life energy hits aren’t entirely without risk. Interactions with all kinds of drugs can bring an increase in heart failure. Madam A made sure to carefully monitor her kids, and I just assumed Melinda had checked before she referred patients to me. I hadn’t thought about the illegal transfers, but I suppose whatever benefit Gehenna is trying to gain here would be nullified if bodies started dropping.
Ethan nods to Zachariel, so the test must have come out clean. Mr. Smith wastes no time in stepping uncomfortably close to me. Zachariel moves aside to give us a little room. Mr. Smith’s smirk is so lascivious, I almost shove him away, in spite of knowing I have to do this. I clamp my hand on his arm and pull him closer. His face is suspiciously clear of lines. I’m sure he’s been getting regular hits for a long time.
He tries to slip a hand around my waist, but I knock it away. “Don’t make me want to pull rather than push,” I say, looking straight into his pale blue eyes. They go a little wider.
“Anytime you’re ready,” he says.
I hold in the snarl and start trickling life energy through my hand into his arm.
The lights of the bathroom dim. Or at least, they seem to. I frown and step up the pace of the life energy transfer. I’ve got to pay out a year, and I don’t want to spend—
I’m interrupted mid-thought by a sudden darkness crowding my vision. A horrible sensation of despair and grief claws at my stomach. I curl over a little, which just tucks me into Mr. Smith’s chest. I brace my hand against it, and his arm snakes around my waist, but I can’t worry about that, because right at that moment, I’m convinced I’m dying.
Panic climbs up my back. I don’t understand what’s happening. I open up the life energy gush even more. Mr. Smith’s hold on me tightens, and his hand runs up to weave into my loose hair and grip it. I’d complain or push him away, but I can’t see anything with the darkness telescoping my vision down to a tiny button on his shirt.
A fathomless abyss opens below me.
Every horrible thought, every last feeling of bleakness I’ve every had, reaches up from the pit like monstrous black fingers to claw at my legs and pull me down. I literally kick at it with my feet. My mind can’t decide if it’s really there or if I’ve finally tipped over the edge into madness. I can’t breathe. I lose my footing. I cling to Mr. Smith so I don’t tumble into the darkness. His grip is the only thing holding me up.
Some small portion of my mind searches for the golden glow I normally have. Why does this feel like death instead of the clean-burning righteousness of every other payout? Then a single thought fights through the dark haze in my mind: this isn’t a mercy hit. This is what a normal payout feels like, when the life energy draining from your body goes to someone who deeply, profoundly does not need it. I’ve lost track of how much I’ve paid out, but it doesn’t matter. I have to stop. My hand is clamped so tightly around Mr. Smith’s arm that I have to pry it free.
When I do, I fall.
I shriek, terrified I’m actually tumbling into the gaping pit of blackness clawing at my feet. Instead, I land with a dull thud on the carpeted floor of the bathroom. My body reflexively curls into a ball. My eyes squeeze shut. Someone is calling my name. Something grabs at me. I kick and shove it away. Then it catches hold of me. My eyes finally peel open to see Zachariel looming over me, holding down my flailing arms.
“Wraith!” he says sharply.
My lips don’t work right. I manage a nod. He shouts at other people, not me. Then the shakes and nausea hit me hard, so I close my eyes again and focus on keeping the contents of my stomach down. A long, stretched minute later, I open my eyes. We’re alone in the bathroom. Zachariel hoists me up from the floor and braces me against the counter.
“I thought you said you could do this.” There’s worry in his voice more than anger, but I can’t think too much about that. I’m working on staying upright.
“That was… I didn’t expect…” I swallow. How can I explain that I’ve never paid out to someone who didn’t deserve it before? That I had no idea about the life-sucking horror of it?
“I thought you wanted to pay out,” he says.
“Just… just mercy hits.” My whole body shudders. It’s a good thing he’s still holding me up.
“Oh, Jesus.” He looks up to the ceiling, then looks back to me. “You had no idea, did you?”
I just shake my head.
“Here.” He reaches his palm to my cheek.
I don’t know what he’s thinking but I lean away.
“Wraith,” he chastises me. “Come on. We have a dozen more payouts to do.”
I frown, but I don’t move away when he presses his hand to my cheek. Then I feel it: he’s pulsing life energy into me. The golden rush of it chases away the shadows still
crowding my vision. I gasp in air as the energy hits my brain. He’s giving me a hit, and it banishes the abyss. The feeling of dying drifts away.
“Now cycle it back to me,” he says quietly. He’s not holding me up any longer, but he’s still huddled close, his body trapping mine between him and the countertop, keeping me upright.
“What do you mean?” My voice is breathy with the rush.
He reaches down, takes my hand, and places it on his cheek. “I give you some. You give it back,” he says, like I’m a child he’s lecturing in the basics of fair play.
I brace myself for the soul-sucking feeling again, but when I trickle life energy into Zachariel’s cheek, there’s nothing of the sort. It’s just a clean emptying, not unlike a mercy hit. My whole body relaxes in relief, and I kind of sag against him.
“That’s right,” he says, “just let it cycle for a while.”
I breathe harder as the high ramps up. We’re close, hands on cheeks, breathing each other’s air.
“Why does it work like this?” I say it in a whisper because his face is right next to mine.
“You wanted some instructions, right?” he asks, the side of his mouth tipping up.
“I don’t understand,” I say, but it’s becoming clear. Somehow it’s different with debt collectors. There’s no brilliant sun of righteousness burning inside me, but there’s no soul-sucking blackness either. Just an easy exchange, back and forth, each turn taking me higher and higher. The buzz in my head is spreading to every cell in my body, bringing it back to life.
I close my eyes, relaxing into it. Zachariel shifts even closer. I feel his breath on my face just before his lips press lightly against mine.
My breath catches. Not because he’s kissing me, but because the transfer is now moving through our lips. It’s like an electric spark, only instead of hurting, it’s achingly good. The sizzling energy is turning the kiss into something… intense. I lean into it. Holy… I want more. A lot more. Just as I’m trying to decide what to do with that, he pulls back, and the connection is cut. He stops transferring through his hand on my cheek as well.
My eyes pop open. “Why did you…” I want to ask him why he stopped, but I decide that’s the high talking and not something I want to say out loud. I drop my hand from his cheek, too. We’re disconnected now, totally, except that his body is still lightly brushing mine.
“You weren’t quite so killer there for a moment,” he says with a smile that’s almost a smirk. “I figured I better steal my chance.”
My face is hot. I tell myself it’s just the residual high. Mostly. “I… I don’t know if I can do that again.” I mean all of it—the payout, which was horrific; the kiss, which was definitely not.
He truly smirks now. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”
Bad? No. Dangerous? Absolutely. But there’s no way I’m admitting to that. “I mean the payout. I don’t know if I can take it.”
“I’ll help you,” he says, but he’s more business now. He leans back from me, putting distance between us. “I won’t tell you it gets any better. But you can learn to manage it.”
I take a deep breath and nod. I have to do this. I know I do. And the fact that Zachariel’s willing to help me doesn’t go unnoticed. At all. Or that my body craves his life-energy-boosted kiss, regardless of how much my brain tells me that kissing a debt collector has to be one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had.
He steps back and watches me for a moment, but I’m stable against the counter, standing on my own. And I’m ready to pay out to the next slimy millionaire who wants more than just political grease for his political contributions.
Zachariel leaves the bathroom and quickly returns with a new contributor, this time a woman. She’s probably a female corporate exec from one of the Silicon Valley tech companies, and she’s not so grabby with her hands. Still, I brace myself against the counter before I start. It’s just as soul-sucking as the first time. I manage to not end up on the floor.
Zachariel boosts me again afterward. No kiss this time. I’m not sure why, but it’s just as well. The emotional roller-coaster of paying out and boosting is leaving me wrecked enough as it is.
We do it again. And again. Mostly men. A few younger, but none as lecherous as Mr. Smith. It seems endless, but it’s not. It doesn’t get any better, but Zachariel is right: I manage to endure it without feeling like I’m going to die. Or shrieking out because I might fall into the abyss and never climb out.
Eventually the last one leaves. I recover with a boost from Zachariel again, and we’re both floating a fairly good high when we leave. We don’t say anything on the drive away from the estate. I don’t know where we’re going, presumably back to Moloch’s hideaway. And I’m not entirely sure that I passed his test. But if he wanted me to get my hands dirty, he more than succeeded. I’ve stolen life energy from the homeless. I’ve paid it out to the rich and slimy in exchange for dirty money transfers. I’ve kissed a debt collector. And wanted more.
I have a feeling no hot shower in the world can ever make me feel clean again.
Before Zachariel brought me back to the Gehenna hideout, he made me disable the tracker in my palm screen. If I had been smart, I would have blocked all calls as well. But I didn’t. And now the messages from Wyatt are numbering in the twenties. I still haven’t forced myself to read them.
I pause in my breakfast to send the latest batch to archive.
I’m dressed in silky black pajamas, barefoot in Gehenna’s kitchen, which is buried in a transport junkyard at the outskirts of Sacramento. The collection and payouts yesterday left me as wrecked as the drone carcasses outside. When we returned, I was assigned a room and barely managed to change before falling into bed. My bedroom was an ordinary sort of room—a bed, a dresser, walls painted white, not some kind of death mural like Ishtar’s. There are a dozen rooms like it upstairs, all alike. They seem to be temporary housing for the assortment of debt collectors who keep wandering through the kitchen, grabbing something to eat, and then leaving. They don’t make eye contact. They don’t speak. We’re like ghosts all haunting the same house, but operating on completely separate planes of existence. Except for one blond-haired collector who almost jumped out of his skin when he saw me—but he was just a kid, no more than eighteen, barely old enough to be a collector. He must have missed the memo from Moloch about pretending I don’t exist, but he figured it out quick enough, beating a hasty retreat out of the kitchen without his breakfast.
Whatever Moloch told them about me, it’s clear he has a small army of debt collectors cycling through his hidden empire. With his tendrils wound into the political scene in the capitol and his debt collectors harvesting life energy from the city’s most desperate donors, not just in Sacramento but also in LA… Gehenna’s reach seems impossibly large. And the more I see, the more I’m convinced that I’ve only glimpsed a tiny fraction of it. Which makes Moloch’s ramblings about a new future for debt collectors dangerously plausible.
I eat my way through half a box of cereal before I start to slow down. It’s not just that I haven’t had a proper meal in days—there’s something about collecting and then paying out a dozen years of life energy that has left me ravenous. As if my body was so super-charged by that incredible high that even paying it out still leaves my metabolism raging. I feel hyped, like I’m running on a cocktail of adrenaline, skeet, and life energy… only without the jitters and nervous need to pay out. The hard sleep last night also dissipated the dark cloud of my conscience, easing the guilt hangover of collecting from the poor to give to the rich. My head still knows it’s horrible, but my body seems to have forgotten. Maybe since I felt the payout for real this time—no mercy hit glow, just soul-sucking horror—it’s like my body paid a penance and moved on.
In fact, I feel remarkably good.
I don’t understand it. But there are clearly a lot of things I don’t know about debt collectors. Things I’m just starting to figure out… and I can’t help wanting to learn more.
In particular, Zachariel’s kiss is playing on an endless loop in my mind. The idea of cycling life energy back and forth between collectors—all the high with none of the drawbacks—is crazy seductive to the addict inside me. It doesn’t hurt that Zachariel’s good looks and wit make him easy on the eyes… and the lips. Part of me is craving an opportunity to explore that in much further detail. The less rampantly sexual side is still ragingly curious about this easy transfer of life energy. What does it mean, in the larger scope of things, if debt collectors can move energy around like we pass the salt? There’s something about that idea that tickles the back of my mind… as if it means something greater than I’m grasping at the moment…
“Good morning,” Moloch says from the doorway to the kitchen.
I didn’t even hear him come in over the crunching of my corn flakes. I wait until I swallow. “I’m still alive. So… yeah. I guess it’s good.”
He has that indulgent, amused look on his thin, British face. He steps into the kitchen but doesn’t take a seat. His all-black attire is more upscale than the typical trenchcoat-and-boots uniform worn by the debt collectors haunting his headquarters. The silk shirt is tailored, fitting his thin frame in a flattering way, and his ink-black trousers likewise look like they were designed for him.
“Zachariel says you performed well yesterday.” He says this like he couldn’t be more pleased that he successfully forced my hands into his dirty work. And I guess I managed well enough, if you forget the freak-out high and the abyss panic attack. Zachariel must have left those parts out.
“Not a problem,” I say. “You have another round for me today?” I’m praying the answer is no, but maybe if Moloch thinks I’m up to the challenge, he won’t feel the need to test me again.
“Are you eager, Ms. Sterling, to once again dip your hands into our filthy, terrible work?” His smile brings back some of the slime from the day before.
The Debt Collector (Season Two) Page 13