Wraith (Debt Collector 10)

by Quinn, Susan Kaye

  Melinda grabs my bag of clothes and helps me limp out of the room. She drops her hand to my waist, and I loop my arm around her shoulders, trying to appear more friendly and less like I’m halfway into the grave. She hurries me past an empty nursing station to the elevator and walks me in. I lean against her on the ride down, then try to put on my game face for the lobby.

  I must look like hell because even Jax’s face contorts into a combination of concern and disgust. She gives a quick kiss to Melinda, who hurries off, like she doesn’t want to be seen with us. Jax’s muscular arm hooks around my back and hoists me by the scrubs.

  “Okay, maybe I was wrong about this,” she says softly as she hauls me toward the curb and the waiting cab.

  “No, it’s good.” I’m the one who’s wheezing now. “Really good, Jax.” I pant. “Just out of practice.”

  She cocks an eyebrow like she’s not so sure. “I had another collection lined up for you, but I think maybe you need to lay low for a while.”

  “No, no.” I pant again. “Give it to me.”

  “You look like shit. You can do it later.”

  The cabbie sees us coming and runs around to open the door. Jax hoists me into the back seat. Everything aches as I sit on the stiff faux-leather seat.

  “Jax,” I wheeze. “Give it to me.”

  “No.”

  Of all the times for her to go overprotective on me… “I messed up. I need another one to fix it.”

  She purses her lips and shakes her head, but then she beckons my palm with a flutter of her fingers. My arm’s shaking so bad I have to prop it up at the elbow, but I hold my palm screen facing her. She pulls out her screen, taps something into it, then presses it to my shaking palm. I glance at the data she’s transferred: a handsome young man’s face shows up along with all the details about his illegal life energy hits. A quick peek at his bio says he’s older than he looks.

  My next target.

  “There,” she says. “But if you kill yourself, don’t come haunting me from the afterlife. I warned you.”

  “Can’t die yet.” I give her a weak smile. “Still need to hear how you and Melinda met.”

  She shakes her head like I’m hopeless and slams the cab door shut.

  The whole ride home, I’m a freaking mess, but I manage to not get sick in the cab. In fact, I make it all the way to my seventy-fifth floor apartment before I lose it.

  The morning sun is still bright when I collapse into bed.

  I sleep hard the entire day. When I finally rouse from the bone-weary fatigue of the payout, the glittering nighttime lights of the city wink at me. I don’t know how much life energy I gave away… but I’m still alive. And I would do it again.

  Jax was right: this new gig with Melinda is perfect for me. It’s not just the mercy hit, it’s the chance to make a true difference—if I can keep the government’s debt collectors from laying a palm on a mother of three fighting her way back from cancer, then I’ve plucked one more victim out of their death queue. It’s the kind of triumph that has my soul singing as I ease out of bed, even if my body drags like a three-day-old corpse.

  I avoid looking in the mirror while I change out of the scrubs and wash away some of the fatigue. I’m munching dry toast to soothe my roiling stomach when the bellman rings and says I have a package. I tell him to send it up, then forget about it, too busy feeding the ravenous hunger that’s suddenly welled up. The door tones. By the time I get there, the bellman is gone, and there’s a familiar-looking bag sitting at the threshold.

  My suit.

  I grab it and punch the button to close the door. I hold the suit up against the skyline. They belong together, this shadow and a corrupt city of stolen lives. My bones are hollowed out, aching to be filled again, and I know just what do to about that. I pull up my palm screen, send a message to Miral saying she’s a genius, another message to Jax asking her to line up a new payout with Melinda, then I tap through until I bring up the specs on the target: Jarrod Hughes, waning actor, life energy addict and… regular donor to Collecting for Humanity. They’re the extreme opposite of Lifetime with their constant lobbying to deregulate life energy transfers. Not just the legal ones sanctioned by the government—they want to make it easier for the illegal trades, too.

  Something deep inside me purrs at the idea of collecting this one. I toss the bag aside and stagger into the bathroom to put on the suit.

  Getting into a movie star’s house in LA should be harder than simply using a few slashing tech tools to disable the alarms and picking a lock on the back door the old fashioned way. Unfortunately for actors like Jarrod Hughes, when your star fades, so does your money… and the ability to pay for high-end security.

  I know I’m being stupid. A coastal breeze off the West Hollywood street outside bangs the patio door shut behind me, just emphasizing how impulsive this is. I’m still hung over from the last payout, my bones are like brittle twigs waiting to snap, and I haven’t given Jax time to case the target for me. But I’m floating on that dangerous high of the mercy hit while at the same time desperately needing another fix to fill the holes punched by it.

  It’s a bad combination. I know it.

  I’m doing it anyway.

  My first stroke of luck is even finding Hughes at home. I’m momentarily stilled in the doorway of his oversized master bedroom, watching him before he’s seen me in the death costume that covers me in darkness. He lounges on his bed, reading something on his hand-held, a glass of wine on a table to the side. He has one knee propped up with his gaze intent on his screen. The room is tastefully decorated in woods and whites, softly lit by recessed lighting, and accented with a few pieces of art that don’t scream pretention. A dark wall of windows looks out into the backyard I just came through, which was filled with very ordinary pool toys and patio furniture.

  There’s nothing obvious to hate about Hughes.

  I steel myself and almost turn back. But a closer look shows he’s far too youthful for his fifty-odd years. His eyes sparkle even in the low light, and his hair has that fullness that comes from life hits on a regular basis. It’s a perpetual fountain of youth bought with the souls of the sick and dying.

  I step into the room.

  He sees me coming when I’m halfway across the floor. A moment of utter shock holds him captive. I run and leap, but he rolls away before I can get a hand on him. He flails off the bed, then scrambles to the bedside table, knocking the wine off in a splash of red across the snow-white carpet. I catch his wrist just as he pulls the gun from the drawer.

  His life energy rushes into me. He freezes up from the horror and drops the gun, but then his body crumples to the floor, and I nearly lose my grip. I tumble to the carpet with him. Now that we’re both down, I switch my grip, getting a better hold on his wrist, then fold up my legs to sit next to him. The gush of energy is quickly filling out my body with its golden glow, and the aches and twinges that have accompanied my every move since paying out quickly dissipate.

  I slow the pull and shift my position, getting comfortable. I’m taking it long and slow this time, drawing enough to keep him immobilized, but not so much that it makes me crazy with the high. There are no security systems for Hughes to call, no hurry to get through this. I don’t know exactly how much he’s stolen, but a year or two off his unnaturally youthful face, not to mention the threat of another nighttime visit from a life-sucking shadow should cool his ambitions to buy more life hits in the future.

  I close my eyes and reach past the contact point between us. There’s not a deep well like there was in Odel. Maybe Hughes has been dipping into cosmetic means for his perpetual youth, not just life hits. If so, I can wrap this up sooner than I thought. Just pull enough to even out the ravaged core of my bones—

  Something yanks me off the floor. My hand loses contact with Hughes, but worse, I lose contact with everything. I twist mid-air trying to get a hand on whoever’s got me, but I get nothing but air. The suit is choking me, and black dots swim in
the periphery of my vision… where I also see the edge of a flapping black coat. Just as I have the presence of mind to reach behind my head, I’m flung onto the bed. I use that momentum to roll off the other side.

  That’s when I get a good look at him: tall, dark hair, savage eyes with a black trenchcoat and jackboots to match. Debt collector. He’s giving me this look like I’m a feral animal he found in the bathroom, and he can’t decide if I’m dangerous or just scared.

  I’m definitely scared.

  But I’m also dangerous. My hands are already out front: normally my two best weapons, but now? Can I even drain energy from another debt collector? Is there some kind of rule about how that works? I have no freaking idea, and now is not the time to find out.

  I start to edge away.

  His eyebrows lift, as if he’s surprised I’m thinking of running. And I’m thinking hard about running, easing toward the bedroom door while my brain tries to estimate the distance without looking, not to mention the relative speed of my fleet-footed suit versus his heavy stomping boots.

  I break for it.

  “Oh no, you don’t.” He dashes toward me and catches me at the door.

  I swing around hard and go for his throat. My hand makes contact with the underside of his chin, and I pull for all I’m worth. For a split second, his life energy rushes into me, but then just as fast, it pulls back, like an undertow sucking me in. I yank my hand away, but by then he’s got my wrists, one in each hand. I stumble backward across the threshold into the hall, and he’s pushing me as well. I lose my footing, but then he hoists me up and shoves me against the wall, hands pinned on either side over my head.

  Holy shit. Holy shit. I’m gasping with fear.

  His brutal dark eyes are boring into mine. He’s got me by the wrists, over my suit, so there’s no skin contact between us. I could try to worm my way into touching him, but I’ve already had a taste of that… and it wasn’t good. I think about the gun Hughes dropped. But it’s in the bedroom, miles away.

  Before I can think of what to say, he rakes his gaze over my suit and says, “You know, you’re really too beautiful to kill.”

  I choke for a moment, then throw back. “Good thing you’re not.” I twist in his grasp and bring up my knee, trying to catch him between the legs, but I miss the soft parts and jab him in a thigh that feels ridiculously solid. I don’t think I hurt him, but he growls anyway and pins my legs to the wall with his. Which brings him far too close, breathing hard on my face.

  He’s definitely more pissed now. “You could, however, change my mind about the killing part.”

  My heart is pounding so hard, I’m sure he can feel it pulsing in my wrists.

  “Maybe you should try it,” I say, wondering why I can’t control my mouth better. But Hughes’s life energy swims inside me, pumping me up, making me want to fight for my life.

  He laughs a little and shakes his head. His face is close enough that my wild hair floats forward to tickle it. He blows the strand away, then the corner of his mouth tips up, like he thinks it’s funny. “What am I going to do with you, wild girl?”

  I stare him right in the eyes. “How about if you fuck off?” If he tries to drain me, this time I’ll be ready for that life energy tug-of-war. And I plan to kick the shit out of him in the process.

  He smirks. “Right.”

  But then the pressure of his hands on my wrists eases. He slowly backs two steps away, holding his hands up. He’s not surrendering—he’s trying to keep me from bolting.

  “Easy, now,” he says, like I’m that wild animal in the bathroom again. “You run, I’m just going to catch you again.”

  I don’t think I scared him off with my bravado and smack talk. I don’t really understand what’s happening at all, but I slowly lower my arms from where he held them against the wall. Now that I’m not pinned, some of my rationality comes back. I should be bargaining my way out of this.

  “I only drained a little from Hughes,” I say, “but you’re welcome to the rest. We can call it even, and I’ll just be on my way.”

  The smile is deep on his face. “You just broke into his house, didn’t you?” he asks, ignoring my offer.

  I swallow. “Wasn’t hard.” My heart rate is stepping down. He doesn’t look quite so savage, now that he’s not talking about killing me. More just rugged in a smirky I-forgot-to-shave kind of way. Which makes me think he might not actually kill me. Right away, at least. There must be something he wants or he would be letting me go.

  He looks me over again, but this time it’s more curious, less ravaging. “What’s with the suit?”

  “Same as your trenchcoat, I imagine.”

  He smiles wider, like this is all a game to him. “A keen sense of fashion?”

  “An appreciation for theatre.” I’m dead serious, but he just chuckles.

  Then he arches an eyebrow and nods. “You know, you just might fit in with me and my friends.”

  “I doubt that very much.” This is it—the pitch. Whatever it is he wants from me. The reason I’m not already dead.

  He cocks his head to the side. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

  I relax my frozen-with-fear pose and try to look like I’m just having a casual negotiation. All the while, I’m desperate to figure out his angle on this. “Let me guess. You and your pals are rogue debt collectors who prey upon the rich and famous. Or you’re working for one of the mobs doling out hits in exchange for the cash or the high. Possibly both.”

  “Nothing quite so banal as all that.” The seriousness on his face sends a chill through me, but his words… I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but I can’t afford to be curious right now. I need to be gone.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not in the market,” I say as evenly as I can. I edge a little away along the wall.

  He watches me, but instead of moving to stop my slow retreat, he peers at my face and frowns. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  My heart stops cold in my chest. “No.” But I’ve said it too fast.

  He nods a little, to himself. “No, I think I do. I never forget a pretty—” He cuts himself off with a look of recognition.

  Oh shit.

  “Holy…” he says, his eyes going wide. “You’re the Sterling kid!”

  My heart seizes so badly, I think I’m having an actual heart attack. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not a kid...” My voice trails off. I think I’m going to be sick.

  He’s shaking his head, amazed, but a grin is creeping up on his face. “No, no, you’re not a kid at all… Alexandra.”

  Pain stabs through my chest. Definitely a heart attack. “I’m not—”

  But he’s not listening to me. “And you’re a debt collector, too. Damn.” He takes a step back, tossing his hands in disbelief.

  I run.

  I’m headed for the back room I came through, hoping I left the door unlocked. Panic fuels my legs, and I make it down the hall and into the living room before he catches me. This time I’m a true demon. Hands, legs, clawed fingers, everything comes out. I’m kicking and fighting my way out of his hold. I break free, but he grabs me again, this time around the waist, before I get even a few more steps toward the door. I grab the bare flesh of his hand with both of mine and pull hard. We both go down on Hughes’s lush carpet, the push-pull of life energy dominating the battle now. A strange thought in the back of my head notices there’s no pain with this transfer, no white-hot searing through the contact point as energy surges back and forth between us. It’s effortless… yet like warring with gravity.

  I’m actually holding my own now, probably because I’m in a full-fledged fight for my life. This collector knows who I am. He can’t live. He can’t tell anyone. If he does… everything, everything is ruined. I might as well die trying to stop him, because my life is over if I don’t.

  He growls through the fight, rolling me over and pinning me, but that’s the least of it: I still have a grip on his h
and and fingers clawing at his throat, making enough contact to make him wince and try to shake me off.

  “Damn it, Alexandra, stop!” he grinds out, but there’s no way in hell I’m doing that.

  I buck and thrash against his weight holding me down. I am the wild animal now because if I’m caught, I’m dead.

  “I said, stop!” There’s anger in his voice but also… patience. It chills my heart. Like he knows he’s going to win this, and he’d rather I just gave up now.

  I fight hard, growling out my own frustration.

  He gets ahold of my wrists again, and I lose all skin contact.

  Bitter, angry tears well up. I sag against the carpet underneath me, defeated. My mind flies over all the ways my idiocy got me into this mess. The addiction to the high, the arrogance of the collection, the too-good mercy hit… all of it led to this. Trapped by a debt collector who’s going to destroy me. My loathing for him, for their kind, for my kind, surges up to choke me. Debt collectors have already taken everything precious to me. My mother before I was a day old. My father when he was the only true good thing in my life. And now… everything that’s left.

  He’s panting as he holds me down, winded by the fight. He stares at me with those dark, hungry eyes. I turn my head to the side, unwilling to look at him.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Alexandra.”

  I don’t look back. I almost wish he would hurt me physically. Just attack me, even drain me, true to his purpose in life. At least then I would only be dead. Exposing me is so much worse.

  “We’ve been watching you for a while,” he says, his breathing starting to settle out.

  Fantastic. He and his friends will know exactly the best way to destroy me.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” he continues, “but I never thought killing you was the best approach.”

  That makes me look. What in holy hell is he talking about?

  He gives me a small nod, now that he has my attention. “We’re called Gehenna. And I think you’re going to be very interested to hear what we have to say.”