Text copyright © 2013 by Susan Kaye Quinn

June 2013 Edition

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No part of this publication may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher. For information visit:

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Cover by Steven Novak

www.novakillustration.com

The Debt Collector

Season One

EPISODES 1-9

500 pages

Summary

What’s your life worth on the open market?

In this sexy, gritty future-noir, debt collectors take your life energy and give it to someone more "worthy"... all while paying the price with black marks on their souls.

Lirium plays the part of the grim reaper well, with his dark trenchcoat, jackboots, and the black marks on his soul that every debt collector carries. He’s just in it for his cut, the ten percent of the life energy he collects before he transfers it on to the high potentials, the people who will make the world a better place with their brains, their work, and their lives. That hit of life energy, a bottle of vodka, and a visit from one of Madam Anastazja’s sex workers keep him alive, stable, and mostly sane… until he collects again. But when his recovery ritual is disrupted by a sex worker who isn’t what she seems, he has to choose between doing an illegal hit for a girl whose story has more holes than his soul or facing the bottle alone—a dark pit he’s not sure he’ll be able to climb out of again.

Susan Kaye Quinn's bestselling stories...

Singularity Series

The Legacy Human (Book 1)

The Duality Bridge (Book 2)

The Illusory Prophet (Book 3)... coming 2016

The Stories of Singularity #1-4 (Novella Box Set)

Mindjack Saga

Open Minds (Book 1)

Closed Hearts (Book 2)

Free Souls (Book 3)

Mindjack Short Story Collection (Novella Box Set)

The Royals of Dharia

Third Daughter (Book 1)

Second Daughter (Book 2)

First Daughter (Book 3)

The Debt Collector

dark, gritty, sexy... recommended for 17+

Season One

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To Dianne, for asking, Why?

To Leigh, for asking, Why not?

And to Matt, for harassing me the whole way.

My jackboots are new, the latest ultra-light material out of Hong Kong’s synthetics district, and they make a strange squeaking sound against the hospital floor. It’s the kind of sound that might gather snickers or a raised eyebrow, but no one looks at me, at least not on purpose. I stroll past the ICU desk, taking my time, breathing in the antiseptic smell that masks the odor of death held back by machines and drugs and round-the-clock care. The nurses duck their heads and study their charts, ignoring me. As if catching my eye might mean I’m coming to collect their debt, rather than Mr. Henry’s in Room 301.

The floor is so highly polished that I see the reflection of my trenchcoat running ahead of me, black as a midnight grave, a spook that lives on the surface of the oft-scrubbed tiles. It reaches the door to 301 before me and disappears in the dim, flickering light coming from the room. The spook has gone back where he belongs, into the dark recesses of my soul, assuming I still have one. If I were a betting man, I would say the odds of having a soul keep getting longer with every transfer I do. The older debt collectors, the ones who are still alive, don’t have anything shining out of their dull-glass eyes, even when they’re hyped up on a transfer. There’s no telling what my eyes look like.

I stopped looking in the mirror a long time ago.

Mr. Henry’s hooked up in all the usual places—tubes in his arms and monitor patches hovering over his temples and the blue-veined skin of his chest. His knobbed knees and shriveled legs stick out the end of the blanket. I don’t know if he’s tossed the blanket aside or the nurses just forgot to cover him up again after his sponge bath or whatever they do to prepare patients for a debt transfer. Goosebumps raise the hair on what’s left of his legs into a small forest of gray fur. I tug the thin, white-weave blanket over his exposed legs, and Mr. Henry opens his eyes.

They’re pale green and watery—washed out and used up like the rest of him.

“You’ve come for me,” he says.

I pick up one of the hard-backed, plastic hospital chairs, the kind that makes you uncomfortable sticking around the ICU, just in case all the death-waiting-to-happen doesn’t do the trick. I carefully set it down, backward facing at the head of Mr. Henry’s bed, and settle in. I don’t answer him, just study him for a moment over my laced fingers.

“What’s your name, son?” he asks, which makes me lean back and mentally check over his file again. No, he’s not an Alzheimer’s patient. He shouldn’t think I’m his son. And I’m only twenty, but no one’s mistaken me for a boy in a while, not since I started collecting.

“Lirium,” I say. It’s just my collector name, short for Delirium. Some punk collector thought it was funny when we went through training and it stuck. I don’t use my real name anymore, so it’s as good as any. Most people don’t ask.

“Is it going to hurt, Lirium?” His hand wanders out from the blanket, shaking a little and fluttering around his chest, like it’s searching for something. Then it lands on the rail of his bed and grips it.

“No, sir.” Relief gushes through me like water from a busted hose. When patients have been properly prepared, that’s the question they ask. It means they’re ready. I should thank the nurses on the way out, if I can get one of them to look at me. “It won’t hurt at all, Mr. Henry. In fact, it will be a relief.”

This isn't really true, but I imagine it will be better than what he’s feeling now, all the aches and pains of the cancer slowly eating him from the inside out. This is where I usually tell them that transferring out is a good thing and how paying their debt will make the world a better place. I tell them it’s better for everyone—they get relief from having to live the last painful stages of their disease, they’re no longer a drain on the resources of the world, and someone else, someone in the height of their productivity, whose contributions to the world will be long lasting, will receive their debt and do even more with it than they can imagine. And I get my cut. Everyone wins!

I usually leave out that last part.

But today, the words stick in my throat as Mr. Henry draws in one shaky breath after another, his watery eyes searching my face for the truth behind my words.

Instead, I ask, “Do you have any family? Any message you want to give them? I’ll see that it gets to them personally.” This part is true, although I usually wait until I’ve paid out and recovered. It’s easier to face the families that way.

“No,” Mr. Henry says and looks away, staring at the vid screen on the wall, noiselessly playing some reality game show. I think it’s the one where you finish a desert obstacle course and win a ton of cash. I don’t watch TV.

“There’s no one that’s too concerned about me anymore,” Mr. Henry says.

I nod. If the man had family, they’d have to be some hard cases to let him rack up so much debt that his life doesn’t cover the balance. Then again, some families do that on purpose.

“Wait!” he says. It’s a croak filled with urgency, and I briefly wonder if he’s got dementia on top of the cancer. “There’s a cousin of mine! Nick! Yes…” He turns his watery eyes to me. “I’d want Nick to know,” he says. “That I’ve paid my debt.”

“Does Nick have a last name?” I hold up my left palm and activate the screen implanted in my hand. All Agency collectors are required to get the implant. Some don’t like it, but I find it useful. “Does he live in the Los Angeles area?” That’s about 50 million souls, but if I have a last name, it should be possible.

“I don’t know.” A thousand wrinkles find a home on Mr. Henry’s forehead. “I haven’t seen him in… I don’t know, maybe 20 years?”

“Last name?” I look up from my palm.

“Fisherman.”

I tap it in. No Nick Fisherman in the greater Los Angeles area. I keep my face neutral. “Yeah, found him right here,” I lie, swiping to clear the screen. “Living in Santa Barbara.” I bring up the recorder and hold my palm out to him. “Would you like to record something for Nick?”

Mr. Henry’s shaky hand reaches out and pushes mine away with the strength of a gnat. I lower my hand. “No,” he says. “Just tell him for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s a moment where we don’t say anything. I stare down at my hand, pretending to do something while I let Mr. Henry collect his final thoughts. Then I hold the screen up to him again, already recording. “Mr. Henry, I need to record your final statement, if you’d like to make one. It’s optional, sir, but if you’d like to make one, please feel free to take your time.” It’s the standard language we’re told to use, and it usually works to settle them in. Plus it signals that we’re almost done.

Mr. Henry looks at his image on the screen for only an instant, then turns his gaze to me. “No final words.”

“As you wish, sir.” I tap my palm and rest my hand on the back of the chair. I lean forward and ask quietly, “Are you ready, sir?” I only ask them when I think that they are. I give Mr. Henry a smile, honestly grateful that he’s making this so easy on me.

He nods, and I extend my right hand, gently placing my palm on his forehead, like I’m an old-time preacher who’s giving him a benediction. Only I’m not healing him, I’m killing him.

If only it didn’t feel so damn good.

Mr. Henry’s life force, what’s left of it, starts to trickle into me, a liquid gold rush of feeling that’s the best high I’ve ever had. My body pulls it faster and faster, and soon the trickle is a gush. When I first touched him, his skin was cool and clammy, a paper-thin barrier between my hand and the aging flesh beneath it. Now it heats up with the transfer, a warm kiss on my palm as his life energy drains from his body into mine.

I look away so I don’t have to watch Mr. Henry’s frozen face.

Being a collector is something like playing roulette: the bean counters, for all their calculations and actuarial tables and consultations with medical experts, don’t really know how long you have to live. But they tally it up, and when your debts—medical bills, taxes, that foolish vacation you took in the Bahamas on credit—when all of it is no longer worth your future productive contribution to society, otherwise known as the price of your life on the open market, they call in the debt collectors.

But sometimes they’re wrong.

Sometimes, a debtor really had an extra year of life, when even the smartest doctors thought the debtor didn’t have six weeks to live. No one really knows until a debt collector pays them a visit. The debtor still loses—they get transferred out no matter what—but that’s when being a collector feels like hitting the lottery. You get a full life-year rushing into your body at once, filling you with the energy of hundred men in one hit. You’re alive in a way most people never experience, even while they’re living life at its best—full of health, money, sex, power—all the things that make people feel on top of the world. Collectors who find a powerful hidden reserve of life force get all of that, times a thousand, in one powerful rush, making them feel like they’re invincible. Like they could literally fly if they wanted to.

They don’t often survive it.

There’s no hidden cache of life inside Mr. Henry’s frail body. I keep my palm to his head, drinking down every last drop of his life force, but it’s only about six weeks worth, just like his chart said. Still, my body sings with it.

When I’m done, I leap up out of the chair, shoving it across the room until it bangs against the wall and stays there, askew. Energy sizzles in my arms and legs, and there’s a bounce in my step as I leave the room. Morning sun sneaks in from a window down the hall. The hospital ward is brighter now, the nurses are prettier, and the whole ward is a bustle of activity. I blow a kiss to a hot redhead in pink scrubs who’s sneaking looks at me as I stride down the hallway. Life pushes back the darkness for a while. The spook is gone and even my boots don’t squeak.

I hum a little tune in my head as I pick up the pace, practically jogging with the pent-up energy of the transfer. At the elevator, I tap my foot, and the tune gains a little volume. I start singing it out loud, under my breath at first, then louder to the startled occupants of the elevator when the doors open. A part of me wonders if this was Mr. Henry’s favorite song, because sometimes that can happen—a bit of the last thoughts will come along with the transfer. I push that aside, telling myself it’s not my business to know, and give the button on the elevator a good-natured punch.

I smile all the way to the lobby.

The next morning, Flitstrom seems disappointed that Mr. Henry only had six weeks in him, a rare show of emotion for a bean counter. He leans across his scuffed, black metal desk, waving his handheld scanner across the tracker embedded in my forearm. The tracker logs how much life energy I pulled from Mr. Henry, and the scanner submits an official debt record. Getting the implant is required to work in the government’s Debt Collector Agency, but it beats working for the mob. Those collectors are lucky to keep all their body parts, assuming they can manage to collect at all under duress. They’re truly better off being caught and sent to prison, and that’s accounting for the fact that life expectancy for collectors in prison is a lot shorter than Mr. Henry’s prognosis.

Flitstrom scans me again.

“Were you expecting more?” I ask. If Flitstrom’s on the take, hoping to get some life hits on the side, I’m not interested. I drive my point home with my unimpressed look. Messing with government debt records is dangerous business, and we’d both likely end up in prison. That was drilled into us in training, not that it wasn’t obvious to anyone with half a brain.

“No, no…” He waves off my accusation like it was nothing. “I was just hoping we might have a bonus for Mr. Whitby.” Flitstrom checks the readout a third time.

“Is Whitby the payoff?”

“Yes. He’s doing some brilliant work in genetics right now. His potential is off the charts.”

“Yeah, Whitby sounds familiar,” I say, even though it doesn’t. I don’t pay attention to the payoffs—they’re all brilliant or famous or something. Making the world a better place with their brains and their lives. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what they do; it’s more that I prefer not to dwell on the part of my job where I finish a transfer.

Flitstrom holds up his palm, and I touch mine to his, transferring the address where I’ll go for the payoff. Collectors are allowed to carry the hit for up to a day after we collect—a perk that lets us ride out the flush, and I usually take the full time allowed. But now that Mr. Henry’s debt payment is registered, I’m supposed to pay out his life force within twelve hours. Twenty-four under emergency conditions only.

Flitstrom finishes up his bean counting in record time, once he’s sure I’m not stashing some extra life energy somewhere. Or that I’ve tampered somehow with my tracker. Before I know it, I’m cruising out into the midday sun and catching the Metro to the downtown office where Whitby does his life-saving work.

The Metro is relatively empty, riders sparse between the morning and noontime rushes. The maglev rails give a soothing ride, rocking back and forth as we lumber along the line. The landscape slowly evolves from the grimy, stucco-covered, low-lying houses of the east side to a shinier rise of buildings that make up the downtown medical complex. LifeLong Hospital is really an entire city, a gleaming cluster of chrome and glass buildings that huddle together against the smog and wait for a breath of ocean air to wipe them clean. I disembark at the center station and check my palm screen for the building. Whitby’s on floor ninety-three. Why do they have medical research labs way up in the air, anyway? Maybe they don't want the cancer-laden air clogging up the test tubes.

None of my business.

I flash my collector badge at the guard, and he waves me through. Collectors are a common sight at LifeLong. My trenchcoat and jackboots don’t stand out so much here, where black is de rigueur for the moneyed life-extenders and the people who support them. The all-glass elevator swoops me up, dipping my stomach and adding to the light-headed feeling of the transfer still riding inside me.

Whitby’s waiting area is spotless white carpet and natural woods, a virtual clean-room-in-the-sky with its neatness. His receptionist is ridiculously beautiful: wide blue eyes, high cheekbones, flawless skin. Her hair is a cascade of luxurious brown that floats in perfect waves to an ample chest that’s snugly encased in a trim, black jacket. The payoffs are always good-looking, full of life and health and youth from their hits, but they seem to surround themselves with beautiful people, too. Or perhaps they simply attract them, with all their potential. Still, I’m suspicious that Whitby’s receptionist has had some illegal hits recently. She’s a bit too radiant.

Her smile affects me—the heat of it is like a ray of clean sunshine on my skin. Add in the transfer still kicking around inside me, and I’m grinning back at her like a fool.

I flash my credentials. “I’m here for Mr. Whitby.” I don’t have to explain why.

She comes to my side, long fingers wrapping around my bicep as she guides me toward Whitby’s office. “Oh, he’ll want you to call him Tom, Mr…?”

“Lirium.” I have no intention of calling Whitby “Tom.” I don’t get friendly with payoffs.

“Lirium,” she repeats back with a purr in her voice. She gives me a knowing look. I’m sure she has collectors come through the office all the time. I’m beginning to suspect she’s angling for an illegal hit from me, something I may not be entirely averse to, when she gives my arm a gentle squeeze then releases it. She sweeps open Whitby’s door and holds back while I stride through.

He’s on a call, talking to the screen on his desk. My boots don’t make a sound as I cross the lush carpeting. A wide expanse of glass covers half the walls and captures my stare. We’re well above the smog, and the world is different here. I can see the ocean, white-peaked waves drawing lines that crawl across the surface. The sky stretches from hazy white to a blue so brilliant I’m afraid it will hurt my eyes if I stare too long.

“Ah, good!” Whitby says, waving a hand to terminate his call. “You’re here.”

He comes around his glass desk, which seems to float in the air. I’m sure there’s something holding it up, unless the high-potential engineers developed maglev desks while I wasn’t paying attention. Before I can sneak a peek underneath, Whitby shakes my hand like I’m his long lost brother.

“Your timing is impeccable!” His teeth are perfectly straight, except for one, slightly higher than the rest, a flaw that bothers me for some reason. His face is serious, but his slate gray eyes are alive and sparkling in a way that can’t be faked. Whitby is getting hits on a regular basis.

“I have a meeting with the board of directors in about a half hour,” he says. “I’m pitching a new concept for a vaccination against pituitary cancer, and we’re at the critical funding stage. I need to be on top of my game.” His earnest look is somehow infectious. The high potentials tend to be that way—excited, fervent, with nearly supernatural powers of persuasion. Their enthusiasm quickly infuses into you, convincing you that they’re on a critical mission to save mankind. They’re damn hard to resist. I’d give him money out of my pocket right now, if I had any. But I have something better instead.

“That’s why I’m here,” I say. I think Mr. Henry would be glad to know his debt is going to help fund cancer research, given that’s what burdened him in the first place.

Whitby nods quickly and glances at an incoming call on his screen. “Do you mind if we…” He gestures between us, indicating he wants the hit now, so he can get back to his busy life. It rubs me the wrong way.

I ignore him, turn over my palm, and bring up the recorder. I pretend to fuss with the settings and enter some data for a moment, just to make him wait. Then I start the recorder and hold my palm up to him.

“I need to record your acceptance of the transfer, Mr. Whitby,” I say for the record.

“Yes, yes, of course. I accept.” Technically, we’re supposed to record an acceptance acknowledgment with every transfer. In practice, repeat payoffs like Whitby have an acceptance on file and only have to renew it once a month.

“This transfer of biogenic debt-sourced life energy,” I intone in my most make-the-bean-counters-proud voice, “will result in temporarily enhanced heart rate, mental acuity, physical sense ability, and sensitivity to the environment.” Only the bean counters could make getting high on life energy sound so dull. “Longer term effects include sustained health benefits such as enhanced immune function and slower metabolic stasis rate.” Meaning payoffs live longer than the rest of us. “Adverse reactions occur in less than 1.5% of patients, but receiving the transfer carries a risk of fever, autoimmune disease, muscle tremors, and in rare cases, cardiac failure. Receiving the transfer is counter-indicated for patients with underlying heart disease. If you experience any of these symptoms, you should contact your physician promptly. Do you understand these precautions, sir?”

“Yes,” Whitby says to my palm recorder. His sunny, tolerant smile begins to fade. He knows I’m stretching this out. I’m enjoying his frustration, but I don’t want him to report me as being difficult to work with, so I skip ahead.

“There are no clinically significant pharmacokinetic drug interactions but patients are advised to avoid recreational or prescription drugs or alcohol for twenty-four hours after the transfer.” I’d never had a payoff go code blue on me, but it does happen. Usually to people who were using and abusing before they got approved for the hit, but somehow passed or faked the drug test. “Have you taken any recreational or prescription drugs in the last twenty-four hours, sir?”

“No, of course not.”

“Please indicate that you’ve received these instructions, understand, and accept them.”

“I accept.” His impatience tempers a little, now that he knows I’m not going to delay any longer. I tap my palm to stop the recording, then look up at him. He’s a good three inches taller than me, and substantially older than my twenty years, but all the hits have erased any sign of aging. He’ll probably outlive me by fifty years, maybe more.

I quickly press my right palm flat against his forehead, catching him off guard. His eyes go wide with concern, and I try not to smile. But then the transfer starts, and it kills any desire in me to smile. Ever again.

The transfer to a payoff is like the high in reverse. It’s a black abyss of despair that pulls on me deep inside. The life is literally being sucked out of me. My palm grows cold, my fingers curl into a cramp that makes them dig into Whitby’s perfectly combed not-a-speck-of-gray hair. It’s a good thing, because every part of me wants to pull back and run screaming from the room. I clench my other fist, locking it in place, resisting the urge to hit Whitby. It seems like an endless gut-wrenching time but in reality only lasts a few seconds. I timed it once.

I make sure to yank my hand free before the last ten percent of Mr. Henry’s debt is sucked out of me. That’s my cut, and I’ve earned it.

Whitby is grinning like he’s won the lotto, and I suppose he has. He bounces on his toes, full of energy. He shakes my hand again, fervently, thanking me like he means it, and I’m sure he does. His flawless, unwrinkled skin glows a little more. His eyes reflect the bright sun streaming through his high-above-the-smog windows. He’s fresh off the hit, and he’ll feel it for hours, plenty of time for his board meeting. Another win for cancer research.

My hand sneaks to grip my stomach. It aches like I haven’t eaten for three days. Sickness is rising in the back of my throat, and I know I need to make a quick exit, or I’ll lose my breakfast all over Whitby’s spotless white carpet. In spite of how I feel at the moment, I know this part will pass soon enough. I just need to get out of Whitby’s office—if I make a mess, I might lose the right to keep coming back for more. And the hits are something I need more than anything else on the planet, so I’m not screwing with it.

I turn and stride purposely out of my payoff’s immaculate office, hoping to get home before the shakes set in.

The shakes have mostly settled out, but I still take care not to spill as I fill all three shot glasses with pure Polish wódka, neat. The bottle wasn’t expensive, but it’s a step up from the stuff at the local liquor stop, which is only one shade away from rubbing alcohol and almost as deadly. Moe, Larry, and Curly stare at me from the glasses, their faces fixed forever in an approving smirk, a disgusted frown, and a wide-eyed dumbfounded look of shock, respectively. All three are apt reactions to my life, my profession, and the ritual the four of us are engaging in once again.

“Hello boys.” I salute them. “Made it home without losing my breakfast.” They’re still judging me with their looks, so I pick up Larry’s shot, throw it back, and slam it down, his look of frozen disgust turned away. The vodka burns, and I cough even though I expect it. The ten percent still buzzes inside me, and I know the life force is kicking against the alcoholic onslaught carving a liquid path of happy through my system.

I’ve already placed my order with Madam Anastazja for one of her high-end sex workers who cater to collectors. No familiar faces, I added online this time. It’s easier to get lost in a girl when I don’t know her face, yet. Lost is where I need to be right now, and I have just the recipe to get there. Wait till the nausea passes. Get a hot shower and a change of clothes. Stow my trenchcoat in the closet by the door until I need to dress the part of Death again. Do three shots with the boys to get me started, then spend an hour of tangled limbs and ecstasy in the sheets with the girl. Finally, split the rest of the bottle until we’re both so stupid drunk we don’t remember any of it.

It’s my routine, it makes me forget the spook and the fresh black mark on my soul, and I don’t mess with it. The next day, I’m back to normal, on the sort of even-keel that gets me through the day and the night and the day after that. Until I collect again.

Plus it saves me from drinking the entire bottle alone.

I placed my order a half-hour ago, so the girl will be here soon. I pick up Curly’s shot and down it, the burn already less, the smooth slide down my throat a great counterpoint to Curly’s look of shock. I place his shot glass upside down next to Larry’s.

“Don’t be shocked, old man,” I say as I turn him to face away. “Even in your day, getting drunk and getting laid were time-honored ways of forgetting.”

Shit. I’m talking to myself already.

I usually save Moe and his self-satisfied smirk for when the girl arrives, but I might need a double shot of Moe today, so I throw it back. Just as I’m refilling the glass, the front door tone sounds. I make a split-second decision to leave the glass full, hoping I’m not jinxing the whole thing, and launch off the couch to get to the door before she has to ring again.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before I open it, hoping I’m not already to the slobbering drunk stage. Anastazja’s girls are first-rate: they’re all here for the hit of life energy at the end, so they would probably nurse me through a bender, if necessary. But that’s not how I want this to go. It would snarl up my ritual.

My psych officer at the Agency would say I’m self-medicating and ritualizing. And she would be right. But at least I’m still here, still alive, and still collecting. And not crazy.

Except for that talking to yourself part.

I punch the button to open the door, and it slides to reveal the girl, standing in the hallway of my overcrowded apartment complex. She’s wearing a slick red-vinyl trenchcoat and red heels that make her six inches taller. I’m instantly wondering what’s under the coat, hoping for a minimal amount of anything, and forgetting my manners.

I blink. “Please, come in,” I say, like an idiot. Not that politeness is wasted on sex workers—it’s definitely not—but because I sound like I’m about fifteen and have never done this before.

She smiles too hard, like she’s not quite sure how much to dole out, then teeters past me into my tiny apartment. The scent of apples drifts past my nose as she walks by. Not the sickly sweet perfume that some of the girls wear—I think Anastazja gets a discount by the crate-full—or the heavy vanilla-and-sex scent that some of the more practiced girls wear. Apples. What sex worker wears apple perfume?

I decide I’m more drunk than I thought.

I close the door and follow her in. She’s already surveying the sparse contents of my flat. The worn leather couch. Curly and Larry down and Moe queued up on the low wooden table. The kitchen that’s barely more than a cold box built into the wall and a hot plate on the counter. And the doorway with no door to the bedroom, where my queen-sized bed fills half the room and where I’ll be spending most of the next hour with apple perfume girl.

She turns to me, and doesn’t say a word, just smiles uncertainly and looks me over with her big, brown eyes. Her skin is pale but flushed, like she’s hiked the four flights to my flat instead of taking the elevator. She’s pretty in a clean-scrubbed way that makes me a little weak in the knees. The vodka reminds me of its presence by igniting a small fire low in my belly. The girl takes a half-step closer, and her hands are working at the clasps for her slicker. They’re some kind of metal, oversized and bulky, making her look all locked up—which only turns the fire into a blaze that courses through my body in waves. Her eyes are deep chocolate brown and seem to be getting wider by the second; I’m already getting lost in them. I give a small prayer of thanks to Anastazja, but when I drag my gaze away from her eyes, I see she’s having a hard time getting the top clasp undone. Her hands are shaking.

I smile a little. “You’re new at this, aren’t you?”

She gets a panicked look on her face. “No! I’m… I’m here to have sex with you.” Her fingers trip over themselves trying to undo the buckle.

I can’t help grinning. “That’s… the general idea.” When I wrote No familiar faces, I should have been more specific and noted No rank amateurs either, please. What is Anastazja doing, sending this girl to me? Then I want to smack my forehead as I realize what’s going on.

“Hey,” I say softly, laying a hand across hers to still them. “It’s okay. You don’t have to take that off right this moment.” Anastazja’s girls are usually such pros, I forget some of them get nervous around collectors. They all want the hit or they wouldn’t work for Anastazja in the first place, but wanting it and being face-to-face with a collector who could drain the life out of you with a simple touch are two different things.

Her shoulders drop, and she lets her hands fall from the clasps and away from my touch.

“I’m a collector,” I say, gently fixing the clasp so it’s fully closed and not half-open the way she left it. “You’d be a pretty strange person if that didn’t freak you out a little. But I’m not going to hurt you.” I’m closer to her now, and I can smell the apples again. I let one hand fall safely away, but I brush her hair back from her face with the other, releasing another wave of the scent. It’s in her shampoo, I think.

“And you’re not pretty strange, just pretty.” I give her a small smile, and she is—her skin is almost translucent, and her cheeks curve up, leaving hollows for her blush. She may be new, but she’s clearly one of Anastazja’s girls. They all start out pretty to begin with, then get even better with all the life hits they earn in their trade. When I give her the hit, it will make her eyes shine brighter, her skin glow even more vibrant, and her body come alive with all those heightened sensitivities the warning label carries. The hit is just part of her payment—the rest gets deducted from my debit account—but it’s an aphrodisiac for both of us.

She tries to smile back, but it’s forced.

I pull my hand from her hair and brush the soft skin of her cheek as I go. “See? Not so scary.” I smile more strongly. “How about if I give you the hit first? It will help you relax, make it more fun.”

But instead of relaxing, she bunches up her shoulders again.

“It will be fun for both us,” I try again. “I promise.” The softness of her skin and the apple thing are starting to drive me a little crazy. I reach for her forehead, thinking if I can just get things started, she’ll start to feel it too, and it will all be good—

She leans back and smacks my hand away.

I frown and stare at my hand. What am I missing here? Usually the hit is the thing they want most… I look back to her. My face is probably a parody of Curly’s wide-eyed dumbfounded look of shock. I’m starting to think I’ve already gone into the bender and this is some kind of highly realistic but frustrating dream.

“I’ll have sex with you,” she repeats, “but I don’t want the hit. I want you to give it to someone else.”

Shit. Everything suddenly becomes clear, even through the alcohol-induced fuzz around my brain. She’s not after the hit, she’s after me. My face morphs into Larry’s disgusted frown in a heartbeat.

“Get out,” I say, low and angry.

She looks as if my words just smacked her in the face, which is almost comical.

Some people think they can lure debt collectors into a back alley and force them to do a transfer, either by sucking the life out of someone or transferring it into someone else; sometimes both. But the truth is you can’t force a collector to collect—it’s the kind of thing that only works when the collector is relaxed. It’s not a secret. In fact, it’s common knowledge, plastered all over every PSA announcement about debt collectors and drilled into us in training. But not everyone believes it and some are stupid enough to try anyway. They put a gun to a collector’s head, thinking they’ll motivate that collector to do whatever they want, but it doesn’t work. It’s like trying to pee when someone’s watching: a whole lotta nothing happens. Which usually means the collector ends up dead. Or tortured until dead. Or mutilated and left for dead. The possibilities are many and unpleasant, and I’m doing none of them with Apple Girl.

I take a step back, my disgust getting deeper. “Get out before I call the police.” I’d hate to do that to Anastazja, but she sent me a collector hunter, and she has to screen better than that if she wants to stay in business.

“No, wait, please,” the girl says, her big brown eyes doing a great job of looking genuinely scared and worried. Maybe the mob family she works for will hurt her when she returns empty-handed, but that’s not my concern. She’s nothing but bait that will get me killed.

“I’m counting to three, then I’m calling the police,” I say. Actually, I’ll count to three and throw her out. Then think about finding a new place to live. Collector’s addresses are kept off the grid for a reason.

“Please, I’m begging you!” She grips my arm, dropping awkwardly to one knee on the floor, her ankles twisting in her ridiculous shoes. Her fingernails are short and unpolished. This, plus her gracelessness above the six-inch heels bothers me, but I don’t know why.

“I need the hit for my sister,” she says. “My baby sister, she’s dying, and she needs it. Please just hear me out, let me explain…”

I pull out of her grasp, and she goes down completely, her hands smacking against the polished wood floor. A cracking sound comes from her feet, and part of me cringes, hoping it’s her shoe and not her ankle.

She doesn’t cry out in pain, so my anger surges back. “Now I know you’re lying!”

She’s sprawled on my floor, struggling to push off her shoes.

“Sick children are highest on the transfer list.” I’m breathing hard, the anger coming out in huffs of breath. “They’ve got sky-high potential. If you’re going to lie, at least make up a better one than that.”

I want to hit something. The bottle of vodka on the table beckons me, and a sensation sinks through me, like my cut of Mr. Henry’s life energy is draining down to my toes and leaking out of my body. The ritual is ruined. I’m going to drink that entire bottle by myself, and maybe the other one I have stashed in the kitchen, too. It feels like a punch to the stomach, and my eyes start to glaze. I don’t notice the girl again until I see her scrambling to her feet, spiky shoe in hand.

She throws it at me.

The shoe hits me square in the stomach, the sharp heel biting into my shirt and actually hurting like hell. I’m stunned.

“You jerk!” she yells at me and throws the other shoe. I manage to duck this time. “You stupid, mean, nasty jerk! You don’t know anything!”

I straighten and check if she has anything else to throw, choking back a laugh at her name calling. “Stupid, mean, and nasty?” Then I lose it a little and actually laugh. “Whoever you work for needs to teach you how to curse.” But as I say it, I know something’s wrong. Something about all of this is wrong, but I can’t put my vodka-buzzed finger on it.

She lets out a guttural growl, throwing both hands in the air and shaking her fists at something above her. I actually look up to the ceiling to see if there’s something there, but of course there’s just the light panels shining down on her.

“Who do you work for?” I doubt she’ll tell me, but it’s worth asking. I’d like to know who’s trying to capture and torture me into doing their collecting.

She stares at me. Angry tears have watered her cheeks, but she’s smeared them away. “Why do you care where I work?” She throws her hands out. “Why does that matter?” She looks at me like I just asked why she paints her toenails, which are bright red on her bare feet, but not her fingernails. As if I’m the crazy one, when she’s posing as a sex worker to entrap a collector, something only a demented person would do.

I look at her anew. She’s standing with her fists curled, her hair mussed on one side, in her bare feet. She’s sending me death glares. She’s not afraid—of me, of whoever sent her here, of anything. Instead of being afraid, she’s spitting-nails angry.

I’d be entirely within my rights to drain her life energy right now, at least enough to subdue her. Never mind that I’m half-drunk and pissed off, you don’t physically assault a collector without expecting at least the possibility of losing years off your life. That’s something no sane person would do, if they had a choice.

Maybe she doesn’t have a choice.

A flicker of something alive lights up inside me; this girl is brave. I’m not sure what she’s brave about, but she’s facing an impossible situation where she has no choice but to go up against a collector, and she does it with righteous anger. And thrown shoes. And weak curses.

If she’s the tool of a mob boss, I’m a choir boy.

“How old is your sister?” I ask.

She blinks, the anger dropping off her face like it never belonged there. “She’s… she’s ten.”

“No family?” I guess.

“No, our… our parents died a few years ago,” she says. “I take care of Tilly now.”

I bend down to pick up the shoe she threw at me, the broken-heeled one she nailed me with. I step to within a couple feet of her and hand it over. “How old are you?”

She takes the shoe and stares at it, then looks at me. “Does this mean… are you going to help me?”

“Are you going to dodge my questions?”

She swallows and straightens. “Does it matter how old I am?”

I repress a smile. Does she think I’m going to bust her for being an underage sex worker? I’m guessing she’s nineteen or twenty, but she could be less. I’m no good at gauging ages. “I suppose not.”

She grips the shoe in her hand and looks up into my face. She’s a lot shorter without the heels. “If you help my sister,” she says very solemnly, “I’ll have sex with you, just like I said.”

I take the shoe from her, break off the dangling, busted heel, and hand it back with a smirk. “Then we better go see if you actually have a sister.”

She turns red, then ducks her head and skitters across my apartment in her red vinyl slicker, looking for her other shoe.

I’m going to regret this. I know I am.

But as I watch her give a quick glance to the vodka bottle and shot glasses, I know the alternative is sitting on my couch and trying to drink away the memory of her apple smell. And that’s the kind of weekend where I end up pulling out a gun and thinking thoughts my psych officer would not approve of.

I think my odds are actually better with Apple Girl.

It’s strange to see that it’s still daylight outside. It feels like days have passed since I rode the Metro down to LifeLong to pay out to Whitby. Maybe because I had planned to spend the next few days hiding in my cave of an apartment. But instead, I’m back on the Metro with Apple Girl, hoping she’s not taking me on a long ride to a painful death. With each train station we pass, that seems less and less likely. There are plenty of mob bosses out in the east side where I live; they wouldn’t need to send me on a train ride out of town to torture me into collecting for them.

The car is half occupied, the rush-hour just starting, but Apple Girl’s in a row by herself, sitting by the window and watching the slum houses go by like it’s critically important that she burn each one into her memory. She’s avoided looking at me since we left my apartment. I’m standing near the train door, hand on a metal pole that holds up the thin, waist-high partition between us.

“What’s your name?” I ask. She glances at me, then crosses her arms across her red slicker. The movement reminds me that I still don’t know what’s underneath.

“Elena.” She looks back out the window.

I move around to her side of the divider, so I can talk to her without the entire train car overhearing. The rattle of loose windows and creak of the car as it rocks back and forth gives us a small amount of sound privacy.

“Thanks, Elena,” I say.

That finally draws her attention from the crumbling architecture whizzing by outside. She frowns. “Thanks for what?”

“For telling me your true name.”

She seems irritated by this. “I could be lying about that.”

She’s so bad at lying it makes me grin. I put my hand on the seatback and lean in to whisper in her ear, “I don’t think so,” just to provoke her some more. She scoots closer to the window, giving me a dirty look, and I pull back, internally chastising myself. I’m already on a very dangerous, slippery slope with her—liking the way she smells, the way she looks, the way she talks back to me and isn’t afraid.

“What’s your name?” she asks, and there’s that edge again. That defiance, like everything that comes out of her mouth is a direct challenge to something about me.

“Lirium,” I say automatically, then add, “That’s not my real name,” and instantly regret it.

“What’s your real name?”

I ignore her question, fold my arms, and lean back against the partition. That was a stupid mistake. I need to be more careful, not get taken in by her. Her story about her little sister on her death bed doesn’t hold up: those kids have their whole lives ahead of them. They can get the best medical treatment and still never use up all their future worth. Elena has something else—someone else—she wants this hit for, although she seems to be sticking to the little sister story for now. I don’t think she’s luring me into a trap, but I could still be wrong about that.

The rocking motion of the train fills the silence between us.

Just when she’s done glaring at me and about to look out the window again, I ask, “How did you find me?” Whether her story about her sister is true or not, if she can find me, another collector hunter can do the same.

“I didn’t find you,” she says, giving me an icy look. “Any collector would do.”

“Ouch.” I give a small smile. “I guess I should ask how you knew that Madam Anastazja serviced collectors. I’m going to guess that you didn’t just join one sex worker union after another until you found one that takes collector clients.”

She frowns and studies the hand rail next to the window, unfolding her arms and grasping onto it. I stare a little too long at her slender fingers working the metal of the bar, then drag my gaze back to her face and wait for an answer.

Finally, she says, “The nurses that take care of Tilly… I asked them if they knew any collectors. They didn’t.”

I nod. As a general rule, nurses don’t get friendly with the collectors who come to kill the patients in their care.

“But there was one,” Elena says, then stops and looks at me. “I don’t want to get her in trouble.” Her warm brown eyes once again convince me that she’s not leading me into a trap.

“I just want to know so I can decide if I need to change apartments once we’re through with our business.”

Her hand moves to the center clasp on her slicker. That’s not the business I meant, but I choose to ignore it.

“Why?” she asks, her voice turning sour. “Are you afraid more girls with sick sisters will find you and ask you for favors?”

I take a breath, close my eyes, and lean my head against the metal pole at the end of the partition, banging it lightly. She has no idea what could happen, but really, why would she? It’s not like most people think about what it’s like, the life of a debt collector. When I look back, the sarcastic scrunch on her pretty face is gone.

“Someone’s after you, aren’t they?” she asks, eyes wide. It’s like she’s concerned for me now—like I’m next in the endless line of people that she apparently worries about. This makes something soften inside me and, at the same time, razor scratches me like the heel of her shoe, which still stings where it cut me.

“Not someone in particular,” I say sharply. “Just any of several mob families. Or the families of anyone who has ever had a debt collected. Or anyone who wants an illegal hit that they’re not entitled to which could be used for better purposes in the world.” I make my words at the end point directly at her.

She flinches and pauses before saying, “I don’t think… I’m sure my nurse friend wouldn’t tell anyone else. And she doesn’t really know anything anyway. She only told me there was a madam on the east side who has collector clients. I figured the rest out for myself.”

I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head to show my skepticism. “So you did go to all the sex worker unions, one by one—”

“No,” she cuts me off. “I pretended to be a hit-seeker. It didn’t take long to figure out which madam would hook me up.”

“Didn’t Anastazja check your background?” I ask, mostly out of desperation. Now I’m wondering how many other times I’ve been rolling the dice and coming up lucky instead of dead with Anastazja’s girls.

“Yes.”

“And you fooled her?” I asked. “Where do you work, government records? You’re obviously not…” I wave my hand at her midsection, where she’s still clutching the clasp of her slicker.

“Not what?”

“Not an experienced sex worker,” I say. “What did you do, forge documents?”

“I told her the truth.”

That stops me cold. I stare at her, open my mouth, and close it again. “You told her about your sister?” I say, my brain still processing this new, highly improbable information.

“Yes.”

“That you have a dying sister and are seeking a hit for her?”

“Yes.”

Anastazja set me up. My face gets hot, and I’m thinking that I may not be able to return to my apartment after all. That my idea about going on this little adventure with Apple Girl and then returning to my normal life just got shot all to hell. I run my hand over my face and peer out the window, and only then notice that we’re nearly stopped.

Elena notices it too. She pushes quickly away from her window and shuffles past me. The train door slides open. I follow her as she darts around the partition.

“This is our stop,” she says breathlessly, hustling down the three steps to exit the train. She stops when she reaches the platform and turns to look at me.

I don’t move.

Fear flashes across her face. “Please,” she says, or I think she says it. I can’t hear her over the noise of the platform and the other passengers shuffling in the train car, but I see her lips move.

She says it again.

I should turn around, ride the Metro home, and start packing. I’ll have to, obviously, stop using sex worker services. There will be no more ritual, no more drinking and sexing away the blots on my soul. I’ll have to find some other way to get through the nights. I may have to relocate out of California altogether, and not just because Elena knows where to find me now. A whole lot of Anastazja’s other sex workers know who I am and could identify me on the street. If I can’t trust that Anastazja has cleared them, if she’s steering illegal hit-seekers to me, for God’s sake, I can’t trust anything anymore. I can’t remember the name of the debt collector who referred me to Madam A in the first place, but it doesn’t really matter. I need to call my psych officer, move, and find somewhere safe again. Whatever Elena’s problem is, whatever the truth is behind her dying-sister-story, she’ll have to deal with it on her own.

It’s not my business.

The train car doors start to close.

Suddenly I’m leaping through them, jamming my hand on the sharp edge of the door on the way. I stumble but catch myself before I splay out on the rough, rubberized surface of the station platform. I’m breathing hard and looking into Elena’s brown eyes, half convinced that something supernatural shoved me off the train. And fully convinced that I’m crazy to be doing this.

The relief is plain on her face. The train buffets us with wind as it whisks away.

Please don’t make me regret this, I think.

She shyly takes my hand, and I let her lead me away from the platform.

I thought my apartment was in the low-rent district, but Elena’s makes mine look spacious. From the front door, I can see the whole place, with different corners serving as kitchenette, bedroom, and living room. There’s only one bed, but on the couch, a miniature version of Elena is sleeping. The sofa appears to be her permanent residence, judging by the number of tattered, stuffed animals that stand guard around the perimeter of the cushions. The girl’s skin is gray, her eyes sunken, and if the blanket on her chest didn’t move with a tiny breath of life while I watched, I would swear she was already dead.

I’ll be damned. Elena has a sick sister, after all.

Elena tugs my arm, finger pressed to her lips, but it’s not like I’m in danger of saying anything. I’m still trying to process what I’m seeing. Elena urges me across the room, but not near the sister. There’s a door in the wall, and I think she’s going to take me into a closet, but when she slides it open, I realize it’s the bathroom.

We shuffle inside, but the bathroom is the size of a closet anyway. I press against the wall, and Elena scoots up on the edge of the sink, but we’re still knocking knees. Hers poke attractively out of the red slicker, which she’s trying to adjust so it doesn’t show any more leg. The coat squeaks loudly against the tile of the sink, so she stops moving and closes the door again.

“How…” I start, then stop. This makes no sense to my brain. “Why don’t you have her in the hospital?” I figure that’s the most logical place to start.

“She’s been in the hospital, off and on, for most of the last year. She has leukemia. I brought her home six weeks ago.”

“Why?”

“‘Why,’ Lirium?” she asks, her voice rising. “Why? Did you see her? She’s dying.”

“But, she’s so young,” I say, still not understanding. “She should be getting life force hits all the time. She should still be in the hospital, where they can give her proper care and keep trying new treatments. There are new treatments all the time…” As I’m speaking, I see the weakness of my words reflected in the growing anger on Elena’s face.

“They’re not giving her any new treatments, Lirium,” she says, her face getting closer to the color of her coat. “She’s not going to recover. She’s not going to live long enough to reach her potential, so she doesn’t make the list for the life hits. She’s not going to make it to adulthood. They know that. I…” She pauses like she’s choking on something. “Even I know that.”

I’m speechless. This shouldn’t happen. “But they should keep trying,” I say weakly. “Even if… even if they think she’s going to die, they should still keep giving her hits.” That’s how it’s supposed to go. That’s what I’ve always been told happens. That’s what should happen.

Her hands clench the side of the sink. They’ve gone completely white with how hard she’s gripping it. “I brought her home, Lirium, because if I didn’t, they were going to transfer her out.”

“They can’t—” My stomach feels like it’s sinking into a bottomless pit. “She’s a kid!”

Elena just looks at me, tears glassing her eyes.

“No one transfers out a kid.” I have to explain this to her, make her understand. There has to be some kind of mistake. “The law specifically states that no one under eighteen can be cashed out. There’s just too much potential, they can’t ever use it up. And no decent debt collector would do it anyway—” I stop and my stomach hollows out completely. Because I know—I know deep in the pit of my soul—that debt collectors aren’t decent.

Not even close.

I lean back against the wall, weakness spreading throughout my body. I can see it. Some debt collector that’s looking for that big hit. The doctors could be wrong; that kid might make it, and then they would score an entire lifetime in one hit. It would be… it’s crazy, actually. A recipe for almost certain madness and death. But I know there are collectors who would take the chance.

I place my hands flat on the wall behind me, feeling dizzy. The coolness of it seeps into my palms and reminds me that I’m not alone in the bathroom. That Elena’s watching me. The tears have finally made an appearance, trailing small rivers down her cheeks.

I have no idea what to say, so I just bring her into a hug while her body shakes the tears out. She doesn’t make a sound. I catch sight of myself in the mirror behind her, flat against the wall above the sink. I look like hell—eyes dull, cheeks too hollow. Like someone who’s been on one too many benders trying to forget what he does with his days.

I hold Elena until she stops moving and kind of eases into me. I keep holding her an extra few seconds until I can pull myself together and have something coherent to say. Then I lean back and look her in the face. Most of her tears have been wiped on my shirt already, but I brush away what’s left with my hand.

“I only have a few days.” My voice is a whisper. “My cut from the last transfer. It’s just ten percent of about six weeks.” I do the math in my head. “Just a little over 4 days.”

Her shoulders slump. “That’s all?”

I don’t know what she expected, but that’s all I have. There’s a painful wrenching in my stomach. I need to give her something more. “She’ll get the full four days of extra life, but she’ll feel better too. Right away. Right at the transfer. I… I’m sorry, that’s all I can do.”

She nods, staring at the spots on my chest where her tears have stained it. Then she looks up into my eyes. “Thank you.”

Her sad look is killing me so I lean over to punch the button to open the door and pull her out into the one-room apartment with me. I walk slowly over to the sister. I can’t remember her name… wait, it’s Tilly. She’s in the same state as we left her. I kneel next to her at the couch, suddenly unsure. I’ve never paid out to a sick person before; that’s a whole level of debt collector above me. It requires special training and supervision by doctors. What I’m about to do is completely illegal on several fronts—mercy hits are strictly forbidden; unsupervised medical needs transfers are illegal unless it’s an emergency; and I’ve already paid out Mr. Henry’s debt, except for my own cut. That’s the least of my sins, giving away my own ten percent. It’s well known that debt collectors barter away their cut all the time. It’s not legal, but you’re not likely to go to prison for it either. Mostly because it’s small time: a day or two.

Or four.

It’s not enough. As I look down at Tilly’s sunken cheeks and gray skin, I know it’s nowhere near enough.

Elena crouches next to us.

“Can you wake her?” I ask. “I don’t know… I’ve never paid out to someone who wasn’t conscious.”

Elena nods and gently touches Tilly’s face, petting her cheek and calling her name. The girl sleepily opens her eyes and blinks several times. Finally, she hones in on my face. A tiny, adorable frown shows up between her eyes.

“Who are you?” Her voice is just an echo, the remnant of something stronger.

“My name is Joe.”

“Hi Joe.” Until I hear her say it back, I don’t realize I just gave her my real name.

I swallow. “Hi.”

“Are you the debt collector?” There’s a tremble in her voice.

I shoot a look to Elena, and the lack of shock tells me she already told Tilly her plans. Or at least a portion of them.

“Yes, but I’m here to help you,” I say to Tilly. There’s something about her large brown eyes—like her sister’s, only more world-weary than any ten-year-old’s should be—and I want to tell her everything. “I collected the debt of a man named Mr. Henry. He didn’t have a lot of time left, but he wanted you to have it.” He would have, if he knew. I’m sure of it.

She gives a weak smile. “That’s really nice.”

I’m finding it hard to speak over the lump in my throat. “Yeah. It is.” I take a breath. “I’m going to touch your forehead, okay? It’s not going to hurt. In fact, it should feel kind of good.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t know whether I’m telling the truth about the pain, but that it doesn’t matter to her. I can only imagine how much pain she’s already had to deal with in her short life.

She nods, and I lay my palm on her head.

It’s only four days, so the transfer is quick, but I still feel it, a pull from the very center of me, draining out, leaving through my hand and moving into her. But it doesn’t hold the deep despair I normally experience. I don’t cramp up or feel like ripping my hand off so I can run from the room. It’s there, I feel it, but it’s not… bad. Just emptying, and there's something else, something warm, in its place. I sense when all of my cut has drained into her, but I don’t pull my hand away. I want to give her more; just a little more. I’m not even sure why. I can’t give her enough to heal her. I don’t have enough in me, even if I drain every day of my life and give it to her. It wouldn’t be enough to overcome the disease without something more, like a cure or medical treatment.

But I want to give her more than four days.

I pulse life energy into her, and suddenly it’s gushing more than I expect. It’s emptying me, and the warm feeling in my chest is growing with it. I quickly pull my hand free of her head. I’m not sure how much I’ve transferred to her. More than four days for sure. Maybe a few weeks? It’s hard for me to tell. I’ve never done this before, never dipped into my own life force. I look at my arm, where the tracker is buried deep inside. That could cause some serious problems later, but I can’t think about that as nausea hits me in a slow, rolling wave. I teeter a little, but when I look at Tilly, all of that is forgotten.

Her cheeks have lost the gray and are shining with rose, almost like she’s a painted doll with too much blush. The dark circles have disappeared from her eyes, and a little smile is playing on her lips. I glance at Elena; she’s covering her mouth with her hand, smiling and crying at the same time.

“Hey, Joe,” Tilly says. Her voice is clear, not trembling like before. “You were right. It does feel good.” Her broad smile does something to my insides. I scramble up and stumble toward the bathroom.

I’m breathing hard, bent over the sink, and I think that maybe I’m going to throw up, but it’s not that kind of feeling. The warmth inside me has grown—it’s a fullness, a brightness, like I’m holding a small sun inside my chest. After a moment, I decide it actually feels good.

I look in the mirror again.

If I looked like hell before, now I look like I’ve got one foot in the grave. The circles are under my eyes now, instead of Tilly’s, and my cheeks are even more sunken. The wave of nausea hits me again, and I double over. I’m not going to throw up, but my legs don’t feel steady, so I push away and sink to the floor, bracing my back against the wall.

I feel like shit, but I don’t regret it. Not a bit. That fiery hot sun inside is burning me and filling me. It’s good and clean and pure. I’ve never felt anything like it. It's better than a life hit, not jittery with the energy of a hundred men. It fills a hole I didn’t know I had, and it burns with a righteousness that frightens me. I’d give away my own life, every day and year of it, to keep hitting that feeling again and again.

Part of me wants to crawl back into the room and give Tilly more.

I rub my face, and it hits me. The repeated warnings we got in training about mercy hits, why they’re so strictly off-limits. Mercy hits aren’t just illegal, they’re wildly addicting.

Elena comes to the doorway, and I hesitate to look up at her. I’m shaken, and I don’t want her to see me this way, but suddenly she’s on the floor with me, straddling my legs and grabbing my cheeks with her hands.

Her lips attack mine, devouring me. She buries me in her apple-scented hair. My hands fly up to hold her, my mouth responding before I even realize what’s happening. My knees slide down, making room for her body as she presses it against me. The crinkling vinyl of her coat rides up past her hips, and the metal clasps scrape against my chest. Her tongue invades my mouth, and I taste her, all sweetness and heat.

I want this, all of this. I need this like a drowning man needs air.

She pulls away, and it feels like being ripped in two. My chest is heaving, and I’m light-headed with all of it. I look at her soft brown eyes. I want this more than anything I’ve ever wanted before, with more wanting than I knew was possible. I would give anything for this. I would give everything for this. I would give until I had nothing left, and I would die a happy man. But I would still be dead.

I understand why the mercy hits are forbidden.

Elena smiles and arches backward to reach the button to close the door, putting her body on display for me. My hands hold her waist. My eyes drink in her bare legs and the white-lace panties peeking from under her coat. My mouth waters with need.

She succeeds in closing the door, turning back with a smile. Her hands tug on the clasp that’s ridden up to her waist, working to get it open.

I have to get out. I have to leave now. Or I’m never going to.

I grab her wrists to stop her. She looks at me with questioning eyes. My body is weak, and I’m barely able to lift her off me. I have to grab the edge of the sink to pull myself up to standing.

Elena’s watching me from the floor. “Are you okay?” she asks, negotiating the vinyl coat until she’s standing as well.

Am I okay? No. I’m very not okay.

“Don’t,” I say, my breath wheezing even worse than I expected. I hold up my hand to keep her at a distance, as much as is possible in the cramped bathroom. “Don’t ever contact me again.”

“But I…” She looks confused, then very serious. “But I promised.”

She thinks she owes me the sex. I almost laugh, but I’m afraid I might lose my resolve. I wave her off and brace myself on the doorjamb as I punch the button to open the door. My legs don’t seem to be working right, and I nearly fall as I hobble out of the bathroom.

“The hit is on the house,” I say as I head for the front door. I’m gaining speed by the time I get there, but she’s right behind me.

“Joe!” She’s keeping her voice low, probably so she doesn’t alarm Tilly. “Wait!”

I'm halfway through the door, when she stops me by grabbing my hand. It’s warm and soft and the feel of her lips and body on mine floods my senses. It almost works. I almost stay.

I push her hand away and clench my fists to keep myself from taking it again. I look her in the eyes. “Don’t call me. Don’t find me. Don’t… just don’t. I can’t see you again.”

That last part is the honesty, and I will her to hear it. I can’t do this. I can’t. It will kill me.

I lurch out of her doorway, and I’m relieved when I get all the way to the elevator without her saying anything. I don’t look back and take a detour to the stairs so I don’t have to stop my forward momentum, one step at a time, carrying me away from the hot, burning temptation that fills that tiny apartment.

I fight the tremors and the nausea and the aching desire to turn back during the whole Metro ride home. It’s not until I slam open my door and pound back three shots of Moe that I think I might be safe. I throw the shot glass across the room, and it smashes into a thousand invisible shards on the floor. I start drinking straight from the bottle.

Eventually, the vodka takes me, and I know I’m safe for the moment. Safe from the temptation because I couldn’t get up off the couch if I wanted to.

When I come off the bender, I’ll find a new place to live.

And then I’ll start working on forgetting the apple-scented girl who almost killed me.

I hear the screams as soon as the elevator doors open.

It’s a woman—I know that even before the high-pitched sound jerks me to a stop. I’m frozen inside the elevator, my jackboots welded to the floor, my hand braced against the stainless steel wall. The liquid-metal feel of it chills my palm. My right palm. The one I’m going to use on the woman whose wails are bouncing off the walls of the oncology ward. We all come into the world in this agony: first our mothers scream their pain, then we wail our own in that first breath of life. It’s a wonder more of us don’t leave the world the same way.

Mrs. Riley is screaming because I’ve come to collect her debt.

I shudder, and it vibrates my hand against the wall. I should call my psych officer, tell her I’m sick. It wouldn’t be a lie. I’ve had a couple of vodka benders since my most recent collection, and the last time I looked, I resembled a half-animated corpse. But drinking my way through the week isn’t what’s drained the life out of me. Vodka doesn’t make me feel like the marrow has been sucked out of my bones, as if they’re empty of life and might snap if I take too vigorous a jog to the bathroom.

That hollow feeling is the hangover I get for giving a mercy hit to a dying girl; a hit that almost killed me. Some mornings I almost wish it had, but then I see that thought for what it is: a one way ticket to the madhouse the psych officers call The Retirement Home. Even on a good day, collecting feels like playing roulette. Red, I’m good for another day. Black, and I’m free-falling into a bottomless pit. Today doesn’t feel lucky. I should get another debt collector to take my place, but the truth is, I need my cut. I need to fill out my bones before I break altogether.

The doors start to close. I bang my hand against the edge to stop them and lurch through the open space before I can change my mind.

The screams fade, and I beat back the hope they’ve finally calmed her. The nurses try—I can’t fault them for not always succeeding in an impossible task. Preparing someone for collection has to be the shortest straw in nursing assignments. They don’t send newly minted nurses on collection prep rounds, but the senior nurses are savvy enough to get out of rotations before I show up. That means the nurses on duty are usually young enough to be pretty and experienced enough to know what they’re doing.

Just the kind a guy like me would enjoy spending time with outside the hospital—except they all give me the same level of interest they would give the Grim Reaper. I don’t blame them. Everyone looks at collectors that way, and nurses have more cause than most. They witness what I do first-hand.

I lumber past the nurses’ station, empty no doubt because everyone’s been summoned to Mrs. Riley’s room. My boots are finally broken in, so they don’t squeak. The only sound is the slight irregular rhythm of my steps. I can’t tell if I’m favoring one side or the other; my entire body complains as I move, the plodding of a man with fifty years more than my actual twenty.

I mentally review Mrs. Riley’s file as the room numbers tick by, counting down to number 530. She’s one of the unlucky ones, not that anyone I visit could be termed lucky. Mrs. Riley, forty-two years old, mother of one (I’m not sure if it’s a boy or girl; the file doesn’t say). Just recently took out a business loan for her new start-up, leveraging everything she had, and then some, on the promise of future earnings. A life filled with potential ahead of her. Mrs. Riley had an MBA from some big school that specializes in that sort of thing. She had a business plan. It was a smart loan. She just came up black on the roulette wheel and got cancer right in the middle of the collapse of the textiles industry in India, her biggest supplier. It wasn’t her fault her potential got cut short at the exact same time all her bills came due.

The bean counters are the ones who tallied up her debt, I tell myself. I’m just the collector. Each silent step across the polished tiles of the hallway inches up my hope that they’ve calmed her somehow. I reach Mrs. Riley’s door just as the screams start again.

I freeze at the threshold, blasted by the full impact of the sound.

Three nurses hold Mrs. Riley down. She’s shaken loose one of her IVs. It snarls around the snow-white shoes of the redheaded nurse holding Mrs. Riley’s shoulders, dripping a puddle on the floor. They’ve tried to strap her down, but only half succeeded. She has one leg trapped by the three-inch-wide nylon webbing across her knee, while the other leg kicks at a nurse trying to catch it. A wide reflow strap across Mrs. Riley’s chest pins one arm down, but the other flails free. The strap is one of those new materials that separates then recombines into one solid piece again, depending on how you tug on it, but the struggle has turned it into a sticky-tape mess. The nurse leans away, face scrunched, as Mrs. Riley claws at her with the free hand. The nurse seems inexperienced in dealing with frantic patients facing a visit from a debt collector.

Sedatives are only allowed when the patient requests it. Otherwise, the law specifically states that patients are entitled to meet the debt collector and live every moment right up to the end. Prisoners on death row get the same courtesy. Never mind that it would be a lot easier to collect a debt from someone who has the life in them muted by drugs. The point was to make it hard on the collector—at least that was the consensus when the laws were written. Collecting should be justified, rare, and above all, difficult. Then people—especially politicians who want to be re-elected—can talk about how collecting is humane. But then there aren’t any lawmakers who have to collect the debt themselves.

Mrs. Riley’s face is contorted with rage, but I can still see the hollows of her cheeks and the ravages of the failed cancer treatment in her lack of hair and the paper-thinness of her skin. The screaming stops when she sees me in the doorway with my black trenchcoat and boots. She gives me a look that would shrivel the heart of any ordinary person. It bounces off me like I’m made of steel, but I’ve seen that look before, and it doesn’t bode well for the collection. Better to get this done quickly.

I stride into the room, full of purpose.

All three nurses hold still, as if frozen by the soft sound of my footfalls. I march straight to the head of Mrs. Riley’s bed and stand just out of her reach.

The inexperienced nurse recovers first. “I’m sorry, Lirium, we tried—”

I stop her with a raised hand, and her eyes go wide, as if I had wrapped my fingers around her windpipe. Whatever she was going to say wouldn’t help with the patient, but I regret having to cut her off. The nurses know me, but they don’t generally chat me up, much less apologize for not convincing a patient to go easily to their death. They keep their distance, and I let them. But in spite of my best efforts, I feel something when she says my name. It’s just my collector name, but still: it tugs at me.

I’ve been holed up in my apartment too long.

“Mrs. Riley?” I focus on her anger-mottled face, but I don’t wait for a response. “I promise this isn’t going to hurt, ma’am.”

Her mouth works, but she doesn’t say anything, like she doesn’t have words for the outrage. I don’t tell her it will be a relief. I don’t say that her debt will go to someone who will do great things with her life energy. Someone full of potential to make the world a better place. Someone just like her, only who came up red on the roulette wheel instead. I simply turn over my left palm, the one I used to silence the nurse, and activate my screen implant. I bring up the recorder and turn it back to the patient, face out.

“Mrs. Riley, I need to record your final statement, if you’d like to make one. It’s optional, ma’am, but if you’d like to make one, please feel free to take your time.” I lean a little closer, to make sure she can see the recorder already started in my palm. She should see her image, bald and trembling. Sometimes seeing themselves, ravaged by their disease and on the path to death anyway, will shock them into compliance. Or perhaps despair. It doesn’t take much to tumble down that deep, dark well, as I know too intimately.

Just as I think she’s going to be the kind that refuses to admit what’s happening, Mrs. Riley tears her free arm from the inexperienced nurse and sails it toward my hand with the recorder. I think she’s going to hit my hand, maybe hoping to make a poetic last statement of sorts by destroying the recorder, but instead her bony fingered fist slips past the recorder and punches me in the face.

I reel back, even more shocked than I am injured. The strength of the dying always surprises me. As if life conjures some extra battalion of energy right at the end. The nurse holding down Mrs. Riley’s leg gives up that fight and edges toward me, hesitating. The wide-eyed look on her face, plus the metallic taste of blood in my mouth, tells me Mrs. Riley managed to split my lip or something. I wipe my face with my right hand, and it comes away bright red. Facial wounds—they always bleed like you’ve cut a major artery. My lip starts to throb just as Mrs. Riley screams again, limbs flailing against the nurses’ hold once more.

I don’t hesitate and she doesn’t see me coming. I slam my right palm on her forehead and push her head deep into the pillow. It slides a little, greased by my blood, but I maintain the contact and start the transfer.

My hand heats immediately, her life energy pulsing into my palm and up through my arm. She stops flailing, her arm and leg dropping as if she’s been knocked unconscious, but she’s not. She’s awake and staring at me with wide-eyed horror. I know what she’s feeling now. I know the life-stealing blackness that crowds her vision and the despair that fills her chest with darkness. I know because I feel it. Every damn time I have to pay out.

Mrs. Riley will only feel it once.

In that way, she may be lucky after all.

Her life energy pulses stronger in me now, juicing me, a high like no other. My body pulls it faster and faster, like it’s starving for the liquid-rush feeling and can’t get enough. My palm is hot with the transfer, too hot, and I realize that Mrs. Riley had longer to live than the bean counters calculated. Not a tremendous amount, just a month more than their estimated two weeks. But it’s enough to fill me with an unexpected burst of energy that has my hand shaking. I have to push her head deeper into the pillow to make sure I keep contact through the last drip of life force draining from her body.

It’s a blissful feeling—and it fills my bones.

Mrs. Riley’s eyes are still open, but there’s no life behind them. I pull my hand back, leaving a bloody handprint with five bloody fingers on her hairless head. My stomach heaves, a violent storm of disgust and jittery-high brewing and threatening to bring up my breakfast. The nurses are silent. Motionless. I hear the distant ding of the elevator arriving, calling me, and I have to leave the room.

I shove the nurse who almost came to my aid out of my way, probably less gently than I could have, in my haste to get out. Mrs. Riley’s life energy is pulsing through me, making my steps fast and unsteady. I reach the elevator just as it’s about to close again and slip through the doors. I stalk to the back of the stainless steel box then turn and pace the perimeter, a tight circle that keeps bringing me back to the polished surface of the walls. They reflect a warped image of my bloodied face. I stop, wipe my chin with the back of my hand, and pace again. My stomach drops as the elevator moves, whisking me away to some floor, and I realize I forgot to hit the button.

I turn to face my reflection and punch that instead.

Pain lances up my arm, and the stainless steel dents in. I jerk back and see the dimpled impression my fist left behind—along with a smear of my blood. The elevator sways to a stop, and it’s enough to unsteady me. I fold in on myself, my trenchcoat fanning around me as I curl around my injured hand and sink to the floor. Whoever was going to come into the elevator doesn’t. The doors close again. I still haven’t pushed the button.

I’m staring at the abyss and I know: I’m in serious trouble.

I sit across from my psych officer, Candy Kane Thornton, and try like hell to look normal. I’m not exactly sure what normal is, or what Candy’s typing into her palm screen after she glances at me, but I need to avoid the “you look like shit” response as well as the long, drawn-out sigh that usually precedes the “What am I going to do with you, Lirium” lecture. I need a change in my collection duties, but I don’t want her to think she has to retire me. Or worse, somehow discern that I’ve done an illegal mercy hit. I haven’t been to see Flitstrom, the bean counter, so he hasn’t had a chance to find any anomalies in my tracker from the mercy hit. Candy can’t see how much life force I’m carrying just by looking at me, but then I can never tell what she’s really thinking. She approved a new apartment for me on the east side just two weeks ago, so she knows something is up.

Candy taps her palm screen one more time and folds it in her lap. Her bright red nails are long, pointed daggers that sprout from her fingers. I have no idea how she navigates the screen embedded in her hand without drawing blood. That thought reflexively draws my hand up to my face. I cleaned up, but I still look like I’ve been in a bar fight. I cover the motion by running my hand through my hair and returning Candy’s stare. My split knuckles are taped together with a series of small band-aids from the hospital. They’re like little white arrows pointing to how messed up I am. Candy’s gaze is drawn to them, then returns to staring at me in a silent standoff. I’ve never figured out if her crazy-green eye color comes from contacts or implants, but they’re unnerving. Her too-red hair curls on her black suit jacket, which is low-cut, tight, and reveals a tattoo on her breast that I should only know about if we’re dating.

Candy doesn’t do demure.

She’s waiting for me to speak first. I did call and request the meeting after all.

I clear my throat. “So,” I say, with extreme articulateness. “I was thinking about maybe getting some medical needs training. Um, you know, if there are slots open.” My voice is a wreck, and I sound like an idiot.

Candy doesn’t say anything for moment. Then she says, “You look like hell, Lirium.”

Shit. “Rough collection.” I hope she buys it. It’s the truth, after all, and that makes for the best lies.

Candy nods her head.

“So, I was thinking that medical needs training would be, you know, something new. I could use a change of pace.” I would still have to collect, but if I trained for medical needs payouts, maybe it would fill some of the holes I’m carrying around in my soul. I would be saving lives, not just taking them. I flash back to the burning-hot feeling of goodness that came after the mercy hit. Giving Apple Girl’s dying sister a life force hit gave me a taste of something that I wanted. Needed. Badly. Medical needs transfers go to people who have high future potential, but who need the life energy hit to carry them through an operation or treatment they’re undergoing… maybe it would give that same pure feeling of goodness afterward. It had to be better than paying out to perfectly healthy people who happened to be high potentials.

Candy gets up from behind her desk, which is shiny black and reflects the bleak white light from the overhead panels. Her office is in the seedy section of the east side of Los Angeles, but the interior looks like an art deco installation in Manhattan. The desk and chairs are spare and lacquered, and bio artwork on the wall oozes a blood-red gel in constantly changing shapes, but the rest of the tiny room is stripped of any personal effects. There’s nothing to indicate that Candy has a life outside of this oasis of retro slickness, and I can’t imagine her anywhere but inside these walls.

She trails her fingernails along the desktop, dragging out a scritching sound that makes my teeth ache. She sits on the edge in front of me, legs bared from her too-short skirt, and she brushes my pants leg with her foot in an accidentally casual motion that’s entirely intentional. Her bright red heels click as she crosses her ankles. I know other collectors have psych officers who force them to do all kinds of things, just to keep out of retirement. I keep waiting for the day Candy asks me to play sex worker for an afternoon, but it hasn’t happened yet.

She towers over me. I’m slouched in her chair, still folded up, like back in the elevator. I shift in my seat, straightening, but I still only come up to her chest. I try hard not to stare and mostly succeed.

“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 a 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, pressing 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?”

I nod. It almost felt like no transfer at all, just an emptying. Not unlike the mercy hit I did. “But what about the bean counters? This,” I gesture between us again, “has got to completely mess them up.” I’m also wondering about the mercy hit, and how that will show up on the tracker. Candy doesn’t want me to check in with Flitstrom until tomorrow, but I’d like to know what to expect before I get there.

“The tracker counts every second of life energy that you transfer, yes?” she asks.

“Right.” That was Lesson One in training.

“Wrong.” She has that twinkle again. “I know you’re a guppy, Lirium, but really? Haven’t you wondered if anyone has ever tampered with their trackers?”

I scowl at her. This ‘guppy’ thing needs to stop. “Some collectors might not mind someone digging into their arm to mess with their tracker, or care if they risk an early retirement if they get caught. I’m not interested in either of those.”

She chuckles lightly. “You are so straight.”

My scowl is threatening to turn into a snarl. She gives my arm an apologetic pat, and her warm fingertips cause drops of sensation to pulse through me. I’m so reactive to her, I have to wonder if it’s a side effect of the boost. It’s making me feel more alive than I have in… well, since that mercy hit.

I need to know more about all of this. “So the boost doesn’t get tracked?”

“Nope, it’s completely off the tracker, because it’s between two collectors.” She taps a light rhythm on my arm that is completely distracting, but I manage not to glance at it. “Did you know that collectors can transfer with more than just, shall we say, the conventional position of palm-to-forehead?” Her fingers continue to dance on my arm, and her gaze lingers there. “In fact, an accomplished collector can collect anywhere with anything. All you need is a little body-to-body contact.”

Her hand stills on my arm, and she looks into my eyes. My heart lurches as I realize what she’s saying, and I jerk my arm away from her touch.

She smiles. “I could have drained you completely with that yummy kiss, lover. If I was going to hurt you, I would have done it already.”

The small hairs on my arm are already standing up, as if they’ve figured out—way ahead of me—how much of a shark she really is.

“What do you want from me?” I can’t help leaning slightly away from her.

She gives an elaborate sigh. “I’m here to help you, but I can see it’s not going to be easy to convince you of that. It might help you to know I’ve kept Candy happy for years by helping her train up her guppies, keeping them from going belly up before their time.”

“Candy’s your psych officer?” This makes more sense to me now.

“And Candy gets what Candy wants.” Ophelia gives me a grim smile. “Don’t be what Candy wants, Lirium. That’s my first piece of advice for you.”

“There’s more?”

She glances around the apartment, raises an eyebrow at my bandaged knuckles, and finally looks me in the eyes. “Lay off the booze. If you want to get high, find a collector and ride the merry-go-round. Clean life hits will serve you better any day of the week. Just make sure it’s a collector you trust.”

“I don’t trust you.”

She smiles wide. “Yes you do, baby. Or you wouldn’t have been stealing kisses from me.”

“That was before I understood what you are.”

She presses a fine-fingered hand to her chest. “Oh, baby, you wound me! After all I’ve done for you.” She’s got a Cheshire grin now, but then the wattage fades. “I mean it, Lirium. Be careful who you boost with. And make sure you don’t sleep with any collectors. Boosting’s tricky enough with the conventional position and someone you trust. It gets a lot more difficult to, ah, control when you’re between the sheets and otherwise occupied. I don’t need to draw you a map about that, do I?”

My eyes must have gone wide, because she nods sharply. “That’s a dangerous business, baby. Don’t do it. It’s a lot safer to use sex workers to scratch that itch.”

I swallow. Definitely out of my depth with Ophelia, but I’m starting to believe that she’s not actually going to eat me, even if she’s a bigger shark than I thought.

“I’m not sure sex workers are all that safe, either,” I say.

“How so?” Her face scrunches, but she must have thought of the danger already.

I’m not ready to tell her the truth, so I go vague. “What if they’re not screened? What if they sell your address to the highest bidder?”

Her eyes go round and large. “You have sex workers come to your apartment?”

I’m feeling more like a guppy by the minute. She runs a delicate hand over her face, then glances at the door. “Have you had one here?”

“No,” I say quickly. “That’s why I moved. I haven’t had anyone here, in the new place… except you.”

I can see the tension fleeing her body. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we? I’ll hook you up with a madam who doesn’t do house calls.”

“You’re hooking me up with sex workers?” I give her a bemused look. “Was that part of Candy’s plan to rehabilitate me?”

“Candy doesn’t know jack about collectors.” She pats my arm again, and surprisingly, I don’t flinch. “If it were left up to her and her lascivious incompetence, they’d all wash out. And I’d hate to see a cute thing like you go into early retirement.”

That makes two of us.

She gives a large sigh. “I think that’s enough training for one night, sweet thing.” She climbs off the couch and sways toward the kitchen. “I’m starved. Missed dinner tonight because I had to do a collection. What have you got for eats around here?”

I cringe as she disappears into the kitchen. After a moment I hear the refrigerator open. The tap-tap sound of her boots impatiently beating my tiled floor drifts in.

“Lirium, Lirium, Lirium,” she calls from the kitchen. She comes to the door and peeks around it, holding onto the wall. “You’re out of ice cream.”

“Really?” I ask with a smirk. “I just got some last week.”

“Looks like you need to make a grocery run, lover.”

I grin and climb to my feet. In the span of less than fifteen minutes, Ophelia has boosted me high on life force, kissed me but refused to bed me, then lectured me on the finer points of transfers and trackers. She’s taking over my place like she’s lived here for years, and the strangest part is that I’m starting to enjoy it.

I’m going to have to figure out where the grocery store is after all.

I couldn’t decide between Rocky Road and Vanilla, so I pulled both from the frosted freezer case at the convenience store. Now I’m staring at them and debating which one to put back. Ophelia told me to get Rocky Road, but I’m not sure my stomach can handle more than Vanilla right now, not with Mrs. Riley’s life energy, the boost from Ophelia, and my own residual lack of eating mixed into the turbulence. I should just get both.

I haven’t had ice cream since I was a kid. We didn’t have much, my mom and me, growing up on the east side, with her working two jobs just to keep us afloat and ahead of the debt collectors. I only clearly remember one ice cream event in my life, and it’s from when I was very young. Maybe my dad was still around, or maybe the world just seemed brighter because I was such a little kid and didn’t know anything about it, but I clearly remember a mountain of ice cream, a forest of spoons, and a dozen of my friends. We attacked that thing like consuming it was a moral imperative straight from God.

“Hey pal!” a voice sounds behind me. “You okay?”

I blink. I’ve been staring at the refrigerator case, clutching two pints of ice cream in my hands, for… I’m not sure how long. The crusty ice on the outside of the containers is sliding off and dripping on my boots. I haven’t thought about my childhood, at least not the good parts, for so long that for a moment I think maybe I am starting to lose my mind. Or maybe it’s an after-effect of the boost.

Ophelia. There’s something about her that’s triggering this happy desire to run out and buy ice cream for a girl I just met. Only she’s not just a girl, she’s a collector who’s more shark than girl. And more woman than either. She’s something good. I can feel it.

She might save me after all.

I swap my melting ice cream pints for fresh ones from the case, then turn to wave one at the convenience store clerk, so he doesn’t call the police to come get the demented guy by the freezer. I work my way forward through the store, my gaze roaming the dusty shelves of snack foods for anything else Ophelia might want. I grab a bag of cookies that look like they might go with the ice cream, and if they don’t, they’ll make good snacks for later. I’ll have to get some real food soon if I’m going to be feeding two.

I smile, hands full, all the way to the front. The clerk is a wiry guy with more hair on his face than his head and a dour look that makes me think he has a gun under the register. I should have checked out the neighborhood more before I moved here. While he packs my stuff in a double layer of plastic bagging, I dig out my debit card. It’s the one we’re issued in training, so we can stay off the grid. All our collector salary goes on the card, and purchases with these aren’t supposed to register on the central databases, just on a special, secure server accessible only to the Agency higher ups. Even our psych officers have to request information, and then only if they have to track down one of their errant collectors.

The clerk swipes my debit card past the check-out scanner and hands it back to me.

“Thanks, man,” I say.

He nods a gruff acknowledgment. I swing my groceries in one hand and stuff my debit card in the pocket of my trenchcoat with the other. The cool air outside is a welcome change from the musty smell of the store, and I stride across the darkened street. The sun is setting, turning the urban canyons of my neighborhood into a patchwork of shadows and dying sunlight that’s shifted blood-red through the smog.

I don’t notice the shadows are moving until three of them melt from the alleyway and surround me—two in front, and when I glance back, another behind. The first time I take a walk in this neighborhood, and I’m about to get mugged for ice cream. Fantastic.

Maybe I should start carrying a gun. The Agency issued me a license in training for self-defense, but I never thought it wise to actually have one around my apartment. There were too many weekends where I spent my time fighting off personal demons for ready access to a weapon to be a good thing.

The men are muscular and dressed in rugged workpants and lumpy hoodies that make them look misshapen. Their boots crunch the dirt and broken gravel of the alley. I’m only thirty feet from my apartment door, which is just around the corner at the end of the alley. I might be able to outrun them, but the two bigger ones are between me and my apartment complex. I edge backward, knowing the other one is still behind me. Maybe I can just give them my ice cream and debit card. They won’t recognize the card for what it is; it looks like any other. Maybe they’ll beat me up a bit, but then they’ll move on…

“There’s nowhere to go, collector,” one in front of me says. “You might as well come with us, peaceful like.”

Shit. They know who I am. How can that be? My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. I grip the plastic bag tighter in my hand. I have to fight them. A quick death in the shadows would be better than an extended torture session while they try to get me to collect for them. And if I fight, I might get lucky and break free long enough to make it back to my apartment. Barricade myself inside. Call the police.

Shoes scuff behind me. The guy is close. I turn and swing the ice cream as hard as I can. They’re twin rocks at the end of my plastic rope, and they cold-cock the guy. He goes down hard. I’m on him, palm pressed to his forehead, just in case that cracking sound wasn’t his skull actually breaking. A surge of energy pulses into me, a blinding flash that whites out the world for a split-second then brings it roaring back. The man is young, years of potential life ahead of him, and it burns my hand like a branding iron. I hold on as long as I can, a scream wanting to tear out from my throat, then I yank my hand free. My body floods with the energy of a hundred men.

The other two are on me, but I’m wild with energy. I whirl the ice cream like a club, crashing down on one of them. The other takes a swing at me, but I lean back. He over rotates on the miss, and I take him in the gut like I’m a line-backer and he’s a tackle dummy. I slam him into the graffiti-covered concrete wall. The air whooshes out of his lungs, but he recovers and shoves me away. I stumble backward and fall.

He pulls a gun from under his black hoodie and points it at me.

I scramble backward, manage to get my feet under me, and run like hell for the end of the alleyway. I expect a bullet in the back the entire way, but it doesn’t come. I don’t look back until I reach the end and skitter around the corner. The thug with the gun is bent over one of his buddies, helping him up. I don’t hang around wondering why they haven’t shot me yet.

My hands shake as I fish in my pocket for the swipe key to the complex. My heart is pounding a staccato note that I swear is going to kill me before the thugs can come around the corner and do it. I finally get the key out, only to notice that the door is open, standing ajar an inch.

Ophelia.

I yank the door open and sprint up the stairs. Three flights to my level, and I can’t take them fast enough. My legs are full of life energy and panic.

When I reach the door, it’s already slid open. My apartment is empty. I dash three times into the bedroom and the kitchen, calling Ophelia’s name, before I come to my senses.

She’s not here.

I clutch my hair with both hands. Think. The door was open. Did she leave? Did someone take her? Was this all an elaborate setup? Send Lirium out for ice cream and attack him in the alley? That didn’t make any sense, but… I lurch over to the closet, my legs protesting the panic that’s stopped up and held prisoner as I sort out what’s happened. I rip open the closet door. Her trenchcoat is still there.

If she had set me up, she would have taken her coat with her.

I wander to the front door in a daze. Belatedly, I remember to close and lock it, just in case the alley thugs are on their way up. I turn and brace my back against it, and that’s when I see the signs.

The coffee table is slightly askew.

The thin carpet underneath it has a bunched-up bump that wasn’t there before.

And finally… a dark smear on the polished wood floor a few feet from the door.

I slowly step toward it and bend down. On closer inspection, it’s reddish black. Ophelia’s blood is staining my floor.

Oh no.

They knew I was a collector. They came looking for me, but they found Ophelia instead. They hurt her, took her, and came for me next… my head is woozy. I brace my right hand against the floor to steady myself, then heave up and flip on the screen in my left palm.

I punch in the number. A woman’s face appears in my hand.

“Nine-one-one, please state the nature of your emergency.”

“A woman has been kidnapped.” My voice shakes. The operator says something in response, but all I can think is that one of the Madam Anastazja’s girls found me. They tipped off one of the east side mobs, and somehow they tracked me down to my new place. Only instead of me paying the price for my guppy stupidity, they took Ophelia. I try to console myself that there’s only a smear of blood. Maybe they didn’t hurt her too badly. But worse is coming, wherever they’ve taken her. Much worse. Only then does it occur to me that I should have called my psych officer before the police.

Candy is going to kill me.

“What do you mean?” Anger is turning my words into snarls. “Why aren’t they looking for her?”

Candy flashes me a dangerous look, and I check myself. She returns to digging through her lacquered black-and-gold handbag. Not long after the police arrived, Candy dragged me away from the crime scene, previously known as my new apartment. At the time, she was all coolness and professionalism, flashing her psych officer badge at the local law enforcement and sweeping me away to her office. I barely had time to snag my box of stuff from the closet. Now it sits at my feet.

“Of course they’ll try to find her,” Candy says. “I talked to Officer Lamb and gave him temporary access to Ophelia’s file. He has your statement, and he’s going to look for camera footage of the alley, but we can’t even be sure those men were the same ones who took Ophelia.”

“But they knew I was a collector.” That can’t be a coincidence. It has to be tied to me and my guppy idiocy with Madam A’s sex workers. Not that Candy knows about that.

“Officer Lamb said that part of town is rife with the Kolek mob,” she says. “They must have seen Ophelia and recognized her as a collector. The building super says he doesn’t know how they got in, but he’s probably on the Kolek payroll. You should count yourself lucky you were in the alley. Officer Lamb will put out a bulletin about Ophelia, and the police will keep an eye out for her. But she’s with the mob now, Lirium. She’s probably already dead.”

“You don’t know that!” My voice is cracking, and I feel the thin, icy line I’m skating with Candy. I force myself to lean back in the chair and run my bandaged hand over my face. It’s still healing from when I punched the elevator, but my right hand is worse. The life-force I pulled out of the thug in the alley left an angry red burn mark on my palm, a straight-line welt that looks like I got whacked with a ruler made of hot coals. I keep my hand curled and tuck it under my arm, so Candy doesn’t see. When I told the police I got mugged, I didn’t mention that I drained one of the alley attackers. I’m still stunned myself that it happened at all. I’ve never collected under pressure; it’s not supposed to be possible.

I have so much to teach you. Ophelia’s words haunt me, along with the smear of her blood on my floor. I’m starting to wonder if anything I know about collecting is actually true.

“What if there’s no video of the alley?” I ask. “You didn’t even give me a chance to give them a description...”

She’s still rummaging through her purse. “Did you see anything?” she asks, sarcasm in her voice. “Tattoos? Faces? Something other than,” she makes air quote fingers, “‘three guys in hoodies’?”

The look on my face says it all.

She shakes her head. “The police will do their job, Lirium. You focus on yours. But don’t hold out hope for something that’s not going to happen. If Ophelia’s lucky, she’s already dead. And if we’re lucky, we’ll find her body sometime soon.”

I try to calm my breathing. “How long was Ophelia one of your collectors?”

My words jar her enough to make her look up from her purse. She stares at me with her devil green eyes. “A long time. Why?”

“Don’t you care at all?” Maybe I should tell Candy what I suspect… that one of Madam Anastazja’s girls tipped them off. It’s a lead, if nothing else. Candy will string me up for being an idiot, but at least we might be able to track down Ophelia before the mob tears her to pieces.

If they haven’t already.

“I care about all my collectors.” Candy looks affronted, but it chills me, because it echoes what Ophelia said. Your psych officer always, always has your best interests at heart.

Candy goes back to digging in her purse, and I give up. Ophelia is probably being tortured at this very moment, and all Candy cares about is finding her lip gloss. She finally pulls what she’s looking for from her purse. It’s a tracker scanner. She curls her dagger fingernails at me, wanting me to come closer.

I hesitate. Too long. She gives me a look that makes my throat close up. “I want you to go ahead and do your payout tonight. I know you’re torn up about Ophelia—we both are—but you need to put this behind you and move on. Come here. I need to scan your tracker before you meet the payoff.”

“You… do?” Flitstrom always scans me. Always. A bean counter has to do it. I’m pretty sure that’s the law, but with the crazy mixed-up state in my head, I’m suddenly unsure. “Er, is Flitstrom on vacation?”

“No.” She glares at me. “But he doesn’t work nights, if he doesn’t have to.” I belatedly scoot my chair closer and lay my arm across her desk, within reach of her nails and the handheld scanner. I keep my fist closed, so she can’t see the branded mark on my palm while she runs the tracker over my arm. “Flitstrom approved me for documenting your transfer from Mrs. Riley, given the unfortunate circumstances we find ourselves in.”

Unfortunate circumstances? If she’s so concerned about what’s happened, why the sudden urgency for the payout? Something’s not adding up.

But that thought is lost as Candy coolly looks at the number on her scanner. I have no idea what it is telling her, but my heart starts to pound and a trickle of sweat forms between my shoulder blades. Can she see the mercy hit payout? Or the blinding hot transfer from the thug in the alley? I don’t know how much I collected then, but it could easily be years. There’s no way that wouldn’t show up. Is there?

“There was extra,” I say quickly. “Mrs. Riley had more than her two weeks left.”

Candy looks up at me, a small quirk of a smile showing at the corner of her slickly glossed red lips. “Indeed there was. Lucky thing for Mr. Brodsky.”

My shoulders relax just a fraction. She sees something, but she’s going to let it pass. “Brodsky?” I say as evenly as I can. “Is that the payoff?”

She slips the tracker back into her purse without answering, then turns her attention to her palm screen. A few razor sharp taps, and she holds it up so I can see. There’s an image of a man with unnaturally youthful skin. He’s obviously a regular payoff—I can tell he’s much older than his features by the wateriness of his blue eyes.

“Mr. Brodsky is CEO of Brodsky Electronics,” Candy says. “He’s making some extraordinary breakthroughs in cybernetic implants for the disabled.”

I hold my palm up and touch her hand quickly. It’s cool and clammy, which strikes me as odd. Maybe she’s as affected by Ophelia’s disappearance as I am, but she’s too icy to show it? The image of Brodsky stares at me from my palm screen along with his basic information.

I look at Candy, uncertain what I’m supposed to do now. Do I pay out Mrs. Riley’s transfer and all the excess I sucked out of the mob henchman? Both transfers are still singing in my body, filling out my bones, and I don’t want to part with any more than I have to. But I’m at Candy’s mercy. She has the scanner.

“Does Brodsky get the full transfer?” I ask, deciding that’s a safe question. “Or is there another payoff?”

Again the quirk of a smile. She knows I want to keep it. “Only pay out Mrs. Riley’s calculated two weeks, plus one more. I’ll tell Flitstrom I’m approving you to keep the rest.” I feel the relief seep through me, and for a moment I don’t hate Candy as thoroughly as I usually do. Then she pushes up from her chair and swings around the corner of her desk. She stands way too close to me, forcing me to look up at her.

“After all,” she says, “you just lost your mentor and you need something to keep you going for a while.” She takes my chin, tilting my head back even further, her nails scraping my neck. “You are going to keep going, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I choke out, feeling her daggers bite into my Adam’s Apple as it passes.

“No washing out.”

“No, ma’am.”

She releases me and pats my cheek. “That’s a good boy. Just forget about everything that’s happened today. Keep focused on your job. And I’ll check and see if there are any slots opening up soon in medical needs training.”

She gives me a smile that feels half-leer, half-crocodile-ready-for-lunch. I’m not sure if I want to throw up or curl into a ball of self-loathing. Either way, I need to get out of Candy’s office. I spin out of my chair, scoop up my box of things, and head for the door.

“And Lirium…” she says.

Dread washes through me as I stop, hand poised above the door button.

“Don’t go back to your apartment. I wouldn’t want you to get swallowed up by the mob, like poor Ophelia. We’ll start fresh with a new place for you. I’ll message you an address. You should have it by the time you’re done paying out.”

I don’t say anything, just nod, punch the button, and get myself away from her before I do or say something I regret.

There’s no way I’m going to forget what’s happened today. And I’ll make it to my payout appointment tonight, just like Candy wants. But then I’m going to do something really stupid. Something that, if Candy finds out, will kill any chance I have at medical needs training. And I know I’m going to regret it as soon as the certainty of it settles into my chest.

I’m going to find Ophelia.

I double check the address on my palm screen, convinced my psych officer has set me up. This can’t possibly be where I’m supposed to pay out the life force I collected from Mrs. Riley. It’s not just the stink of recently expelled vomit from a junkie passed out in the alley. Or the fact that I’m on the east side of Los Angeles, the low rent district of the metropolitan basin, well past the hour for any legal business. The address Candy gave me points to an industrial warehouse buried deep in the sticky smog that coats everything at ground level. The building’s not even four stories tall. And high potential payoffs like Mr. Brodsky, the CEO of Brodsky Electronics, usually live well above the cancer-inducing air that pools at the impoverished feet of the city.

I knock on the metal door, shaking loose a few slivers of rust and hoping someone will answer quickly. I want to confirm I’m in the wrong spot and get out. The dull thuds only disturb the junkie, who rolls out of the spot of hazy street light. The building is deathly silent, a monolith of gray, windowless concrete. No sign. No number. My palm GPS says this is it, but something is very, very off. The feeling that someone is watching me itches up my back. I duck my head into the collar of my trenchcoat, glancing down the street, but if someone’s there, the creeping darkness gives them perfect cover.

I pound harder.

Finally a grinding sound comes from inside, a clacking of gears or rattling of chains. The jitters from the day—Ophelia’s abduction, the hit off the mob thug who took her, my nauseating visit with my psych officer—settle into my stomach. I still have Mrs. Riley’s transfer riding around inside me, too, but the churning feeling is mostly from the bonus life energy I stole from the thug. It’s filled out my bones again, replacing the sucked-dry feeling I’ve had since my first and only mercy hit two weeks ago. The high from helping Apple Girl’s sick sister wasn’t worth the aftermath of feeling like the life had been carved out of me. Not to mention chasing that high would have ended with me as a corpse.

The clanking inside the building screeches to a metallic stop, and someone is finally unlocking the door. It takes them a crazy amount of time to open it, banging around like there are a hundred locks. My foot taps the pavement. The mob might be torturing Ophelia right this moment—I don’t have time to waste with dead ends and wrong addresses.

The door slides open, ripping a cry of protest through the heavy silence of the street. I lean away. A man stands in the doorway; at least I think it’s a man. His goggles are like mini-telescopes, one protruding from each eye. There’s no part of him exposed, from his gloved hands to his masked face to the fine-weave mesh suit that’s lumpy over his clothes. The suit is so bright-white that it glows, making him look like an oversized, electrified bunny. His mini-telescopes scan me up and down, then he pulls the goggles away from his eyes and props them on his forehead.

His stare is intense, and I match it, mesmerized. He has one blue eye, one green. The green one seems to glint with its own light.

“You the debt collector?” His voice is rough with lack of sleep, or maybe fatigue.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved to be in the right place or not. “Is this Brodsky Electronics?”

The man glances down the street, then steps back inside, ushering me in with an urgent wave of his white-mitted hand. I hesitate. It’s so dark, I can’t see inside, and the man hasn’t verified anything.

“Are you coming, son, or not? I’m a busy man.”

He’s about to close the door, so I step through. While he works the battalion of chains, bolts, and electrified locks, the overhead panels blink on and light up a wire mesh cage that could be an elevator. The man brushes past me. He tugs off his mitts, and his thin fingers shake before he grabs the metal handle of the cage and yanks it open. The screech makes me want to cover my ears.

He shuffles inside. I hazard a guess. “Mr. Brodsky?”

“Yes, yes. Come on.” He wants me to get into the cage with him, and now that I’m reasonably sure I’m in the right place, I’d just as soon get on with it. I have further plans for tonight, and they don’t involve Brodsky Electronics. He closes the cage, and the wooden floor of the elevator lurches us upward. The second floor lights up and then shuts off as we pass it. The flash of illumination shows a scene that’s straight out of a horror movie: hacked off arms, dangling torsos, and I’m certain I saw a head sitting on a table. It’s lost in the murk as we glide up to the third floor and jerk to a stop.

The lights flicker on and this floor is less morbid, but still creepy. Large, bulbous magnifying glasses reach out on spindly arms from shiny tables that look like they came from a morgue. The tables play host to a multitude of strangely shaped devices, some metallic, some flesh-colored. Banks of computer screens and boxes of tools, both electronic and mechanical, crowd the rest of the small space. The lights are only half-lit, a checkerboard of panels across the ceiling, making the room dim with multiple shadows.

Mr. Brodsky pulls off his telescopic goggles and places them on top of a pile of what looks like toes. I cringe as I realize the workbench is littered with them: some propped on metallic bones, some attached to feet fallen sideways, as if their owner took them off and discarded them like shoes. They look realistic enough to be my own toes, chopped off and sprinkled on the benchtop. There’s no blood, and I’m hoping they’re the cybernetic kind. That's what supposedly put the CEO of Brodsky Electronics at the top of the “high potentials” list for today.

Mr. Brodsky shucks back the hood of his bunny suit, revealing the unnaturally youthful face I first saw on Candy’s palm screen. I bring up my palm recorder to get his consent. He has one on file, but I want to send it to Candy, so she knows I paid out. Especially since I plan to drop off the grid for a while and do something my psych officer would definitely not approve of.

I hold up my palm. “I need to record your acceptance of the transfer, Mr. Brodsky.”

His eyes—green and blue—are both trained on me. Something mechanical moves within Mr. Brodsky’s green eye, and I lean away. I have the strangest feeling that he sees something I don’t want him to.

“How much do you have for me, son?” he asks.

“I… um…” Payoffs don’t usually ask about the extra weeks; they’re mostly interested in the boost from the hit. They’re addicts, just like me, only a little higher brow. “About three weeks, sir.”

“Three weeks. Three weeks.” His mumbles aren’t for me. He shoves aside some toes on the benchtop and presses his hands into the smooth black stone. “Not enough. Not enough.” He bangs a clenched hand, quietly, like he’s crushing the idea of three weeks under his fist. “It will have to be enough.”

“Enough for what, sir?”

He turns and jabs a bony finger at my palm, which is still hanging in the air, recording. “This!” He quickly touches my hand a few times before I have the sense to pull it back. “You got this when you joined the Agency, didn’t you?”

I frown. “It’s policy, sir.” This payoff is already more trouble than I expected, and now he’s asking personal questions. I grit my teeth and flip my hand over, thinking Mr. Brodsky’s light taps have messed up my recording. Instead he’s brought up a screen with a logo and some words. I stare stupidly at it. A capital S swooshes in a geometric shape with the words working today for a brighter tomorrow underneath.

“I designed that,” Mr. Brodsky says, pointing to my hand. I think he means the device, not the logo. His cool fingertips touch my right forearm, and I jerk back, not expecting it. “You have the tracker implant, too, yes?”

I nod, eyes narrowed.

“I designed that as well.” Mr. Brodsky shakes his head, and his unnatural gaze falls to the benchtop of toes again. “So useless. Meaningful only to bureaucrats and technologists and businessmen. So much wasted time. But now… now… when I’m finally getting to something with purpose, that’s when the time, she slips away like a frightened kitten.”

I’m starting to worry about Mr. Brodsky’s mental state. But that’s not my job; I’m just here to pay out. “Mr. Brodsky, if I could just have you—”

He moves, fast. Much faster than an old man should, but then he’s not really old. He clenches my shoulders in his bony hands, drilling me with that artificial eye. “She doesn’t have that much time!” My shoulders bunch up, but his strength is impressive. He must have been on the receiving end of life hits for so long that he’s one of those perpetually young payoffs, who live off the hits right up until the day they die. Those payoffs literally live day-to-day. Week to week. As long as the life hits keep getting doled out to them.

But something doesn’t add up. “Who doesn’t have that much time?” I ask.

He comes out of the fury, relaxing his hold on me and patting down the bunched fabric of my trenchcoat. “I’m sorry, debt collector. This… it isn’t your trouble.” He gently takes my hand, avoiding the bandages still on my knuckles from when I punched the elevator, and taps cool fingers on the recorder. Then he holds my palm up to face him. “This is Dr. Leonid Mikailovich Brodsky. I understand the risks and benefits of the life energy transfer this young debt collector has come to administer. I accept them and approve the transfer.”

His pale fingers release me, and his eyes have gone dull. “How long have you been collecting, son?”

Again with the personal questions. “Two years, sir.”

“Only two?” His furry eyebrows hike up a millimeter. “You look older than twenty.”

Just what I need. A payoff reminding me I look like shit. “Thank you, sir.”

“Did the Agency take you early?”

“No, sir, I started at eighteen like everyone else.” The truth is I ran to the Agency office as soon as I knew, but they wouldn’t take a seventeen-year-old kid, even when my mom signed off on it.

“Tested in?”

“Yes, sir.” The law prohibits testing before the mandatory age of eighteen, supposedly to protect debt collectors from being targeted as children. But that just makes collectors who express early an easy target for the mob. Only ten percent of the population carries the genetic marker for collecting, and even with the marker, odds are still good you won’t express.

My luck has never been good.

You’re not tagged as a debt collector in the government records until you’ve demonstrated that you can, in fact, collect life energy. But once that happens, you’re in. Some collectors make a run for it, turning down Agency training to try their luck with the mob. But by the time I arrived at the Agency, I’d already tangled with the mob and barely made it out with my life.

He’s shaking his head. “So young, and yet already doing this… work. It’s a shame.” He looks in my eyes. “This is an abomination, this thing we do, yes?”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“These three weeks that you have for me,” he says. “I do not deserve them. They belong to the poor soul you took them from.”

My eyelid starts to twitch.

“But I will not turn them down, because, you see…” He spreads his hands wide. “I need them. This project I am working on. It is of the utmost importance.”

“The one for… the girl.”

“My granddaughter, yes,” he says. “But not just for her. For all the young who are struck down, yet have so much life left in them. Life energy that is untapped. It is also for you, my young debt collector.”

My eyebrows raise.

“I am working on a device that will change everything.” He pauses, picking up a toe from the creepy table. “Imagine you have a young patient, a girl not even out of her youth, like my beautiful Tatiana. She is stricken down with the most insidious of diseases, something that attacks the heart or the kidney or the lungs. A vital organ she cannot live without. It withers under the assault, but the rest of her body has the life energy of the full span of her young, young life.”

I glance at the toe in his hand. “What about your cybernetic parts? She could get a transplant or an artificial heart.”

“Yes! And that is much of what I have devoted my life to—making those replacement parts for the body. Better, simpler, longer lasting. Lower incidence of rejection. But always, always, this thing, this device…” He shakes the toe, then tosses it back on the pile. “It is foreign to the body. Even tissues grown specifically for their DNA match are problematic and that takes time… time these patients often do not have. Regenerative science is still in its infancy and carries the risk of rampant cancerous cell growth. And even that requires time. Time, she is the one thing we all need, yes? More precious than anything. But the answer is there, has been there in front of me all along, and it has taken me all these many decades to see it! But I see it now, debt collector. I see it!” His eyes take on that fervent, drilling aspect again, like I’m under a microscope, and he can see the very fibers of my being.

“What… what is it?”

“The life energy itself!” he cries, flinging out his hands then briefly covering his face with them, as if he is pulling himself together. “It is there, within the body. Life struggling against the disease, enhanced by all our medical science, but still losing the battle. But it’s there, debt collector, or you would not have a job, yes?”

I find myself nodding. His fervor seeps into me. Damn these high potentials and their superhuman persuasive powers. I can already feel my willingness to sign up for whatever he’s selling.

“It simply needs to be…” His pale, trembling hands make a sweeping motion. “Redirected. Translocated. Moved from the healthy living tissues to the ones who are struggling for their final gasp of life. If you could save a patient by cutting off a limb, or a toe, or some less necessary part of the body, you would do this. It is the highest imperative, to save the life of the whole person. If you can sacrifice the health of a kidney to save a heart, especially when they are all within the same person… you would make that choice, yes? Any doctor, any patient, would.”

“You can do that?” I ask, and I feel the gasp in my voice. A mechanical device that can transfer life energy, like a debt collector? That can target it specifically to one part of the body? My mind struggles to wrap itself around the idea.

“No.” The years are suddenly evident on his face. “Not yet. I am close, so close. I almost have a working prototype device that can transfer life energy from one portion of the body to another. But… I need more time.”

I frown and look around the dingy laboratory. I think of the hacked off cybernetic body parts downstairs and the squalor of the neighborhood outside. Doubt creeps into my mind. Why is this guy working in the armpit of Los Angeles? Why isn’t he getting a thousand life hits a day? If this research is so important, why am I here with a measly three weeks?

He sees me waver and smiles a crooked, half-mad grin. “They think I am a crazy old man. And perhaps they are right.” He shakes his head sadly. “But as long as I am still breathing, I will do what I can. I will take your transfer now, debt collector, and use that terrible gift as best as I am able.”

I nod and hold my right palm out, ready.

He stops me with a raised finger. “I want you to understand. It is an abomination, still, no matter the purpose. I will take it, but I will not enjoy it.”

I don’t say anything, just place my branded palm, still sore from the blazing collection earlier, on his forehead. But but I find myself hesitating. I lean closer to Dr. Brodsky, dropping my gaze away from his watery eyes. “How much time do you need?”

“Three weeks will have to be enough, yes?” he says just as softly.

I start the transfer, pumping Mrs. Riley’s three weeks of life energy through my palm and into him. The workshop seems to dim a little more, but it’s just the soul-sucking feeling that comes from paying out. My shoulders cave a bit, as I hunch over to resist the impulse to run away from the blackness that’s eating into my mind. Dr. Brodsky’s jaw works. He’s gritting his teeth, like taking the life force hit is a penance he’s enduring, rather than the high I know it is. I keep my hand fixed to his head until all three weeks are paid out. But I don’t pull away—I give him more, because I have more to give. I have well over a year of the thug’s life still riding inside me, and I don’t know if the doctor is a madman or a genius, but I know he’ll use a few of those weeks better than I will.

The darkness in my head flees, and the transfer suddenly feels weightless, like mist floating in air. It’s the way I felt when boosting with Ophelia—light, easy, almost like no transfer at all. A memory swims up of the mercy hit as well—it was this same good, emptying feeling. I pump more into Dr. Brodsky, and a brightness inside me blasts away the mist. It’s burning me with a clean pureness that I grasp onto like it is life itself. My body remembers this, responds to it, craves more, like the addict that I am.

Alarm trips through my mind just as life energy starts to geyser through my hand. It’s a fire hydrant of energy that’s been cracked open, and I can’t stop it. The burning inside me roars. I rip my hand away from his forehead and stumble back. Nausea tears through and bends me over. I dry heave but nothing comes out.

Dr. Brodsky comes to my side, his eyes bright with the transfer. “What did you do, son?” he demands, as if I’ve slaughtered a puppy right in front of him. I push away his hands and force myself upright.

I have no idea how much I gave him, but it was a lot more than three weeks. In spite of the nausea, in spite of the fact that I just bled my body of too much life, I feel good. Whole and clean and overall way-too-damn-blissful for my own good. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I should have known better than to give him a mercy hit. I can’t handle it.

It’s like playing with fire from the sun.

I wave off Dr. Brodsky’s frown and lurch to the wire-mesh cage. He watches me go but doesn’t chase after me. My unsteady hand mashes the button on the elevator. It rushes me down, safely away from Dr. Brodsky and his world-changing work. Safe from volunteering everything left inside me and getting burned to a euphoric crisp.

My hazard-filled payout to Dr. Brodsky only shows how much I need Ophelia.

I could find another debt collector, I suppose. One who could help me climb out of the drowning hole I keep sinking into. But it’s not like we have a debt collector club meeting every Tuesday night at the YMCA. We live off the grid. We keep to ourselves. The few I met in training have dispersed, and I have no idea where. They weren’t exactly friends to begin with.

Debt collectors don’t have friends.

Besides, Ophelia said I need to be careful around other debt collectors, and I don’t doubt that for a moment. She’s the only one I’ve ever come close to trusting.

I just need to get her back from the mob.

I rub my face, contemplating the insanity of that thought. The most likely outcome is that I’ll end up dead like her. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m at least going to try.

I’m back at my apartment, the one I had for less than two weeks. Yellow and black police tape stretches across the door. I unstick it and wad it into a ball. Candy sent me the address for my new place, and I’ve already dropped off my box of stuff there, but I need to keep that apartment for a safehouse. This one’s already been compromised.

My swipecard still works. Ophelia’s blood is still on my floor. I hang up my trenchcoat next to hers in the closet.

I placed my order with Madam Anastazja before I arrived. It hasn’t been that long since Apple Girl, so hopefully Madam A doesn’t suspect I’ve sworn off her sex workers. In fact, if my life were at all normal, I’d be indulging in my post-collection ritual right now, having drinks with Larry, Moe, and Curly, and spending some ecstasy time between the sheets. What I actually have planned isn’t going to make Madam A or her girl very happy.

I shower, put my trenchcoat back on, and clean up the left-over evidence of Ophelia’s kidnapping. I’m disturbing a crime scene, but it’s not like the police are doing a damn thing to get her back anyway. The door tone sounds, and I give the apartment a once-over. It looks as lived in as it ever has.

The door slides open. I requested someone familiar, and the willowy blonde outside my door is just what I hoped for. I remember her being sweet, a little silly, and raging hot in bed. I know her face, but can’t recall her name. Her form-fitting red dress is short under her open knee-length coat, and her heels are high, but her face is clean-scrubbed with the kind of hit-enhanced beauty that puts a natural blush in her cheeks and a sparkle in her bright blue eyes. Other than the fact that she’s at my door on the low-rent east side, she wouldn’t necessarily be pegged as a sex worker. Madam A runs a high-class business.

That is, when she’s servicing debt collectors, not setting them up. For all I know, blondie is the one who sold me—and via collateral damage, Ophelia—to the mob.

“Hi,” I say, trying to not let my thoughts percolate into my voice. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

She smiles, all sexy kitten and indulgent at the same time. “Lirium, sweetie, you don’t have to remember my name. But it’s very nice of you to try.”

I step aside to let her in. “I feel kind of silly not knowing.” I don’t, but I’ll need to know for later. I don’t offer to take her jacket. After all, we’re not staying.

She brushes past me, long fingers trailing across my chest. I close the door. She turns and curls her painted fingernails into the lapel of my trenchcoat, pulling me close. With her heels, her lips are about even with mine. She’s the kind that wears vanilla perfume, and with her this close, the scent wraps around me. Her blond hair falls across my lips as she bypasses them, sliding her smooth cheek across my rough one to whisper in my ear, “My name is April.”

My body responds to her soft breath on my ear, warming my neck and raising the small hairs in back. My arm is already around her waist without me thinking, but that will work for what I have planned. With her body pressed against mine, for a split second I’m tempted to let her earn her life energy hit before I force her to take me to her boss. The clean, burning goodness inside me—the part still smoldering from my mercy hit with Dr. Brodsky—dims a little with that thought. I decide that I may be a lot of bad things, but having sex with a woman just before I kidnap her is a depth I’m not willing to sink to.

She pulls back, smiling seductively and tracing her finger softly across my cheek. “I remember you like to take things slow. But it’s already late. Is this a slow night or a fast one?”

Instead of answering, I caress her cheek, then slide my palm to her forehead. “Hit first,” I whisper, keeping my voice soft so I don’t alarm her. I start the transfer, pulsing the small hit of life energy she expects as part of her fee.

She grins, her blond eyelashes brushing against my wrist as her eyelids flutter with the pleasure I’m giving her. “That’s why all the girls love you, Lirium. You’re so good to us.”

I keep my arm around her waist and my hand at her forehead, but slowly slip around her body. By the time the transfer’s complete, I’m standing behind her. I slide my arm up until I have a good grip around her ribcage, my other hand still holding her head.

Then I suck the life energy right back out of her.

She gasps, but she can’t scream or move, suddenly limp with the horror-feeling that’s gripping her mind and body. She slumps against me, and I manage to keep her upright, even though her ankles twist over the heels. I’m sure she’s never felt anything like the life-draining darkness rippling through her right now. I stop when I’ve recovered the hit I gave her.

She comes back to life, gasping out air that’s been frozen in her lungs. She struggles against me, but I grip her head harder, bending it back against my shoulder. I’m not hurting her, but she quickly figures out she’s not getting away and my hand is still on her forehead.

She stills. “What… Lirium, honey, I… it doesn’t need to be like this…”

She thinks I’m playing sick games with her.

“I want you to take me to Madam Anastazja,” I whisper, because her ear is right next to my mouth. “You don’t run. You don’t warn her. You bring me straight there, and I won’t have to do that again. But if you try anything, April, I won’t hesitate to drain all the life energy from your body.”

I won’t actually hurt her. I’m not above scaring her again, but I don’t think it will be necessary. People tend to take you at your word when you kill for a living.

She nods, shakily, and I release her.

She edges away, turning to face me like I’m a tiger that might attack again. Her gaze shuttles back and forth, between me and the door.

“Don’t,” I say.

She freezes, then stands a little straighter, even though she’s scared.

I nod. “Call Madam A. Tell her you want to see her. Now.”

“What… what reason should I give?” Definitely scared.

“Tell her I’ve beat you up.”

Her eyes go wide, and her fingers fumble as she pulls the phone from her coat pocket.

The golden feeling inside me dims a little more.

I rest my bandaged hand lightly on April’s hip, as if we’re a couple riding the Metro back from a party downtown. She’s stiff and scared, but she doesn’t try to run. It’s near midnight, and the train is relatively empty for the three stops we ride before we get off again.

She brings me to a large, mission-style building that’s heavy on plaster and slabs of roof tiles. A terraced tower looms above the main door, and the flat, white walls are turned gray by the smog-filtered streetlight. A sickly amber glow seeps through the papered-over windows, and a trio of stone-carved skull-and-cross-bones guard the arch above the door, as if warning that the whole building is toxic.

April swipes a key to get us in. I don’t think she’s warned Madam A we’re coming. At least, on the phone, she sounded convincingly like a scared sex worker with a rough client… probably because that’s exactly what happened.

It helps to remind myself that these people are the ones who sold me out.

Inside, the heavy lamps on a dark-wood reception desk barely emit enough light to see the walls. Old paper books cram every inch of wall space in the entryway, giving a dark opulence to the small room. In the dim light, it takes me a moment to realize the books are a mural, painted over the uneven plaster, which makes more sense. I doubt Madam A could afford something like a personal library.

A door in the fake bookcase slides open, and an Asian woman strolls through. I’ve never seen Madam A. I expected someone more Slavic with a name like Anastazja, but this lady carries herself like she owns the place. And I doubt that’s her real name anyway. She stops a dozen feet from us, her glittering dark eyes scanning April for damage. The woman’s hair is black and wild, long curls defying gravity and standing off her head. The slant of her eyes is accentuated by a dark line drawn away from the corners, and her bright red lipstick makes her skin even more pale. Her tiny body is wrapped tight in a gold and red silk dress, and golden shoes add a good six inches to her height. She beckons April with a very slight movement of her finger.

I grip April harder to keep her by my side. “Madam Anastazja?” I ask.

She examines her overly-long, blood-red fingernails, then casually looks back to us. “You’re not going to hurt her, Lirium.”

With all the girls I’ve had, courtesy of Madam A, she probably knows far too much about me. Which is why I’m here in the first place. Add in the fact that I haven’t actually beaten up April, and apparently I’m not a credible enough threat to worry her. I shift behind April and hold her head with my collecting hand, like I did before. “I have a few questions for Madam A. I’d prefer not to hurt April to get answers, but I will if I need to.”

The woman doesn’t move. “Release her, and we’ll talk.”

I pull April’s head back to my shoulder. She whimpers. “Talk first.”

“You are in my house, Lirium,” she says. “And under my roof, no harm comes to debt collectors.” She reaches behind her back and pulls out a pistol so tiny it looks like a toy. “But if you hurt April, I will shoot you and drag your body out into the street. The scavengers can take care of you from there.”

I blink. She sounds calm, like she’s done this before. And not at all scared, for herself or April. The gun is small, but she’s close enough that it would be hard to miss. I’m holding April in front of me—a quivering, whimpering human shield—and I’m wondering why I thought this was a good idea at all.

I release the girl, and she lets out a small cry before scurrying  away on her wobbly heels. Madam A dismisses her with a flick of her finger, the gun still pointing steadily at me. The girl disappears through the door in the fake bookcase.

Madam A stands as still as a statue. Only her eyes drift over me, inspecting me.

I resist the urge to raise my hands in surrender, still hoping I might get some answers before she tosses me out, hopefully without shooting me first. “I want to know which of your girls sold my address to the mob.” I try to keep my voice strong. “They came after me, and now they have my friend. I’m just here because I want to get her back.”

There’s no change in expression on Madam A’s face. “My sex workers don’t work for the mob.”

“Well one of them does,” I say, my hands clenching. “Someone sold us out. And you don’t seem too particular about how you screen your girls. You had no problem sending a hit seeker my way. I can imagine you might be a little loose with your standards in other areas.”

“Elena.”

“Yes, Elena,” I say, bitterness creeping into my voice. “Brunette, doe eyes, looking for an illegal mercy hit for a little girl that… that I can’t cure.” My voice is wavering. This is not the impression I want to make. “You sent an illegal hit seeker to my apartment! Who knows what else your girls are doing in their spare time.”

“Elena did not sell you out to the mob,” she says calmly. “And neither have any of my other girls. Elena was a test, Lirium, one that I thought,” she arches one of her pencil-thin eyebrows, “you had passed quite nicely. Perhaps I was wrong.”

“A test?” I say, exasperated. “What are you talking about?”

Instead of answering me, she asks, “This friend of yours—is he a debt collector too?”

“She is a debt collector, and, thanks to you, the mob has her.” I swallow down the tremble in my voice. “I realize that she’s probably already dead. But just in case they haven’t tortured the life out of her yet, I’m trying to find her. So, I’m asking you: do you or do you not know who sold us out?”

Madam A relaxes the rigid posture she’s been holding since she walked into the room. “I see.” She tucks the gun away behind her back again. I can’t imagine what kind of holster she has back there. “Life is a precious gift, Lirium,” she says. “I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“I don’t know who sent the mob after you and your friend,” she says. “But I may be able to help you find her. The question is what are you willing to give in exchange?”

I frown. “What do you want?”

She strolls over until she’s next to me. Even in her high heels, she has to peer up. “I want to see what kind of man you are.”

Her piercing black gaze unnerves me. Or possibly it’s the fact that she still has that gun tucked behind her back. For a moment I think she can actually see into the dark recesses of my soul.

“You’re young,” she says, “but your eyes already carry the burden of your profession. Elena told me you were ready, but perhaps she’s wrong. Maybe the burden is too much for you to handle.”

“Elena told you…” I trail off, trying to sort that piece of information. Elena reported back to Madam A… she was some kind of test… I look around the small entryway again. There’s nothing to indicate it’s the receiving room of a brothel. “What kind of business do you really run here?”

She smiles for the first time since she walked through the door. “Ah. Now you are finally asking the right question. Come with me, Lirium, and we’ll see what kind of man you really are.” She turns abruptly, and I see the lump of her gun hidden in a silk pocket at the small of her back. She doesn’t look back, just heads straight for the hidden door.

Against my better judgment, I hurry after her.

The inside of Madam A’s brothel looks like a hospital ward.

We’re on the second floor, walking along a balcony that runs the length of a large open room. It used to be a church, judging by the giant crucifix still hanging at the far end. Only the altar has become a nursing station, glinting with sterile metal trays of medical supplies, and the pews have been cleared to make room for hospital beds, complete with IV drips and patients. Amber light comes from the nightlights at each bed, turned low because the patients are sleeping.

The patients. Some have teddy bears tucked under their arms. Some have readers they forgot to turn off, that now light their small faces with an otherworldly glow.

“Are they all children?” I ask. Madam A hasn’t spoken to me since the entryway, just whispered into her palm while she led me up the stairs to peer over this scene that’s knotting my stomach. “Why aren’t they in the hospital?”

“They’re dying,” she says. “But you already knew that.”

“They…” I stall out, flashing back to Apple Girl’s tiny apartment. “Is Tilly here?” I peer into the dimly lit room, checking each face. She would have used up the four days I gave her, but I’m not sure how much time she had to begin with. Or how much extra life got sucked out of me in the mercy hit. A week? A month? It felt like a lot more.

“She’s been here ever since her sister stole her away from the hospital to keep her debt from being collected.”

I tear my gaze away from the small, still forms. “But I saw Tilly in Elena’s apartment.”

Madam A nods. “Elena brought her home for that one day. It was a rough trip for both of them. But Tilly has to be here to get the care she needs.”

“So it’s true, what Elena said about them cashing out kids.” I look back over the railing. “How can someone… it’s illegal to collect from these kids! Why doesn’t someone stop it?”

She doesn’t answer, so I look back to her.

“The parents don’t often know. Their child simply slips away when their backs are turned. Perhaps the doctor could stop it, if he even knew. Or maybe the nurses; they usually know. That’s how these little ones find their way here. If the debt collector refused to transfer out a child, that might stop one incident. Perhaps two.” Her gaze pierces me. “It is no one person’s job to stop it; everyone has someone else to blame. And besides, the Agency’s calculations are usually right. By the time we get them, these children rarely live more than a few weeks. But those weeks belong to them.”

I shudder as the meaning of it washes over me. It’s an entire room filled with Tillys. All dying. All kids I can’t save. And the golden feeling of trying, of giving them at least a chance at life, is calling to me. It’s an incredibly beautiful siren out on a rock beckoning me into a thrashing sea that will shove water down my throat before I can ever reach her.

“I… I can’t do this.” My eyes are wide, my gaze glued to the two dozen beds below me.

The sound of heels clacking on the wooden floor of the balcony pulls me out of my daze. It’s one of Anastazja’s girls: I recognize her face, remember her long brown hair tangled in my fist during the more pleasant part of my recovery ritual. Her short skirt, six-inch heels, and low-cut blouse show she’s been working.

“This is Grace. I believe you two have met.”

Grace’s face lights in a smile so bright it practically banishes the shadows around us. “Lirium! I’m so glad you’ve joined us!”

“I… I haven’t…” What have I gotten myself into? I glare at Madam A. “I only came here to find my friend. Whatever…” I wave my hand at the floor below, but stop when I see it’s shaking. “Whatever charity you’re running here is just a waste of time. These kids are dying anyway; you can’t stop it any more than I can. And I’m not interested in throwing good life after bad.”

Grace’s face falls, and she opens her mouth to snap something back at me, but Madam A stills her with a small hand on her arm.

“If you can’t help me,” I say to Madam A, “I’ll be leaving now.”

I’m half turned away, searching for the door, when Madam A says, “I lied.”

That stops me. I stare at her. “I’m shocked. About which part, exactly? The dying children part or the selling me out part?” Every muscle in my body is telling me to get out before I get trapped into something that’s going to kill me. But if she knows something that can help me find Ophelia… I need to hear it.

“The part where I said none of my sex workers worked for the mob.”

I narrow my eyes. “You sold us out.” I contemplate whether I can move my hand fast enough to get it to Madam A’s forehead before she can pull the gun.

“No,” she says. “However, I do have contacts there, and I might be able to find out where your debt collector has been stashed away.”

“Stashed?” A small fire of hope lights inside me. “You don’t think they’ve killed her already?”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Madam A says coolly. “At least, not right away. The mob finds debt collectors as useful as I do. They’re not going to waste one, if they don’t have to.”

I grit my teeth. I’ve seen the tortured bodies of debt collectors who used to work for the mob. Everyone has. And the knife-wielding thug who cornered me in an alley and tried to make me express when I was just a kid did a fine job of convincing me mob debt collectors don’t live long. But now I’m wondering if anything I know is actually true anymore. And what Madam A is saying makes sense. Everyone wants to use debt collectors, including her. I have a vague idea now what kind of work Madam A wants from me. It involves mercy hits. The kind I would have a hard time surviving. The mob may want to use Ophelia to do their dirty work, but Madam A’s “clean” work is just as deadly, at least to the debt collector performing it.

“I have something that can help you,” Madam A says. “And you have something that can help me. It seems a trade would be mutually beneficial. What’s your friend’s name?”

“Ophelia.”

“I’ll see what I can find out about her. Meanwhile, think about it. Grace will show you around and answer your questions.”

She gives Grace a significant look. Grace pulls back from her anger and puts on a forced smile. Madam A strides away before I can protest.

“This way, please,” Grace says, turning in the opposite direction. I watch her swaying walk for several strides without moving an inch to follow. I should just walk out of here now. But the tiny Asian madam with the gun may be the only chance I have of finding Ophelia, short of cruising the east side mobs, trying to find her by chance. But there are three mob families controlled by three brothers, each with their own turf. And the families don’t play nice together. I’m likely to end up dead long before I find Ophelia.

I shuffle to catch up with Grace.

She doesn’t say anything until we’re down on the first floor again. She pauses at the doorway to the ward where the patients are sleeping and presses a finger to her lips. I nod and she opens the door.

A couple of nurses check on the patients in their beds. We catch the eye of one as Grace leads me into the middle of the room. The nurse nods to Grace and lingers a look on me. I can’t be sure in the dim light, but I don’t recognize her. She’s dressed in scrubs and has the practiced stoic look common to the nurses I see every time I collect.

“We have about twenty children at any given time,” Grace whispers, leaning her head close to mine. “We bring in more beds when we have to, but we usually don’t need them for long.”

I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to know any of this.

“The parents come visit during the day.” She points to a stack of small stuffed animals on the table next to one bed. “They bring things from home to make it seem more… comfortable. I wish…”

I can’t help looking at her as she turns her head away. She blinks back tears and tries to hide it. My fists curl. Madam A is giving her time to work on me, wear me down, but it doesn’t help for me to know their stories. It just makes it harder to resist the siren.

Grace quietly clears her throat and ducks her head. “I wish we could offer them a place to stay near their children, but there’s only so much room here.”

“You need a place to sleep too, right?” I hate the sarcasm in my voice.

Her jaw works, and she gives me a fake smile. “Most nights I’m sleeping somewhere else.”

Touché.

But it makes me wonder. “So how does this actually work?” I hold my hands up. “Not that I’m volunteering for anything. Just out of curiosity. Do you do the sex work just to lure debt collectors into helping out with your cause?”

“And for the hit.”

“The hit? I thought that was just for you. A bonus on top of your fee.”

She looks unimpressed. “Do you really think I would take a hit from you, keep it for myself, and then return here.” She holds her hands out, as if embracing all the children in their beds.

“So…”

“I transfer it out again, once I’m done working.”

I feel a weird mix of shame and wonder at this. Madam A’s girls aren’t just sex workers. They’re some kind of modern day Florence Nightingales. Servicing debt collectors, then illegally donating their hits to charity. I wonder if they all secretly loathe debt collectors, like the not-so-secret look of disdain that Grace is giving me now.

“Did you always do this?” I ask.

“No.” She stops by one of the beds. The boy is curled asleep on his side. His body is so small, it only fills the top half of the bed. “I used to work for another union, near Sacramento. We specialized in discreet work for the political class in the capitol.”

I nod. Grace is typical of Madam A’s girls: high-end, beautiful. It makes more sense that she would do high-price work than service debt collectors, now that I think about it. Collectors make government wage, after all.

“A lot of Madam A’s girls come from the higher-end unions. Usually we find our way here after we’ve lost someone to a debt collector.” She stares intently at the sleeping boy.

My eyes widen, and I look between her and the boy. “Is he…”

She blinks and refocuses on me. “For me, it was my brother. He was only a few years older than me, but he got sick. We didn’t have any money, so the debts stacked up quickly. It was only three weeks from when he got diagnosed that he got transferred out.”

A debt collector transferred out her brother. A collector like me. I swallow. “How can you… I mean…”

She smiles. “How can I service debt collectors? When I know what they do?” She turns to face me full on. “Because I know what they can do, Lirium. I know they can give as well as take. And I know…” She glances at the boy once more, then slowly walks between the cots again. “I know that every hit I earn is going to help someone who desperately needs it. I can service a politician whose biggest accomplishment is keeping his sex worker hidden from his wife.” She gives me a small smile. “Or I can service someone who will give me something that makes a life and death difference to these kids.” She stops and rests her hand on a cot rail. The bedside lamp is still on, but the girl’s face is half buried under blankets. “It’s an amazing feeling, isn’t it? But I guess you already know that. The collectors say it feels good to them, too.”

I frown. “Wait. You mean when you transfer out, it feels… good?” It shouldn’t. A debt collector has to pull that hit from her before giving it to the kids. That should feel like the small death that it is; the sick feeling I know too well from every time I pay out.

She gives me a perplexed look. “Of course. It feels great to give.”

I cock my head to one side, trying to figure out if she means that literally or figuratively, when a shadow moves next to the cot. Someone is sitting in a chair in the darkness outside the spot of the bedside lamp.

When she moves into the light, I jerk in recognition.

“Joe?” It’s Apple Girl. “Joe, you’re… here.” She smiles, and that look both terrifies me and turns something inside me soft. Vulnerable. I turn to glare at Grace. She had to know Elena would be here, but she has a look of surprise on her face which quickly turns scolding.

“Elena,” Grace says, “you’re not supposed to be here. Visiting hours are over.”

“I know.” Elena’s gaze never leaves my face. “I’m just not sure how much time she has left, so… I stay.”

Grace passes a look between us, then edges away, giving us a measure of privacy in this quiet, shrouded room filled with death. Privacy I don’t want. What I want is to run far away from Apple Girl. I want to turn away from her dark brown eyes, which in the dim light seem endlessly deep. I want to say something that will make her turn away from me.

I can’t seem to do any of those things.

Her hair is messed up on one side. She’s been sleeping on it. I curl up the hand that wants to reach out and fix it.

She steps closer, a tentative smile on her face. I can just barely smell the apple scent in her hair. “You’ve decided to join us…”

I blink. “No,” I say. “No! I’m not here for…” A small movement over her shoulder grabs my attention. Tilly’s restless in her sleep. I swallow and look back to Elena. “I’m not here for Tilly.”

She frowns. “Are you transferring for one of the other kids?”

“No. Look…” I run my hand over my face. “I just… I should go.”

Her eyes turn cold. “You’re not here to help the kids.”

“Elena, look, you don’t understand. I can’t. It’s… it’s not safe for me to do mercy hits. I can’t stop once I start.” I want to grab hold of her shoulders, press my fingers into them, make her stop looking at me like I’m despicable. I keep my hands at my side. “It’s hard to explain.”

The cold look stays, and a frown joins it. She doesn’t believe me. Or maybe she does, and she’s unimpressed. Apparently there are debt collectors who can do this. I have no idea how, but I’m clearly not one of them.

“Sure. I understand,” she says, like she does, but not in a good way. “What are you really here for, Joe? Picking out your favorite companion for the night?” She dismisses me with a wave. “Keep looking. That offer expired when you ran out of my apartment and didn’t even say goodbye to Tilly.”

“Elena, I’m not… I swear I didn’t know you would be here.” My explanations are lost on her. “If I did—”

“If you did, then what?”

I don’t know what I would have done if I’d known. Avoided her? Come anyway and tried to explain? No, I would have kept far away from the live-wire temptation that she and her sister are to me.

My silence speaks for me. She shakes her head in disgust and turns away, quietly settling back into her chair next to Tilly’s bed. I want to say something. I want to tell her I’m not a bad person, that I really do care about her and her sister and all the dying children in this room. That if it wouldn’t burn me up in a fire of ecstasy I would give Tilly everything I could. That I’m tempted to do it anyway, but I can’t. I can’t save her. I would only die trying.

But the look of contempt in Elena’s eyes tells me it’s useless. Nothing I say will make any difference. And the part about me being a good person is a lie anyway.

I clench my fists and turn away from her.

Between my eyes blurring and the dim light, I can barely see. I don’t care. I march blindly down the center of the rows of beds. All I know is I need to get away. Far away.

I sense Grace at my side, catching up. “Lirium,” she says in a hushed voice.

We’re almost at the end of the row of beds, and I’m suddenly lost. I have no idea which way to turn.

“Lirium, wait.”

Her hand is on my arm, and I let her pull me to a stop. I keep my back to Elena and my head ducked away from Grace.

“This way,” she says, tugging me into the murky back of the room. She finds a door. Amber light fills the stairwell. I stumble in, squinting. I pull from her and turn away, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

Her hand is on my shoulder. “I know it’s difficult,” she says softly. “Some collectors have a hard time with the mercy hits at first. Some days I can barely walk through that room without crying.” She scoots around to face me, putting a hand on my cheek. She looks up into my eyes. “Oh, Lirium. It’s okay.”

She wraps her arms around my neck, sinking my face into the long brown hair draped on her shoulder. She’s holding me, comforting me. I rub my face in her hair and breathe her in. I pull back and crash my lips to hers, finding the only kind of comfort I know how to take. The kind that won’t kill me or leave me worse off than before. She responds, her tongue slipping out to taste me. Suddenly I’m crushing her against the wall, my body finding contact with hers everywhere. My hand is on her forehead, pulsing life force into her before I’m even thinking about it. She doesn’t flinch. Her wide brown eyes trust me implicitly. They remind me too much of Apple Girl, so I focus on her lips instead, speaking to them in a hushed tone, like I’m telling her a secret.

“Off-book,” I say, licking my lips. “Just you and me, okay?” I’m not sure why I need this to be a secret. I’m not sure why I need this, but I do.

She presses my hand harder against her forehead. I keep pumping more hit into her. Her lips curve into the relaxed smile that comes from an addict getting her dose. I recognize it, know it, can almost feel it myself. I watch her cheeks grow rosy in front of me. I kiss her again, with trembling lips, unable to wait until her hit finishes.

When it’s done, I yank my hand away and cover her mouth with mine. I press her hard into the wall, urgent in my need. She draws lines on my back with her nails, familiar with what I like from the times before. I fumble with her blouse first, undoing the few buttons, then hastily undo my own clothes, just enough to give me access to her. I nibble my way down her neck to her chest, tasting the vanilla-and-sex scent that pervades her skin. My hands and mouth drink it in, my eyes half-lidded, not wanting to see, just to feel. I’m not completely sure she’s ready, but I can’t wait any longer. I work my way up to her mouth again, sliding my hands up her hips to lift her short skirt.

I bury myself in her, one fast thrust that lifts her from the ground.

The hot relief blanks my mind. My frantic movements still. Her eyes are closed, her head tipped back against the wall, lips parted. It’s all the confirmation I need. My thrusts bring quiet moans from both of us, but mostly me, a sound that feels like frustration and anger and need leaving my body. Her heels clatter the wall, banging in time with me. The release coils inside me, and small bits of my mind white-out, one by one, as it builds. When it comes, I gasp.

I forget how to breathe. It’s a moment of pure sensation and relief, empty of sound and thought. I don’t think about what she’s thinking. I don’t think about anything at all. I want it to stretch and carry me, but it’s already starting to fade: the coldness of my hand on the wall, the cool draft of air wrapping our bodies. Awareness of the world seeps back into me. My lungs cry for air, and I suck in erratic drafts of her skin and mouth as my lips hover over them.

She caresses my cheek, soft hands trying to give sweetness to the moment. I turn my face away. Only one collector can understand another. Ophelia’s voice is reminding me of my real purpose here. I pull back from Grace completely, disentangling our bodies, suddenly needing distance. I fumble with my clothes, half-turned away while she fixes hers.

I need Ophelia to help me figure out how to survive. How to not be the next wash out or mortality statistic on Candy’s collector sheet. I need to find out where Ophelia is and get her away from the mob. After that... who knows. I can’t think that far ahead.

Grace is finished with her clothes, standing tall on her heels again, only a slight flush in her cheeks and muss in her hair giving us away.

“Take me to Madam A,” I say. “I’m ready to make a deal.”

She nods and brushes past me, putting on the same fake, all-business calm that I have. I catch her arm, gently. She turns and looks straight into my eyes, searching for something. I smooth down the strand of her hair that’s still sticking up.

“That hit,” I say, my voice hushed. “Give it to Tilly.”

She nods hastily, like she knows that I don’t want her to say anything. She turns and marches up the stairs.

I follow, determined to do whatever it takes to find Ophelia.

Madam A hangs up from a call on her monitor as Grace and I step into her office.

It’s dark, like the entryway, and Madam A’s tiny body is dwarfed by the enormous wood-carved desk she’s sitting behind. She rises and comes to the front. If it’s obvious that Grace and I just had off-book sex in the stairwell, Madam A doesn’t let it show.

“My contact in the Kolek family has information about your friend, Ophelia,” she says.

My ears perk up. The police said Kolek was the mob boss controlling my neighborhood.

“What do you want in exchange?” I say, cutting to it. I’ve wasted too much time already.

She measures me with her dark eyes and looks to Grace standing behind me. They exchange some kind of meaningful look, and Grace gives a very small nod. Probably another test—one it appears I’ve passed by the satisfied look on Madam A’s face. I’m instantly suspicious that they’ve planned out the entire thing, including the stairwell sex.

I need to be more careful around Madam A.

“You understand the work we do here, now,” Madam A says softly. “So, what kind of man are you, Lirium? Are you the kind who’s willing to use his talents to help children who have been abandoned by the corrupt system that rules over life force transfers? Or are you the kind that can turn your back on them and still look in the mirror?”

I can’t keep in the snort-laugh. I don’t like the sound of it, but I’m way beyond looking in the mirror. And she’s still trying to sell me on signing up full-time for her charity. “I’m the kind who wants to rescue his friend from the mob. I’m interested in a one-time exchange of favors, that’s it. Then…” I glance at Grace. “…we will no longer have reason to do business together.”

“That’s… unfortunate.” But Madam A doesn’t look surprised. “However, a one-time exchange is acceptable. For now.”

“What did you have in mind?” I steel myself; if it involves Tilly or Elena, I’m going to have to walk away empty-handed. Or negotiate for something else. But if it’s a smaller transfer…

“I have several girls who have accumulated hits that need to be transferred out to the children,” she says. “Our current debt collector has been unavailable recently due to some… personal business. We’re a little behind, and as I’m sure you know, the children can’t really wait.”

Children. That means multiple mercy hits, which makes a chill run down my back. But it sounds like the hits are small ones. And that I can work around the Tilly problem. “I agree to do the transfers, but it will have to wait until I return.”

She frowns. “All I’m asking for is four short hits. You will be on your way soon.”

I cross my arms. “At which point, you won’t need me further, given that I have no intention of working for you full-time. It seems safer for you to have a reason to want me back.”

The smooth skin of her forehead wrinkles. “You think I’m going to sell you out to the mob.”

“It’s crossed my mind once or twice.”

She smiles. “What assurance do I have that you’ll return?”

“I’m… interested in making sure Tilly receives some of the transfer.” Which is true, even though there’s no way I can personally transfer out to Tilly. And it’s a convincing, given my moment of weakness in the stairwell. When I get back, I'll just make sure their other debt collector does that particular transfer.

Madam A narrows her eyes. “Two transfers now, two later.”

“I’ll do all four transfers, plus another two, but only when I return.” I keep my face impassive. “I want you to have incentive to bring me back.”

She sighs. “Fine. But if you do not return, Tilly will drop to the bottom of the list for transfers.” She tilts her head to me. “I want you to have incentive to return to us as well.”

My stomach hollows out, and I sneak a look at Grace. Her gaze is fixed on Madam A, emotionless. I have no way of knowing if she’ll follow through with giving my hit to Tilly.

“Agreed,” I say between my teeth. “And I assure you, I have every intention of returning.” Surprisingly, I actually mean it.

She inclines her head again, accepting my promise. “I still have contact with a debt collector who has worked for us in the past,” she continues. “He now belongs to Kolek.”

I don’t like the way that sounds, like the debt collector is the personal lapdog of a mob boss. “How unfortunate for him.”

“Perhaps,” she says, noncommittally, which I find even more unsettling. “But it’s fortunate for you. He says your friend Ophelia was brought to Kolek’s central operations this evening. And he’s agreed to provide a cover for you to get inside. In case you are wondering, the facility is well-guarded. Even if I told you the location, it would be impossible for you to get in.”

“So it’s quite a risk for him to cover for me,” I say. “What are you giving the debt collector in exchange?” Even if they’re friends, that can’t be the extent of it.

“He owes me a favor,” she says evenly. “I’m more concerned about you, Lirium. Kolek is a dangerous man.”

“I’ll manage. Just get me in, and Ophelia and I will find a way to get out.” I hope this is true. This is about the extent of my plan so far, and it sounds terrible when I say it out loud. But I’m short on options. Madam A raises her thin-line eyebrows, like she thinks I’m even more foolish than before. I glare at her. “What’s my cover?”

She pauses a beat. “How good are you at pretending to be a sex worker, Lirium?”

The look on my face makes her break into a grin.

I’m still not convinced this isn’t Madam A’s idea of a cruel prank. Maybe her twisted attempt at revenge for my unwillingness to sign up full-time for her charity.

Then again, I did ask for this.

I’m standing outside a mansion, the kind I would never expect to see on the east side. A lush, expansive lawn serves as a natural barrier between the guarded gate and the house. White stucco walls are hidden behind palm trees, but brightly lit with spotlights. It’s hard to tell the size of the estate in the dark, but I don’t spend time trying. The fatigue-clad security guard at the gate with the automatic rifle slung over his shoulder has captured my attention.

“I’m Joe,” I say, giving my real name, because everyone will assume it’s not. “I have an appointment with Valac.” I follow the script Madam A gave me, hoping there actually is a Valac locked up in the mansion somewhere. It sounds like a debt collector name, and probably means “demonic being of evil deathliness.” Ophelia would like it.

The guard speaks into his wrist for a moment, waits, listens to something only he can hear, then clears me with a nod of his head. I shuffle towards the black-iron gate, but the guard stops me with the barrel of his rifle crossing my path.

“I’ll have to search you first.” His voice is rough. His buddy in the guard shack looks unimpressed with my trenchcoat and boots. Madam A cleared my attire, after she unbuttoned half my shirt, spiked up my hair, and replaced the hospital bandages on my knuckles with nu-skin tape that makes my wounds practically invisible. Part of me wonders if I was really, all along, only a few buttons away from passing for a male sex worker. The guard slings his rifle over his shoulder and makes quick work, running his hands up and down my body. He doesn’t give a second look to my hands, the only real weapon I have. I try to act like I’ve done this a hundred times before.

Finally he nods to his partner. The gate clicks, then buzzes as it slowly slides open. I hurry through the opening as soon as it’s wide enough and stride up the long driveway. Another rifle-carrying guard stands at a door I assume is the entrance, based on the giant, plaster archway and two-story columns marking it. I climb the three steps of the marble stoop. He holds up a hand when I’m still a few feet away. I freeze in my tracks. He doesn’t say anything, just stares. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, but I try to act cool. I search my memories for what Madam A’s girls looked like when I opened the door: calm, collected, sexy. Smiling like they’ve done this before.

I smile at the guard and shift my weight to one foot, quietly tapping my boot. The guard frowns. My heart pounds in my ears. I look away, pretending to examine the architecture, heat rising in my face.

I have no idea how to do this.

Finally, the mansion door slides open and a man leans out, holding on to the door frame. He’s young, with wavy, longish blond hair. He grins, bites his lip, and lets his gaze travel the length of my body before saying, “Joe, is it? Do come in.”

I force a grin and saunter up to the threshold. I feel like an idiot, but the guard is already looking away, bored. Valac—at least I hope it’s Valac—slides his arm around my shoulders, ushering me into the darkened entryway. He leans back to press the button to close the door, a hand still firmly latched onto the shoulder of my trenchcoat. A receiving room down the hall is decorated with sleek gray couches and chairs, all lit with a warm white glow, but there’s no one else in sight. Valac returns his attention to me, giving me a one armed hug and leaning close to my face.

“So nice of you to make a midnight booty call.” His voice is low.

I give him a coy look, just in case. “You’re Valac, right? I just want to make sure I have the right client.”

“Oh yes.” He grins again, then whispers in my ear. “You’re in exactly the right place, my friend.”

I really hope Madam A isn’t having a laugh at my expense right now.

He turns me to a set of stairs I hadn’t noticed in the dark. “C’mon, my room is upstairs.” His arm slips from my shoulders, but then he grabs my hand to pull me up the stairs. At the top, there’s no one in the hallway, which is sparsely decorated with steel-gray tables. White vases with matching roses infuse the air with their perfume. Valac drops my hand and moves quickly to the second door. He passes his hand over the keyswipe, and the door slides open.

I hurry after him, checking behind me to make sure we’re not being followed. His bedroom is more steel-colored furniture with white linens and a gray-and-white mosaic that covers one wall. The door slides shut behind me, and Valac wheels to face me. His clean shaven face, black silk shirt, and trim-tailored dress pants make him look like he just returned from a photo-shoot. He moves closer until he’s less than a foot away and examines me with blue eyes that look entirely too hungry for my taste.

“Look, you know I’m not really a sex worker. Right?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Relax, man. You’re not my type.” He’s still inspecting my face though. “Just trying to figure out your angle.”

I edge out of his personal space, but my back’s against the door. I try not to feel trapped. “You’re a debt collector, right?” I ask.

He holds up his right hand. His collecting hand. It’s crisscrossed with so many welt-scars that I can’t count them. Years. Those are years of life he’s taken. I know, because there’s one on my palm too. I hold it up. He takes a half-step back, giving me room, but looks even more puzzled.

“Then you should understand why I’m here,” I say, “I just want to get Ophelia safely away from Kolek.”

His eyebrows go up, and he’s still close enough that I notice they’re blond as well. “An altruistic debt collector? You’ll get yourself killed with that kind of thinking, Joe. Didn’t Ophelia teach you anything?”

“You know her?” I press back. “Was she your mentor?” I need to know what this guy’s deal is.

“Yes,” he said, eyeing me again. “I’m assuming yours as well, since she doesn’t do debt collectors, and yet you’re still trailing after her like a puppy.”

My eyes narrow. “At least I’m not Kolek’s lapdog.”

His blue eyes turn ice cold. That was a mistake, but it’s too late to take it back. “Where’s Ophelia?” I demand instead. Which is what I should have been asking the moment I was in the door.

He gives me a wolfish grin and puts one hand on the door behind me, leaning in entirely too close. “If we go see her right away, we’ll blow your cover. You’re supposed to be servicing me in my room.”

I’m thinking I might be his type after all. “Sorry,” I say dryly, not flinching away. “I don’t have sex with debt collectors either.”

He lets out a light-hearted laugh, backs off, and strides over to a smoothly-cushioned chair. He flops into it, draping one leg over the chair-arm, chin in his hand, studying me again.

“What’s your real name, Joe?” he asks.

“Lirium.”

His gaze travels my body again, then lands on my right hand. “How’d you get the burn?”

“Same way as you, I imagine.”

He grins. “And yet, you’re working with Madam A. You’re a complicated man, Lirium.” He says this like he approves, but I’m not sure about which part.

“Look, we can exchange life stories later. Right now, I’m most interested in how we can get Ophelia out of here.” I’m assuming she can’t just walk out the front gate with me once my “appointment” with Valac is done.

“Well, that will be some trick,” he says, rubbing his chin. “Security is pretty tight.”

“There’s got to be some kind of delivery service or supplies that come in and out, right?” I ask. “If we wait until morning, maybe—”

“My sex workers don’t usually do overnights,” he says with a smile. He seems entirely too relaxed about all this.

“Well, maybe I’ll just call the police and report her kidnapped.”

He gives that no-cares-in-the-world laugh again. “The police would never touch that 911 call. Half the force is in Kolek’s pocket, and the other half are afraid of his debt collectors.”

His debt collectors… meaning Valac. “How did you end up here?”

“Well, that is an interesting story,” he says with a smirk. He glances at his palm, taps it briefly, then looks up again. “But one that will have to wait, I’m afraid. Why don’t we go see Ophelia?”

I frown. Valac was stalling for time, but not enough to convince anyone we did more than take off our shoes. “Are you this quick with all your sex workers?” I say, the suspicion creeping into my voice. “They must be very disappointed.”

He grins, climbs out of the chair, and pats my cheek as he brushes past. “Guess you’ll never know.” He pauses at the door, glancing over his shoulder before opening it. “You coming?”

I frown, but nod. Hopefully Ophelia will have some idea how to get out, once she knows I’m here to help. And Valac too. Although I’m more convinced he’ll just stand by and watch us get shot on the way out.

Valac leads me farther down the hall, away from the stairwell. He adjusts his collar and smooths back his wayward blond hair before he reaches a stainless steel door at the end. He must have a passkey programmed in his palm screen, because he simply waves his hand at the door, and it slides open. Valac strides inside, barely giving me a backward glance to see if I’m following. When I do, the door slides shut and locks behind me.

The room is expansive and filled with more of the sleek furniture I saw downstairs. The soft-white lighting makes it feel very European, and I’m guessing the Kolek mob is doing well enough to order the finest of whatever they want. Valac strides ahead to a tall, blond man fixing drinks at a bar near a fireplace at the far end. He turns, and Valac kisses him on one cheek, then the other in greeting. He hands Valac one of the drinks. They have a few whispered words before I catch up, and the man turns to me.

“Welcome to my home, Lirium.” His voice has an eastern European accent. I’m dead certain it’s Kolek, although the mob brothers are secretive, and I’ve never actually seen him before. I’m also certain that Valac has just sold me out with that kiss.

I try to keep my breathing calm. I can’t help glaring at Valac.

“Oh, now, Valac’s just doing as I asked.” Kolek’s clear blue eyes have a laugh in them as he takes a sip of his drink. “Can I make you a drink?”

“No, thank you.” My mouth is dry. “Where’s Ophelia?”

“Ah, yes. How rude of me. Ophelia, dear,” he calls to one corner of the room. “Come join us.”

I pivot in the direction he’s looking, and a door swings open to reveal a kitchen all shiny with stainless steel. Ophelia walks in, still dressed in the form-hugging dress and knee-high black boots from my apartment. Her steps are unsteady, and a purplish bruise on her face is visible even across the room. Her expression is blank, like she’s sleep-walking or in some kind of daze. She’s slowly crossing the room, but she doesn’t seem to see anything, including me. I don’t know how I’m going to get us out of this, but making a lunge for Kolek’s forehead is high on my list.

“Ophelia?” I’m hoping to shake her out of her fugue. I need to know if she can help. We won’t have much chance of escape if she can’t.

Her head snaps up, and her gaze wanders until it falls on me. She looks horror-stricken. Her mouth works. Then she gets mad. At me. “Guppy! What the hell are you doing?”

Well… at least she’s awake.

Valac gives me a derisive look, probably because of the pet name. Which I really need to discuss with Ophelia when we’re done here. She takes that moment of distraction to lunge at Valac, catching him by the wrist and yanking him off balance. He drops his drink, but the twisted look on his face isn’t from the physical stumble. She’s sucking life energy out of him.

I whirl on Kolek, planning to plant my hand on his forehead, only to find a gun pointed in my face. I freeze, hand suspended in air.

“I’d rather not waste your life, debt collector,” he says calmly. “So please don’t make me do it.”

I put both hands in the air and twist back to look at Ophelia and Valac. They’re locked in a death grip: his hands on her throat, her fingers clawing at his face. I can only imagine what’s happening inside, as they wrestle for control of their life energies. Both their faces are stricken, and they’re teetering physically. Then slowly a smirk creeps onto Valac’s face, and he bends her backward over the edge of a crisp steel-colored sofa. Ophelia’s face starts to match the color of the couch.

I whip back to Kolek. “Call off your dog!”

“And why would I do that?” he asks, as if genuinely puzzled. “You come into my house and try to steal her away from me. Surely you didn’t expect me to allow that?”

I turn. Ophelia’s eyes are starting to glass over. I look back to Kolek. “Call him off and I’ll…” I swallow. “I’ll stay with you.” That was always a possibility. I knew that coming here was potentially a one-way ticket for me.

He arches his eyebrow. “You didn’t expect me to let you leave, either, did you?”

“I’ll work for you,” I say. “Willingly. But only if I have Ophelia by my side.”

Kolek rolls his eyes to the ceiling, and tips his head back and forth, as if saying “eenie, meenie, miney, mo” in his mind. Then he shrugs. “Valac!” he calls.

Valac is still draining Ophelia of life.

“Valac, let the girl go,” Kolek says in a bored voice. “You can play with someone else later.”

Valac drops Ophelia. She falls limp on the couch. I want to run to her, but Kolek’s voice stops me. “Debt collector,” he says, quietly. “I want you to understand that if you ever pull a hand on me again, I will shoot you, then let Valac have what’s left. Are we clear?”

I manage to nod, even though every part of my body is screaming with the desire to launch myself at him, just like Ophelia did to Valac. But she’s alive, and I’d like to keep her that way. I stumble to the couch where she’s lying, still as death, but Kolek’s soft voice follows me.

“Valac, show the boy what I mean.”

Before I can shrink away, Valac has a hand on my neck. I immediately feel him pulling life energy straight through the point of contact. My heart contracts, seizing with the feeling of death. I twist around, trying to get out of his grasp and reaching for his head, but I can’t do either. Darkness is closing in on my mind.

Any skin-on-skin contact, Ophelia’s voice reminds me. I claw at Valac’s hand on the back of my neck, getting solid contact with his wrist. I close my eyes to concentrate; my vision is fading anyway. I feel him like a malevolent cloud in my mind. I push back against it and reach through my hand… his wrist… feeling my way into his life energy. I’m draining something from him, which slows the loss a little, but not enough. I’m drawing a trickle; he’s super-flushing the life force from me.

I hear Kolek’s voice, but I can’t make sense of what he’s saying. He repeats it over and over, and finally Valac’s hand wrenches free from my neck. I nearly fall over, but manage to stay upright until I reach Ophelia on the couch.

Valac and Kolek are having a conversation, but I can’t focus on that. I hover over Ophelia, afraid that it’s too late, that Valac drained her too far. I can’t tell if she’s breathing or not. I gingerly reach for her. I can give her a little, keep her alive. As soon as I touch her, she moans and moves away.

“It’s me,” I whisper, and gently place my hand on her forehead. I give her a small boost, and it feels light, almost like no transfer at all. Her eyelids flutter, but don’t open.

“Guppy.” She barely has enough air to make sound. “You’re… an idiot.”

I smile. “What are you talking about?” I push a little more life force into her, even though I’m not sure I can spare it. A warm glow starts to form in my chest… I’m giving her a mercy hit. I brace my hand against the back of the couch, feeling dangerously weak. “I planned it this way all along.”

Her lips quirk in what would be a smile, if she had any energy to spare.

“You’re… a screw-up. Need… a mentor.” Even though she labors for the words, they make me smile harder.

My smile fades fast when Valac’s presence looms over us.

“All right, kids,” he says, “party’s over. Stand up.”

I glare up at him, but he’s serious. His skin is radiant with the life he’s drained from Ophelia. And me. I would lunge for his throat if I didn’t have the strength of a half-drowned kitten. I’m tempted to do it anyway.

I struggle up and help Ophelia roll over and off the couch. Valac continues in his life-hit-cheered voice. “A valiant effort, my friend! Entirely stupid, of course, but still a very nice try.” He looks in my eyes once Ophelia and I are both standing. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you, Lirium. That altruistic side will get you killed one day.” He cocks his head, and there’s something in his eyes I can’t quite identify. Something like sympathy. Which only makes me want to drain the life energy from him even more.

“Enjoy your rest, Lirium.” Kolek raises his glass to me, as if he’s giving me a toast. “We’ll discuss your duties tomorrow.”

My arm is under Ophelia, holding her up as we limp ahead of Valac’s bouncy step. Her knees buckle, and I bend down to lift her up. I barely avoid tumbling us both down to the plush white carpet. Ophelia’s half-dead in my arms, and I’m not far behind.

And now we’re both collectors for the mob.

I watch Ophelia’s chest rise and fall. The curve of her breast under the sheet would be enough to hold my attention, even if I wasn’t concerned that she might stop breathing. I must have fallen asleep, though. I’m surprised to see bright morning sun slitting through the blinds and throwing stripes across the pale gray comforter of her bed. Our bed, at least for now. My hand lies on her pillow, ready, in case she needs another life energy hit to fight off the death that hovers over her. I won’t let it take her, but it’s already stolen the pink from her cheeks, leaving dark hollows under her eyes and dry wrinkles on her lips.

She licks them while I watch, lighting a fire in me that hopes she’s waking up. She makes a soft sound and nestles her face deeper in the oversized white pillow of Kolek’s guest bedroom. Although “guest” is a term that doesn’t really apply to us. I’m guessing our status is somewhere between “prisoner” and “employee,” thanks to fellow debt collector, betrayer, and general asshole, Valac. Killing Valac fights for top priority in my mind along with finding a way out of our involuntary servitude as debt collectors for the mob and helping Ophelia recover from his attack.

But in the meantime, I’ll settle for the chance to be in Ophelia’s bed.

A strand of her long, raven-black hair falls across her face. She frowns, but doesn’t open her eyes. I gently lift it away, letting the silky softness of it run across my finger. Her eyes flutter open, and she looks confused.

Then her lips smooth out as she smiles. “Still here?”

“Nowhere to go, at the moment.” I move my palm to her forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I could use a boost.” She works a hand free of the covers, spilling them open to reveal her steel-gray pajamas. Kolek has a thing for grays and whites. Nearly everything here comes in those artificial colors of elegance, down to the pajamas he supplied for Ophelia last night. I left my trenchcoat and boots on the floor, but I’m still wearing the same collared shirt and pants I’ve had on since I first met her—which seems like forever ago, but was only yesterday. I’m wishing now that I had changed, but staying by her side took precedence.

She doesn’t seem to mind. Her warm fingers find the bare skin of my left hand, which is resting on the mattress between us. She boosts a small hit of life energy into it, and I immediately cycle it back through my right palm on her forehead. I’m afraid she doesn’t have any to spare for boosting, but she holds onto the hand between us when I try to move it away.

Her eyes close again, but her lips curve in an almost smile. I’m feeling it too, the pleasure response that comes from the boost, even though we’re just trading the same life energy back and forth between us. I inch my body closer and lean in to kiss her, just lightly. Testing the waters. She smiles under it even before I pull back.

“Stealing kisses again, guppy?” she asks, eyes still closed.

“We need to have a serious conversation about that nickname,” I say, then move in to kiss her again. This time I’m not testing. Her lips part under mine. The buzz from the life force boosting is nothing compared to the electric feel of her tongue playing tag with mine. But then, she said an experienced debt collector could transfer with any part of their body, and if there’s one thing Ophelia has, it’s experience.

I move my free hand to her cheek. She shifts to cup my hand against her face, still transferring. I focus on pushing life force there, instead of the conventional position, as she calls it, palm-to-forehead. It feels awkward, like writing with your wrong hand, but I’m surprised how easily the energy flows once I concentrate. I experiment more, sliding my “new” transfer hand to the back of her neck, pulling her deeper into the kiss, but still cycling life energy into her. Both are getting me high very quickly.

She pulls back and I don’t mind, but only because I’ve moved on to kissing her jawline and working my way to her neck. I move my hand, still transferring, to her shoulder, slipping under the crisp, cotton pajamas in order to keep contact with the soft warmth of her skin. And because I want to touch her a lot more.

“I think you forgot, guppy,” she says lightly, pulling slightly away from my touch. “I don’t have sex with debt collectors.”

My lips pause in their exploration of her neck to whisper, “I thought saving your life might at least get me to second base.”

She coughs a laugh and pulls further away. It’s a good sound to hear. She stops transferring, so I do too, removing my hand from under her clothes and resting it lightly on top of the bedding. We’re both high on the boosting anyway, and she probably needs a breather.

She smiles. “I seem to recall being a lot better off before you arrived.”

I cringe because it’s true. “You didn’t have to jump Valac. I would have found a way out of there for us.” Which feels weak, given that we’re still trapped here.

She reaches for my cheek, which is rough with a serious lack of shave, and she pulls me in for a quick kiss. “That’s for trying to rescue me, guppy. Especially because it was such a tremendously stupid thing to do.”

“You’re welcome.” I move to kiss her again, but she puts two fingers across my lips, stopping me. I sigh, blowing air across them.

“But I did have to stop Valac, or at least distract him,” she says. “He’s not someone you want to tangle with.”

“Actually, I’d very much like to kill him.”

She gives me a look like I’m a child again. “Lirium, you’re out of your depth here.”

I narrow my eyes. “He said you were his mentor. Is that true?”

“Yes.” She shifts away from me, propping her head in her hand and digging her elbow into the pillow. “Years ago. He was a guppy, like you, about to wash out of the program. I helped him and for a while… he found a purpose.”

“And what’s his purpose now? Other than sucking the life out of fellow debt collectors?”

“I’m not sure.” She frowns. “I haven’t seen him in a long time. Honestly, I was surprised to find him here, although I knew he was working for an east side mob. I just didn’t know which brother.”

Which reminds me of something that’s been scraping at the edges of my mind while trying to find Ophelia. “I thought that you getting picked up by the mob… well, I thought it was my fault.”

Her quizzical look puts a cute wrinkle on her forehead. I smooth it out with my finger, then let it trail down her cheek. She allows it, but just barely. I don’t push my luck.

“Remember how I told you I brought sex workers to my apartment?” I ask. “Well, I thought one of them had tracked me down and sold me out. I figured you were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. But now…” I still wasn’t entirely sure that Madam A didn’t sell me out. We certainly weren’t free yet, and Valac wasn’t the help I thought he would be. But she had warned me about coming here, something she didn’t need to do. And she genuinely wanted my help with her charity; she had real reasons not to want me trapped in the mob.

“And now?” Ophelia asks, capturing my attention with a soft hand on my cheek.

I lean into it. “Now, I think maybe it was just bad luck. The police said Kolek had control of my neighborhood. Maybe someone recognized one of us as a debt collector on your way into my apartment. I can’t think of how else his thugs would have known where to find you. Or me.”

Ophelia drops her gaze and plays with the white sheet between us. “I’m afraid they knew where to find you because I told them.”

I’m so stunned I don’t say anything.

She looks up. “I didn’t mean to. They came to the door and asked for you. They were already in the building, so I thought you had given some low-life friends a swipecard. I said you were out buying ice cream. They didn’t bring out the guns until after that.”

“So they were looking for me?”

She shrugs, but drops her gaze to the sheet again. “Maybe. They never asked if I was a debt collector. They just hit first and made demands second. They already knew what I was. I should have figured that out before I told them where you were. At least then…”

I gently lift her chin with my fingertips. “It’s not your fault they came after me.”

She purses her lips, unconvinced.

“And it was my choice to come after you.” I softly touch the bruise on her cheek. “Besides, I’m not done rescuing you yet. And at some point, I’m going to kill Valac. Just wanted you to know that ahead of time.”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t stand a chance against him.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” But she’s right. Last night I couldn’t fight his ability to drain me. I don’t know why we were so unevenly matched, but it gave me new appreciation for how long Ophelia held out against him. “How did you get to be so strong, anyway?”

The door to our bedroom swishes open, and Valac strides in carrying a paper bag, swinging it from the looped rope handles. If I thought he was overly fashionable yesterday, it’s nothing compared to today’s slicked-back blond hair, imported leather shoes, and a white silk shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders. It’s like he’s auditioning for a magazine spread.

“Rise and shine, little birds,” he sings out, too loud, as if we’re not a mere five feet away. Ophelia leans away from me, and Valac glares at her and our too-close cuddling on the bed. “Well aren’t you two adorable?” The contempt in his voice is for Ophelia, but I can’t figure out why. Does he think we’ve done more than cuddle? I don’t think they were lovers, based on Ophelia’s rules about such things. Plus his tastes seem to run to young men, not beautiful female debt collectors.

His gaze lands on me. It softens for an instant, then he shakes his head. “For God’s sake, Lirium, at least get cleaned up.”

He whips the bag toward us, and I manage to keep it from hitting Ophelia.

“You have twenty minutes to get presentable,” he says. “Then it’s road trip time!” He sings the last few words, turns on his heel, and leaves the room.

Once the door shuts, Ophelia reaches for the bag and dumps it out. Clothes for both of us spill onto the bed. Our assigned attire is high-end like Valac’s.

“At least we’ll be well dressed,” Ophelia quips. Her face is still sallow, the glow from the boost already fading.

“What is your history with him?” I ask, pulling out the black silk shirt and pair of tailored pants meant for me. She doesn’t say anything, so I push further. “If we’re going to get out of here, I need to know what his problem is with you.”

“He doesn’t have a problem with me, Lirium.” She avoids my questioning look. “He has a problem with you.”

“He just met me,” I protest.

She gingerly climbs down from the bed, her silver-shimmer dress clutched in her hand. “I call first shower,” she says as she heads for the side door to the bathroom. I don’t like the way each step looks like an effort. I know that feeling. Like the marrow has been sucked from her bones, and she thinks they’re going to break.

I don’t know what she doesn’t want to discuss, but I’m not going to push her on it now. Besides, I don’t have time to worry about it, not if I want to be ready for Valac when he returns. I need to keep him off guard, thinking that I’m going along with his and Kolek’s plans. Hopefully we’re getting dressed to go somewhere, and anywhere is better than being locked in Kolek’s mansion, if I’m looking for ways to escape.

And I definitely need to get Ophelia away from here before Valac decides to settle whatever grievance he has against her. Or if she’s right, against me.

Freshly showered, shaved, and wearing Kolek’s imported clothes, I feel far too much like a younger version of Valac. He’s riding in the back of the stretch sedan, wedged in between Ophelia and me, his long legs reaching nearly to the glassed-in barrier between us and two of Kolek’s thugs up front. Unfortunately, I recognize them, even though they’re dressed in high-end suits today instead of hoodies. One’s still sporting the bruise I gave him with two pints of ice cream, and the other has a burn mark on his forehead that matches the one on my right palm. Before, in the alley, they didn’t shoot me—probably because they were supposed to bring me in alive. But I doubt they’ll hesitate this time.

We don’t travel far. The car rolls to a stop at a gated-up shop in the middle of a cluster of jammed-together buildings. There’s a closed electronics store, an illegal biomechanics shop, and a deli that looks like it still serves food, but I wouldn’t chance eating there. Even the bright morning sun fighting its way through the smog can’t pretty up the grime that coats the crumbling pavement and graffiti-covered walls.

The thugs take positions on either side of the shop door. There’s no sign or markings to indicate what used to be sold here, but the boarded-up windows say it’s long been closed. Valac speaks into his palm, calling someone. I hold Ophelia’s elbow once she climbs out of the low-riding sedan. Her silver dress runs like rippling water over her body, but I’m too concerned about the sunkenness of her cheeks to give that the focus it deserves. Her long, black hair fans around her, brushing my arm as I keep her from stumbling on breaks in the concrete. Whatever Valac has planned for us, I’m hoping I can take the brunt—Ophelia’s in no shape for anything.

The door of the shop rattles, and a mole of a man opens it. He has a sparse collection of wiry hairs competing in their attempt to cover his head. He barely comes up to my shoulder, and his spindly fingers twist around each other in a nervous dance while he backs up to let Valac in. The mole man ducks his head as Ophelia and I pass, his super-magnified eyes peering at us out the side of his too-thick glasses. The thugs follow us, and the mole man closes the door.

The shop reminds me of Dr. Brodsky’s secret lab, only dingier. Boxes of parts crowd the walls in teetering piles. They’re filled with human-looking things that are really mechanical. Most look discarded, coated with rust and wires sticking up like lost fingers. Valac leads us to a workbench that’s similarly grimy and lined with electronic scanners and instruments I don’t recognize. Mole Man threads between the thugs, darting like a mouse afraid to get caught standing still. He stops in front of Valac, and I swear, he squeaks.

“We have a couple new collectors, Pawel,” Valac says.

“Oh!” Pawel twitches like he’s received some kind of hidden jolt. “Do you need a burn? Of course you’ll need a burn.” He dashes to the workbench. “Maybe a full spread disabler, too? I’ve got one of those right here, right here…” He runs his spindle fingers across several devices, setting them askew. “Here, right here, it was just here—”

“Pawel!” Valac cuts him off.

Pawel jumps a foot in the air before turning. He jams his back against the rough wood edge of his bench.

Valac’s voice turns soft. “Just a burn will be fine. We have an appointment to keep.”

Pawel’s hand shakes as he pats the air in Valac’s direction. “Of course! You’re a very busy man. Very busy.” He twists and snags a small gun-shaped device off the bench. Instead of a barrel, it has a squarish, flared metal tube, like a tiny, elongated loudspeaker. “This!” He waves it in the air, showing it off to Valac. “This is the best microwave gun, very tight focus. I modified it myself. Just what you need. And I calibrated it only yesterday—”

Valac pushes the tip of the gun away with his finger, so it’s no longer pointing at him.

Pawel’s eyes go wide. He hastily tips the gun up to the ceiling and flicks a look at me and Ophelia. She leans against me, the effort of simply standing in the shop causing her face to draw down further. Valac gestures with his chin to the two thugs, who come up behind us. They peel me away from Ophelia, one on each arm, and since they’re not bothering her, I don’t resist. They bring me to the bench, next to Pawel.

“You want to tell me what’s going on, Valac?” I ask. Pawel’s gun still points at the murky rafters of the shop.

“Well, that would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?” Valac says.

I glare at him. The thug holding my right arm grins. He’s the one with the burn mark still on his forehead. He grasps my arm at the wrist and elbow and wrestles it flat on the bench top. I’m leaned over, but two-pints-of-ice-cream thug grips my other arm, so I’m stretched awkwardly between the two of them.

I feel sick. “Valac—”

“Just hold still, little bird,” Valac says softly. “It’ll be over quickly.”

I try to jerk my arm out of the thug’s grip, but I can’t budge. Pawel skirts around my back and worms his way in between the second thug, me, and the bench. He holds the gun directly above my arm, hovering over my shirtsleeve.

Over my tracker.

“Wait—” A red light flicks on, and my words are cut off by a blinding flash of pain in my arm. A guttural scream ricochets around my head and escapes through my mouth. Electric shocks and white-hot burning pulse deep inside my arm. By the time the scream carves all the breath out of my body, it’s over.

Pawel dances back, taking his gun with him, and the thugs release me. The pain is still there, but it’s not arcing fresh agony through my arm anymore. I clutch my arm to my chest and stumble back from the bench. It’s bad. It hurts like hell, actually. But I manage to keep the moaning inside me.

Ophelia has one hand against the wall, holding herself up. One of the thugs stalks toward her. I fling myself in his path, grunting “No!” at him, but I’m one-armed, and I know it’s useless as soon as I try. He shoves me into a box of parts, and fresh pain slices up my arm as I use it to keep from falling. I look back, but Ophelia isn’t resisting at all. Her face is deathly pale, but she lets the thug take her arm and bring her to the bench.

“Valac!” My voice is still rough from the scream. “You can’t…” I struggle up, but the thug is ready to shove me again. “Valac, she can’t take it. She’s too weak.” I have no idea why I’m trying to appeal to his decency, when he just tried to kill her last night. I try a new tack. “If she dies, Kolek is going to be pissed.”

Valac rolls his eyes. “No one’s going to die, Lirium.” Then he crosses his arms and taps his chin. “At least not in the next five minutes.”

“Do you really want to take the chance that this won’t put her over the edge?” It’s desperate, and Valac is unimpressed. He ignores me and offers a hand to Ophelia. To my surprise, she takes it. He walks her the final step to the bench and lays her collecting arm on it, still holding her hand. He whispers something in her ear, and she nods. Then Valac tips his head to Pawel, who’s still standing back from the fray, eyes wide, microwave gun trembling in his hand. He skitters forward, points the gun, and zaps Ophelia’s tracker. Her body goes rigid, and a whimper of pain escapes her. The thug has to hold me back, because I’m surging toward her, even though I can’t do anything to stop it.

Then it’s over and Pawel steps back.

Valac places his hand right over the spot where Pawel just burned her tracker. He holds it for a few seconds, and when he releases her, she tucks it in, but she doesn’t seem as pale as before.

I push past pints-of-ice-cream thug and put my uninjured arm around Ophelia’s shoulders. Valac makes a face as I gently pull her away. I don’t know what he has planned for us, but the two thugs are heading toward the door, so I assume we’re done with Mole Man and his microwave gun.

Valac holds the car door open, and I let Ophelia climb in first, mostly because I want to keep her as far from him as possible. He eases in behind me, and the three of us fill the back seat. I want to put my arm around Ophelia, but I hold it close to my chest instead, like I’m crossing my arms. It’s the only way I can keep it from shaking. Her hands rest in her lap, and she stares out the window. The pain from the burn must be less for her. Maybe something Valac did.

“Lirium,” Valac says softly next to me. “Give me your arm.”

I look at him only long enough to say, “Screw you.” I catch his smirk before I turn my head back to watch Ophelia look out the window.

“Not right now, little bird,” he says in mock chastisement. “We have work to do.”

I want to punch him. I would, except with my burnt tracker and still-split knuckles, I’m sure it would hurt me more than him. I settle for glaring. If he makes a move to touch me, however, I might have to get in a few shots before the thugs up front can stop me.

Valac reaches across me, holding his palm out to Ophelia, and I almost knock his arm away. But her hand is already out, meeting his halfway. They press palms together, his long fingers curling down to meet her shorter ones, fingertip to fingertip. The pale skin on the back of Ophelia’s hand turns pink.

He’s transferring to her.

Ophelia’s gaze is steady on Valac’s. It feels weirdly intimate to be sitting between the two of them. My head starts to pound in time with the pulse that’s beating through my injured arm. I can’t figure out Valac. Last night he nearly killed her. Now he’s feeding her own life energy back to her. She’s not surprised. More like… resigned.

They break apart, and Ophelia puts her hand on my knee. “Give me your arm, Lirium.”

I hesitate, only because I’m confused. Once we’re alone again, I really need to get the full story of her and Valac. For now, I untuck my arm and twist to lay my hand, palm up, across the lap of her shimmery silver dress. She carefully unbuttons my shirt cuff and rolls up the sleeve. A burn mark has welled up, an angry red strip across the width of my arm. Her hand rests lightly on it, and she pulses life energy into me. It heats up the contact point on the surface, which hurts a little more, but down deep, where the burning is still happening, there’s a rush that feels like relief. I let out a small sigh, and my shoulders relax as the pain steps down a couple notches. I’m buzzing from the transfer, too, which doesn’t hurt with the feeling-less-pain aspect.

Ophelia stops the transfer and gently rolls my sleeve down again. Then she lifts my other hand. The bandages are gone—Kolek’s bathroom didn’t have any replacements, and the old ones from the hospital were dirty and falling off. She lays her fingers across my knuckles and gives them a hit of life energy as well. The cuts swell and seem to close before my eyes.

“How…” I stop. I know life energy can do amazing things. I also know it’s not a cure-all for disease or injury. But I’ve begun to question everything I think I know. I look Ophelia straight in her dark eyes, less dull now that Valac has pumped some life back into them. “Tell me how this works.”

“It’s just your body’s response to the infusion of energy,” Ophelia says, as if it’s no big deal that she’s curing my injuries right in front of me. “The point of entry has an especially large dose of it, and the body responds. It’s not doing anything it wouldn’t do normally, just at an accelerated pace.”

“It’s like steroids,” Valac offers. I ignore him.

“So you’re speeding up my recovery,” I say to Ophelia, “by moving the point of entry to where the wound is. Could you…” I think of Dr. Brodsky and his transfer device. The room full of Tillys at Madam A’s brothel. “But you’re not curing me. You’re not healing something that wouldn’t already heal on its own.”

“That’s right.” Ophelia draws her fingertips away, trailing them softly across my hand. If we were anywhere other than a mob car with a mob debt collector and mob henchmen watching my every move, I’d chase after that soft touch with more of the same.

“There are a lot of things that life energy can do,” she says, “but curing people isn’t one of them. Or bringing them back from the dead.” She glances at Valac, so I finally spare him a look. The smirk is gone. His stare is as cold as a grave. So, their past was deadly. Someone—maybe someone Valac cared about—died. I don’t know if that will help us escape or not, but Ophelia needs to come clean to me, and soon, so I know what we’re dealing with here.

Valac’s stare doesn’t let up, and it’s all for Ophelia. “Make sure Lirium is ready to collect. I’d hate to have to use extreme measures to ensure he’s a functional debt collector for Kolek. And if he’s not useful, then… we’ll have no use for him.”

I don’t care for the way that sounds.

Ophelia turns away without answering and stares out the window again.

The sedan pulls to a stop in another seedy neighborhood, like the one we left, only there are no boarded-over shops. Just apartments sandwiched together like children’s blocks, each grimier than the next. Before we get out of the car, Valac reaches for Ophelia’s palm. She lets him take it, and he taps in something. I frown, not liking how compliant she is with everything he wants.

When he’s done, he turns to me. “Give me your palm.”

“No thanks.”

His blue eyes stare steadily into mine. “Ophelia, please tell your puppy what will happen if I don’t disable the locator in his palm screen.”

“Someone might come looking for us, Lirium.” Ophelia’s voice is heavy. “If they find us, they might send the police. And that won’t end well.”

I think of Candy and her inept police contacts. They may be ineffective bringing us back in from the mob, but the worst that would happen is we’d be right where we are now.

“I’m thinking anything is better than being stuck here,” I say, directly to Valac.

He flicks a look to the thugs, who have already climbed out of the car and are waiting for us. “What do you think would happen, if the police showed up right now?” Valac says to me. “Do you think Kolek is going to let his debt collectors fall into the hands of law enforcement?”

A chill runs down my back.

When I don’t answer, Valac voices my thoughts. “They have orders to shoot us before letting us anywhere near the police. The last thing Kolek wants is one of his hitmen to turn state’s evidence.”

Hitmen. Of course, that’s what all debt collectors are. Except mob collectors do illegal transfers, which means they know a dangerous amount of information.

“Give me your palm, Lirium,” says Valac. “We don’t have all day.”

I reluctantly put my hand up. He rapidly swipes and taps a sequence. When he’s done, I check my screen. It shows a message, Encryption Complete. He’s locked me out of my own palm screen.

“I might need to use this again someday,” I say, glaring at him.

“I’ve only locked out your locator.” Valac pulls down the handle on the car door. “But if you have a girlfriend, I wouldn’t recommend calling her—not unless you want her to join us on a more permanent basis.” He pauses once he’s stepped outside the car, holding onto the upper edge and leaning in. “And I wouldn’t call anyone else, either, just in case you’re tempted.”

I’m not. The only person I can think to call is Candy, and even if she knew where we were, I doubt she’d muster much of a rescue party. She’s already written off Ophelia. Once she realizes I haven’t checked in, she’ll assume the mob got me too. She’ll scratch me off her list of difficult debt collectors and move on.

We climb out of the car. Our high-end clothes look out-of-place and menacing on this down-on-your-luck street. Valac nods to Kolek’s henchmen. They take the lead, swiping open the door to one of the tenements and marching in like they own the place.

Do these guys have swipe cards for the entire city? Is that how they got in so easily to my apartment? I glance at Ophelia with raised eyebrows, but her face is blank. If she’s putting it together, she’s not interested in talking about it right now.

We hike up two flights, Valac bringing up the rear, in case we decide to make a run for it. A mother pulls her child inside when she sees us, but the rest of the floor is closed doors, piles of trash in the corners, and slitted, smog-filtered light from a window with broken blinds. By the time we arrive at the apartment door, the thugs are already inside. One has a hand around the throat of a scrawny man who looks two seconds away from wetting his pants.

Valac spreads his hands wide. “What are we going to do with you, Renald?” As if he’s a kid who’s broken curfew or a been caught sneaking out. From the ghost-white look on Renald’s face, I’m guessing his offenses are much worse than that.

“I… I didn’t do nothin’,” Renald says around the choke-hold. The henchman with the burn mark on his forehead looks like he enjoys choking people far too much.

Valac crosses his arms. “I don’t think that’s quite true, Renald. Mr. Kolek thinks you’re an informant for the FBI’s rather incompetent Organized Crime Division.”

“What?” Renald’s eyes go wide, and he struggles in Burn Man’s grip. The thug lets him go and steps back. “No way! No way I’m working for the Feds! What do you think, I’m crazy or somethin’?”

Valac throws out his hands in feigned exasperation. “That’s what I said to Mr. Kolek! I told him you’d have to be crazy, because you were nowhere near smart enough to pull something like that off.” Valac strolls a few steps closer. Renald stumbles back into an armchair that’s torn and bleeding stuffing. Valac looms over the shorter man and pats his cheek. He visibly shakes, his eyelids blinking together with each of Valac’s touches. I glance at Ophelia, but she’s fascinated with a side table holding a collection of tiny glass cats on a mirror plate.

“I don’t know if you’re crazy or not, my friend,” Valac says to Renald. “I honestly don’t care. But Mr. Kolek cares a great deal that you’re not meeting your quota of donors. And it’s hard to believe that the east side’s source of runaways and addicts has suddenly dried up. So, Renald, if you’re not setting up some kind of life force sting operation with the feds…” Valac leans in close, and the man bends backward over the armchair. “Tell me. Are you trafficking donors to Mr. Aleksky or Mr. Emeryk?”

“No! No, I swear—”

“Because you know how Mr. Kolek doesn’t like to share with his brothers.”

The man quakes, and my stomach curls into a knot. This isn’t going to end well for him. Everyone in the room knows it, including him.

“I would never—”

Valac holds up a finger that comes very close to touching the man’s lips. “Don’t lie to me, Renald. We’ll find out the truth, anyway, and it will go easier on you, if you just tell us now.”

His eyes cross as he looks at Valac’s finger, regarding it like the weapon it is. “I… I just…” He shifts a pleading look to Valac’s eyes. “They made me do it.”

My throat tightens. Ophelia finally pays attention, her hands clasped calmly in front of her.

Valac straightens and laces his fingers. “Made you do what, exactly?”

“They threatened me. Said they would send their debt collectors here.” He nervously glances at Ophelia and me, as if seeing us for the first time. “They… they said if I didn’t report to them, they would—”

“What did you tell them?” Valac asks, patience draining from his voice. “Exactly.”

“They wanted to know how many collections you were doing. I… I said I didn’t know! All I know is my ward. Just mine. I don’t know how much you guys are doing in other wards!”

Valac nods. The knot in my stomach cinches tighter.

Renald keeps spilling. “Then they wanted more, you know, said they wanted a cut. And I… I couldn’t say no, right? I mean…” His gaze flits like a fly, buzzing around each of our five faces. “I had to. Right?”

Valac nods. “I completely understand.”

“I had no choice.”

“None at all,” says Valac, shaking his head. “How long, Renald?”

“How long?”

“How long have you been sending donors to Mr. Kolek’s brothers?” Valac draws his words out, like he thinks the man is mentally impaired. And maybe he is: befuddled with fear. My injured arm starts to ache. I realize it’s locked with my other arm tightly across my chest. I release them.

“Just for…” Renald’s gaze sweeps the room again. I’m not sure he even remembers. “A month?”

“Okay.” Valac pats the man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Renald. I appreciate you being honest with us.” He steps back and turns his head to the side. “Ophelia, would you do the honors, dear?”

She steps forward, her shimmery silver dress moving like a gentle breeze over a lake. Small ripples in the fabric catch the dim light from the windows. Renald smiles uncertainly as she approaches.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Renald.” Ophelia’s voice is soft and deep. Sexy. I cringe and pray she’s not doing what I think she’s doing.

His lips quirk into a spasmodic smile. “It’s just… Renald. No… no mister.”

“Renald then.” Ophelia holds up her fine-fingered hand and gestures to the chair. He shuffles sideways to get to it without bumping her.

As soon as he’s settled, he twists to look up at her. She smiles and lays her palm on his forehead. His eyelids jerk open and freeze there, his face twisted into a mask of belated fear. I’m momentarily transfixed by what she’s doing, then I lurch forward. Valac turns and plants his hand on my chest, shoving me backward so hard I nearly lose my balance. I right myself, one hand on the table with the glass cats. They all tumble over, a rain of broken glass tinkles on the mirror.

Valac follows up the shove with a steely-eyed look. “She needs it.” His voice is rough.

This flares something inside me. I straighten and get in his face. “Because you drained her, asshole.”

Something shifts on his face that I don’t understand. “She attacked me.”

I don’t respond. Because it’s my fault. I came in, naïve in trying to rescue her, and Ophelia attacked him to protect me. Something I’d rather not admit to Valac, if he hasn’t already figured it out for himself.

“Besides,” he says, the steely look returning, “she needs to prove her worth to Kolek.” He gives me a pointed look before turning back to watch Ophelia. Our altercation hasn’t distracted her. She’s settled on the arm of the chair, her hand lightly resting on Renald’s forehead, still pulling life energy from him. She leans over, draping her other arm behind him and almost snuggling with him on the chair. Her face is flushed, her lips parted, like she’s breathing hard. The same look of fear is frozen on his face.

It’s like they’re engaged in a macabre make-out session.

My stomach heaves, but I can’t tear my gaze away. She’s enjoying it—or at least she didn’t exactly put up a fight with Valac. And she’s draped on Renald, soaking up the buzz as she sucks away his life. He has years of it left, apparently, because it’s taking forever. It goes on and on, and I keep staring, my brain searching for a justification—that she has to do it—but the queasiness in my stomach knows this is wrong.

Valac’s arms are crossed. He’s admiring her. “She’s a master of the slow pull.” He flexes his right hand, the one with the multitude of scars, then curls it into a fist. “I was never that patient. But then she’s always been better at all of this than I am.”

He glances at me, then steps up to Ophelia and taps her on the shoulder. She leans away from Renald, taking her hand with her. The man slumps in the chair, mouth hanging slack. A small moan escapes as he squeezes his eyes shut. I’m dumbfounded that he’s not dead. Ophelia hops up from the chair, reaches up to kiss Valac on the cheek, then she twirls a dance in the middle of the cramped apartment, arms flung wide, silver dress flaring. Her long black hair fans as well. When she comes to a stop, she giggles and skips over to wrap her arms around my neck. She kisses me square on the lips, but I’m so stunned I don’t react.

She flits away from me and literally spins out into the hall.

Valac tilts his head in her direction, motioning Burn Man to follow her. She’s flying higher than a kite, pumped with who knows how many years of life energy. I’m actually glad the thug is going after her, in case she decides to take a swan dive down the stairs.

“Your turn,” Valac says.

I swing to face him, and we stare at each other a moment. “And if I don’t?”

Valac shrugs, like my resistance doesn’t concern him in the slightest. “It’s your funeral.” He glances at Renald. “My tank is full right now, thanks to Ophelia, but I can still make room for whatever Renald’s got left.” He leaves the rest unspoken, but I see it when the hard look returns to his eyes: he’ll be the one to drain me himself, if I don’t do this.

Renald is dead either way. Valac will let me walk out of here, if I kill his wayward donor wrangler for the sin of sending life force donors to other mob bosses. It will buy me time to find a way out of this life. Give me a chance to get Ophelia out of the mob as well. And yet… I still can’t make my feet move.

I swallow and pour my anger into a glare. “Someday, Valac, it’s going to be your funeral. I plan to be there.”

Valac smirks as I unlock my legs and stride quickly over to Renald. He sees me coming, but he’s too drained to do more than cringe in his chair. His scrawny arms flail in front of him, like he can ward me off. I smack my palm down on his forehead, pinning his head against the crook of the chair arm.

Life energy surges into me. I grit my teeth as the heat flares on my palm and travels through my still-injured tracker arm. The blinding hot burn grows and grows and just when I don’t think I can keep the scream inside, it ceases. Renald’s body slumps.

I peel my quivering hand away from his head, the skin on my overheated palm sticky with sweat.

Then I feel it.

The high hits my brain full force. I can’t feel my feet. Energy is bursting out of me, every molecule of my body electrified. I leap back from the chair and rush at the two-pints thug who’s watching us from the door. I catch him off guard, but I have no control. We both go down, sprawling on the dirty carpet of the hallway. His hands grab at me while I kick and punch him. I have a fleeting thought of trying to find his gun.

Something yanks me off the floor by the back of my silk shirt. The top button chokes me until Valac releases my clothes and grabs me by the neck. The wildness starts to drain from my body as he sucks the life away. I struggle against him. I find an open spot of skin on his hand and try to pull back the life energy he’s stealing from me. His face is close, intense, but not angry.

“You’re going to be okay, little bird,” he says.

I’m still fighting him, but I’m losing. He shoves me away. I stumble into the banister and nearly tumble down the stairs, but I catch myself. I’m panting, but the high is gone. Energy still pulses inside me—Valac only took the edge off. A huge hit still swims through my cells. I don’t know how much. Maybe a year.

My palm aches. There’s another burn mark on it. The two form an X that crosses at the center of my hand.

Valac straightens his collar and smoothes his long hair back over his ears. “If you’re quite finished with that nonsense, we have an appointment to keep.”

I bite back my urge to tell him to go to hell. I need to be smarter than this to have any chance of us staying alive long enough to get away. I peer over the banister, looking for Ophelia. She’s nowhere to be seen, but her giggle echoes up the stairs. I nod to Valac, and he sweeps his hand out, indicating I should go first. I march down the stairs, my imported shoes making sharp clacks on the cracked wood with each step.

I don’t want to think about where we’re going next.

The black sedan ride is longer this time, and silent except for Ophelia’s soft giggles to herself and whispered laughs to Valac. He’s sitting between us now, and I’m almost glad. After she willingly drained Renald like it was no big deal, I’m not sure I could take having her drape on me the way she is Valac. Who seems to be having a good laugh at her expense, only she can’t see it. Or is so high she doesn’t care.

My leg bounces, the energy pent up inside making me shake all over. Valac sends me sideways glances, but I spend my time staring out the window, dully watching the cracked and broken city morph into taller buildings and tidier streets. My reflection in the glass is a pale, shaking ghost that stares back, separate from and floating over the sliding landscape.

I killed a man.

My shoulder twitches extra hard as the memory of my first kill rushes back, unbidden. It was a woman. Mrs. Harms. She was ninety-two and ready to die. She patted my hand and called me sweetie… and I killed her. I couldn’t sleep for days. Not until I finally drank myself into a stupor so deep I could forget her kind, blue eyes. Her soft, wrinkled face. Her gravelly voice telling me in that gentle, grandmotherly way that she forgave me.

Something touches my hand, and I jerk so hard in my seat that my head bangs against the window. My reflection looks shocked, like it’s seen a ghost and it’s me. I close my eyes and put both hands to my face, trying to rub the look of horror from it. My hands shake so bad, I can hardly control them.

“Give me your hand, Lirium,” Valac says softly.

I take a deep breath and open my eyes. “I’m really not in the mood to hold hands with you, Valac.” I focus on a single rivet in the bullet-proof glass between the back of the sedan and the thugs riding up front. I need to pull myself together. So what if I killed a man? So what if it was a mob hit instead of a state-sanctioned debt collection? It wasn’t like I had a choice. And it will happen again if I don’t get my shit together and get us out of here.

Valac isn’t saying anything, so I finally look at him.

“Give me your hand,” he says again. “You need to be presentable for our next stop.”

I hold my left palm up, and it visibly quakes in the air. I focus on it, trying to get it to stop. The movement mutes a little, but I still look like I have palsy. I’m wondering what he’s going to do to my screen this time, but he reaches for my collecting hand instead. He turns it over and lays his palm on mine.

“I’m pretty full up right now,” I say as he pulses a small hit of life energy into my hand. The last thing I need is the jitter-high of another transfer. But the hit is so small it just swims in the life energy floating inside me. And the burn on my palm, the one I got from killing Renald, stops stinging. I hadn’t even noticed the pain before, but now that it’s eased, my tremors seem to calm a little as well. Maybe it’s Valac’s hair-of-the-dog treatment for life energy overdoses.

Valac stops the transfer and releases my hand. There’s a slight crinkle around his eyes. I think he’s laughing at me inside, although I’m not entirely sure about what. Ophelia is busy peering out the window, so I do too. We must be closer to the west side now—most of the businesses are actually in business, and the street is shadowed by the towering buildings of the rich and famous who live above the smog.

“What’s our next stop?” I ask.

“We have a party to attend,” Valac says. The sedan pulls to a stop outside a luxury apartment building. The entranceway gleams brass. A doorman in a ridiculous red uniform guards the door, but the real security is a man in a black suit that’s perfectly tailored for his overmuscled arms. He doesn’t have an obvious weapon, but the suit could hide at least three.

“A party,” I repeat. If Ophelia and I simply ran down the swept-clean street, I wonder how far we would get before Kolek’s thugs shot us in the back.  None of the shiny businesses here would willingly give us refuge. But they’re also less likely to be armed than the shopkeepers on the east side, so threats from a debt collector might convince them to help. Or at least hide us until Kolek’s men give up. What we’ll need is a distraction, though, something that would allow us to make a run for it without getting a bullet for our trouble.

Kolek’s men climb out of the car and open my door. As I step out, an older woman in high heels exits the building carrying a dog the size of a large rat. It’s cradled in her arm like it’s her child. A man strides out behind her, talking into his hand and wearing a suit that looks like it costs more than my monthly collector wages. Valac emerges from the car and helps Ophelia out, her silver dress reflowing to hug her curves as she stands. Our upscale clothes make more sense to me now, although I wonder what kind of party requires high-end dress but occurs at ten o’clock in the morning.

Kolek’s thugs lead the way. A simple nod from the security guard grants us access to the building. Valac is careful to stay behind us again, sandwiching our bodies between him and the thugs to limit our chances for escape. The elevator ride leaves my stomach behind. Its walls are mirrored: I guess rich people like to look at themselves. I avoid my reflection, having had more than enough of that in the car, and stare at the buttons as they light a path to the party on the hundredth floor.

That’s a hundred floors to get lost in, to hide in, if we can just break free of Valac’s hold.

Our stop is a short hallway. On one side of the elevator is an emergency stairwell door. A black-suited security guy, the twin of the one at the ground level, stands at the end of the hall next to a double door that appears to be made of solid gold. It matches the ridiculous opulence of the gold trim glittering from the baseboards and ceiling, as if baroque gilding has made a sudden comeback among the moneyed set that lives up in the clean air above LA. We’re quickly ushered through the golden door, and discover the inside of the apartment is more art deco than Versailles. Uncomfortable-looking chairs in odd shapes are paired with angular-legged tables. A couple of elongated couch-benches with a tiny veneer of cushion stand nearby. My psych officer, Candy, would feel right at home.

A dozen women stand in twos and threes around the furniture, martinis in hand, ignoring the spectacular view of LA that beams through the wrap-around windows encasing the room. The women were talking before, but with our entrance, a hush falls, and one of them peels away, gliding toward us with a clink of too many silver bracelets on her wrist.

She’s older and has a strained loveliness, like her beauty has the power to hold back the tide of age. Only it’s not natural—she has the radiance of someone who’s been getting regular hits. Illegal hits. I suddenly have a clue as to what kind of party we’re attending. I’d heard of them before, but never gave them much thought. They’re not the kind of thing people like me do. If I were ever in a room where people were buying illegal life hits, it would be filled with junkies, not high potentials or their wives.

“How lovely of you to come!” she says, greeting us like we’re her friends from the yacht club who’ve just made time in our busy schedules to drop by.

“Of course, Mrs. Kirchoff,” says Valac. He doesn’t offer his hand, and she doesn’t extend hers either. “Mr. Kolek sends his regards. How is your daughter? I heard she made summa cum laude at Yale.”

Mrs. Kirchoff smoothes back her golden hair, even though there isn’t a strand out of place. “She’s doing so wonderfully, thank you for asking. She’s brilliant, just like her father.”

“And beautiful, just like her mother.”

Mrs. Kirchoff’s face lights up, but she holds back the smile, as if she’s afraid she might wrinkle if she shows too much expression. My stomach starts to churn. Ophelia stands mute next to Valac, the bouncy giddiness finally gone. She surveys the crowd, which is edging toward us. The eager looks on their faces makes my stomach twist harder.

“I have two new collectors to share with you today.” Valac puts an arm around my shoulders, and I paste a smile on my face. “This is Lirium, and he’ll be taking care of you ladies.” He beckons Ophelia with his hand. She dutifully slips close enough for him to slide a hand around her waist. “Ophelia is just observing today, but I’m sure she’ll be back for your next party. If your guests are ready, we can start any time.”

Mrs. Kirchoff can’t hold back the smile this time. She twirls and steps lightly toward the encroaching mob of her friends.

Valac releases Ophelia and whispers in my ear. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

I fold my arms and watch Mrs. Kirchoff gather up small black cards from each of her friends, waving her hands around to herd the women together into some kind of line.

“How much do you want me to give them?” I ask, not looking at Valac. I have plenty inside, but the prospect of doling out a dozen payouts at once, even if the hit is small, is playing havoc with my stomach.

Valac’s hand is still on my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze. “They’re only paying for two weeks, but if you want to give them a kiss along the way, I’m sure they won’t mind.”

I give him a disgusted look and pull away from under his arm. Small lines sprout around his eyes. He’s definitely laughing inside.

“Why don’t you pay out?” I ask, arms still crossed. “Seeing how you’re all tanked up from the life you stole out of Ophelia.”

His eyes lose their humor, and he gives me a tight smile. “We don’t talk about donors at a payout party. Don’t want to ruin the mood, now do we? If you can’t join in, I’ll have to tell Mr. Kolek how you disappointed his very good friends and business partners.”

I draw in a breath and count in my head, keeping my arms locked over my chest. The society ladies are queuing up, Mrs. Kirchoff leading them with her fistful of black debit cards.

Valac’s all smiles as he takes the cards from her. He fans them like they’re his hand in Texas Hold ‘Em. “I’ll start swiping these. Why don’t you ladies get started with Lirium?” He gives me a very brief look of warning, but Mrs. Kirchoff’s gaze is already on me, so she doesn’t see.

Two weeks times twelve high potential wives is twenty-four weeks of payout. Nearly half a year. I took over a year when I killed Renald, so I have plenty, but paying out a half a year at once… the shakes are starting to come back just thinking about it.

Mrs. Kirchoff steps up first. She stands in front of me, expectant, her gaze roaming my face. Her friends chatter to themselves and peer around her to look at me. I clench my hands to stop the shakes, lick my lips, then reach for her forehead.

My palm adheres to it, sticky with my sweat, and it’s a wonder she doesn’t cringe away. Instead, she closes her eyes and waits for it. I glance at Valac, but he’s busy passing the debit cards, one by one, across his palm screen scanner. Ophelia has a drink in her hand, chatting with one of the ladies in line. My stomach hollows out with the sight. She’s so casual, her silver dress blending in with the brushed bronze and shimmering black cocktail dresses of the wives. It’s like she’s already been absorbed into it, unquestioning, just floating in the insanity of being a mob collector.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” Mrs. Kirchoff shifts slightly under my palm. Her eyes are open, wide open, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

“Fine.” I adjust the contact of my palm on her forehead and start giving her the hit. I clench my hand against the urge to run or hit or at least lurch away. My hand claws at her perfectly placed blond hair, gripping her through the transfer. Her face flushes, and a puff of her breath warms my forearm. I make it through the two weeks, then pull back quickly. I draw in a deep breath, drop my hand, and wait for her to leave.

She opens her eyes, smiles, and turns to give an even bigger grin to her friend behind her.

The next one steps up, and I don’t even look at her, just grit my teeth and plant my hand. I dose her and she moves on. Same with the next one. My transfer hand is cramping. The fourth transfer feels like it carves a hole in my stomach. I have to stop to catch my breath and breathe through the pain. The shakes are back. I gut my way through two more transfers, but I’m not sure I can hold my hand still enough to make contact with the next one. How many is that? I’m losing track… six, I think. Halfway. I’m in danger of throwing up on Mrs. Kirchoff’s polished wooden floors. They’re shiny with the bright morning sun that streams from the high altitude windows, but black spots invade my vision, swimming like tiny spooks trying to coalesce so they can form one specter and blot out my mind altogether.

Before I can land a hand on the next faceless payoff, something touches the back of my neck. I flinch and almost jerk away, but then I realize Valac is pumping life energy into me. It chases the spooks away. My chest relaxes and I can breathe again.

“Need to keep up appearances, Lirium,” he says quietly. His hand disappears.

I stand straighter and adjust the collar of my shirt, smoothing back my hair the way Valac does, mostly to get rid of the sweat that’s greasing my palms. I beckon the next payoff, who has stepped back, looking at me with uncertain eyes. She edges forward, but relaxes into my hand once I start giving her the hit, just like all the rest. The energy boost from Valac holds me through the next three transfers, but I’m back to having the shakes with the fourth. I grit my teeth and make it through. I have to hold the shoulder of the fifth payout, and by the last one, I’m practically hanging on her, holding her head with two hands—front and back—and trying to stay upright on my shaky legs. The swimming black spots float at the edges of my vision. I lurch back when the final transfer is complete, nearly tipping over an oddly-shaped black-and-white chair as I grip it.

I swing my head around, looking for the bathroom, but it only makes me dizzier and I nearly go down. Valac’s hands are on me, holding me up, but I shove him away.

“Bathroom,” I wheeze out.

Valac motions to Ophelia.

I’m praying I can make it out of the room without passing out or throwing up.

Ophelia tucks under my arm just before my knees buckle. I try not to lean on her, but I have to. We limp toward the solid-gold entrance door but then veer to the side. Another door opens as we approach it, and I release Ophelia to brace my hand against the doorframe and step through. It’s an expansive, tiled room with frosted glass walls and what looks like a small pool. I don’t realize it’s a bathroom until I spy a pedestal sink and stumble toward it. The white marble cools my hands and gives me something to hold on to.

Ophelia’s hand slides up my back, and her fingers fork through my hair. “Lirium, baby, come here.” She slips her other arm around my chest and urges me to turn around. I comply, shifting so that I lean against the sink and hold Ophelia in my arms.

Her soft fingertips brush my face. “Boost with me, baby. It’ll all be better soon.” She pulses five fingerpoint transfers into my cheek, and I turn until my lips brush her palm. She shifts the transfer there, which feels like an electric kiss. It shocks me awake and chases away the spots still crowding my vision. I move my kiss to her cheek, then slide my hand to the back of her neck, holding her close and returning the transfer.

The golden feel of the boost fills me. The shakes calm. The tightness in my stomach relaxes. I keep holding her until I have enough. By the time I stop the transfer, her cheeks are rosy, her black eyes sparkling. I steal a quick kiss just because I’m high, and it seems like the thing to do. Plus she’s rescuing me, even though I’m supposed to be rescuing her. Again.

“How are you feeling?” My thumbs brush the red apples in her cheeks.

She grins. “I think I’m supposed to be asking you that.”

“You were a little too high there for a while,” I say softly. “I was worried.”

She huffs a small laugh. “You still have a lot to learn, guppy. I’m fine.”

I ignore the nickname for the moment. “I’m going to get us out of here. I promise. There’s a firedoor by the elevator that I think—”

She puts two fingers on my lips, stilling them. “Baby, we’re not going anywhere. Don’t get any crazy ideas about running away.”

“But I think we can—” I say around her fingers until she shakes her head. A sinking feeling, like I’ve missed something terribly important, settles into my stomach. I narrow my eyes. “You don’t want to leave.”

She drops her hand, pulls out of my arms, and steps to the side of me, checking her hair in the mirror and avoiding my stare. “It’s not that I don’t want to, Lirium. But I didn’t survive this long by making stupid mistakes. We do what we do; does it really matter who we do it for? Life in the mob is… not terrible, once you’re used to it. There are even certain advantages.”

The cold chill in my stomach turns into a knot. “You’ve been in the mob before.” Her lack of response confirms it, but it still takes a moment for that to sink in. “You set me up!” I say it even before I believe it, because it seems too… how could I be so stupid? My anger just starts to well up in my chest when she turns to me with wide eyes.

“No, Lirium.” She touches my arm, and the electricity of it sizzles even though she’s not transferring. Her dark eyes ask me to believe her. “I didn’t set you up. I had no idea Kolek’s men knew where I was or that they were coming for me at all. I thought… I thought I had left all of that behind.”

I don’t know if I believe her or not, but the anger caps off at a slow simmer. “So you worked for Kolek before?”

She closes her eyes, like the past is reaching out to cause her pain in the present, then opens them again. “No. I worked for Emeryk, his brother. I was his debt collector; he was my mob boss. I was also… he had a special interest in me.”

My eyebrows hike up, but it’s not hard to picture. “You were lovers with a mob boss? Why does this not shock me?”

She gives me a bitter smile. “We weren’t lovers. I told you, I didn’t make it this long without making stupid mistakes. Besides, Emeryk was no fool.  He would never allow a debt collector into his bed. I was a sort of… pet. But that didn’t stop him from having certain feelings about me. The mistake I made was…”

She stops and closes her eyes again. The set to her jaw… the crinkle around her eyes… something happened, and she’s carried it inside all this time, hidden under sultry smiles and a truckload of confidence. I want to reach in and smooth away whatever’s making her brow crease with remembered pain. Suddenly I can see it: an ice-cold mob kingpin falling for a beautiful debt collector he can never have.

I tell myself I’m not doing the same thing.

But I reach out to touch her anyway, brushing her hair back from her face. “I thought you didn’t make mistakes.”

She opens her eyes. “My mistake was being lovers with someone else. He was a debt collector. My mentor. Eli was… different than anyone I have ever met. He helped me survive once Emeryk found me. He taught me everything I know about collecting. He was Emeryk’s chief collector, but he was more than that. He was Emeryk’s friend, and I…”

Her hands grip one another, and I grit my teeth. Half of me wants Ophelia to stop talking because I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to know about her other lovers. The other half of me wants to bring her closer into my arms.

That half wins.

I slip my arm around her waist and pull her next to me. She stops twisting her hands and lays them on my chest. That touch does strange things to my insides.

“Did Emeryk find out?” I ask.

She stares at my shirt. Just when I think she’s not going to answer, she says in a very quiet voice. “He found out when I killed him.”

I’m not sure I heard her right. “You killed Emeryk?” I’m about to be more impressed than ever with Ophelia.

“No.” She splays her hands, spreading her fingers wide. “I killed Eli.”

I don’t say anything, stunned and slightly confused. “But you… I thought you…”

She looks up at me, her face now close. My hands slide across the back of her silver dress as she eases into me, her hands trapped between us.

“I loved him. And I killed him.”

She drops her gaze back to my shirt, playing with the button. “Being in the mob means you collect a lot.” She says this like she’s reading a manual, some distant thing that’s removed from the intimacy of what we’re talking about. “You get stronger with all those lives stacked up inside you. You pay out, but you get to keep even more. It adds up. Over time, you have… a strength that you didn’t have before. I don’t know why—it’s like your body is in a constant wash of life energy, and it becomes more resistant to everything. You don’t get sick. You don’t age. You learn how to transfer at a rate that would leave scars on most men.”

I think about Ophelia’s beautiful hands and her time in the mob. She doesn’t have a burn mark on them.

“I shouldn’t have loved Eli,” she continues, but now her voice is filled with that pain again. “I should have known better. I did know better, we both did, but I thought… I thought I could control it. But I was stronger than him. All those lives inside me. I was stronger than I even knew.” Her breath catches, and although her head is tipped, I can see a small tear fleeing down her cheek. “So, you see, there’s a reason I don’t…” She looks up at me with eyes brimming in tears. “I can’t ever do that again.”

Something inside me breaks for her. And a distant echo breaks for me. I really can’t ever be more than a stolen kiss for Ophelia. I have dizzying, warring sympathies for both a collector who thought he was safe loving her and a mob boss who knew he never could.

“How did you get away from Emeryk?” I ask, hoping to direct this back to where we started: getting out of the mob. Because no matter what Ophelia says, and no matter what kind of relationship we can have, this is no place for us to be.

“You can’t get out, Lirium.” She fists one hand on my chest and lightly pounds it. “They will never let you go.”

“But you got away,” I say, confused. “All we have to do is—”

“Emeryk let me go!” She pushes away from me. I try to hold her but she insists on being free of my arms. It leaves a cold chill where she used to be pressed against me.

She shakes her slender finger at me. “He let me go because he couldn’t stand the sight of me, and he didn’t want to kill me. It was a fluke, Lirium. Most collectors do die in the mob. Those mutilated bodies they show you in training? Those tortured collectors that have been left to die in a back street? That is how you will end up if you try to escape. I’ve seen it happen.” She crosses her arms. “I’m not going to be one of them, Lirium.”

I run both hands through my hair. “We have to try.”

“No,” she says. “We don’t.”

“If we can just get away—”

“They’ll find us.”

“We’ll move,” I say, mostly out of desperation. She can’t give up this easily. “We’ll leave the state. Get Candy to relocate us to another jurisdiction. Debt collectors do it all the time. We can go together…”

She’s shaking her head when there’s a scream from outside the bathroom, and we both swing our heads to look at the door. It’s closed, which means the scream is even louder outside.

She looks back at me.

“There’s a fire escape door by the elevator,” I say. “I don’t know what’s going on out there, but if we get a chance I’m taking it. Are you coming with me?”

She shakes her head back and forth in small motions, like I’m a complete idiot. Which I probably am. And if she says no, I’m not leaving without her. But we have to take this chance if it comes.

She takes a breath and looks at me with those deep, dark eyes. “You’ll never make it, guppy.”

“Not on my own.” I give her a small smile, hoping that will win her. “I am kind of an idiot, you know.”

She rolls her eyes, then wipes the last of her tears. It’s not a yes, but I take her hand anyway and pull her toward the door. I figure if the chance presents itself, she’s got to take it with me.

Outside, the apartment is in chaos. Women are crying. Valac is giving mouth-to-mouth to Mrs. Kirchoff, who is sprawled on her back, hands lying on the floor, upturned and cramped, like giant insects that died with their legs in the air. One of Kolek’s thugs shouts into his palm, calling for help from 911 or somewhere. The other thug grips the shoulders of one of the sobbing women. He asks her something, but I can’t hear what over her incoherent mumblings and crying. She’s probably scared half to death.

Having the host go code blue in the middle of her life hit party will do that.

I edge closer to the door, Ophelia’s hand still in mine. No one’s noticed us yet, but I’m sure if we open the door, they will.

I lean back to whisper in her ear. “Has this ever happened before?”

“Once,” she says. “She probably was high when you dosed her.”

I peer at Ophelia. “If she dies, Kolek’s not going to be too happy with me.”

She shakes her head in a small motion.

“Probably better if we don’t stick around, don’t you think?” I ask.

She bites her lip, then frowns. I’m not sure if that’s a yes or a no.

“Will they call for an ambulance?” I ask.

She nods, then whispers, “They probably have a doctor on call in the building. High potentials never want to be too far from their medical practitioners. He’s probably the one who supplied her with the drugs too.”

I frown. “Doesn’t he know the risks?”

“He probably didn’t realize she was doing life hits too.”

At that moment, the door slides open, and a man with an open-collared shirt and bright silver bag bursts through. He immediately spies Mrs. Kirchoff on the ground and heads for her. I grip Ophelia’s hand tighter. The doctor arrives at his patient’s side and yells at people to give him room. All eyes are on him. I walk sideways to the door, trying to catch it before it slides closed again. Ophelia holds me back, tugging at my hand, but I pull forward just in time to catch the door. The elevator down the hall still stands open. If we run, we could catch it. I open my mouth to whisper to Ophelia, when the thug with the burn mark glances at the door. Our eyes meet.

Shit.

“Run!” I say to Ophelia. I shove her through the door, but she’s not running. The thug is closing fast on us. I leave the door and rush at him, meeting him half-way. His eyes go wide, not expecting me to attack, but I already have one hand on his throat and the other slipping inside his jacket. I suck life energy out of him, freezing him up as I fumble for his gun. Once I have it, I back away, gun pointed forward.

I have everyone’s attention now.

Valac stands rigidly over the doctor and his patient, watching me with a crazed look. Kolek’s other thug has his gun out, but no one moves. The thug I attacked holds his throat, hunched over, still recovering from the momentary shock of my quick-hit drain. He gives me a look that says I better escape, or I’m not going to live much longer. I back quickly toward the door, my gun-free hand reaching for Ophelia. I don’t dare take my eyes off any of them.

“Ophelia!” I say, my voice harsh, when my hand finds nothing but thin air. I’m at the threshold of the door, when her soft fingers slide across my palm and grasp my hand.

And then the world dims, and I double over with the despair of it.

Ophelia’s draining me of life energy in a massive gush that has me nearly folded to the ground. The gun slips out of my cramped hand and slides to the floor. I follow after it, falling, but I'm unable to get my hand loose from hers.

She hovers over me where I’m crumpled on the slick polished wood of the entranceway. “I’m sorry, Lirium,” she says, but I can barely hear her. She’s still draining me. I try to draw the life energy back, but she’s far too strong.

She stops when the thug recovers his gun and stands, pointing it at my head. My body is still cramped, but it’s not like I’m going anywhere now. My brain is a dark vortex of confusion, still trying to process what happened.

“Nico!” Valac’s voice stops the thug’s inching movement toward my head with the gun. Valac arrives at his side and gives me a look that makes me think he’s considering shooting me himself.

Instead, he says, “Nico, I don’t think Mr. Kolek will want to lose a collector on top of today’s client problems.”

Nico lowers his weapon, slowly, but he doesn’t holster it. A shaky breath works its way out of me. Ophelia tries to help me up, but I automatically flinch away from her. My brain is fighting it, but my body understands.

Ophelia betrayed me.

I’m back at the Kolek estate, locked in the room next to Valac’s. I assume Ophelia returned to her room, but I can’t be sure. There wasn’t an opportunity to talk on the way back, and even if there was, I had no words for her betrayal. Now, after pacing for two hours, I finally have a few choice thoughts I would like to share, but no one is letting me see her. I wonder how long they’ll keep us separated, or if I’ll just have to wait until they let us out to collect again.

Or maybe they’ll just decide to kill me and be done with it.

Without a warning tone, my door slides open.

Valac walks in, his steps slow and purposeful. I turn to face him, hands clenched at my side. I don’t know if he’s paying me a visit to drain the life out of me, but if so, I plan to get a few punches in first. He keeps his distance, studying me. He passes a slow look from my dress pants to my clenched hands.

Since he’s not attacking me immediately, I ask, “Where is she?” I’m not sure if I really want to see her right now, but I can’t help asking.

He draws in a deep breath, ignoring my question, then pulls a trimly upholstered chair near the bed. “Please sit down,” he says, indicating that I should sit on the bed next to it.

“No thanks.” I have no intention of letting my guard down while Valac’s in the room.

He pushes the chair back, carefully sits in it, and leans forward, elbows on knees, fingers laced. I’m still standing.

“We’re made to take life, Lirium.” He stares at his hands, as if he’s talking to them. He unlaces them, then touches each fingertip to its mirror on the other hand, one at a time. His hands are a cage, as if he’s holding an invisible bird. “It’s our purpose: to take life. To move it from one place to another. And if all you’re made for is to take something, then you damn well better become the master of that. Or it will be taken from you.”

He looks up at me, his blue eyes deadly serious.

“Is that why you’re here?” I ask, standing straight, ready. “To take it from me?”

His face softens, and he gives me a small smile. “No, little bird.” He stands up from the chair. “Do you know why Ophelia is such a strong collector? Why you, and even I, had a hard time fighting off her attack?”

I smirk. “Like you said: she’s just better at it than you.”

“She used to be,” he says. “But not anymore. She used to be strong enough to break the strongest collector. Because she understands what she is and she doesn’t fight it. She takes from the weak and gives to the strong: it’s what we all do; she’s just more honest about it. She takes what she needs and doesn’t squander life on the weak. She doesn’t fritter it away on trade or excess or sex workers. She’s not foolish,” he smirks, “not like you and me. She’s a survivor. She hoards and waits and becomes strong. If you’re smart, you’ll learn from her.”

I want to deny what he’s saying, but I can’t. It all rings true. And when push came to literal shove, she cut me down rather than let me drag her into an escape attempt that might have gotten her killed. As much as I want to believe that, if we ever get free, Ophelia would help me learn to survive, I’m slowly figuring out what exactly that means to her.

“Is that what you did?” I ask. “Learn how to betray other collectors from Ophelia? How does it feel to prey on your own kind?”

“We’re not predators. We’re something much more than that.” He’s got a crazy gleam in his eyes that sends warning bells through my body.

I lean slightly away.

“Why are we like this?” His question is a challenge, like he wants to see if I know the answer.

“Like what?”

He reaches for my forehead, and I jostle backward, dodging his reach. But he wasn’t really trying, and he just smiles at my evasion.

“Why do we have the power of God in our hands?” he asks.

“I’m pretty sure it’s just bad luck.” Even people who have the genetic marker for collecting don’t always express. It’s just my luck to be one of them. Even the original vaccine that set everything in motion was a case of side effects piled on bad luck with a side-order of mutation. It’s not like anyone created this ability on purpose. Although now that we have it, people like Dr. Brodsky are trying to recreate it. Make a machine that can do it.

I’m not sure if that will be better or worse.

“Why can we concentrate so many lives in us?” Valac continues, ignoring my verbal swipe. “For what possible reason, if not so we can live those lives? We can collect because it is our nature to take that into us. To live. To live longer. Don’t you see, little bird, we will outlast them all. It’s the one thing we were built to do. To relieve the weak of their lives, gather them into us, and make ourselves strong. To become immortal like the gods.”

“Sure. That makes perfect sense.”

He laughs. It’s the light-hearted, no-care-in-the-world laugh he had when I first arrived. “I’m not crazy, Lirium. At least, I hope not. Because there’s no hope at all for me then.”

I frown, thinking there’s not much hope for any of us. But I keep that inside, wondering where Valac is going with all this talk.

He gets serious again and steps closer. I take a half step back, and he nods, allowing.

“You have no soul, Lirium.” His face is back to the wild-intense look.

That may be true, but I don’t need to hear it from him. “You’re one to talk.”

But that doesn’t give him even a second’s worth of pause. “When you collect, those holes you feel… those are the empty spaces where your soul should be. You know what I’m talking about,” he says, and I don’t deny it. I’m pretty sure every collector feels it. “Your soul is a tattered, gossamer thing that’s gone with a strong gust.” He gestures with his hands for effect, demonstrating the demolishing of my soul with a sweep of his splayed fingers. “It’s gone—do you know why? For every life you take, you lose a piece of it. And if you have no soul, little bird, you damn well better live forever. Because if you don’t, there’s something much worse than death waiting for you. I know… I’ve tasted it.” He loses the crazy eyes for a moment and looks genuinely afraid.

That look makes my heart stutter. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

He swallows and comes out of that fear-stricken look. He gives me a grim smile. “You’ll be glad to know I talked Kolek out of cutting off half your fingers.”

I blink at the swerve in subject. “Okay…”

He looks me in the eyes with a softness I don’t care for a bit. “I am sorry, little bird.”

My stomach clenches. “Sorry about what?”

But he just turns away and strides toward the door. When he waves his hand, it slides open. Outside are Kolek’s two thugs—Nico and two-pints. Valac brushes past them without a look back. They come in, and the bottom drops out of my stomach.

They don’t come close right away. The door slides closed behind them. That’s when I notice that they’re covered head to toe: black turtlenecks, coarse pants, boots. Gloves. They each slide on a black ski mask that covers their faces, leaving just a filmy screen over where their eyes are, so they can see through.

There’s not an inch of skin showing on their bodies. Nowhere I can touch them.

I clench my fists, but I can’t even get a swing in before the first blow plows into my stomach, knocking all the air from me. I double over. A smack to my face comes next, whipping my head to the side and sending me down to Kolek’s pure-white carpet. The pain follows a half-second later and my vision blurs. I struggle to get to my hands and knees, but a kick shoves my stomach into my spine and lifts me into the air, twisting me over. I’m on my back, staring at the ceiling, choking, my collapsed lungs fighting for air. Pain races through the center of me, shooting to every nerve ending and making them scream, even though I can’t.

One of the thugs hauls me up and holds me as a punching bag for the other. I can’t tell them apart. I just feel the fists pummeling my body, right-left, right-left. I lose count. The pain is one giant lump, every organ inside me beaten. I throw up. The punching one steps aside just in time. Then he draws his fist back and clocks me square on the jaw. My head whips to the side so hard it bangs against the shoulder of the thug holding me.

Darkness crowds my vision, and I have a sense that I’ve been dropped. I fall slowly to the floor in a collapsing tower of pain. My face plows deep in the plush carpet.

Consciousness flies away. I don’t fight it.

I’m not sure if I want to wake up again.

I look in the mirror and check my bruises.

The ones on my face have faded to light-brown imprints of fists. It’s been a week since Kolek’s men used me for a punching bag—my punishment for trying to escape. According to Valac, it could have been worse. I haven’t had a chance to ask Ophelia. Or confront her for betraying me and sabotaging our escape. She hasn’t come to visit, and they haven’t let me out of my room. The only person I’ve seen for a week has been a small-mouthed man who delivers my food, gives me a disdainful look, and leaves without a word. It’s like I’m living in a hotel with unfriendly room service. And locked doors and black, metal bars on the windows.

The bars are to keep me in, not anyone else out.

I twist and look over my shoulder. The bruises on my back have turned yellowish brown. I hope that’s a good sign. They look better than the green, fist-sized blotches that still cover my stomach and part of my chest. I gingerly press two fingers into my belly. The sharp pain that used to be there is starting to fade. I have to push deeper before I find it, and I’m not too eager to do that.

I wash up and pull on an undershirt. The supply of clothes in the dresser drawers is dwindling, and my pinch-mouthed keeper will have to start taking away laundry as well as dishes soon. I slowly ease to the floor and force my body through a set of pushups. Then I lean against the side of the bed, not liking how that simple effort made my insides moan and my chest wheeze. I don’t think I’ve broken anything important; otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do pushups at all.

I breathe through the pain while I flip open my palm screen.

Technically, I could send a message to Candy or the police, but I’m also certain that Kolek is tracking my phone, and I’d be dead before anyone arrived to help. As if anyone would come. A memory of Elena and her apple perfume holding vigil at Tilly’s bedside flashes through my mind, and I press my eyes closed against it. The price of me not returning to Madam A’s isn’t just failing to rescue Ophelia and serving a mob boss who trafficks in life energy. Madam A promised to put Tilly at the bottom of the list for transfers if I didn’t come back. It eats a hole in my stomach that grows larger with each passing day. I hold on to the hope that Madam A’s not the type to carry through on something that might actually hurt the kids. And that Elena won’t find out.

I suck in a breath, open my eyes, and bury that thought under a mountain of determination to get out of Kolek’s mob. I can’t chance making a run for it again—Kolek won’t bother with beating me up a second time. The only way out is to convince him I’m not going to try… then bide my time. He won’t keep me locked up in my room forever. He’ll want to use me again, and when he does, I’d better do a damn good job of convincing him I’m worth keeping alive… at least until I can figure out a way to escape.

I swipe through the pages on my palm screen, keeping my searches innocuous. We’re in LA, so the news is mostly gossip out of Hollywood. Some young actor having a meltdown or going into rehab, throwing away all her potential. I skip over that, but the real news isn’t any better. People dying. Wars brewing. More legislation supposedly tightening the regulations on bean counters, to make sure they account for every last actuarial factor before transferring someone out. All of it is depressing, so I end up watching TV. I’ve seen more shows in the last week on my palm than I have in the last two years. It helps keep me from going out of my mind with boredom, but only barely.

My regular morning check of the mortuary reports doesn’t turn up anyone named Tilly.

It grates against me like an itch I can’t scratch that I don’t know her last name. That I never asked Elena. Not that it matters one way or the other. There’s nothing I can do from inside Kolek’s compound. Still, I search every morning. I’ve tried paging through the regular public records, too, but kids’ files are sealed until they’re eighteen.

Or until they turn up in the morgue.

My door slides open without a tone or any sign of warning. I close my palm screen before I look up, expecting to see pinch-mouth back to gather up my breakfast dishes.

It’s Ophelia.

I stare for a beat too long, then push myself to my feet. “Back to finish me off?” The bitterness in my voice fans the hot coals of my anger and flares it to life again.

The door closes behind her. Her little black dress hugs the soft curves of her body. Spots of light ripple across the metallic sheen of the dress’s fabric. Half the thing is black netting that reveals more of her chest than it hides.

I hate that I notice.

“Lirium, baby…” She takes a hesitant step toward me.

“Seriously?” I ask. She freezes mid-step, still half a dozen feet away. “I think you can stop with all the pet names. Save it for the other suckers you lure in to work for Kolek.”

She didn’t bring you here, a stupid voice inside me says. That was your idea. The stupid part also feels a twinge at the look of pain on her face.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, but she has the decency to drop her gaze and study her pale fingers instead of me. “You’re not going to believe me—”

“Probably not.”

Her shoulder twitches. She nods. “I don’t blame you for being angry, ba—Lirium.”

I take a small amount of satisfaction from the way her hands twist, one gripping the other, like they’re in some kind of battle to hold back her discomfort.

She finally looks up, eyes dark and round and soft. “But if I hadn’t stopped you, there’s no way you would have made it out of there alive.”

“I guess we’ll never know.” I want her to say she was wrong to betray me, not make excuses for it. I may have been an idiot for trying to rescue her, for caring about her enough to try, but when we had a chance to run she didn’t have to cut me down before I got two steps out the door.

She slides closer, untwists her hands, then stops at my stone cold look. “Lirium—”

“You didn’t have to come with me,” I cut her off, neglecting the fact that I wouldn’t have left her behind. “But you didn’t have to stop me either. You’re worse than Valac. At least I already knew he was a lapdog for Kolek.”

She stares at me with those big, dark eyes. “If I had run with you, they would have shot us both before we left the building. If I had let you run without me, they would have killed you. And you’re only here, stuck in Kolek’s mob, because of me, baby. I know that.”

I cringe at the pet name, and I open my mouth to rebuke her again, but she’s still talking.

“I’m not going to let them kill you, not if it’s possible for me to prevent it,” she says. “But running then was a Guppy move, baby. I had to stop you.”

Her hands are spread wide. They’re asking forgiveness. Part of me wants to believe she was trying to protect me. That she’s not simply a “survivor,” as Valac calls her, willing to suck the life out of me to save her own skin. But the betrayal still stings. Anger and hope take turns churning my bruised stomach.

I don’t let it show on my face.

She inches closer in her teetering spiked-metal heels, peering up at me with solemn eyes, like she’s hanging on every breath that’s heaving out of my chest. She’s close enough that I can smell her lilies-and-rose funeral perfume.

“Can you forgive me?”

“Maybe.” A sinking part of me wants to latch onto her explanation like a life raft. Practically speaking, I don’t have a lot of options for help inside the Kolek estate. If she won’t escape with me, then I’ll at least need her to not stand in my way. The last thing I want is to have to fight her. I’m not strong enough, even if I wasn’t half beaten up. Plus the idea of fighting Ophelia makes my stomach tie in knots. Part of me—the part clinging to the life raft—is still hoping she’ll change her mind. Want to come with me the next time.

She lets out a breath, a slow leak through pursed lips, like she’s gently blowing out a candle. It makes me want to touch her, but I’m not that much of an idiot. Touching Ophelia is like flirting with death and hoping it won’t decide to get serious with you.

“At some point,” I say, “I would really like to work up from Guppy status. Minnow at the least. I think I’ll start by not turning my back on you for a while.”

A small smirk erases the kissable look of before, but then it’s replaced by a frown. She reaches for my face. I lean away, taking a half-step that bangs my legs into the bed.

She pulls her hand back but the frown remains. “How bad did they hurt you, baby?”

I’m tempted to tell her they crippled me for life and it’s all her fault. “I’m fine,” I say.

She runs a look over my chest, then reaches for the bottom of my t-shirt.

I grab her wrist. “But I’m not in the mood to play show and tell right now.” I flick her hand away, keeping skin contact only long enough to let her know I’m serious.

Her lips draw into a thin line. “I didn’t know… they wouldn’t tell me what they did to you. Even Valac refused to talk to me about it, just said you were still alive. I insisted they couldn’t send you out on collections, not yet. I told them I would do any collecting they needed while you rested.”

“So you’re responsible for a week of me being locked in my room?” I’m desperate for a life energy hit, but a week of no collections also meant a week of no payouts. That probably did buy me time to recover.

“I would have come to visit sooner, but they wouldn’t let me.” She takes a step closer again, and I allow it. Probably because I really am an idiot. She’s close enough to touch me, but she doesn’t, leaving a space of heated air between us. “Let me help you heal, baby.”

She reaches for the bruise on my cheek, and this time I don’t flinch away. Her soft hands are slightly cool until the life energy trickles in and heats my skin. I feel the buzz immediately, and I lean into her hand before I even think about what I’m doing. It’s been so long, and the rush feels so good… the ache from the bruise starts to fade. I should cycle this life energy back to her, but then again, she owes me. I keep my hand at my side.

With her free hand, she lifts the corner of my t-shirt to peer at the bruises underneath. This time, I let her. Maybe if she sees the full impact of her decision to betray me, she’ll be more willing to come with me next time.

She sucks in a breath. “Lirium… I’m so sorry,” she whispers. The transfer to my cheek stops, and she lifts my shirt with both hands. I let her pull it over my head. She takes a deep breath, gaze roaming my chest. It does something to me, and only then do I realize that letting Ophelia take off my clothes is a serious mistake.

I bend to reach for the t-shirt she’s dropped on the floor, but her hands on my chest stop me. I straighten, and she carefully lines up one of her small hands with one of my bruises and starts to transfer. The buzz ripples through me, right at my core, and I’m almost instantly high. She slides her other hand to find another bruise and floods it with life energy. She’s intent, gaze on my chest, soft breaths brushing against my skin. Her first hand shifts to a new bruise and transfers more. She’s reaching me deep inside, easing the aches and pains, bringing my whole body alert. She keeps moving, shifting, drawing her hands lightly across my chest as she seeks out my wounds.

It’s insane how much I want to pull her down to the bed. Even though I’m still angry as hell. A fire heats my cheeks that has nothing to do with the life energy coursing through me. Am I really this easy to manipulate?

I grab her wrists again, gently this time, and pull them from my body. “I’m fine. Really.” I bend down to scoop up my shirt and slip it on. Maybe I’m not a complete idiot after all. “Did you come here just to apologize and heal my wounds?”

She steps back, dropping her gaze.

“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, well, 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 that 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.

He arches one of his blond eyebrows. “Think you can do the whole room yourself?”

I turn away from him. There’s a sea of donor faces watching us. More have filed in since we started. There’s at least twenty now. I swallow.

When I turn back to him, my face is as expressionless as Nico’s. “It may take a while.”

Valac smirks and waves me on to the next donor.

I pray there are no more children in the line.

The Pacific Coast Highway winds like a snake, flirting alternately with the beach and the seaside cliffs as we head toward Malibu. The drive from the city was a blur of crowded freeways and hazy afternoon sun. Here, the ocean breeze wipes the smog away, leaving a seascape that glitters like cut glass. I shy away from the window, eyes slitted to keep out the excessive light. We’ve been in the car over an hour, but the buzz from the casino collection still rages through my body. At this rate, I could be high for days… or at least until I pay out. I don’t even know how much I have to give. I lost track of the number of years I had collected about halfway through the room.

Years.

I should be dead. That much collection should have me so high my heart would spasm out of my chest, but Ophelia’s slow drain method kept it from killing me. The buzz still enervates every cell in my body.  Being trapped in the car for an hour means my shaky legs don’t have to hold me up, but it’s hard to hide the effects from Valac.

He keeps stealing glances at me. Which I ignore.

Ophelia curls up at my side, in the middle, between us again. I’m sure she can feel me quiver through her hand on my thigh. Or the other one playing idly with the hair at the back of my neck. I’m allowing it, slowly warming to her again. Thinking how I can convince her to escape with me when the time comes. Wondering if I should even try. But our time at the casino showed how much I can learn from her. If we were out of Kolek’s mob, things could be good. Really good.

Or that could just be the buzz talking.

Ophelia’s high, too, having mopped up the late customers after I’d already collected most of the room. Her touches are pleasantly distracting, but my biggest concern right now is the payout.

“How much longer?” I lean forward slightly, peering around Ophelia so Valac will know I’m talking to him.

“We’re almost there.”

“How much will the payout be?” It’s a reasonable question. And I need to prepare myself. I seriously doubt I’ll be able to pay out all the life energy that took me nearly two hours to collect. I can’t even contemplate the level of gut-wrenching, soul-sucking misery that would entail.

Valac looks like he’s still deciding how much to tell me.

“C’mon,” I say. “We’re going to be there soon. I just want to know how much fun I have to look forward to.”

“Ophelia’s going to do most of the payout.”

“Ophelia?” I protest, even though I’m actually relieved. “I did most of the collecting. Why is she paying out?”

Ophelia cuddles in a little closer, something that helps to soothe my keyed up state. “It’s okay, baby. I can handle it.”

I’m sure she can, but the point is I need to show Valac—and Kolek—that I can, too.

Valac leans back in his seat and stares out the window. “She has plenty in reserve. Besides, Mr. Mayer will enjoy her company more than yours.”

Well, I don’t have much argument against that. “So just one person for the payout? What is he? A billionaire who wants to live a couple of years longer? Or is he just out for the hit?”

“You have a lot of questions.”

“Just trying to understand how this all works,” I say, carefully. “Want to make sure I’m doing my part.”

That pulls Valac away from the sun-drenched beaches that peek from between the bungalow style houses of the rich and high potential. He studies me for a moment. “You’ll have your chance to prove yourself, little bird. And you’ll pay out to Mr. Mayer as well. I want Ophelia to show you how to control it. But she’ll be doing most of the transfer by herself.”

“You don’t trust me to do it right?”

“I don’t want one of Kolek’s most discreet clients going code blue on us.”

“Hey, that was not my fault,” I say. “She must have been using—”

“I’m not taking the chance, Lirium.” He looks out the window, ending the argument as the car swerves off the narrow coastal highway and dips down a driveway that’s headed for the beach. We plunge into a thick forest of trees and shrubs that are designed to hide the high-priced estate from the traffic of the road. Half-way down, a guard at a white-metal gate stops us, then quickly waves us through. The house is tiny, or at least the cramped circular driveway landing shows only a portion of it, the rest shrouded in palms and tropical vegetation. I can’t imagine how much it must cost to maintain all that greenery.

A young, rail-thin brunette dressed in a revealing white blouse and short skirt hurries to greet us even before we’ve all climbed out of the car.

“Hello!” Her voice is as perky as the body that her clothes barely conceal. “My name is Katy, Mr. Mayer’s personal assistant!” All of her words are punctuated with cheerfulness. She seems higher than we are, which would be some trick.

“Hi Katy! My name’s Lirium. I’m your debt collector for today.”

Her grin falters. Ophelia coughs into her hand.

Valac throws me a frown and steps in front of me. “Are you ready for us?” he says to Katy. He puts a hand on her shoulder and guides her toward the door. “I hope we’re not too late. The traffic was terrible out of the city…” He keeps speaking as they reach the door, but I’m busy wondering what kind of personal assistance Katy and her short skirt give Mr. Mayer.

Ophelia grabs my attention with her mile-wide grin.

“What?” I say.

“She’s… cute,” she says quietly. We follow after Valac, slow enough to not be overheard.

“She’s inhumanly perky,” I say. “And high on something better than life hits.”

“You were totally checking her out.”

“I was not,” I protest. “But if she’s going to wear a skirt like that… you can’t blame me for looking.” I’m arguing mostly for Nico’s and two-pints’ benefit. They shuffle along behind us, and I’m sure they’re just waiting for an excuse to beat the crap out of me. Or simply shoot me. I don’t want them to get any ideas about repeat performances on either of our parts.

Ophelia shakes her head then teeters in her stilettos across the threshold. “You were checking her out,” she whispers. I scowl as she saunters inside.

The house has some kind of magic trick where it appears larger on the inside than the outside. Or perhaps the extent of it was buried in the tropical plants. But the narrow entranceway quickly opens into a large circular room with a sweep of windows. It feels like we’re inside an aquarium. Past the giant, curved piece of glass, the waves break soundlessly against the shore, an untouched stretch of yellow-white sand almost as blinding as the sunlight sprinkled waves. I shade my eyes. All I can think is, how do people live in such brightness all the time?

Valac reappears and sweeps us out of the light and into a darker room, where the slatted shades are drawn. The sun beats against them, breaking through in occasional electric white lines that slice the room to pieces. But they don’t reach the large white bed in the center, or the tall, regal-looking man standing near it, conferring with Katy the Perky Assistant.

Valac leads us to him. “Congressman Mayer,” he says, “these are the collectors I mentioned, Lirium and Ophelia.”

Congressman? He does look vaguely familiar, but it’s not like I follow politics. Valac could have said he was a movie star, and I would have thought the same thing. He seems like a long-term recipient of life hits, though. His hair’s slightly gray at the temples, but his dye job looks fake up close. Like he’s trying to cover up the fact that he’s younger than he should be.

The law forbids transfers to politicians and other people who are in charge of writing the regulations that cover life energy dispositions. Even if the congressman were making grand contributions to world peace and dying of a heart attack, he wouldn’t be eligible for a life hit. Not a legal one, anyway. My stomach turns, knowing the life energy I collected from the involuntary donors today is going into someone who set up all this in the first place. The donor’s bad luck put them under my hand, but there’s no luck—or merit—involved in Mayer getting the payout.

No wonder the congressman wants to keep it discreet.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lirium.” Mayer nods to me, then smiles at Ophelia in a way that makes my stomach curl. “Ophelia.” There’s way too much craving behind that smile. His gaze travels over the sheer netting part of her outfit. Why did Valac dress her this way, knowing we were coming here? I want even more to pay out personally to the congressman.

“As I mentioned,” Valac says, “Lirium is a new addition to our team. This is his first time transferring to such an esteemed client, so we’ll have Ophelia supervising at first. Then she’ll handle the rest of the transfer by herself.”

I force a smile onto my face. I don’t like this at all.

“Congressman Mayer,” Ophelia says. “Would you like to have a seat?”

She’s all smiles, which I like even less. The oversized bed is the only place to sit. Mayer grins and perches on the edge. Ophelia’s stiletto heels click as she follows him. He watches every step.

I’m wondering if I can transfer to him at all without punching him.

Ophelia hooks a finger, beckoning me. Valac takes that as his cue and guides Katy from the room. She seems reluctant to leave. I’m not the only one who’s worried about Mayer’s intentions.

“We’ll do it just like before, Lirium,” Ophelia says, taking my hand and placing it on Mayer’s forehead. It doesn’t have a wrinkle on it, and it’s cool under my buzz-heated hand.

Ophelia lays her hand on the back of mine. I slip my free hand around her waist and pull her closer. Just because I don’t want Mayer to do it. She gives me a quizzical look, probably wondering why I’m being such a Neanderthal. I’m not quite sure myself. There’s not much danger of her getting hurt by Mayer—she could easily kill us both in the position we are right now, all skin-to-skin and vulnerable. And it’s not like I have any claim on Ophelia: she’s made it pretty clear she’s not looking for more than the occasional make-out from me, and I’m an idiot for wanting even that. She betrayed me. Trapped me in the mob with her. But I can’t help thinking that if I could just drag her away from Kolek, all that would change.

As if I could force Ophelia to do anything.

“Start the transfer slow,” she says quietly, her face turned so her words are a whisper of breath on my face. “I’ll show you how to open it wider.”

I know she means the transfer spigot, but for some reason my mind gropes at innuendos. Probably the sexy way she says it, all simmering heat in her words. She’s playing it up for Mayer, all part of the payout he’s paying for.

I grit my teeth, but nod and start the transfer.

I’ve never paid much attention to my payout rate before, but after two hours of carefully controlled collecting, I can feel it now: the portal can be controlled both ways, collecting and paying out. Ophelia nudges it a little wider and I follow her lead.

Shadows crowd the edge of my vision. The knot in my stomach ties so tight it’s difficult to breathe. My hand curls under Ophelia’s, clawing at Mayer’s youthful shock of brown hair. The payout is faster than I’ve done before, with the exception of Dr. Brodsky and that was uncontrolled. And a mercy hit, so it felt good, not this taste of death that’s heaving my stomach.

The buzz shows up in Mayer’s face. His lips part, a small smile creeping on them, and his breath is hot on my arm. His gaze is making a meal out of Ophelia’s body, sandwiched between us. My hand at her waist has reflexively cramped tighter, which is a good thing, or I might be punching the congressman after all.

“Relax, baby.” She pries off my grip with her free hand. “Your body reacts to the payout, just like a collection in reverse. You have to relax into it. Don’t fight the payout, and your body won’t respond to it quite so much.”

I try to do what she says. Usually I push the life energy into a payout; now I focus on keeping the spigot small and letting the life energy flow rather than be forced.

It works.

The darkness crowding my mind eases a little. I’m still paying out at the same rate, but my hand on Mayer’s head uncramps. I move my free hand back to Ophelia’s waist, gentle this time.

She allows it, saying, “You always were a fast learner, baby.”

Mayer’s gaze travels up her body and caresses her face. He’s fully feeling the buzz now, and it’s obvious he wants her alone. I can too easily imagine why. Ophelia gently pulls my hand from Mayer’s head. The transfer cuts off as soon as we lose contact, but I’m not ready to leave her alone with him.

“Lesson’s over,” she says. “I’ll come find you when we’re done.”

I really don’t like the sound of that. “I can stay. In case you need me.”

She twists and puts her hands on my shoulders. I think she’s going to kiss me, but she sweeps past my lips to plant a chaste peck on my cheek. “I’ll be fine, baby,” she says softly. “Tell Valac I won’t be long.”

She’s reminding me that Valac doesn’t want me to stay. She’s also toying with me the same way she’s playing Mayer, which reminds me that I’m actually still not happy with her. But she’s right. Valac’s planned this out a certain way, and I better not screw it up.

“Fine,” I say. “Call if you need me.”

I step back, but Mayer’s already forgotten I was there. I turn away, but not before he puts both hands on her hips and pulls her into his lap.

I wish I had left sooner.

My fists clench and unclench as I stalk from the congressman’s bedroom. I’m not sure if I’m more bothered by his hands on Ophelia’s hips or the way she seems to think she can play me with an almost kiss. I’m most bothered by the fact that it bothers me.

The light of the living room blinds me, and I stumble over something on the floor. I catch myself before I fall.

“Everything all right?” Valac asks from somewhere ahead of me. I shield my eyes and see him at the edge of a darkened hallway near the entrance. Katy hovers next to him, on high alert for my answer.

“Ophelia says she won’t be long.” I seriously consider waiting two minutes then going in to check on them. Then again, I’m not sure I want to see what’s happening. “Can I have a word with you?” I ask Valac.

He frowns but tilts his head back, then disappears into the dark. I follow after him, brushing past Katy’s wide-eyed look. She seems lost as to whether she should let us drift off into the dark corners of the house by ourselves, but elects to stay by Nico and two-pints in the living room. At the end of the hall is a small bedroom with the drapes drawn. From the fluffy white comforter, pink surfboard in the corner, and the heart-shaped picture screens, I’m guessing the room belongs to Katy.

I close the door behind us. “You should send me back in there,” I say to Valac. “I don’t like the way he’s looking at Ophelia, and I can do the payout. She can supervise, if you’re worried.” What I really need to do is get Ophelia out of the mob altogether. No matter what sexy kitten moves she has, surviving this way isn’t any good for her. Or me.

“Don’t worry about Ophelia,” Valac says, but he looks more tense than I would like to hear with those words. “She’s not doing anything she doesn’t want to.”

Which is of course a complete lie. “Oh, c’mon! You know she doesn’t enjoy curling up to that asshole.” Ophelia’s doing what she has to. Kolek won’t tolerate her shirking her duties. I cringe inside as I realize she’s been pulling extra collections—and payouts—while I’ve been recovering in my room. How many more death make-out sessions has she already done? Or will she have to do in the future? I can’t believe Kolek would let that asset go to waste.

“She was your mentor,” I say. “You can’t tell me you don’t care.”

“I don’t care.”

I can’t tell if he’s lying or not. Agitation makes me curl up a fist and press it against the wall by the door. I want to put my fist through it, but that won’t help anything.

“Let’s give them five minutes,” I say, “then send me in there. I can handle it.”

“I told you before. You’ll get your chance to prove yourself to Kolek. Later. And when the time comes, whatever happens, just make sure you don’t hesitate.”

That stops me. My hand drops from the wall. “What do you mean, don’t hesitate?”

Valac runs a hand through the waves of his blond hair. “When Kolek asks you to collect, don’t take your time figuring out whether or not you want to. Just do it. Later, you can agonize about it all you want.”

“He’s going to test me.” A sick dread pumps into my stomach.

Valac drops his hand and looks me in the eyes. “Yes. And I’d really prefer it if you passed the test, little bird.”

“Because if I don’t…?”

“He’ll tell me to kill you.”

Valac sounds like killing me would actually not be on his top ten for the afternoon. “You care,” I say sarcastically. “I’m touched.”

Valac glares at me. “I’ll be happy relieve you of your life energy, Lirium.” His voice is cold, but there’s something underneath it. A flinch. It perplexes me. “But I really don’t want to explain to Ophelia how I had to kill her puppy.”

I frown. “So, you do care. About Ophelia, I mean.”

He looks away, pretending to examine the trinkets on Katy’s dresser. “I owe her,” he says with a sigh. “She saved me once.”

“You have a funny way of paying her back.”

He whips his head back to me. “She attacked me. In front of Kolek. I had no choice.” His chest is heaving, and I believe he means it.

And that, at least, I can understand. “None of us have a choice, do we?” Maybe I can get Valac to help me after all. But his face hardens with my words and I’m losing my chance. I scramble after it. “What’s the story with you and Ophelia?” He looks away again, so I press on. “She told me to ask you.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Did she? Why? Trying to warn you off turning out like me, the one Guppy she couldn’t save?”

“Is that how you ended up here?” I regret it as soon as I ask.

“I chose to come here.”

“My mistake.” I try to sound contrite, but I’m immediately wondering what could send any collector to work for the mob voluntarily. I fold my arms and lean against the door frame. “So… what did Ophelia save you from?”

He laces his hands in front of him, still half-turned away from me, then wrings them apart and picks up one of Katy’s frames. It fades from a picture of her smiling with her surfboard to another with her and a group of similarly perky friends. He sets it back down.

Just when I think he’s not going to answer, he speaks, softly. “Do you remember when I said I had tasted death?” He looks at me, like he’s judging whether I believe him.

I nod. I have no idea what he means, but this is something I need to know.

“I meant that… literally.”

I wait, but he seems to be struggling with it. “Did something go wrong with a transfer?” I guess.

He shakes his head, but I’m not sure if he’s answering me or shaking off some thought that’s captured him. He glances at me. “I used to collect for Madam A.”

I raise my eyebrows. I had forgotten, but she did mention it. “She said you worked for her in the past, but now you…” I hesitate to say it.

“Now I belong to Kolek.” He gives me a wry smile. “She wasn’t too happy when I left.”

“If you were working for her…” I’m trying to piece it together. Valac, lapdog for Kolek, Mr. I have no soul… helping Madam A and her sick kids? “What happened to you?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slow. “One of the parents of the kids…” He stops. “He was special. When his son died…” Valac looks me in the eyes. “They all die. You know that, right?” He takes a step closer, like this is the most important part. Like it’s critical that I understand. “They all die. Some sooner, some later, but you can’t save them.”

I can’t even get to the point of trying to save them. “I know.” This is something I understand, and it’s easy for me to picture Valac and his lover with the sick kid. “So when his son died, he was angry. At you.”

Valac smiles, suddenly, like what I’ve said is hopelessly naïve. “I wish! I wish he had just taken his anger out on me. Hate me. Leave me. Beat the crap out of me. Something.”

“What did he do?” I can’t imagine it, losing a child. It’s wrong. The universe turned upside down. Children are supposed to grow up, outlive their parents, give them grandchildren. All the things my mother knew would never happen when she agreed to give me over to the Agency. All the things that died in her eyes when she signed that document. After that, I was a ghost to her. My body still existed, but that didn’t change anything. She knew it was only a matter of time.

That’s why I left. How I found myself in an alley with a mob thug, the first time.

I pull myself back out of that memory, realizing Valac has gone silent. He has a thousand mile stare, seeing something that’s not there. Something from the past.

I want to tell him he doesn’t have to tell me. “Valac—”

“He killed himself.”

The words stop in my throat.

“I found him, lying in a pool of his own blood. Slit his wrists.” He laughs in a sad way that makes my chest tight, then waves his hand in the air. “He was always melodramatic that way.” There are strain lines around his eyes. “He was still alive when I got there. I tried to save him. Pumped life energy in him, but I couldn’t stop it. I called 911. I called my mentor. I think I threatened to kill Ophelia if she didn't get the hell over now.” He gives that heart-breaking laugh again. “I was out of my mind. I gave him everything I had. Before anyone arrived, I had run out.” He locks eyes with me. “I gave it all.”

My breath is trapped in my lungs. I force it out. “You paid out everything.”

He nods.

“You died.”

Another nod.

“What… what was it like?”

He gets that thousand mile stare again. “Cold. Dark. Empty. It tasted like… metal.” He closes his eyes, shakes it off, then opens them again. When he does, he looks straight at me. “There was no golden light, no heavenly chorus, no nothing, Lirium. It was just emptiness. I figured it out later. It’s because we have nothing left. All the life energy I gave away, everything I used to save him, it didn’t belong to me.” He stands close, the intensity locking me in. He gestures between our two bodies. “Our souls are long gone. Used up, torn away, destroyed by all the lives we’ve stolen. All the years we’ve taken. Everything we have inside us is borrowed from someone else. When it’s gone… there’s nothing left. Do you understand?”

My mouth is dry. I try to swallow but my tongue is rough, desiccated by the ragged breaths I’m pulling into my lungs. “You’re sure?” I ask.

He gives a short laugh. “Oh yes. Quite sure.”

“Maybe there’s some way—”

“You can earn it back?” He gives me a knowing look. He’s thought this through already. “Redeem yourself? Win back a soul so that when you die you’re not facing an empty void of nothingness?”

“There has to be something we can do—”

“I gave my life for him.” His face has gone intense again. “I worked for Madam A. I did everything a debt collector could possibly do. It was my calling. To right the fundamental wrong of being who we are.” He pauses. “But it was hopeless from the start. This is what I want you to understand, little bird. No matter how bad you think this is, working for Kolek, it is your only option. Your only true hope. We need to keep taking the years, the lives, so that we can continue to exist. There is no other option.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t want to believe him, but it’s hard not to. I search for something, anything, some reason… “Wait. You said Ophelia saved you.”

“She arrived soon after I paid out. At least, that’s what she tells me. From what I can figure, I was only dead for a few minutes.”

“So she brought you back from the dead,” I say, my voice rising a notch.

“Yes,” he says. “I tried to get her to bring back Michael, but she wouldn’t. She said he was gone. She reached into him, but she said it was too late. I didn’t believe her. I begged her to bring him back. I was crazy with grief. But I know now that she really did try. She would have done it, if she could. But he was dead long before she arrived.”

“But Ophelia said you can’t bring back someone from the dead,” I say. “If she brought you back—”

“She doesn’t believe I was really dead. She doesn’t want to believe. But I know what I saw, little bird. I know what I felt. And I sure as hell don’t ever want to feel it again.”

I take a step back and bump into the door behind me. With the intensity of our words, I didn’t realize I had been backing away from him the whole time. I don’t know if Valac’s right, but I’m certain that he believes it. My mind starts to fuzz over, shutting down with the idea that Kolek’s mob might be the right place for me after all. That days of collecting at the casino are my future. An endless future, if Valac is right, because we’ll need to keep collecting or we’ll die. Forever.

“The best thing that your psych officer ever did for you, little bird, is send you here.”

That jolts me. “My psych… what the hell?”

Valac looks genuinely surprised. “You didn’t know?”

“Didn’t know what?”

“Candy sold you out. You and Ophelia both.” He shrugs. “I don’t know why, but she’s the one who told Kolek where to find you. You only escaped because Nico was an idiot in that alleyway. The others don’t have a brain between them, so you got lucky Nico was the one you knocked out first.”

My mouth is hanging open. I shut it. “But why? Why would Candy…?” I know she doesn’t exactly care for her debt collectors. She’s a nasty piece of work who lies and manipulates us. But selling us out to the mob? “What could my psych officer possibly get from selling out Ophelia and me?”

Valac tosses his hands up. “Beats me. But it’s not the first time Kolek’s gotten a tip from her. You should ask Ophelia. Maybe she knows.” Valac looks supremely unconcerned about this and flicks open his palm screen. “Speaking of whom, she should be done by now. If not, I’ll be happy to interrupt whatever’s going on in the congressman’s bedroom. If he wants a sex worker, he’ll have to pay separately for that.”

I scowl at him, still breathless with the idea of Candy selling us out. He taps the button to slide open the door, then pauses to look at me over his shoulder. “And remember, little bird. Whatever Kolek asks you do to, don’t hesitate. He’s looking to see if you’re willing to do whatever he says. You hesitate, you’re dead. And that’s no place to be.”

He gives me a short nod and strides out of the room, not waiting for a response.

I’m not sure what I would say to that anyway.

I run my hand over my clean-shaven face. The mirror shows a young man dressed for a club, cheeks no longer sunken, flushed like I jogged back to my room. The dark circles under my eyes are gone, and my lips are full, almost red, like I just thoroughly kissed a girl. Only Ophelia was in no mood for kissing on the way back from her payout in the senator’s bedroom.

I haven’t looked this good… ever. And it’s not because I kissed someone. It’s because I have years of stolen life in my body, filling out my bones in a way I’ve never felt before. Years that don’t belong to me.

Only my eyes are dull. Flat. The slate-gray-blue of a storm that deadens the sky.

Looking in the mirror is always a mistake.

I straighten the collar of my black silk shirt, tucking it into my dress pants, then smoothing them as well. My hands are steady. My head is clear. I’m finally down from the buzz of collecting.

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for the test Kolek is going to give me.

A soft knock taps at the door of my room. I peer around the corner, wondering who thinks I can open the door to let them in, but it was just a courtesy knock. Valac stands by my open door, waiting for me. He doesn’t say anything, but I suppose he already had his say. I slip my hands in my pockets and stroll toward him, in no hurry to see what Kolek has in store for me.

It’s just me and Valac, walking the hall toward Kolek’s meeting room.

Since we’re momentarily alone, I ask, “What’s the test?”

Valac doesn’t look at me. “I don’t know, little bird,” he says. “Couldn’t tell you if I did.” He pauses at the door, checking with me. I nod and he swipes his palm across the lock. The door slides open.

I quickly scan the room as we enter. Kolek at the end with a drink in his hand, his blond hair slicked back like Valac’s. Nico standing off to the side, hands laced in front of him. It’s only the two of them, and I feel a flush of relief that Ophelia’s not in the room. Either to participate or observe whatever’s going to go down. Maybe I’ll ask for a visit with her after we’re done. I think I’ll need some consoling.

Assuming I survive.

I pause in the middle of the room, but Valac urges me forward with a tilt of his head. Kolek sets his drink down on the mantle of the fireplace. There’s a large mirror over it, and my reflection shows me hesitating in the middle of the room. I pull my gaze from that and approach Kolek.

I stop a few feet away, waiting for him to speak. His blue eyes sparkle but not with mirth. More like he’s looking forward to whatever entertainment my test will provide.

He closes the distance between us, grabs hold of my shoulders in his two hands and kisses me, once on each cheek. My eyes are wide. I’m not sure what I expected, but kisses certainly weren’t it.

I’m mute, blinking like an idiot, as Kolek examines me.

“Valac tells me you did well today, Lirium.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Kolek drops his hands from my shoulders. “Not everyone is cut out for our work,” he says, taking a step back to retrieve his drink. He points a finger at me. “I see potential in you, Lirium. You’re young, but you have guts.” He curls the finger in to make a fist. The sleeve of his loose, white-silk shirt is rolled up, so I can see his forearm flex. “You’re strong. I like that.” He takes a sip of his drink. A ring on his hand clinks against the glass. “I hear you and Ophelia make a good team.” He nods his approval.

“Yes, sir.” A flicker of hope that he’s decided not to test me after all fades when he throws a look to Nico. I glance at his henchman, but he’s already turned away, walking toward the back of the room.

“However,” Kolek says, capturing my attention again, “some young men make the mistake of thinking they can come into my house…” He gestures wide with his hands. “… and take what belongs to me. I like that less, as you can probably understand.”

“Yes, sir.” My heart picks up the pace.

“A young man came into my casino today.” He points at me again. “The one you visited, by interesting coincidence. He tried to rob me. Thought he could sneak in and make off with the swipe cards we hand out to our donors. Now…” He spreads his hands wide again. “You can imagine, I didn’t care for that at all. Can’t let people think that we’re such an easy mark a boy can come in and walk out with our money.”

A boy?

His gaze flicks behind me. I slowly turn, my stomach hollowing out. Nico has returned with the boy, a meaty hand wrapped around his upper arm. He’s fourteen, fifteen at the outside. Lanky, thin as a sapling. Nico doesn’t even have to flex a muscle to hold him in place. I know immediately he’s my test. Kolek’s going to have me drain the life from this kid.

A kid.

I swallow. The smirk on Nico’s face as he meets my gaze tells me this was hand-picked for me. Nico saw my reaction at the casino. He saw me flinch, when I had to collect from the mother. The boy struggles uselessly against Nico’s hold until he brings him to stand a few feet away from Kolek and me. I shoot a look to Valac, but his face is impassive.

“This boy stole from me,” Kolek says. My gaze locks with his. My stomach is a hard rock. I know what he’s going to say before he says it. “I can’t let something like that go unpunished. Transfer him out for me, Lirium.”

My throat closes up. I swing my head to look at the boy.

His eyes have gone wide, and he struggles anew against Nico’s hold. He makes a strangled sound.

No hesitation.

I take two long steps toward the boy, my hand out, reaching for him.

“No!” he cries, voice cracking. “Wait!”

He flails against Nico, who catches his other arm and holds him still for me. My hand lands on his forehead before he can say anything more, a smack that sounds across the room. I start the transfer immediately. His face contorts into a scream that never gets air. His thin fingers spread wide, as if he’s been shocked. The surge of his life energy hits me like a giant, rushing wave.

I push back against the flood reflexively, then consciously focus to narrow the transfer point and slow the gush. The boy has a lifetime ahead of him, a vast lake of life energy that’s dammed behind my hand. He sags in Nico’s grasp, his body frozen in a death pose even though I’ve slowed the transfer to a trickle. I breathe hard as Nico slowly lowers the boy to the ground. I go with him, keeping my contact with his forehead. I have to kneel down next to him. He lies face up, eyes focused on mine, wide with terror. His face shadows as I watch, turning the color of death, even though I’ve only begun to take his life.

The vast waters of his life energy push against the spigot. I open it a little more. The boy’s body twitches. I feel the rush hit my brain, boosting me high again, my whole body buzzing. I clench the hand I’m not transferring with, gritting my teeth against the high, feeling it like a hundred strikes of Dr. Brodsky’s penance.

It will take me some time to drain the boy, but it’s possible. After all the practice in collecting with Ophelia, I know I can do it.

Something itches my cheek. I brush my fisted hand across it. It comes away wet.

I stare at the back of my hand, shiny with tears I didn’t know I was shedding.

He’s just a boy.

I have to do this! I tell myself. I have no choice. It’s the boy or me. Kolek will kill me if I don’t. He’ll have Valac’s hand on my neck before I can blink. And even if I could fight Valac off, Nico would have a bullet ready for me.

I look back and the boy’s face blurs. His mother probably doesn’t even know he’s missing yet. She will find his body later, but his life, filled with potential, will be long gone. Stolen by Kolek’s debt collectors. By me.

It’s him or me.

Then a realization wells up, an idea from somewhere deep inside me, some secret place I didn’t know existed: there is a choice. It’s mine to make, and mine alone.

And I can choose him.

I keep transferring, but I slow it to the barest trickle.

Only one of us can live. And the only right thing in the universe is for it to be this kid, not me.

Kolek may kill him anyway. I know that. But it won’t be me that killed a fourteen-year-old kid for trying to pinch a few swipe cards. I don’t know if Valac’s right about there being nothing on the other side. But I’m sure he’s right that there’s no redemption for men like us, not after the things we’ve done. There are too many lives we’ve stolen. Too much death in our hands to have any hope for salvation. Sparing this boy won’t save me.

But it might save him.

Nothingness might not be so bad after all. I can think of worse things.

I’m about to find out.

I stand up, peeling my hand away from the boy’s head. He gasps in air and moans, curling on his side, away from me. By the time I’m standing, Nico’s gun is already out and pointed at my head.

“I’m not going to kill the boy,” I say to Kolek, but my gaze is calmly fixed on Nico, past the barrel of his gun, which is hovering an inch from my forehead. Nico’s eyes are brown. Dark brown like mud.

I wait for the bullet.

It doesn’t come. Nico blinks. He flicks a look to Kolek. No one is saying anything, probably trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing, so I decide it’s time for a few last words. Maybe I can say something that will help the boy. I turn to Kolek. His face is red with confused anger, like he’s not quite sure what has happened yet.

“It’s a foolish waste, Kolek,” I say, my voice amazingly calm. I expect to get a bullet in the back of my head any second, yet my words are strangely unhurried. “The boy has a ton of potential life in him. He’s strong, just the kind you like. He made a mistake, but the kid’s got guts. He tried to steal from a mob boss. You have to give him credit for going up against the biggest bad guys in his neighborhood. That’s the kind you want inside your organization. And a dead kid is one of the few things that might make donors more angry than afraid.”

The red in Kolek’s face is fading a little. Valac’s is completely white, his mouth hanging open. I give him a small smile. If Kolek tells him to drain me, I’ve already decided I’ll lunge for Nico. I’d rather take the bullet. At least then he can tell Ophelia that Kolek killed me, not him.

“You have some balls,” Kolek says, and oddly, it sounds like a compliment.

I don’t say anything, just square my shoulders and judge that Nico’s still within lunging distance. The boy struggles up from the floor. He looks wildly between me and Nico and Kolek, then throws a look toward the door.

“Don’t,” I say to him. “Be smart. You’ll live longer.”

He swallows visibly, and I can see his legs are barely holding him up. But he stands straight and doesn’t make any more moves to escape.

The tip of Nico’s gun presses against my head, forcing it to tilt to the side.

“Nico,” Kolek says. “Take the boy downstairs and get him cleaned up. I’ll have a talk with him later.”

Nico’s gun lingers on my head, then he gives me a nudge with it, and the pressure disappears. I hold in the sigh of relief as he takes the kid by the shirt and shoves him toward the door. It seems like the boy has a reprieve, but I’m not sure why I’m not dead yet.

Kolek comes closer. His blue eyes stare into mine. I should be afraid. He could have a gun under that expensive Italian suit he’s wearing.

I’m not.

“I should kill you,” Kolek says.

“Probably,” I say.

He lets out a snort, but he’s smiling. He’s not actually going to kill me, not right now, anyway. In that case, maybe I can do something to clean up the mess I’ve made.

“Or, you could use someone like me inside your organization, too,” I say. “Someone with guts.”

He throws a smirk to Valac, who has managed to shut his mouth. “I think the boy is angling for your job, Valac.”

He says nothing, his stare still wide-eyed.

When Kolek turns back, his eyes are smiling, but his face has gone severe. “Last week you came into my house thinking you could steal from me,” he says. “Now you think you’re cut out to be one of my enforcers?”

“I’m a fast learner.”

“Not fast enough.” His eyes have lost their mirth, too, and I wonder if he’s going to kill me after all. “Your psych officer said you might be some trouble.”

I’m glad that Valac told me earlier, so I can keep it cool. Like I knew Candy sold me out all along. “We had a disagreement about my training. She thought I needed lessons from Ophelia.”

“I hope you’ve learned all your lessons now, collector, because I’m not inclined to give you any more chances.” He waves to Valac. “Bring up the boy’s file.”

I frown. Valac hesitates just a split second, then rapid-touches his palm screen. He steps closer to Kolek and holds it out. Even from a few feet away I can see it’s a picture of me—a younger me. It’s my intake picture for the Agency.

The bottom drops out of my stomach. That record is supposed to be sealed.

“Joseph ‘Joe’ Louis Miller,” Kolek reads from Valac’s palm. “Born September 13th 2049 to Alice and Stanis Miller. Raised by a single mother here on the east side. Father: whereabouts unknown at intake.” He glances at me. “That’s a shame. A boy needs a father, don’t you think?”

I don’t answer, every hair on the back of my neck standing at attention.

Kolek brushes aside Valac’s palm. He steps closer, his clear blue eyes cold. Flat. They remind me of my eyes in the mirror. The eyes of a killer. “How is your mother these days, Joe?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say, but the roughness of my voice betrays me. “Haven’t talked to her in years. She could be in Arizona for all I know.”

“You should call her,” he says. “Family is important.”

I nod.

He leans in close enough that I can smell his aftershave and lightly smacks my face twice with his palm. It stings, but I hold absolutely still. He grasps hold of my face and whispers, “Don’t disobey one of my orders again, Joe.”

“No, sir,” I say quickly.

He turns away, dismissing me with his back, and wanders over to where he left his drink.

I’m going to live, at least for the moment. Which only means I’ve burned my chance to escape into the afterworld, whatever that is, with just my life. Without anyone else getting killed along with me. Now I either have to stay in Kolek’s mob forever or get out and find my mom before he does.

I do more pushups than I’ve ever done before.

I pass a hundred and keep going, like I’ve got the muscle strength of a marine. It’s the years of life energy I collected yesterday, boosting me to ridiculous levels of stamina. Valac wasn’t lying when he said that collecting for the mob would make me stronger. I wonder, if it came to it, if I’d have the strength to fight him off. Not physically, but with stored life energy. But he must have years and years more than me, his cut from all his time working for Kolek, so probably not. But maybe.

I stop after a hundred and fifty. Sweat drips down to my chin as I stand. I wipe it with my shoulder. I should shower, get dressed, but I pace instead, energy still vibrating through my body. It’s not just the life energy—something inside me was cracked open when I made that choice to save the boy instead of myself. Something freeing and dangerous. I’m not quite sure what it is, but suddenly things seem possible that didn’t before. Only I’ve been locked inside my room since the showdown with Kolek, unable to do anything. It’s been a day and a half since Valac shut me in, and the agitation is threating to drive me insane.

I know what’s in my file, the one Kolek not-so-vaguely used to threaten me. My mom’s name, her last known address, and a whole host of other information about her, me, my long-gone father, and anything else the Agency wanted. I filled it all out because I wanted in. Now, all of it is in Kolek’s hands.

He may already know where she is. The only thing that gives me hope that he doesn’t, is that I don’t. She moved sometime after she signed me over to the Agency. It’s my fault, really. When the Agency wouldn’t take me early, I left home. Couldn’t take the look in her eyes anymore, like I was already dead to her. I lived on the streets awhile, had my encounter with the mob in that alley, then finally made my way back home.

Only she wasn’t there.

The landlord said she had moved out. The pharmacy where she worked said she quit. Just pulled up stakes and left. I didn’t try to track her down because… well, because I figured she didn’t want to be found. Now I’m tempted to search my palm screen for her, but that would only lead Kolek right to her. And if she’s that easy to find, he has her already.

The sun pushes hazy red light through the bars across my window. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, rubbing out the sweat in the need to think. At some point, I’ll screw up, balk at some order, and then there will be no way for me to protect her. I have to get out, and soon, but I don’t even know where to start.

I need to talk to Ophelia. There’s got to be some way to convince her to leave. Or at least help me get out. I shouldn’t want her to come with me—if I had any sense, I wouldn’t even trust her to help—but I can’t stop myself from wanting something better for both of us than a life in the mob. And wanting to share that life with her.

I want to pound on my door, demand someone let me see her, but that would belie my tough new act as a mob collector. I’m tempted to at least bang on my wall; Valac’s room is just on the other side. I peel off my damp t-shirt, wipe the rest of the sweat from my face, and throw the wadded shirt hard against the wall behind the bed. The soft puff sound won’t disturb Valac, but the act of throwing it vents some of my frustration.

I run both hands through my hair. I really should shower. Be ready, in case Valac comes to my door with an opportunity to collect. That’s going to be my best chance. Outside the compound. More variables. Less security. The problem is there’s no way to plan an escape when I don’t know where or when we’re venturing out.

I wipe my hands on my sweat pants and take two steps toward the shower when my door slides open. I pull up short. Ophelia darts in my room, swiping a card past the door lock and sliding it shut again.

I cover the distance between us in three long strides.

She’s dressed in the gray silk pajamas Kolek gave her the first night. “Lirium—”

I cut her off by taking her in my arms and kissing her. Her small frame fits against me, and her arms slip around my neck. I pull her tight, one hand at her back, the other behind her head, holding her as my lips make demands.

Her mouth opens, welcoming me in. I deepen our kiss and press her against the door. She starts to transfer, giving me a hit through her fingers clutching at my shoulders. I slide my hand under her pajamas, finding bare skin at the small of her back, and cycle the energy to her again.

I pause our kiss for a second, just long enough to say, “Hello,” then kiss her again. She smiles against my lips, and I may have ruined it by making her laugh. I pull back.

“Hello yourself,” she says.

“I’m really glad to see you.” I’m a little breathless.

“I couldn’t tell.”

I smile, then kiss her lightly. We’ve stopped transferring, and I relax my fervent hold on her, but she’s still trapped between me and the door. The kiss was just a spontaneous reaction—I hope it was the right call, because I need her on my side. She doesn’t seem in a hurry to be elsewhere, so I think my instincts were right.

“How did you get in here?” I ask, softly.

She waves the swipe card. “The staff won’t figure out it’s gone until the morning.”

I grin. “You planning on staying a while?” I’m thinking there may be more than one way to convince her to help me, and I’m definitely not averse to experimenting.

“I was getting bored in my room,” she says.

The idea of dragging her to bed for a while dissipates as I realize she just broke out of her room. “Wait, if you can swipe into my room with that—”

She pushes me away, like I’m foolish to even consider it. “You can’t get out with just a swipe card, Lirium.”

I cringe. I need to play this cool. My hand slides across the soft silk of her pajamas to bring her, gently, back into my arms. “Did you hear what happened?”

“About you being an idiot with Kolek?” She frowns. “I thought you were getting smarter, baby. Working up to minnow.”

I run a finger along the midnight-black hair framing her face. “Kolek has my file. Valac had it all along. He must have gotten it from Candy. She’s the one who sold us out.”

I expect her to be shocked. She’s not.

I draw back, the cozy space between us disappearing. “You knew.”

She tilts her head to one side, resigned. “I didn’t know. But I heavily suspected.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it didn’t matter!” Her eyes flash, but then she clenches them shut, leans her head back against the door, and bangs it twice, lightly. “I’m sorry I got you in this mess. I should never have gone to your—”

She stops herself and holds perfectly still.

“What?” I ask, instantly suspicious.

She opens her eyes, but looks away. “I wish I hadn’t gone to your apartment that night. You would never have gotten wrapped up in all this.”

My suspicion hardens into a knot of dread in my stomach. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Ophelia shrugs her arms up, folding them across her chest. She’s still only a couple of inches away, but she’s retreating inside herself, putting a barrier between us.

“Ophelia,” I say low and quiet. “Tell me.”

She draws in a breath and lets it out slow. “I knew something was up with Candy. I’d been doing medical transfers, hanging out in the hospital a lot. Too much. Enough to see some things that I shouldn’t have seen.”

“Like what?”

“Like debt collectors coming to the pediatric ward when there shouldn’t be any. Like nurses who talk to debt collectors instead of running the other direction or avoiding us whenever possible.”

“You saw the kids they were transferring out?” My mouth hangs open now. I should have realized Ophelia would know about the illegal life energy transfers from the kids—she used to mentor Valac, and he used to work for Madam A. But that she saw it happen… “And you think Candy was somehow involved? I know she’s at the very low end of the sleaze range, but…”

“She had to be involved,” Ophelia says. “The debt collectors I saw—they all belonged to Candy. And they were definitely in the wrong ward, doing things they shouldn’t be doing. When I asked her if they were still on her list, still in the Agency, she looked funny at me and started purring on about how wonderful it was to have collectors like me. Collectors she didn’t have to worry about washing out or ending up dead.”

“So… she was trying to kiss up to you? To keep you from telling anyone at the Agency?”

Ophelia peers at me. “Who would I tell? For all I know, her dirty business goes straight up the chain at the Agency. And besides, when have you ever had Candy praise you without needing a shower to get the slime off afterward?” She shudders and clutches her arms tighter across her chest. “It was a warning. To stay out of it. Then she bumped me up to ER medical transfers in another hospital on the tail end of the east side. About as far from that peds ward as she could send me and still have me in her district. Whatever I saw, I was supposed to just forget. And I was happy to forget. I don’t want to know all the dirty business Candy has her red claws dipped into. But I should have known she wouldn’t leave it at that.”

“So she sold you out to Kolek to get rid of you.” My fist presses against the door. Selling us out to the mob is bad enough, but doing it to cover up illegal transfers from kids… my stomach is a hard rock of hate. If I ever get out, Candy’s going to get a very special visit from me.

Ophelia shakes her head. “I knew she might try something. I’ve seen Candy send perfectly sane debt collectors to The Retirement Home. And there have been others who have simply disappeared, supposedly captured by the mob. I didn’t ask why. Those aren’t the kind of things you can look at too closely without getting burned yourself. But I should have known. I should have requested a transfer to another city and gotten out of Candy’s reach. But when she sent me to you…”

I frown. “You thought you were getting a second chance.”

She nods. “I never thought she would sell you out, baby. You were just getting started. She couldn’t have had anything against you.”

“I was washing out,” I say, and strangely, that time feels a million miles away. Like whatever cracked loose inside me last night, when I refused to transfer out that boy, moved me to a different place. A stronger place. One where I can’t imagine why the drowning abyss had captured me before.

“She must have thought you were hopeless. She can’t stand collectors who make her look bad.” Ophelia turns her dark eyes to me. “She wasn’t sending me in there to rescue you—she was killing two problems at once. I should have seen it coming. I should have known better than to go anywhere near another collector, even a guppy like you.”

“Thanks,” I say, but it’s light. I was spiraling into the darkness before Ophelia came along, and Candy would have washed me out soon enough. “But like I told you before, it’s not your fault they came after me.”

“I’m not so sure,” she says, eyes downcast. “And it’s just dumb luck that you escaped.” She sighs. “You have some kind of guardian angel looking out for you.”

“I thought that was supposed to be you.” I lean in to kiss her, but she dodges me and presses a hand to my chest, firmly pushing me away and putting a few more inches between us.

“I am not your guardian angel.” Her lips purse tight, and her serious face beats back any thoughts of kissing, in spite of her hands lingering on my chest. “You’re sweet, baby. Too sweet. And you’ve got some kind of lucky star following you around. But you can’t count on that. And you can’t fight what we are; you’ll just wear yourself out or get yourself killed trying. That’s why I didn’t tell you about Candy and her evilness with the kids. Because you’re the kind who would run off and want to do something foolish, like try to save everyone. Like Valac and his crazy mission, before he figured out it was useless. Like when you came here, trying to save me. I don’t need to give you another hopeless cause, Lirium.” She shakes her head. “You should already be dead. I don’t know why Kolek didn’t kill you yesterday. There’s no way he’s going to let you get away with showing him up.”

“But he did let me get away with it,” I say. “I don’t know why. I guess he respects me now, for standing up to him. And he made it perfectly clear he’ll go after my mom if I don’t do everything exactly like he wants.”

“Well, that’s simple, then,” she says. “You do what Kolek wants.”

I pull back farther. “It doesn’t bother you? All the things you know he’s going to ask you to do?” I narrow my eyes. “Are you on the Valac plan? Collecting up lives so you can live forever?”

She looks away. “I don’t know about living forever, baby. I’m just trying to make it to next week.”

“I’m going to get out, Ophelia. One way or another.” It may be via the morgue, but I’m a lot less afraid of that option now. There’s no staying here—that much I know.

“I know,” she says, looking back to me. “Which is why I’m going to help you.”

My mouth hangs open. “You are?”

“I am trying to keep you alive, remember? And you seem to have a talent for pissing off our mob boss. Maybe he likes you, for now. Maybe he wants to keep you as a pet, like Emeryk did with me. But you can’t count on that, Lirium. If you keep pushing him, he will kill you. We need to get you out before that happens.”

I put my hand on the door behind her, leaning close again. Close enough to kiss her, but I don’t, I just hold her cheek lightly with my fingertips. “Have I told you recently how extremely beautiful you are?”

“Intelligent, too.”

“And ridiculously sexy.” I caress her face, ready to follow that up with some serious making out, but then I realize what she actually said. “Wait. You’re coming with me, right?”

She avoids my intense, close gaze. “It’s extremely rare for collectors to leave the mob, at least not in any way you want to go. I don’t know how I’m going to get you out of here, but there may only be room for one of us. And I’ll be fine here.”

“No, you won’t,” I say, exasperated. “And you deserve better than this. You deserve a life where you don’t have to payout to corrupt politicians or transfer out whoever crosses Kolek next. Besides, we should stick together. We’ll have a better chance that way.”

“We’ll see when the time comes.” She still won’t look in my eyes. “I may not have a choice.”

But I know she’s wrong. That’s the dangerous thing running free inside me: choice.

“You always have a choice.” I cup her cheek in my hand and drop my voice. “Choose to be with me, Ophelia.”

I can see it working on her. The possibility. The hope that there could be something better. Something more. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m shirtless with her hands splayed on my chest, the air between us heating again. She’s about to say something when the door slides open, pulling my hand with it and throwing me off balance. I hold on to her to right myself.

Outside the door stands Valac. His face twists into a snarl, and his teeth are clenched. I can hear the whisper of his breath through them. His gaze bounces between me half-dressed and Ophelia in her pajamas in my arms, and he can’t seem to decide which is more horrifying.

“What are you doing here?” Valac asks Ophelia.

Shit.

Our chance to plan our escape just evaporated.

I step back from Ophelia, belatedly, although I guess there’s not much point in trying to pretend Valac didn’t just catch her in my room. In my arms. With us both dressed for bed.

“I just came for a visit,” Ophelia says lightly, but she subtly reaches to my side and slips the stolen swipecard into the pocket of my sweat pants. Valac’s chest is still heaving, and I think he’s too busy alternating glares at me and Ophelia to see.

“Kolek doesn’t want you spending time together,” he says. “I thought I made that perfectly clear.” He must be talking to Ophelia, because I haven’t seen him since he shut me in. I can’t figure out why he looks like he’s about to blow a gasket. Maybe Kolek threatened to cut off some fingers if he didn’t keep us in line. Otherwise, I can’t imagine why he cares if Ophelia and I have a stolen tryst in my room.

I finally notice the two people behind him, shrunken back from the exchange at my door. A young woman and man stand awkwardly with their arms looped around each other’s waists, gripping a bit too tightly. Both are dressed in clothes that amp their sex appeal far more than required, the girl in a skimpy black dress that hugs her curves, and the boy in clothes almost as tight. I’m certain they’re sex workers, but I don’t have time to wonder why they’re here before Valac swings his wrath to me.

“Kolek has a present for you.” But his words are out of sync with the anger on his face. He’s barely containing his rage—at me, at Ophelia, at both of us for apparently breaking whatever rule Kolek has about keeping us apart. Only that doesn’t make any sense. Something else is going on, but I have no idea what it is.

“A present?” I ask, trying to say something that won’t light the powder keg that, for unknown reasons, is Valac at the moment.

“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.” He jerks a thumb, motioning Ophelia out of the room. She trails a hand across my chest as she lightly steps out the door and heads toward her room down the hall. Valac glares after her, then braces his hands against the door frame and leans across the threshold.

“Why couldn’t you just do what I said?” His voice transforms into a harsh whisper, but the anger is still full boil. I finally figure out he’s angry about the boy.

I’m almost afraid to ask, but I do anyway. “How’s the kid?”

Valac closes his eyes, like he can’t believe the unmitigated gall of me asking. When he opens them, our faces are close as he hovers just inside my room.

“He’ll live.” Valac holds my gaze. Just as I think he means something different than what he said, he pushes away from the door frame and takes a step back to the sex workers.

They’re clutching each other, even more jittery than before.

Valac slides his arm around the shoulder of the young man, grasping onto the silk of his shirt and bunching it roughly. The girl quickly drops her hand from the boy, who has plastered on an alluring grin for Valac that doesn’t quite cover the nervous twitch in his cheek.

Valac is still staring at me. “Have a good time.” He nods to the girl, and she skitters over, eyes wide like a frightened deer. I pull her inside, my hand on her hip, getting her out of the line of Valac’s angry stare.

Once she’s in the room, he waves his hand at the door. It slides shut and clicks.

I stare at the door, imagining Valac, full of rage, dragging his hapless sex worker back to his room. Whatever it is that’s pissed him off, I’m sure he’s going to drown it in a night of ecstasy with the boy, the same way I used to recover from paying out by ordering one of Madam A’s girls. Even with a plan to live forever, even with Valac’s insistence that he doesn’t have a soul left, he’s still trying to fill the holes in it.

The girl slips her arms around my bare neck. “Hey, sweet thing, I sure am glad that’s all over with.”

I turn to her, finally giving her a good look. She presses her scantily clad body against mine. Her eyes are wide and blue, blonde hair spilling over her chest and onto mine. A half-smile, with parted lips, invites me to kiss her. On any other day, I would be tempted. More than tempted. I would probably have her half undressed by now. But she has vanilla perfume, and her face is scrubbed with the clean beauty that Madam A specializes in. I’m much more interested in what she knows than any temporary mind-blotting pleasure she can give me. I slowly pull her arms from my neck. Her smile dims, and she gains back the freaked-out look from the hallway.

“I was wondering who you work for.” I hold her hands, lightly rubbing the back of one to reassure her.

Her gaze drops to my hand then flits back to my face. “What… what did you say your name was, sugar?” She has a touch of Southern accent that would normally spark heat low in my belly, but today it just makes me smile.

“Lirium. What’s yours?”

“Annabelle.” She says it with a sigh, like she’s relieved to be telling me. I want to ask her straight out, but she’s dodging my question, and I don’t want to blow Madam A’s operation by asking about it directly. If Annabelle is one of Madam A’s girls, then I have a metric ton of questions for her. But I have to be sure first.

“There’s another girl I was hoping might show up,” I say.

The worry scuttles back to crease her brow, so I drop her hands and gently touch the hair by her face.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to complain. I’m just curious if you know her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Elena.”

Her shoulders, which had inched up, drop again. “Yeah. I know Elena.”

“Elena has a little sister…” I wait for her to fill it in.

“Tilly.” A smile lights up her face.

I smile back, relieved. “How is Tilly? Is she…” I don’t want to say it, but the lead weight that rides in my stomach about my bargain with Madam A needs to know.

“She’s about the same,” Annabelle says. “Elena’s staying with us full time now.”

“She is?” My interest is too keen. I try to cover it by rushing to say, “That’s good. Good for Tilly, I mean.”

Annabelle’s smile knows a little too much.

I step back and cross my arms, rubbing my chin with my hand. “So, did your collector come back? I mean, I hope Tilly’s getting her hits, even though… even though I…” Guilt twists my stomach suddenly, more than I expected.

“You’ve been… detained?” Annabelle sweeps a quick look around the room. “Can we talk?”

I glance at my place. I’ve never considered they might bug it, but it’s possible. I grab her hand and tow her into the bathroom, where I turn on the water. I give her a small smile before I put my hands to her waist and hoist her up on the sink. The white marble isn’t very wide, but she’s small, and she fits on the countertop, her dress riding up a bit and showing off shapely legs. I lean forward until I’m close enough to whisper and still be heard over the running water that’s splashing tiny, sparkling drops on her curve-hugging, black dress.

We’re close enough to be making out, but we’re not touching. She grins at me like we’re playing a game, and I have to smile back. Because it’s funny and sexy as hell, all at the same time.

“We can talk now,” I whisper in her ear.

“I have a message for you.”

I pull back to grin and mouth, “What?”

She leans forward, hands at the back of my neck. “It’s a question, really,” she whispers in my ear. “Madam A wants to know if  you intend to keep your promise.”

The fun and games slip away. Annabelle pulls back to look in my eyes. My face is solemn as I nod. I’d like nothing more than to make good on my promise to come back and do transfers for Madam A. I put my hand on Annabelle’s cheek, leaning close enough to whisper in her ear again. “I promised.”

Her face is serious now. Because she knows as well as I that getting out of Kolek’s mob isn’t that easy.

She runs her fingers through my hair and whispers, “I have an address for you. And a passcode. You can only use it once. When you get there, call. Madam A will send someone for you.”

My heart pounds as Annabelle tells me the address, passcode, and Madam A’s direct number, and I commit them to memory. It’s not the soft puffs of air on my ear that make my heart thud in my chest, but the words carried on them. Madam A’s giving me a safe house. A place to stay, if I can only get free. I nod when I’m sure I have it and give Annabelle a quick kiss on the cheek. By the way she smiles, I can tell she knows what this means to me.

Hope. A chance that this escape thing might actually work.

I slowly reach for her forehead. She watches me, but doesn’t flinch. I lay my palm on her, pulsing in a life energy hit, then lean close to whisper, “For Tilly.” She nods, and her breathing picks up a little as I feed her the hit.

While I transfer, a thought crowds into my head: Valac. Does he know Annabelle’s helping me? I have no idea if he told Kolek about Madam A’s involvement when I smuggled in. Valac betrayed me, but would he betray Madam A? I’d like to think not, especially given that he used to collect for her. But I can’t be sure.

I finish up the life hit. Annabelle’s cheeks are rosy, and she’s even cuter than before. I reach past her dripping black dress and turn off the water.

“I think that’s enough washing up,” I say in full voice, for whatever hidden microphones might be in my room. I seriously hope this is all over-precaution, because the conversation Ophelia and I had earlier certainly wasn’t sotto voce.

“Am I clean enough?” she asks in the kind of voice only a juiced-up sex-worker could use with a straight face. She must be really feeling the hit.

I bite my lips together, trying not to laugh. I take her hands in mine and help her down from the counter. She straightens her skirt which is halfway to her hips.

“Oh, I think you’re plenty dirty,” I say, and she grins along with me. I lace my fingers with hers and pull her toward the bed. Before we reach it, I whisper in her ear again, “We need to put on a show.”

Her smile has real heat in it now. “Doesn’t have to be all show and no tell,” she says loudly. Valac can probably hear her through the wall, if he’s not already preoccupied.

She’s willing to follow through on the sex-worker act, but I’m surprised to find I have no interest in doing so. I take both of her hands in mine, curl them up, and lightly kiss the tops of her knuckles. I don’t know if it’s because Ophelia is in her room just across the hallway. Or the fact that Annabelle will be going back to see Elena in a few hours. Or that I just don’t have a need to fill the holes in my soul like I did before, but I’m not interested in her offer.

“I plan to tell all about it,” I say in my best bedroom voice, but I shake my head, then tilt it toward the wall and cup my hand to my ear to show that Valac may be listening on the other side.

She grins and flings her arms out, falling backward on the bed. “Oh, Lirium!” she says, breathless and loud. I jump on the bed with her, and it makes a terrific creaking noise. Her eyebrows fly up to the top of her head, and she laughs.

I cover her mouth with my hand. “No laughing at me in bed,” I whisper. “I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”

She gives me a nod so mock-serious, I have to bite down on my own knuckle to keep from laughing. She kicks off her heels and crawls across the comforter to the head of the bed. With a waggle of fingers, she beckons me to join her, which I promptly do. Once there, she braces one hand on the headboard of the bed, which is really a short bookcase filled with white and gray knick-knacks. Gripping it, she leans toward the foot of the bed, then shifts to fling her tiny weight against the headboard. It makes a small tap against the wall. The vases and photo cubes jump.

“Oh Lirium!” she cries out.

I break out into a grin so wide I’m afraid it will permanently stick. I grab the headboard next to her small hand, and with a nod from her, we coordinate our movements so that we rock the bed, back and forth, slamming a regular rhythm against the wall. She punctuates the wall banging with occasional moans and prayers that include my name.

It’s all I can do to keep it going without giving into the laughter that’s bubbling up from deep inside me.

I decide that Annabelle is one of my new favorite people.

Not long after our fake, wallbanging-sex last night, Annabelle left, taking my promise to return to Madam A with her. I was tempted to give her a message for Elena, but I couldn’t think of what to say. Not to mention that I can’t be sure I’ll get out of Kolek’s grasp alive; maybe by the time I escape, I’ll think of the right words.

Or I could just bring a life energy hit to Tilly and let my actions speak for me.

I got up early this morning, expecting Valac to tap me for collections or Ophelia to visit, but no one came all day. Just the pinch-mouthed guy who delivers my food, which has taken a step up in cuisine since my confrontation with Kolek: fresh fruits, bakery breads, and things with sauces I can’t identify but that make my mouth ache for more. I had just finished up a steak and lobster meal that was the best thing I’d ever eaten, when the door to my room slides open.

Valac steps inside, but stays at the threshold as the door closes behind him.

I stand, leaving my tray and dishes on the bed and swallowing down my final bite. Valac has a paper bag, and I’m guessing it’s filled with clothes. He clenches it so tightly his knuckles turn white. The muscles in his jaw flex, like he’s clamping his mouth against the urge to bark at me. But his gaze avoids mine, sweeping the room and landing on my scraped-clean plate.

He stares at it like it’s a slaughtered puppy, and I have to look, but there’s nothing there: just the empty lobster shell. Maybe Valac is losing his marbles.

“Are we going out?” I ask, just to stop his unnerving fixation on my now-gone meal. Valac’s bag isn’t big enough for more than one outfit. I might have to lobby for Ophelia to join us, given what he said about Kolek wanting to keep us apart.

Valac swallows before he speaks. “I brought you some clothes.” He steps forward to hand them to me, arm outstretched, as if he doesn’t want to get too close, but he’s afraid to let go of the handle. His bizarre behavior is setting my nerves on edge. I snag the bag from him, a little roughly, to maybe snap him out of it. He watches me, then turns back to the door.

I peek inside the bag. It’s a jumble of black, white, and bits of metal.

“Valac—” I say, figuring I should speak up while I still have him in the room.

He whirls to face me. “Just get dressed!” Like that the anger is back, mottling his face and clenching his hands. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Thanks for the privacy,” I quip at his back as he swipes the door open and marches out into the hall. Asshole.

I dump the clothes on my bed. They have a whole lot more shimmer than I expect. I peel off my t-shirt and pick up a white tank that seems three sizes too small. I fight to pull it on, and it miraculously stretches to fit my body, but only just. It’s like a layer of white paint on my chest. One look at the leather pants and jacket studded with blue halogen light panels, and I realize that’s exactly how it’s supposed to fit.

Cursing at Valac under my breath, I struggle into the rest of the clothes. For how tightly they fit, they’re actually comfortable, moving with me as I fish out the clanking accessories from the bottom of the bag. I slip the leather bands around my wrists, but there’s no way I’m wearing the blue electric snake that’s either a necklace or an elaborate earring… even if I could figure out where the fangs are supposed to go.

I stalk to the door and pound on it. When it slides open, Valac’s standing outside. I expect to see Nico and Two-Pints, but he’s alone.

“What the hell is this?” I gesture to my clothes. He’s dressed in his usual high-end fare, open-collared shirt and imported shoes. Not like a freak show.

“Shut up.” He grabs me by the jacket and hauls me out of the room. I’m so surprised, I hardly react. He breathes in my face, angry again. “We’re going for a walk.”

I look at him like he’s crazed, but he ignores me and shoves me toward the stairs. I imagine the towncar is waiting for us downstairs with Kolek’s thugs, but Valac takes me up the stairs instead. I’ve never been in this part of the house. We tromp up two flights, Valac crowding me from behind and urging me on.

When we reach the top, the stairwell opens onto the roof. I stumble over the threshold, the flat, rough surface almost too dark to see. The spotlights that shine on the outside walls bounce a sickly-white light off the palm trees that hem the house. The close-bound leaves are lit up like ghoul faces peeking over the edge of the roof.

I turn back to Valac, but he’s in my face again, forcing me backward. The garish light throws stripes of illumination across the roof. It’s not easy to see where the ledge is, but we’re getting dangerously close. I glance at my footing, but then Valac grabs the collar of my jacket again. I stare wide-eyed at him, trying to assess what’s going on, but his face is close and full of shadows.

“I know what you’re doing!” His voice is rough, but he’s not touching me skin-to-skin, so I’m not panicking. Yet.

“What I’m… doing?” My mind flails for an explanation. Does he seriously think I’m angling for his job? Is that what this is about? Or were there really hidden microphones in my room, and he overheard Ophelia and me last night? It’s not like we made any solid plans, but maybe he’s pissed that I’m still looking to escape.

Valac lets go with one hand and draws it back. I try to shove him away, but the backs of my legs bang against the lip of the roof. It’s only a foot high. I grab his wrist, finding a sliver of flesh and holding tight. I can’t decide if he’s going to push me off the roof or suck the life out of me, but I don’t want to be the one to go first, either way. If he’s going to drain me, I might be strong enough to fight him, but I’m not sure. And I certainly don’t want to do it while I’m dangling half off the roof.

“What is your problem?” I say through gritted teeth.

He just teeters, words seemingly stopped in his throat. Finally, he steps back, dropping his collecting hand and releasing my jacket with the other. But his stare continues to pin me to the edge of the roof. “You’re not fooling me, Lirium.”

I straighten my jacket. “Okay.” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“You were ready to die for that boy,” he says, like it’s an accusation. “I could see it in your eyes. It wasn’t any bluff. You weren’t standing up to Kolek.”

This is what he’s mad about? “I never said—”

He stabs a finger at my chest, but I hold my ground. Especially since I have nowhere to go but three stories down.

“You played it like you were tough!” He’s practically shouting, but then he glances at the grounds below. Maybe Nico and Two-Pints are down there and he doesn’t want them to hear. He looks back to me and speaks in a hushed voice. “But I saw it in your eyes, Lirium. I saw it. You were expecting a bullet. You were surprised when he didn’t kill you. Hell, I was surprised when he didn’t kill you.”

“Yeah, well…” I guess sometimes you have to get lucky, and that was my one and only time. There’s really no explaining it. I glance at my feet, judging whether I can move away from the edge without pissing him off even more. I’m still not sure he didn’t bring me up here to throw me off.

“Why?” he asks. “Why did you do it?” His blue eyes catch the light from the palm trees and seem to shine, but his voice is pained. “Why couldn’t you just listen to me and do what I told you?”

“Why does it matter to you?” I edge slightly away from the lip of the roof. “It worked out okay in the end.”

Valac closes his eyes, like he’s in pain. Like the fact that I’m not in the morgue is causing him bodily injury that he can barely endure. I take a full step away from the edge. And Valac’s insanity.

“Sorry to disappoint you by still breathing.” As soon as Ophelia and I have a way out, I’m taking it, risky or not. But I don’t need to take shit from Valac in the meantime.

He opens his eyes. He sees I’ve shifted away from the ledge and frowns. But he doesn’t come any closer. “You don’t believe me, do you? Everything I told you about… about after. How there’s no life for us after this—you don’t believe it. You think we still have souls.”

I frown at his sudden change in tone. He’s so earnest, like he really cares if I believe him. It compels me to answer him honestly. “I don’t know. I think you’re probably right about the afterlife being a whole lot of nothing. At least for people like us.”

“Then why?”

It’s like he thinks I’ve got some answer for him. But I don’t even know the question. “Maybe…” I try, but stop. Valac’s hanging on my words, and it unsettles my stomach. I swallow down my uneasiness. “Maybe there are worse things than nothing. I had to make a choice. And I chose not to be a child-killer. That’s all there is to it.”

Valac blinks, then drops his gaze to the dark surface of the roof, searching it like he’s lost something important. Then he nods, I guess to himself and whatever craziness is rambling inside his head. He rubs his face with two hands, his movements slow and measured. He’s thinking.

He sucks in a breath and lets it out. The sound spills over the quiet of the night.

Valac half-turns and holds one hand out toward the door. “You should get back to your room,” he says, quietly. Almost reverently. “We’ll be leaving in half an hour.”

I hesitate. “Is Ophelia coming with us?”

He bows his head, then gives me a sorrowful look that convinces me he’s fully gone round the bend. “Would you like her to?”

As if it’s actually up to me. “Yes,” I say, like that should be obvious.

“Whatever you’d like, Lirium.” He gives me a half-bow, half-nod that makes my face twist up. Valac is definitely losing it.

I stride past him to the door, and he follows behind me, but not close. Whatever conversation he wanted to have with me on the roof, it’s done.

I only wish I knew what it was really about.

The ride to wherever we’re going is long. Valac is moody, rubbing his fingers across his forehead and staring out the window at the streaked lights of the Metro. He hasn’t said a word since we left, when he explained that we’re paying out to a special client, and Ophelia is along to make sure I don’t blow the transfer. She’s glammed up, but the electric blue eye shadow and harsh makeup steal some of her beauty. Still, I’m having a hard time keeping my hands to myself. She had to have heard the wallbanging sex. I want to tell her it was fake, but I can’t risk it with Valac right next to her. So I use stolen touches and whispered kisses to show I’m all about her. She doesn’t seem to mind, which keys me up even more and makes it difficult to focus on thinking through a plan, like I should. If I know Ophelia, she’s figuring out all the angles inside that beautiful head of hers. I want to map out ways to break free, so I’m ready when she is, but I don’t even know where we’re going.

Or why we’re dressed like low-rent sex workers.

We leave the freeway at West Hollywood, and our pace slows to a crawl in the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard. The see-and-be-seen bars spill patrons onto the streets, and we’re fighting the drunken foot traffic. Valac comes out of his stupor and scans the crowds as we inch forward. Nico is driving with Two-Pints riding shotgun. He points to a bar up ahead that shouts Shooter in neon-blue electric graffiti. The air is so thick with smog that the blaze of the lettering mutes and turns hazy. As we climb from the car, I realize that Shooter has at least three different connotations, none of which are good for me, being here, dressed the way I am.

Music from the club pulsates through the warm night air, and I feel the hum of it through my thin-soled shoes on the sidewalk. Nico and Two-Pints push ahead through the crowd, looking like security in their imported suits. Valac stands out a little less, in his half-unbuttoned black silk shirt and tailored pants. Ophelia is invisible among the stumbling, similarly makeup-drenched girls weaving along the walk. Valac drapes his arm across my shoulders and yanks me out of the path of two barrel-chested men in leather shorts, blue glow-tattoos, and not much else.

I shoulder his arm away. “I’m not your date, Valac,” I say loud enough to be heard over the thumping of the music.

He slips a hand around my waist and leans close to my ear. “If you’re my date, little bird, you’re more likely to make it to the back room where we’re meeting our client.”

I glare at him and pull away. “I’m not exactly unarmed,” I say as we stride toward the door, mostly because I think he’s messing with me.

But the usual humor is gone from his eyes. “Well, you could announce your status as a debt collector to a bar filled with junkies. Your choice.” I can barely hear him over the noise now that we’re at the entrance. Nico and Two-Pints negotiate our entry.

When we step inside, I see what Valac means.

Barely dressed boys dangle from electric-blue ropes and swing from light-up bars that have to be maglev by the way they float over the heads of the crowd. Curls of smoke stir up as the aerialists glide past. The glow-tattooed hands that reach for them belong to a full range of clubbers from shirtless, muscle-bound men in leather pants to skinny, trash-dressed junkies that look like me. There’s a sprinkling of glam girls like Ophelia and slick-haired fashion plates like Valac, but mostly the bar is wall-to-wall male flesh on display.

“Ok,” I say to Valac. “Get me through the gauntlet with all my body parts intact.”

He nods and claims me by curling an arm around my neck and pressing his palm flat against my chest. Ophelia struts ahead of us like she owns the place, and the sea of men parts before her. Even in a gay bar, she commands presence.

Nico and Two-Pints follow her, leading us across the main floor, where couples undulate to the music in a way that’s half-dance, half-sex. Scattered among them are tables with clubbers smoking skeet. The bar is rank with its sickly sweet smell. The giant bulbous lamps in the center of the tables look vaguely Turkish, each stacked globe lit up with blue plasma and sprouting a tentacle that ends in a smoking mask strapped to a junkie’s face. Their eyes are too glazed to notice us passing, but the neon-jacketed dealers supplying them watch us like hawks.

Valac should be laughing at me, but instead he’s glaring at everyone, like he’s ready to suck down their life energy with the slightest excuse. Which almost makes me laugh.

I lean into him. “Next time, you get to play the skeet-addict boy-toy. And you owe me big time for this.” The music from the club is so loud I have to shout, and even then I’m not sure if he’s heard me.

He bites his lip, like he’s actually sorry for putting me through this, so I go for more.

“I want some alone time with Ophelia.”

He grimaces. “Fine. When we get back, I’ll sneak her into your room.”

That was easy. Too easy. “No, now. Otherwise, Kolek will find out. Find us a closet or something and get Nico and his pal to look the other way.” I smirk at him. “I plan to make some noise, and this seems like the perfect place to do it.”

He looks even more pained, clenching my chest tighter and holding me against him. I have to sync my steps with his to avoid a junkie passed out on the floor and the hulk who’s bent over him, picking his pockets. A guy who could be security or might just be another patron pulls the pick-pocket up by his hair. They go down in a tumble of sweaty, muscle-bound arms that could be fighting. Or foreplay. It’s hard to tell.

“Didn’t you get enough last night?” Valac says in my ear. “That’s what your sex worker was for.”

“What can I say? I’m insatiable.”

Valac shakes his head, but my heart is pounding with the possibility. If Valac gives Ophelia and I even a minute of privacy—for whatever reason—we’ll have a chance to make a plan. And the chaos of the club is the perfect place to escape into. Together. We would only need a moment, a distraction, and a little luck—

“We’ll see,” Valac says. “Maybe. If the client hasn’t gotten here yet.”

I grin. My heart beats double the time of the slow-pounding music. We make it across the club to a set of transparent stairs held to the wall with electric-blue rails. Valac unlatches from me, and we follow Nico, Two-Pints, and Ophelia up. At the top is a small office with what looks like a bedroom down a hallway in back. The noise steps down to a tolerable level once the door is closed, but the vibration still thumps through my body in a way that makes me slightly nauseous. Or possibly it’s the idea that this could be our chance, if only we can make it work. Ophelia gives me a look like she’s waiting for me to say or do something.

I don’t see anyone else in the room. “Looks like your client is late.”

Valac glances at his palm. “They’ll be here.” He strides down the skinny hall: there’s a bathroom at the end, and the door to the bedroom is open. Valac pokes his head inside, inspecting it, then gestures to me and tilts his head to the bedroom. I can hardly believe it. I grab Ophelia’s hand and drag her down the hall.

I sweep my hand dramatically for Ophelia to go first, giving her a sex-filled grin for Valac’s sake. She plays along and floats into the room.

“You might be all right, after all, Valac. Give us ten minutes.” I slip in after Ophelia and start to close the door.

Valac’s hand stops it before it shuts. “Five minutes, maybe less. When they get here, the fun’s over.”

“Deal.”

Valac lets me close the door the rest of the way. I’m kind of stunned that he’s allowing this, but there’s no time to question it. Ophelia’s already checking the room for escape routes, but Valac’s not that stupid. There are no windows or doors, just a lumpy mattress propped up on a decaying wooden frame and a dresser with more bare wood than paint.

“What’s your plan for our getaway, baby?” she says, and in that instant, I think I might actually love her.

I step away from the door to make sure Valac can’t overhear and take both of her hands in mine. “We can do this. Valac’s off his game tonight. I don’t know why, but I think the whole incident with the boy unsettled him. If we make a break for it, he’ll never see it coming.”

She peers up at me with those dark, deep eyes. “There are still two of them with guns. And Valac’s more powerful than me now. But… maybe not more powerful than both of us together.” She arches one eyebrow.

Definitely in love with her.

I hold her cheek with one hand and kiss her gently. “I love it when you talk like that.”

She frowns and shakes her head. “It’s still risky.”

“We’ll wait until after the payout, on the way out, through the bar.”

“Nico will shoot straight through a roomful of junkies to get to you, Lirium,” she says, her voice grave. “Don’t forget that.”

“Then we’ll have to take Nico first.”

She nods. “I can stick close to him.” She looks at her palm, hand flexed out. “I guess I can handle having one scar.”

I take her hand and press her palm to my lips. “I’ll heal it for you.”

She smiles. “So, I take Nico…”

“And I’ll take Two-Pints.”

She frowns. “You’ll take what?”

I give a short laugh. “The other thug.”

“Larry.”

“What? His name is Larry?”

She grins.

I think of shotglass-Larry and his disgusted frown. “That’s so wrong. Okay, once we’re on the floor, we take out Larry and Nico. If we’re fast enough, by the time Valac figures out what’s happening, we should be ready to face him.”

“Or we could use Nico’s gun.”

My stomach turns inside out. “I… I don’t want to kill Valac.” Words I honestly never thought would come out of my mouth. “Maybe he’ll come with us?”

Ophelia gives me a look like I just proposed turning Valac into a hamster.

“It’s possible,” I say. “He might be willing.”

“Or he might kill us both for asking. You don’t know him like I do. That ship sailed a long, long time ago for Valac.”

I nod, but I’m not sure I agree. “Well, if we have a gun, he can’t really stop us, can he? And that’s all we need. We can fade into the street and be gone. We’re already out of the east side. We could just go straight from here to—”

Someone pounds on the door, making us both jump. There’s a muffled sound outside, probably Valac yelling at us through the door.

“Time’s up,” I say softly. Then I take both her cheeks in my hands and kiss her thoroughly. I take care to smear her bright red lipstick and dig my hands through her hair, mussing it.

She’s a little breathless when I release her. “Was that really necessary?” she asks.

I grin and wipe the lipstick from my face with the back of my hand. “Completely.”

Valac pounds on the door again, harder this time.

“Coming!” I gently pull Ophelia toward the door. I look at her for a moment before I open it. I want to tell her how I feel. How I want things to be once we’re out. But it’s not the right time.

I kiss her lightly instead and open the door.

I drop Ophelia’s hand as we emerge from the back bedroom. In the office area, a man in a high-end suit stands next to a girl who’s painfully thin: I can count her ribs through her painted-on clothes. She looks like she belongs in a hospital, not caked with skeet-junkie makeup and club-hopping in West Hollywood.

Her hands have a slight tremor, and her wide blue eyes plead with the man, her head shaking slightly, just like her hands. He’s too slick, and I don’t like the way he’s massaging her shoulder: more like he’s holding her captive than comforting her. His skin is unnaturally smooth, and he reminds me of the high potentials at the LifeLong medical complex: CEO-type, used to being in control, getting his life hits between high-powered meetings. Why is he sneaking into a West Hollywood skeet den to get his hits? And why bother dragging the girl along?

Valac introduces us, his voice raised slightly to be heard over the thumping downstairs. “Lirium and Ophelia, this is Anna and her manager, Pete. Lirium will be doing the transfer today, Anna, but Ophelia will be assisting him the entire time.” Valac directs that last part to the man, and it takes me a beat to realize that the girl is our payout.

“That will work fine,” Pete says. Anna’s head shaking goes to a whole different level of tremor. I take a closer look at her fine-featured face, buried under the makeup. The perfectly rounded nose. The long, silky blonde hair that falls to the middle of her back. Her lower lip slides into a pout, and I suddenly recognize her: she’s one of those actors perpetually splashed across the tabloid ezines. I kept seeing her on my screen while I was trapped in my room, recovering from the beating courtesy of Nico and Two-Pints. She was in some kind of trouble. Rehab or paparazzi fights or something that was tarnishing her image. The jackals in the gossip columns were laying odds on how many minutes were left in her career, another Hollywood child actor washing out before she even reached eighteen.

Pete whispers something in her ear, and suddenly she bolts. Her skinny legs make serious time down the hallway, darting through the open door of the bedroom and slamming it shut.

He gives us an oily smile. “Just give us a minute,” he says, then hurries after her.

Once he’s inside the bedroom, I turn to Valac. “That’s… what’s her name?”

“Anna,” he says, staring down the hall. His arms wrap around each other, and he taps his foot, like he’s nervous they won’t come back.

“No shit,” I say, which causes him to look at me. There’s a tiny smile back in his eyes. “But what’s a kid like that need with a life hit?”

“I don’t ask questions like that, little bird.”

I frown. The only thing I can imagine is somehow the hit will enhance her beauty, and this girl thinks being more beautiful will salvage her career. Or maybe she’s an addict. But this elaborate meetup in the skeet den seems like an awful lot of trouble for a hit. Then again, she’s got the one-foot-in-the-grave look that Madam A’s kids have.

“Maybe she’s sick,” I say. “Maybe she needs it.”

Valac frowns, and Ophelia pipes up. “I’m sure she needs it, baby. For whatever her reasons are.”

I nod, and ask Valac, “How much am I paying out?”

“Three years.”

I choke. “Three years?” I peer down the hall. “She’s in no shape to take a three year hit!” Not to mention that paying out three years sounds like a good way to kill me. The most I’ve done at one time was at the socialite hit party, and that payout was only about six months total.

“I’ll help you, baby,” Ophelia says. “It’ll take a while, but it will be fine.” She’s sending me looks that are supposed to calm me, but it’s not working. My heart races.

“You can do it, Lirium,” Valac says, and he actually sounds sympathetic. “Take it nice and slow, let Ophelia help, and you’ll make it through.”

“Three years isn’t going to help her if she’s sick!” I say, still trying to make sense of this. “It’s too much. Even if I go slow, she’ll be flying higher than a kite. It’ll just stress out her system—”

“She’s not sick, Lirium,” Valac says, like I’m incredibly naïve. “Her manager is trying to rescue her career. He’s got some big audition lined up, and he wants her at her peak—”

He stops because the bedroom door has opened. Pete and Anna step out, his arm again trapping her shoulder, but she’s lost the wild-eyed look of fear from before. In fact, as she gets closer, I can see her blue eyes have lost all their gleam. She doesn’t even look at us. Or anything. She’s a zombie that doesn’t see or care that she’s surrounded by debt collectors.

Shit.

I turn to Valac. “Can I have a word with you?” My voice is harsh, and I don’t wait for a response, just shove past Pete and head back to the bedroom again. I wait, fists clenched, until Valac finally shuffles in the door. I close it, not quite a slam, but almost.

“He gave her something!” I shout at Valac, and he actually flinches.

“Obviously.” It’s a resentful snarl.

“We can’t… I can’t…” My arms are flung out with the impossibility of it. “God only knows what he’s given her! She’ll code out with even a reasonable sized hit! Not to mention three years. Jesus, Valac, it’ll kill her outright.”

He rubs his hand across his face. “You’re not going to kill her.”

“Damn right I’m not going to kill her. Because I’m not giving her a hit, much less a massive coronary-inducing one!” I start to pace back and forth in front of the door, fighting through my anger to find a way out of this. I need to do this payout so we can leave, and Ophelia and I can make our escape.

Valac’s two hands press to the sides of his face, the fingertips digging in and working his temples. “You just… you just need to not think about it, Lirium. Just do it. Ophelia will help.”

“It’s insane.” I stop my pacing and stand straight. I want to escape, but I’m not going to kill a drugged-up kid to get there. “I’m not going to do it, Valac.”

He closes his eyes and stills the hands on his face. When he opens them, he looks at me with a sadness I don’t understand. “Please, little bird, please just do this. You can just…” He searches the room for the words he wants.

I frown, waiting. I’m desperate for a way out of this, but I can’t imagine Valac’s going to find it in this dingy back bedroom.

His gaze works its way back to me. “You can just give her some of the hit, okay? Not the whole thing. Let Ophelia help you. Give the girl enough to get her high and convince her manager that you’ve paid out.”

My heart lifts. “Won’t he know the difference?” If I can pay out, but keep the girl alive, then Ophelia and I will still have our chance to escape. Otherwise, if I disobey an order, Kolek will go after my mom. Which means I have to make sure I escape or die trying. I’m sure Nico has instructions to shoot me if I make a run for it. He’s probably itching to do it anyway, so it shouldn’t take much to provoke him.

“The manager’s an idiot. He’ll never know.”

“But Nico—”

“He won’t… he won’t care,” Valac says, although the way he hesitates makes me wonder what the hell is going on in Valac’s head.

“I’ll just give her enough to get her high,” I check one more time.

“Stretch it out,” Valac says with a sigh. “Make it look good.”

I nod slowly, wondering when Valac went soft. And why. And if it has something to do with the boy. Maybe he just knows I won’t back down.

“I can make it look good,” I say.

The corner of his mouth lifts, and he places a hand on my shoulder. For once, I don’t mind. “I’m sure you can, little bird.” He drops his hand and gestures for me to go first through the door.

I stride out, a strange lightness filling me. The feeling of freedom, of hope, is back. It makes my steps strong, carrying me out to the girl I hope is my last payout for the mob.

I stretch out the hit to Anna for a full twenty minutes.

Ophelia isn’t privy to my plan to only pay out a week or two, but she gives me a knowing look as soon as I slow the life energy transfer to a trickle. I insisted that Anna lay down, so we’re back in the bedroom with the girl stretched out on the moldy bed covering. Ophelia sits next to her on one side and I’m on the other. Our hands lay on her forehead, Ophelia’s on top of mine, but I’m doing all the work, such as it is. Taking it slow has the added benefit that I won’t be exhausted when we make a run for it, especially since Ophelia is boosting me as well. She’s countering the effects of the payout, giving me a high that lifts my hopes more with every passing minute.

Any fool that cared to pay attention could tell I’m not paying out three years worth of life energy. Anna should be crawling out of her skin with the high, not lying still with a rosy blush that peeks out from her junkie makeup. I should resemble death, curling over and ready to hurl, not fighting to keep the smile off my face. But Nico and Larry are out in the front office, having grown bored after the first five minutes. The only way out is through the front door, so it’s no wonder they’re not worried.

Valac watches us from the bedroom door, where Anna’s manager is smooth-talking him into some Hollywood sleaze business he has going. Valac keeps him engaged and away from us, and the manager barely spares us a look. I think Valac wants this payout scam to work as much as I do.

When I stop transferring, I keep my palm to Anna’s forehead for a few moments more. I look at Ophelia, trying to communicate with my eyes that we’re on for the escape plan. We should get out as quickly as possible, just in case Nico does the math and figures out that twenty minutes was a hell of a short amount of time to pay out three years.

She gives me a barely perceptible nod, so I lift my hand and ease up from the bed.

“All done,” I say lightly to Pete-the-manager, interrupting his latest pitch to Valac.

“Really?” Pete frowns at Anna, who Ophelia is helping up from the bed. But she hardly needs it. She’s flying now. The trickle was small, but it was like her body was starving for energy, for life. Whatever Pete gave her to bring her down has been completely counteracted.

Anna bounces lightly on her toes. “Uncle Pete, you were right. This is just what I needed.”

Uncle Pete? I have to work to keep the sourness off my face. And I’m still worried there will be some kind of delayed reaction, like there was for the middle-aged socialite. I hope not, but there’s nothing to do about it now. And that’s just more reason to beat a hasty exit.

“Great!” I say. “Our work is done.” I beckon Ophelia with a wave of my hand, and she leaves Anna’s side to come to mine. Pete and Valac block the doorway, so I look Valac straight in the face and tilt my head slightly. Do we have a problem? I’m asking him.

He turns to Pete, takes his hand, and shakes it. “It’s been a pleasure discussing business with you. Why don’t you and Anna stay in here for a little while? Take your time before leaving.” He puts his hand on Pete’s shoulder and glances at Anna, who is nose-to-the-wall, inspecting the pattern in the ancient, faded wallpaper. She’s still bouncing on her toes. Valac drops his voice. “She’s going to be a little unstable for a while. Better to keep her in a confined space until she comes down.”

Pete frowns at Anna. “She’s going to be okay, right?”

“Absolutely.” Valac gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Just keep an eye on her for a while.”

Pete nods, strides over to Anna, and guides her back to the bed. I tilt my head toward the doorway, and Ophelia and I step through it. Valac follows us out, closing the door on his way. I shoot Ophelia a look as we walk down the hallway, but her eyes are swept forward, looking for Nico and Larry. They push up from the ratty couch where they had been lounging in the office. Larry looks like a thought hasn’t bothered his brain in a while, but Nico has a stony look that could be a frown. Or could just be his normal asshole expression.

I ignore it and turn to Valac. “Well, looks like we’re done here.” I hold my hands out, as if I don’t have a care in the world: I’m just checking in with boss-man Valac to see if we’re done.

He’s playing it cool, too. He turns to Nico and shrugs. “You ready?”

Nico gives him a slight nod.

Valac gestures to the door. “After you, Lirium.”

I smile, but I’m grimacing inside. I don’t want to go first, and I certainly don’t want to be Valac’s boy toy pet this time through the club. I need to be within striking distance of Larry when Ophelia goes for open skin on Nico.

I’ll just have to find an excuse to fall behind, once we get to the floor.

I step toward the door. “I think I can handle the bar scene without you draped all over me this time, Valac.” I toss the words over my shoulder and throw a glance at Ophelia. She’s lingering back by Nico and Larry, standing in front of them and examining her nails, like she’s bored of this entire trip and ready to be done. They’re waiting for us, so I reach for the door knob.

Valac’s on my heels. “Little bird,” he says softly just as I open the door. I almost don’t hear him over the wash of thrumming music that sweeps in from the bar.

I twist back to him, and I see something out of the corner of my eye. My heart stops before my brain even realizes what it means.

Nico is pulling on gloves.

I finish turning to look at Valac. He grabs my face with both hands and kisses me.

My heart spasms, and I grab for Valac’s face. I don’t want it smashed against mine, but more importantly I need skin contact before he starts to drain me. In the background, there’s a blur of motion and a high-pitched squeal. They’ve grabbed Ophelia.

My fingers grip skin at Valac’s temples, and I suck life energy from him with everything I’ve got. He pulls back from mashing his face into mine, and my hands start to slide. I dig in with my fingers to keep hold. Only then do I realize that he isn’t draining the life out of me; he’s pumping energy into me. My eyes go wide. My hands and cheeks burn as energy floods in. The high rushes my brain, and surprise muddles it. Valac leans into me again, his hands still gripping my cheeks, mine still grasping his face.

“I’m supposed to be killing you.” I can barely hear him over the noise from the bar. “So try to look like you’re dying.”

I don’t have to fake the shocked look on my face. My heart pounds like a wild, delirious animal caged in my chest.

“Kolek was never going to let you live, little bird,” Valac whispers against my cheek, loud enough for me to hear, but the club sounds mask his words from Nico and Larry. “You’re supposed to die here, just one more junkie found dead in the back of a skeet den.”

I want to say something. Ask what the hell he’s doing. Ask why he’s not killing me. But I’m frozen in my need to carry off this ruse.

“Go be free, little bird.” His words brush my face. “Go live a life worth living. I’m going to let go of you now. And when I do… you have to die. Make it look good.”

My breathing finally catches up to my manic heart. My mind can’t grasp it, but Valac has a plan, and my gut tells me to go all in. I try to hold perfectly still, readying myself to drop like a corpse to the floor, but a muffled grunt draws my gaze past Valac’s face looming next to mine.

I see it in slow motion: Ophelia’s head throws back into Nico’s face; he slowly crumples as she makes skin contact and his legs fail under him; Larry’s hand grips her shoulder and rips her away from Nico; Larry’s gun appears from nowhere and presses deep into Ophelia’s stomach.

It fires.

The sound cracks my ears. “Nooo!” The word rips from my throat.

Ophelia’s eyes fly wide. Valac drops his hands from my face and twists to look. I tear away from him and fling myself toward her, but Valac yanks me back, pulling me off balance. I go down and sprawl on the floor. Ophelia sinks to her knees and grips her stomach. Confusion clouds her face.

I scramble, but my feet can’t seem to get traction.

Valac flings his arms wide and rushes at Larry. He turns, gun forward, just in time for Valac to crash into him. Valac’s hands find Larry’s throat, but he’s not fast enough. Or the death seizure causes Larry’s trigger finger to jerk. A body-muffled gunshot rips through the air of the room again. Valac and Larry go down together, a thump that travels through my chest.

They lie still.

I half lunge, half crawl across the room.

Four bodies. Motionless on the floor.

Then Nico moves. I don’t see the gun until after I react, my hand on his forehead, slamming it down. His head pushes against Ophelia’s body, and I pull the life out of him in a massive surge that brands my hand. A guttural scream crawls out of my mouth. Nico goes limp. Ophelia’s crooked legs twitch, and my heart leaps.

I reach my other hand to her, making skin contact and cycling the energy I’m pulling from Nico into her, hoping, praying. Something warms my knee on the floor, and when I look down, I see blood running away from her body.

I sob and reach for the damp hole in her stomach, pressing my hand against it, pumping life energy in, and willing the hole to disappear. To stop bleeding. To heal miraculously because it has to; because I need it to; because I can’t let this happen.

But the hole doesn’t change. Ophelia’s blood just leaks slowly around my fingers.

I can’t breathe. Every part of me shakes. My hand loses contact with Nico’s head. I grab his wrist instead, to keep hold of him. To keep pumping his life into her.

I feel the energy leaving my hand. I feel it sink into her body. But there is nothing beyond that. No vast ocean of stored life. No pressure of years pushing or pulling against me.

The life energy disappears into nothingness.

Her eyes stare at the ceiling, the surprise fixed on her face.

Words sob out of me, but I don’t know what they are.

My hand on Nico’s wrist goes cold. I lift it and stare at the red burn— an inch wide slash across my palm—like it belongs to someone else. I inch forward to bend over Ophelia’s face, brushing the hair back from it. I caress her cheeks with both my hands, but I only manage to smear her blood on her face.

Oh God no.

My trembling fingers, the clean ones, the ones not stained with her blood, gently, ever so softly, close her eyes. I clench mine shut, unable to bear it, and wrench myself away, falling back on my hands and slipping in the pool that’s seeping across the floor.

Larry and Valac are motionless. I crawl over to them. A bloody smear marks my path across the floor. Larry’s face is frozen in horror, staring unseeing at the ceiling. Valac slumps on top of him, a baseball sized hole in his back, and his eyes are closed. His face is unlined, peaceful, like he’s simply fallen asleep. There’s the hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.

Somehow, some way, Valac managed to drain Larry, even after being shot. I put a hand on each of them. There’s nothing left in Larry, but the tiniest brush of life energy laps my other hand.

“Valac!” I pulse a hit into him, quickly, then temper it. I don’t know how he can still be alive with that hole in him, but I pray—

His eyelids tug and open half way, but he doesn’t lift his head. In fact, he doesn’t move at all. I can’t even tell if he’s breathing.

“Little bird.” It leaks out of him on a thin breath of air. “Can’t see you.”

“I’m here.” The words gasp from me, and I step up the transfer to him, but his eyelids drift closed instead of opening more. “Valac!”

“Too bright.” His lips move, but he barely makes a sound. “Can’t see you.”

His body falls still, and the energy I’m pumping into him suddenly escapes into nothingness. I keep pumping it anyway, pushing my hand harder against his cheek. I want to turn him over, start CPR, something, but I can feel it, just beyond my hand… there’s nothing there anymore.

I pull my hand back, and it shakes. A hollow is carved inside me, and I curl over, on my knees, bent so far that my head nearly touches the floor.

Something scuffles behind me, and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. I turn, but it’s only Pete, the manager, pointing a gun at me that shakes visibly in his outstretched hand.

“Don’t… don’t move!” he says. Anna cowers behind him, all traces of the high I pumped into her gone.

I want to tell him to go ahead and pull the trigger. I want to lie down next to Ophelia and be done with this life.

Instead, I say, “Go on. Get out of here. Before the police come.”

Pete hesitates, then edges past the bodies, keeping Anna behind him and the gun in front, like I might leap up from the floor and attack him. As if I’m responsible for all the death that lies around me.

Although he’s probably right about that.

Pete and Anna slip out the door. My eyes unfocus, and I have to blink several times to get my vision back. I twist around and bend over Ophelia to kiss her lightly on the cheek. Her skin is soft and still warm. It invites me to stay. Tempts me to lie down and find a way to die. So Kolek can’t capture me. So he can’t hunt down my mother and make her pay for all my sins. But as the sound from the dance floor beats into the room, Valac’s words pound in my head.

Go live a life worth living.

Valac made a choice; he chose me. And I can’t waste that by never leaving this room.

Somehow, I get to my feet. I wipe my blood covered hands on my white shirt, then cover it by clasping my jacket closed with one hand. I need the other to brace myself against the wall and the doorjamb on my way out.

I make my way down the stairs and onto the dance floor. Bodies swim around me, pulsing with the music and the low blue light of the skeet lamps. No one stops me. No one notices that I’m barely staying on my feet. I probably look like just another junkie.

They’ll find the bodies later.

By then I’ll be long gone, taking a Metro ride to an address that was whispered in my ear just yesterday. The only safe place I know.

So I can start to figure out how to live with this.

The rough carpet scratches my face. The smell of the decaying fibers fills my nose, but I can’t find the energy to move from where I’m curled up on the floor. Madam A’s safe house is only a tiny closet of an apartment, but I didn’t even make it to the musty mattress in the corner. An image of Ophelia’s blood-soaked body swims in front of my eyes, whether I keep them open or squeeze them shut. The wracking sobs have ceased, but the carpet under my head is wet with tears I didn’t bother trying to stop. Now I’m just numb.

The weight of what’s happened lays on me like an invisible blanket of concrete, trapping my body to the floor, but it doesn’t keep my thoughts from flying back to that room above the skeet den. I keep replaying the scene, trying to figure how it could have turned out differently. When did Valac decide not to kill me? Was it in the moment of the act, like when I made my decision about the boy? Or did he plan it out, figuring the best time to catch Nico and Larry off guard would be when they thought I was already dead?

I still can’t figure out why or if it would have made a difference if I’d known. Maybe Ophelia wouldn’t have tried to take on Nico. Maybe all three of us could have worked together. Maybe no one had to die tonight.

The maybes don’t bring them back.

At least Valac seemed to find something at the end. Something more—or perhaps different—than the death he had tasted before. I pray that whatever he found on the other side was something good; not just because I’ll likely join him someday, but because he deserves better than that bloody end at the skeet den. Ophelia, too. I offer up a fervent prayer that she finds it. I add to the prayer an insistence that she sacrificed herself trying to save me and that has to count for something.

I don’t know who I’m praying to. Or why anyone would listen, especially to me. Does prayer even work if you don’t have a soul?

I take a breath. My tears have turned the moldy carpet even more pungent, and my nose itches. I lift my head away from the floor and rub my face. My hand lights up; the motion has activated my screen. I stare absently at it, then remember I’m supposed to call. I have to reach deep inside to muster the energy to tap in Madam A’s number.

The phone answers in one ring. “Lirium?” It’s a woman’s voice.

“I’m here.”

The voice on the phone says something, but my hand falls away from my ear, my last bit of motivation gone. I leave my hand palm up on the carpet, and my head slumps to the floor as well.

A wave of exhaustion sweeps over me, and I welcome the numbing of my brain as well as my body. Time passes but I don’t feel it, floating in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness. Bodies crowd at the edges of my mind. They’re covered in blood, but they don’t reach me. They lie inert, their long black hair joining with the blood to flow rivers that course around me. They enclose me, building pressure, rising like a wall, a life force energy well that’s deep with years and years, eons of time—

Someone touches me.

I jerk awake and lash out, grasping onto an arm. I almost start to drain, but pain lances through my hand, flaming to life the burn I got when I killed Nico.

Someone speaks. “Lirium! It’s okay. It’s me, Grace.”

I’m drugged with sleep and fight to open my eyes. Slow blinks work my eyelids free. A woman kneels next to me, her dark pants brushing my jacket. Her black hoodie blocks the naked light bulb above the door, and its light forms a halo around her. It takes me another few blinks to bring her face into focus. I recognize her eyes: dark brown, the ones that remind me too much of Apple Girl. The woman said her name. Grace. Madam A’s right-hand woman. The one I had sex with in the stairwell.

I struggle to sit up, swallowing so that I can speak coherently. I only make it half-way, propped on my screen hand, when Grace lets out a curse and draws back.

I must look pretty bad.

She recovers and touches my shoulder. “Lirium! Are you shot?”

I push her hand off. For some reason, I don’t want to be touched right now. “No, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding all over.” She pulls a phone from her pocket. “I’m going to call a doctor—”

I put my hand over the face of her phone. “It’s not my blood.”

She stares at me. Her finger hovers over the phone.

I sit up the rest of the way. My trashy boy-toy outfit is a well of blackness, but the skin-tight tank beams white… where it’s not blotched black-red with Ophelia’s blood. There’s a lot of it, covering most of my front. If it were mine, I would be on the way to the morgue. I shrug off my leather jacket, and the eerie glow of its blue panels replaces the stark white light of the entrance bulb. The bloody tank tries to stick to my skin as I peel it off. I set it gently on the floor next to the jacket.

“See?” I hold my hands away from my body, closed so she doesn’t see the burn on my palm. There are still a few smears of black-red on my chest, but they’re small. I wipe them away, insisting, “I’m fine.”

She frowns at the piled clothes, but nods. She doesn’t ask whose blood it is, for which I’m grateful.

Instead she says, “It’s a good thing I brought a change of clothes.” She springs up from kneeling next to me and fetches a bag that’s sitting next to the door. When I peer in the bag, it’s all swaddles of light-absorbing clothes, like hers.

“We can’t keep you here.” Grace is all business again, now that she’s decided I’m not mortally wounded. “You may have been followed, and—”

“I wasn’t followed.”

She scowls. “We can’t take any chances. And I don’t want to leave behind any evidence you were here, just in case. We need to get you back to Madam A’s. She’s agreed to offer you sanctuary for now. Assuming you’re serious about keeping your promise?”

I’ve been staring at my blood-soaked shirt on the floor while she speaks, but the word promise draws me back. “I’m keeping my word to Madam A.” I start to pull clothes out of the bag; I need to move. Not because I’ve been followed—I’m sure I’m the only one from Kolek’s mob who left that bar alive—but because I have to keep ahead of the concrete blanket of numbness that’s threatening to crush me. Hold me in place. Make me curl into a ball and never get up again until someone finds me and puts an end to the misery. I have to keep moving for the same reason I had to leave that room above the skeet den in the first place: to do something worthwhile with the life that Valac and Ophelia both died to give me.

I slowly work my way to standing. Grace watches as I sway slightly. Vertigo threatens to send me back to the floor, but I hold still, and it passes.

I clutch the bag of clothes in my hands. “We can go as soon as I wash up. And I meant what I said about keeping my promise. I’d like to do it right away, if possible.”

I glance at the window, where the streetlights are burning. It’s late; past midnight. Madam A’s kids are probably sleeping. I frown, but my head is too numb—I can’t decide if she would wake them for the transfers or not.

“There’s no rush, Lirium,” Grace says. “The transfers can wait until morning. Until you’ve… had a chance to rest.” She’s still looking me over—for wounds, I think.

“I’d rather not wait. There’s something else I need to take care of, once we’re done. It’s fairly urgent.” Actually, two something elses: I want to pay Candy Kane Thornton a visit. And possibly Dr. Brodsky. But most importantly, I need to find my mom. I’m not sure how long it will take Kolek to figure out why his prized debt collector and top henchmen haven’t returned.

But I’m positive he will want me to pay for it.

Grace nods and points to a battered door in the corner. “The bathroom’s in there.”

I take careful steps so that I don’t trip over my own feet and end up on the floor again. I leave my blood-soaked clothes behind and hope that Grace will make them disappear before I’m done changing. It will be easier once you’re not wearing her blood, I tell myself. I don’t really believe it. Keep moving. One step at a time.

It’s the only thing I can do.

The streets are quiet and dark, plus our hoodies throw shadows on our faces that even the sizzling light of the streetlamps can’t fight. I don’t see a soul the whole way, although Grace keeps looking over her shoulder. She takes me into Madam A’s through a back door. The heavy steel closes behind us with a muffled thud, and Grace activates a side table lamp that barely illuminates the small apartment. It’s enough for us to see our way forward, and she wastes no time leading me to a door that opens to the main floor.

The one with dying children in their hospital beds.

Small bedside lamps are turned down low for the sleeping children, but they still cast fingers of amber light that reach into the blackness of the alcoves above. My eyes adjust to the dim glow of the erstwhile church, but we’re too far away to see the kids’ faces. Still, I search for Tilly’s. And her sister, Elena’s. When Annabelle came to visit me at Kolek’s, she said Elena was living here now, so it’s not unreasonable to think she might be at Tilly’s bedside—

“Lirium!” Grace’s hushed insistence snaps my attention to her. She’s halfway up the stairs, wondering why I’m not following.

“I’m ready to pay out now.” I gesture to the beds. “I don’t need to wait until morning.” I’m not sure either one is true, but I do need to make good on my promise as quickly as possible, so I can start the search for my mom. I’m not sure how I’m going to do that either.

“It’s the middle of the night. Come on.” Grace beckons me from her station on the stairs. “Madam A will want to see you first, anyway.”

I nod. It doesn’t take much to convince me: I’m too exhausted to argue. My eyelids are heavy with shock and fatigue, and I’ve had a slight shake in my hands that I’ve been trying to hide from Grace all the way over. I trudge up the steps. She waits until I catch up, then leads the way to Madam A’s office. The same one where I so boldly bargained to get into Kolek’s mob and rescue Ophelia.

Ophelia.

I miss a step at the top of the landing and grab the rail. I tell myself it’s just because of the dark, not that the shakes have progressed to messing with my coordination. Grace frowns, so I pretend it’s nothing and stride ahead, now that I know where we’re going.

Madam A waits in her office, perched on the edge of her giant mahogany desk. I expect to see her dressed to the nines, and she doesn’t disappoint, glittering in a gold lamé gown that stretches up to her neck and down to her ankles.

What I don’t expect is to see Apple Girl by her side.

My feet stop walking, leaving me halfway across the room. I’m open-mouthed staring at Elena, who returns it with a look that’s cold, even in the warm, dim light coming from Madam A’s desk lamp.

She knows. There’s no way she could be here, in Madam A’s office past midnight and not know that I used her dying sister as a bargaining chip to get into Kolek’s mob.

“I… I can explain—”

Elena breaks her glare and looks at her feet. She doesn’t want to hear it. And what could I say anyway? What explanation can I give for using Tilly to get what I want?

“I’m very glad to see you alive, Lirium,” Madam A says.

I manage to shut my mouth and force my gaze to Madam A’s dark, glittering eyes, which are inspecting me, as though she can read me like tea leaves.

I let out a slow breath, still feeling the heat of Elena’s disapproval like an iron bar through my chest. “Thanks.” I direct my words to Madam A. “For the safe house. That… helped. But I’m back now, and I’m ready to do whatever transfers you need. The sooner the better. We can start with Tilly.”

I can’t help but glance at Elena, whose gaze is on me again. I desperately hope my actions will make some kind of difference. That maybe she’ll see I’m not a monster. Or perhaps less of one than she thinks.

She turns to Madam A. “It’s past midnight.”

“It can wait until the morning,” Madam A says. “We have a place for you to stay—”

“I can’t—” I stop, because my voice has pitched up, and I sound slightly crazed. “I would prefer we didn’t wait. I have other urgent business I have to attend to. Getting out of Kolek’s mob left… complications behind that I need to take care of.”

“I see.” Madam A frowns. “We usually have the parents on hand for the transfers.”

I look to Elena. I know her parents are dead, and she is all Tilly has. But her look has turned colder, and she’s crossed her arms.

“He can pay out to Tilly tonight,” she says to Madam A. “Then he can be on his way for his urgent business.” The last words are poisoned darts aimed at me. They stab my chest, and I have to steel myself not to physically flinch.

“We agreed to more than just one payout,” Madam A points out.

“I know.” The weight of everything drags my shoulders down. I want to keep my promises, do all the transfers I agreed to and more, but I have to find my mom and keep her safe. “I’ll do whatever transfers you want now. But then I need to leave. I’ll… I’ll come back and do more for you. I could even sign on full-time, like you wanted before.” My hands are out now, pleading. “Please. I just need to take care of something first.”

“If I were you,” Madam A says. “I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to show my face around the east side. I don’t know exactly what happened during your time in Kolek’s mob, but I doubt he will be happy to see you alive.”

“No,” I say. “He definitely would prefer me dead.”

She nods.

“Look…” I wrestle in my mind with telling her about my mom, then swallow down my hesitation. “Kolek threatened to hurt my mother if I didn’t collect for him. And tonight, I… I…” Tonight I got Ophelia killed, as well as Valac, a collector I didn’t even know was a friend. Their blood is on my hands, and Kolek won’t forgive me any more than I can forgive myself.

I stare at my hands. The burn mark is an aching reminder of the skeet den. The truth is I’m a killer who doesn’t deserve Elena’s approval, much less anyone’s trust. I look up. All three women—Grace, Elena, and Madam A—stare at me, waiting for me to speak.

“Tonight, I killed two of Kolek’s men.” I force the words out. “I need to find my mother before Kolek does. That’s the business that won’t wait.”

Elena shifts as she leans against the desk. I think maybe my plight has softened her. Or perhaps it’s just the low-light, combined with the pounding in my head, and the wishful thinking taking hold. Either way, it’s the truth. Or at least part of it.

Madam A nods. “I see what you mean about complications. With Elena’s permission, you can pay out to Tilly before you leave. But once you go, Lirium, you’re not welcome back. At least not directly. I can offer you sanctuary here, but I can’t have you leading Kolek, and whatever feud you have with him, back to my doorstep.”

“Of course.”

“When you’re done with your business, you can use the safe house again. From there, we’ll decide if we can bring you back in.”

“Thank you.” Relief makes my knees weak. “That’s very generous of you.”

“I expect consideration in the form of future transfers.”

“I’ll be happy to do them.” And I mean it. I have all the life energy I collected in the mob still inside me, and I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my miserable existence hiding within Madam A’s cloistered walls and performing charity hits as penance for everything that’s gone before. I know Valac would approve. Even if it used me up in the end, he would think it was a worthwhile way to spend that life.

Elena unlocks her arms and strides across the room. As she brushes past me, she says, “Come with me.” She is still angry. But then she has every right to be. I follow after her, my steps light. She has agreed to let me pay out.

It’s a start.

Tilly looks the same as I remember, curled up on her side, brown hair spilling across the pillow. She’s a miniature Elena, her face smooth and untroubled in sleep—the way Elena would look if she weren’t scowling at me from the bed next to us.

There are fewer small bodies in the beds of Madam A’s charity ward than when I was here two weeks ago. I swallow and try not to think about what that means.

Grace sits in a chair, within reach for the transfer. I ease onto the bed, close to Tilly. She snuggles the pillow a little, but doesn’t open her eyes.

“Do you need me to wake her?” Elena asks.

“I don’t think so. But the transfer will probably wake her up, anyway. You might as well do it first, just so she’s not surprised.”

Elena gets up and leans over Tilly, quietly calling her name and petting her hair. I turn my head, feeling like I’m intruding. The nerves creep back, and my hand trembles slightly where it rests on my leg. I lick my lips and peek back at Elena, to see if she notices.

Grace stares hard at me. “You all right?”

I give her a quick nod as Elena moves back to her spot on the empty bed. Tilly’s eyes are open. They’re deep brown and sweet.

She smiles wide when she sees me. “Hi, Joe!” Her voice is wheezy.

A fresh pain stabs my chest in the same spot where the poison darts are lodged. “Hi.” I swallow to clear the lump in my throat, then reach my hand out and rest it on her arm. It’s thin, like a twig, under my palm. “I’m going to give you another transfer, if that’s okay?”

Her eyes grow a little larger, the deep brown almost luminous in the dim light. “Okay.”

Her arm feels so delicate under my hand. Maybe I should transfer to her forehead, like normal. I’m not sure that her tiny arm can carry the life energy without hurting her.

I scoot a little closer. “Okay. I’m going to put my hand on your forehead, just like before, all right?”

She nods.

I glance at Grace. “How much do you have for her?” Whatever Grace has stored up—my hit from before, plus whatever else she has designated for Tilly since—I plan to double it with my own reserves. Maybe more. I have plenty to give; I just need to make sure I don’t overwhelm Tilly with the transfer. Take it slow, for both our sakes.

“Two weeks.” Grace leans forward to offer her forehead. I take her hand instead, grasping onto her wrist and pressing my palm flat into hers for good contact. The burn on my hand still stings, but flowing life energy through it should fix that soon enough. She follows suit, holding tight so our hands are locked together. But my stomach is tying in knots. This isn’t just a payout; it’s a mercy hit. I think I have the control now to keep it manageable, but… I’m not sure. My hand quivers against Tilly’s delicate arm, reminding me that I am, in fact, kind of messed up right now. If I lose control—if the burning goodness of the mercy hit is too much—I might pay everything out before I can bring myself to stop. It could drain me completely the way Valac did with his lover. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go, but I’m concerned about Tilly. If I pay out too fast, it might hurt her—and she’s far too frail to take any chances.

I turn to Elena, whose brow is wrinkled. She can tell something’s wrong.

“I could use some help,” I say.

She frowns deeper, and leans forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. “How can I help?”

“I, um…” I’m glad for the low light and hope that the heat rising in my cheeks isn’t obvious to her. “I may not be able to stop.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he’ll transfer too much life energy,” Grace says. “Maybe you should wait, Lirium.”

“No!” I hold onto her wrist tighter, as if she might pull away. “I can do this.” I look in Elena’s deep brown eyes, like Tilly’s, only holding no trust for me. “If it goes on too long, you can pull my hand away. Just break the contact, that’s all I need. We can always do more, I just don’t want to…”

“…do too much,” she finishes for me. The corners of her mouth have drawn down. I’m giving her a terrible choice—life energy from an asshole debt collector who can’t, apparently, control himself, or no life energy at all for her dying sister.

I put apology on my face. It might look like pleading, but I really don’t want her to say no. I can’t decide if that’s me being selfish or not. “Please, Elena—”

“Fine.” She gets up abruptly and goes around to the opposite side of the bed, near Tilly’s head, where my hand will soon rest.

I give her a sheepish smile. “You may want some gloves,” I say, hoping that doesn’t put her off completely.

Her grim smile tightens, and she shuffles away on quiet feet to the nursing station.

Tilly stirs under my hand, sitting up a little, but quickly giving up on that effort and lying back down. She reaches over to pat my hand, which still rests on her arm.

“You’ll do okay, Joe,” she says.

Something breaks inside me, but I smile for her. “I’ll do my best, Tilly. Promise.”

She nods.

Elena returns, hands encased in silver surgical gloves, the kind with antivirus protection. I tell myself those were the only kind of gloves she could find, not that she thinks I have some disease that could threaten her sister. She takes up her spot by Tilly and kneels down.

I rest my palm on Tilly’s forehead. “This might take a little while,” I say to both her and Elena. “Not too long, but I want to take it slow. Okay?”

Tilly’s nods, her soft hair brushing my fingertips as she moves under my palm. Grace gives me a nod as well. I sense Grace’s well of life energy through our clasped palms. As I draw some from her, she seizes up, grasping harder onto mine. The relief on my burned palm is immediate, the life energy flowing through it and easing the pain. I trickle some into Tilly, and Grace’s hand relaxes, a small smile spreading across her face. Her eyes close. She’s feeling it: the warm glow of the mercy hit must somehow bleed through to her. I remember her saying something about that before—how giving feels good.

I guess she meant that literally.

The light is too low to see any color in Tilly’s cheeks, but her eyes are closed, and she has a whisper of a smile, too. I close my eyes to focus as well, feeling my connection between the two of them like a live wire that runs right through my core, electrifying me with the heat of it. I open the spigot a little more, feeding energy faster to Tilly, but still keeping it under control.

The burn of the mercy hit starts low and dials up, like an ember in my chest slowly fanned by fresh air. The pure goodness of it, hot and clean, burns away… everything. All the horrors of the night. All the death and blood and tears are cinders under this sun inside me. My craving for it—for more—is an ache that gnaws as it grows within me.

I shake my hand loose from Grace’s; I’ve already pulled more from her than I should. As soon as I lose contact with Grace, life energy gushes out of me and into Tilly. I fight the pull, but the flame inside me roars, demanding more. I try to visualize the spigot, but that image falls to ash under the torrent of heat. It feels so good. Every part of me relaxes. A long sigh escapes my lips. Every sensation—the antiseptic smell of the nursing station, the feel of Tilly’s head under my palm, the soft rustling from Elena at the edge of the bed—dims to unimportance as the pleasure washes over me. Only it’s more than pleasure: it’s happiness in a fire that consumes me painlessly. I can’t remember ever feeling this good, even in the previous mercy hits. I wonder if this is how Valac felt at the end. I feel my lips curve up with that thought.

The pleasure suddenly cuts off, like a blade chopped my hand clean from my body. A blinding pain shoots up my arm, and my eyes fly open. I gasp and stare at my hand, stunned that it’s still attached. Elena’s silver glove clutches my wrist, and she looks at me with wide eyes.

“Why?” My voice is a cry of pain and anguish. I yank my hand away. “Why did you stop it? I had it under control!” My anger surges at her for stealing the feeling from me, but my words ring false in my ears. I had no control whatsoever. I had completely lost sight of the spigot. My heart stutters, fear crashing in. What have I done? I tear my gaze from Elena. Tilly smiles at me. My shoulders cave with relief. However much I transferred, it hasn’t hurt her.

“Joe,” Elena whispers, drawing me back. “You’re crying. Are you okay?”

I reach up to my face. She’s right. It’s wet. Before I can explain, before I even have an explanation in my own head, the room spins. I blink, and my face suddenly plows into the rough, wool blanket over Tilly’s legs. I try to lift myself, but the room spins again, and I’m not sure which direction is up.

The nausea crashes into me, wave after wave, curling me into a ball. I try to move away, afraid I will throw up on Tilly. I only manage to slide off the bed. My hands are too cramped to stop my fall, and my head hits the polished wooden floor. Blackness rushes in like a tsunami. It drags me under, and the amber light of Madam A’s church is extinguished in one long rush of silence.

I see ghosts.

I’m sure they’re ghosts, because Valac and Ophelia are dead. But it doesn’t seem strange, in this dream I’m having, to stand in front of them as if the three of us belong together. Their lips move, and they tell me something, but I don’t know what it is. Because ghosts can’t speak. They don’t have any life energy left, so of course they can’t talk.

My mind swims up from the hazy dream state. A wool blanket scratches my face and itches along the length of my curled-up body. The smell of antiseptic pricks my nose. I open my eyes. A warm glow of sunshine permeates the paper covering the windows of Madam A’s hospital ward. I draw in a fully-awake breath and realize I’m in the bed next to Tilly’s.

I crane my neck to look for her. She’s asleep. The light falls softly on her, and she looks like a perfect doll: rosy lips and cheeks, hair fanned in long waves around her. I’m relieved that she looks so well—the life energy I gave her the night before is fighting back the sickness.

It takes me a moment to realize Elena is in the chair next to Tilly’s bed.

This jolts me awake, and I struggle to command my creaky body to turn so I can face her. I scramble for something to say, but then I see that she’s sleeping. Her head tips back against the wall, and her hands rest in her lap. The peaceful look on her face is marred by circles under her eyes, but the morning sun makes her face radiant with a hidden light. Like an angel who’s fought some kind of heavenly battle and stopped for a rest, only to fall into the deep, righteous sleep of a warrior.

Somehow, even from the very beginning, she’s always seen right through to the core of me. I wonder if she sees that I’m trying now. That I want Ophelia’s and Valac’s deaths—and my life—to count for something. If she did, if she peered into whatever soul I might have inside, and she believed it, then maybe… just maybe… it might actually be true.

She frowns and suddenly leans forward. I duck my head to study the blanket and hope she didn’t catch me staring. I notice that the burn on my hand is nearly healed from last night’s transfer, leaving just a wide red stripe crossing the other two slender ones: a brand from my time in the mob.

After a moment, Elena says, “You’re awake.”

I twist to face her. “Yeah.”

“The nurses thought you might have a concussion, the way your head hit the floor.”

“Not my smoothest move.” I chance a smile, but she’s not impressed, so I kill it.

“Grace said you were just exhausted. Or in shock. Something about escaping the mob and a lot of blood.”

I go back to picking at the blanket. “She’s probably right.” Truth is I passed out from my uncontrolled mercy hit. And not being able to control myself puts me squarely back in the category of asshole debt collector who can’t do mercy hits without passing out. Or dying. Not something I really want to share. I vow to do better next time, especially if Tilly’s involved. And Elena’s watching. Which presumes she’ll let me have a next time. And that I manage to return after finding my mom, like I promised.

I push myself up to sitting. The wooziness threatens to come back, but I hold it at bay while I swing my feet off the side of the bed.

“Well,” I say. “I should get going.”

“To find your mom.” It’s not a question.

I answer anyway. “Yeah.”

“I thought maybe you could use some help with that.”

I look up. She has that serious look, the one I remember from the first time we met, when she was just angry at me, throwing shoes and weak curses. Before she decided I was something to loathe. Her deep chocolate brown eyes stare into mine and remind me of when I got lost in them the first time I saw her.

I have to look away. “That’s really nice of you, but—”

“I work in the Department of Health and Life.”

I swing back to stare hard at her. “What?” I heard her, but my brain hasn’t quite processed it yet. “You’re a bean counter?” My mind trips back over that first day. Once I figured out she wasn't really a sex worker, I thought she was bait for the mob… but when I asked, she dodged telling me who she worked for. Which makes complete sense now. Bean counters stay off the grid just like debt collectors. Otherwise people tend to hunt them down, though for different reasons. And some of the same ones—a lot of people lose their loved ones to the fantastically well-named Department of Health and Life.

“I don’t work in Actuarials or Assessments.” She looks at her hands, maybe trying to decide how much to tell me. “I’m in Data Quality, not that it matters. The point is I have access to government records.”

“Holy shit.” For a moment, I’m too stunned to speak, flummoxed by the possibilities. “You work in government records,” I repeat, like somehow saying it will make it more real.

“It’s not a crime,” she says.

I’m desperate to ask her details, but something doesn’t quite fit. “How old are you?”

Her hands stop working each other. “Twenty-one.”

I snort-laugh.

“What?”

She’s not happy with me, so I rein it in and give her a small smile to soften my words. “You’re just really bad at lying.” She keeps glaring. “I mean, I don’t care how old you are, I just… you seem really young to be working in government records.”

“I’ve been there for three years.” She stands up and steps closer, so I get off the bed to meet her. The apple scent from her hair wafts over the chilled clinical smell of the ward, but her eyes aren’t warm. “In that time, I’ve been promoted twice. I’m the best code jockey in the Data Quality department. And my government record says that I’m twenty-one.”

I’m no good at judging ages, but either she’s the youngest-looking twenty-one-year-old I’ve met or… my eyes go wide. “You falsified your own record?”

She bites her lip, something that does a dance on my emotions, veering them between awe and the desire to untuck her lip from between her teeth. She debates something in her head as she scans my face, and I work hard to meet her gaze and not stare at her lips.

“I’m actually eighteen,” she says. “Or I will be. In a few weeks.”

I gape. Not because she’s young, but because slashing into government records is a major felony, one I don’t have the first clue how to commit. Especially not at barely eighteen. Back when I was waiting for my eighteenth birthday, I was living on the streets, trying to get into the Agency. “How did you manage to—”

“I was fifteen when my parents died,” she cuts me off. “Tilly was seven. She was just a little kid. Child Protective Services would have split us up. I had already been slashing into government servers for fun for a couple of years. My mother was—” She stops, looking hesitant, like she’s still uncertain about telling me this.

“Your mom was what?” I ask quietly.

She sighs and seems resigned to going all in. “She was a talented programmer. She taught me how to code, but she didn’t know about my back door work. I kept it down low. If anyone knew, she would have been fired. But when my mom and dad both died, I needed a job. And a way to keep Tilly. And no one would hire a fifteen-year-old, no matter how well I could slash their failsafes.”

“So you changed your birthdate.” I’m in complete awe.

“And coded up a resume that got me a job in Data Quality.”

“I was wrong.” A smirk sneaks on my face. “You’re a tremendous liar.”

She doesn’t even crack a smile, just stares up into my face with that cold, serious look.

Which stabs my smirk dead. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I want you to know I will do anything for my sister.”

I say softly, “I already knew that.”

“I have access to government records. Health records, service records, debt records. All the data the government keeps to track every person from the day they’re born until the day they die. Or are transferred out. Your mother has no doubt left a trail through the data mines. If she’s anywhere on the grid, I can find her for you.”

A breath escapes me. “You would do that? For me?”

“No,” she says, her voice harsh. My shoulders droop in response. “I would do that for Tilly. For her, I would do anything, including comprising my job at Data Security with an unsanctioned records search. She needs a regular infusion of hits if she’s going to have any chance to…” She stalls out and glances at her sister. When she turns back, her eyes seem softer, the determination tempered by a world-weariness that I don’t like. “There are others, too, ones who won’t last long if they don’t get another transfer. But I need to know, Joe. If I help you find your mother, will you do what you said? Will you come back and help these kids? Permanently. Not just a…” She waves her hands. “… a quick hit and then you’re gone again.”

“I will,” I say in a rush. “I promise.”

“I don’t know how much your promises are worth.”

The poison dart twists inside my chest. “I promised Madam A I would come back. And I did. I’m here now.”

She frowns, studies my face, but still seems uncertain. I want to give her something more, something that will show I’m not the worthless, messed-up debt collector that she sees.

“And there’s something else,” I say, keeping my voice low, and glancing to see if the nurses are close enough to overhear. “I think I know who might be transferring out the kids in the first place.”

“You do?” Her eyebrows hike up. “What… how… is it a collector you know?”

“No. It’s not just one bad collector, at least, I don’t think so. There’s some kind of coordinated effort to transfer them out, and I think my psych officer is involved. She sold out Ophelia—” I stumble over the word. She’s been dead less than a day. I can barely say her name out loud. “My psych officer sold out my friend to the mob because she was getting close to finding out the truth.”

“What’s the truth?” Her face is serious again.

“I’m not sure. Which is why I need to pay my psych officer a visit. One way or another, I’m going to get some answers from her. And then, maybe, I can put an end to all this.” I gesture around the whisper-quiet of the ward. “Stop any more kids from having their lives stolen before their time.”

She looks at me with a kind of disbelief, like she’s not sure if I’m lying or crazy or maybe have a concussion after all. But her soft brown eyes have lost all traces of the coldness. For the first time since I’ve been back, it seems like she doesn’t completely hate me. It wells up a physical compulsion to step closer, but I resist.

“If you can do that, Joe…” Her words are lost, but I know what she means. Tears seem to pool in her eyes.

“I know. I’m going to try. But first, I need to make sure my mother is safe.”

She nods, ducks her head, then walks back to Tilly’s bed. She tries to hide the fact that she’s wiping her face while she straightens the small legion of plush animals on the bedside table.

But I see it.

She bends to kiss Tilly’s head, then shuffles back to me. Her palm is held out, and I’m surprised to see there’s a screen embedded in it. I had no idea she had one.

“Give me your number,” she says.

I swipe up the number on my palm and lightly press it to hers. Her hand is soft, her fingers slightly cooler than the rest. I force myself not to linger, touching her, longer than the half-second it takes to transfer the number.

She looks at it and swipes something through. She’s all business again. “What’s your mom’s name?”

“Alice Miller.”

“Birthdate?”

“March 9th, 2029.”

She enters it into her palm. “I’ll call you when I have the information you need.”

I nod. She turns her back on me and walks away without another word.

I stand outside Dr. Brodsky’s secret lab dressed in a hoodie, baggy pants, and sunglasses. The bright morning sun fights through the smog and at least makes it plausible why I would be skulking around in shades, this early in the morning in this part of town. Hopefully I look like a whacked out junkie as I pound on Dr. Brodsky’s door, demanding that he open up—rather than a debt collector trying to hide from the mob.

I’m about to give up when a voice calls through the door. “Go away before I call the police!”

“Dr. Brodsky!” I yell, then press my face closer to the side crack of the rusty, metallic door. “It’s me, Lirium.” I can’t exactly go shouting my name across the east side. I’m taking a risk being on the streets at all—I’m sure Kolek has informants throughout the city.

I hear some grumbling through the door, then, “Go away!”

“Dr. Brodsky, wait!” I shout again. Then I remember that I never gave him my name, and I probably look too much like a junkie. He’s got to have security cameras checking me out right now. So I pull out my last reserve first. “I have something that will help your granddaughter!”

There’s silence. Then the slow clanking and banging of locks unlocking. The door screeches open, but only a few inches, held taut by a half dozen chains still in place.

“Who are you?” Dr. Brodsky asks. “And what do you know about my Tatiana?”

I pull off the shades but keep my hood in place. “I’m the debt collector who visited you a few weeks ago,” I say in a hushed voice, leaning as close as I dare to the open space between the door and the jamb. In case he decides to slam it in my face.

He frowns and his eyes are cloudy. I’m afraid he won’t remember me, but his eyebrows quirk up and he nods.

Then he slams the door shut.

I stand there, stunned for a moment, when the scraping and clanking start up again. I nervously slip my glasses back on and check the street. There’s no one in sight, although that doesn’t mean anything. After a moment, the door screeches open, and Dr. Brodsky ushers me in.

He’s dressed in pajamas and a coarse hand-knit robe, neither of which cover his knobby old-man legs. Sunlight leaks in from somewhere above in the towering entryway next to the wire cage elevator. I take my sunglasses off and shove them in my jacket pocket.

“Why are you here, young debt collector?” he asks. “And what is this about Tatiana?”

“My name is Lirium, sir, and I hate to barge in on you like this, but I need to ask a favor.”

Dr. Brodsky grunts.

“It’s not really a favor for me,” I add quickly. “Maybe we could go to your lab, and I can explain?”

He eyes me, but shuffles over to the elevator and yanks up the handle to open it. The metallic wrenching sounds prevent any more talking until we’re on board and swooping up.

Dr. Brodsky is just the first step of my plan to stop whoever’s transferring out the kids—a plan that I formulated all of an hour ago. But while I’m waiting for word from Elena about my mom, I can at least get started. The Agency isn’t keen on employing debt collectors who have worked for the mob, so I need to erase the last two weeks of my life as far as anyone in the government can tell. And I need to get back into the Agency—or at least pretend to—in order to figure out who is involved and how high it goes. For that, I need a functioning tracker, which, courtesy of my time in Kolek’s mob, is now a useless hunk of metal buried in my flesh. My plan hinges on about five different things all going right; this is just the first one.

Which makes me rub my face and take a deep breath. I know my luck really isn’t that good, but like I told Elena: I’m going to give it a try.

We stop at the second floor this time, the one with the hacked off cybernetic limbs, and the overhead light panels automatically light up as we step out of the elevator. I glance around and spy a couple of workshop benches, complete with tools. I’m not sure if they have what I need, but I’ll just have to ask and hope for the best.

Dr. Brodsky’s watery eyes—one green, one blue—are studying me carefully. I forgot he had the mechanical one: it dilates and gives me the sensation he’s measuring something more than my expression. I shuck back my hood and stand straight. I have nothing to hide from him now.

“You know the tracker in my arm?” I ask. “The one you helped design?”

He nods and glances at my outstretched collector arm.

“Well, it doesn’t work anymore, and I need a new one.”

“I’m not a repair shop for debt collectors, Lirium—”

“It was burned by the mob.”

He leans away from me, regarding me anew. “So you work for the mob now?”

“No!” I put my hands up to reassure him. “That’s just it—I’m out of the mob, and I don’t want my psych officer to know where I’ve been the last two weeks.” Of course, Candy knows I’ve been in Kolek’s mob—she’s the one who sold me out. But I need the tracker as part of my ruse to get into her files. I could just force her to log me in, but if I tip her off that I know about the kids, she might shut something down. Or alert someone who will bury the evidence I need to convince Flitstrom, my bean counter, to tackle the corruption in the Department. Plus when I get to Flitstrom, it’ll be easier to convince him to blow the whistle if he doesn’t know about my stint as a collector for the mob. None of that will work if I can’t get my tracker working again.

Brodsky is nodding and thinking. “It’s a simple matter to inject a new tracker. But what was this you were saying about my granddaughter? Or was that just an excuse to get you in here?” He gestures to his lab, and I don’t blame him for being suspicious.

“No, I really do have something that could help her. Maybe. How is your research going?”

“My research?” He sucks in a deep breath. “I’m afraid I’m still a ways from perfecting the device. I doubt it will be in time to save Tatiana, but I continue my work, as long as I’m able. For the others, especially the young ones like her.”

I nod fervently as he speaks. “Do you know if Tatiana is still receiving life hits?”

His forehead wrinkles. “Are you proposing an illegal transfer?”

“What?” I ask, surprised. “Oh. No… although, if you wanted something like that, I’d be open to it. For you or for Tatiana. What I meant was, do you know if she’s still getting the hits that she should?”

“I don’t know.” The frown carves worry into his face. “I have been busy with my research.”

“You should check. Because someone is transferring out young terminal patients before their time.”

“What?” His furry eyebrows fly up in alarm. “But that’s preposterous! That’s—”

“Illegal,” I cut him off. “And all kinds of wrong. But it’s happening, Dr. Brodsky. I’ve seen the kids. I know of a safe place where you can bring your granddaughter, if they come for her.”

His face darkens, a deep kind of red infusing it, and for a moment I’m afraid he might stroke out on me. But he merely clenches his fists at his side and grinds out through a clenched jaw, “Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How will I know… how can I stop this… monstrosity…”

I put my hand on his shoulder, partly to calm him before he gives himself a heart attack, partly to let him know that I’m going to help. “I can make sure Tatiana’s carefully watched. So we can move her before anything can happen to her. Tell me what hospital she’s in.”

“Lifelong. Always the best for her… I… how can this be? Who would do this?” The doubt is back, and his gaze wanders past me, like he’s searching the world for some logic behind the evil that lives within it. “It doesn’t seem possible such a horror can happen…”

I squeeze his shoulder, gently, to bring him back. “I know, but I’ve seen the kids with my own eyes. We’ll make sure Tatiana is safe. But there are other children at risk, and I need to find out who is orchestrating all this. And for that, I need my tracker. So I can get back into the system and get at the truth.”

His mechanical gaze lands on me again, studying me. I hold steady under whatever biomechanical scrutiny he’s putting me through, hoping that he’ll see I’m telling the truth.

After a moment, he nods. “Then we will have to get you a new tracker, my young debt collector.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Dr. Brodsky.”

He glances around his lab. “What I need is on the third floor.” He beckons me with a bony hand back to the wire cage elevator. As I follow, he adds, “When your tracker was burned, that must have been painful, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that a new one will be less so.”

I swallow. “It’ll be fine, sir.”

He nods and punches the button to take us to the third floor.

The bandage for my tracker injection site is hidden under my trenchcoat sleeve. I ditched the hoodie after my meeting with Dr. Brodsky and retrieved my standard debt collector outfit—a black trenchcoat and jackboots to match, plus my credentials—from my new apartment, the one I’ve never lived in. I need to dress the part for my visit to Candy’s office.

Dr. Brodsky wasn’t wrong about the pain, but having a new hunk of metal injected in my arm didn’t hurt nearly as bad as when Valac ordered my tracker melted inside of it. I’ll have to make up some plausible excuse for the injury when I finally check in with Flitstrom. I need him to trust me, and stray thoughts about tampered trackers are not going to help.

An idea occurs to me that I’ve never had before. I push up my trenchcoat sleeve, peel back the bandage, and press my own fingers across the swollen red injection site. I focus on pulsing life energy through my hand and into my arm, but nothing happens. I need to connect with someone else for the transfer healing trick to work.

I can almost feel Ophelia’s soft fingers lying gently across my wound, healing me.

I shove down my sleeve again and bite my lip until it hurts, driving all the pain and guilt of losing Ophelia into a singular rage that I’m soon going to unleash on my unsuspecting psych officer. I’ll stop short of killing her. Probably. But I won’t mind scaring the shit out of her for a while. Unfortunately, I need her alive, so whoever she’s working for doesn’t start covering their tracks. Ophelia knew this thing with the kids had to be big, and I believe her instincts above all else. She didn’t know how far up the Agency it went, but it scared her enough to stay away. And Candy is evil, but she’s small-time evil. Manipulative, lascivious, petty. She’s not the kind to think up and organize horror on this scale. And I want to stop all of it, not just chop off one corrupt bureaucrat, only to have three more pop up in his place.

However, Candy is directly responsible for Ophelia’s death. And Valac’s. And for that, I’m more than happy to make her suffer.

I punch the button on Candy’s door, but nothing happens. A brief worry flashes through me: maybe she’s not here. I pound on the door, rapid fire, and the sound resonates throughout the low-rent office complex she’s housed in. I pause and hear her cursing inside, coming closer to the door.

I ready myself. As soon as the door slides open, my hand is on her throat, shoving her back inside the office. Her face goes from contorted anger to shock in the split second it takes for me to slam her against the wall next to the door and pin her there. I lean over and punch the button to slide the door closed again.

Only then do I realize Candy’s half dressed.

Her hand that held her blouse together is now trying to pry mine from her throat, so her shirt falls open to reveal a bright red bra that matches the smeared lipstick on her face and the blotches of flushed skin on her chest. I throw a look over my shoulder just in time to see the debt collector who was her make-out companion coming at me with a raised hand.

I drop Candy and slam an open hand against him, hoping to get as much skin contact as possible. He’s shirtless, so one hand finds bare skin on his chest, while the other makes contact at his throat. I pull life energy as fast as I can without scorching burns into my hands that I can’t afford right now. His resistance is weak—he has almost no push-back to the years of life energy I have stored inside me. He stumbles, his knees buckling underneath him. I pull my hand off his chest and punch him hard in the face. He goes down, head whipped to the side, and I lose contact with him.

He barely put up a fight.

As I straighten, I take a chance that he’s not a voluntary lover. “My quarrel’s not with you,” I say, pointing a finger at him. Then I see Candy sneaking around the edge of her office and heading toward her desk. Her black-and-gold lacquered bag sits on the floor, half dumped. I don’t know what she’s going for in the bag, or possibly in the desk, but I’m certainly not going to let her get there without a fight.

I cover the length of the small office in three fast strides. She hunches up and holds her hands out, like that will protect her. I grab her around the throat again, and she grips my trenchcoat sleeve with both hands. Her daggered fingernails stab each other in their attempt to pull my arm away. I push her backward until she stumbles into the oversized leather chair that’s propped against the wall behind her desk. While I have her pinned, I turn back to the debt collector. He has picked himself up off the floor, and now stands in the middle of the office, rubbing his chin and watching us, apparently uncertain whether he should try to rescue Candy or not.

“This isn’t your business,” I say.

He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, probably removing whatever Candy slimed him with, grabs his shirt from the floor, and beats a retreat out the door. No love lost there, so I don’t bother telling him not to call the police. But I do wait until the door slides shut again before turning back to Candy.

“Lir—” she starts, but I suck life energy out of her. Partly to keep her quiet. Partly to show her I’m willing to do it. But mostly because I want to see the horror-stricken look on her face as it grays, her breath frozen in her chest, unable to make a sound or move while I drain life from her. I let it go on for a while, enjoying not only the sight of her suffering but the buzz that comes along with the fresh flush of life energy.

Then an idea hits me.

I stop the transfer, and she gasps for air. Her manicured hands clutch her throat where my palm just left the kiss of death on her. While she chokes, I push up my trenchcoat sleeve and bare the wound of the tracker injection site.

“Give me your hand,” I say, coolly.

She looks at me like I just asked her to chop it off. I hold out my arm and point to the swollen red spot.

“Put your hand right here.” I say it one emphasized word at a time, with a tone that says she’ll suffer much worse if she doesn’t do exactly what I say.

Her hand shakes, but she slowly lays it on my arm. I focus and pull life energy through the wound. I’m almost surprised it works, but it does: the energy flooding from her hand into my arm passes through the puncture point and the tracker below, surely ticking off the transfer I’m pulling from her, but also healing the injection site.

Candy is frozen in horror again.

I’m tempted to do a slow draw-down for a while. It all feels good—the revenge, the hit, the healing—but I’m not here to torture Candy. That’s just a side benefit.

I stop the pull, and her hand slips from my arm. She slumps back in her chair. I don’t need to physically restrain her now. The collection has left her weak, her cheeks hollowed out, her skin sallow. She looks like she still can’t believe I’m in her office, like a nightmare she never imagined possible has come to life before her.

“What’s the matter, Candy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Lirium, I… what happened to you? I’ve been so worried.” Her oily, false-maternal voice creeps over my skin and makes me shudder. Her eyes are wide, trying hard to turn the devil-green into something resembling innocence.

“Don’t bother,” I say. “I know you sold me out to Kolek’s mob.”

“I don’t know who told you that, but I would never—”

I lean forward and rest my hands on the arms of her chair. She shrinks back.

“Kolek’s chief collector told me. Don’t worry, he’s dead now.” I let that linger a moment while Candy sizes me up anew. I want her to think I’m a ruthless killer. Just because I need to have her alive a little longer doesn’t mean she needs to know that I’m not. “You sold out Ophelia and me both. I made it out, but Ophelia wasn’t so lucky. You killed her, Candy. So…” I push back from the chair, out of her face, and lean against the desk. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you, just to make things even. Because drinking down all your life energy is sounding awfully good to me right now.”

She holds up one hand, the other gripping the side of the chair. “Lirium, let’s not be hasty. No one needs to die. That’s a terrible shame about Ophelia, but you can’t hold me responsible—”

“Oh, but I do,” I say calmly, not moving. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Her face contorts with fear and panic. “What do you want? Just tell me, and I’m sure we can be reasonable and work something out.”

“I want a transfer. I’m thinking Florida sounds nice.” Of course I’m not going to transfer anywhere, at least not at first. But she’ll have to log in—while I’m watching—to put it through.  I don’t know if just having access to Candy’s files will be enough to figure out how high the conspiracy goes, but it’s a start. I’ll have to knock her out or drain her until she passes out or something, so I’ll have time to search her files.

I'll probably enjoy that more than I should.

“A transfer?” She lets out a shaky sigh, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. Then her green eyes narrow, probably trying to find my angle on this.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, Candy: register my tracker, recommend a transfer, and put a hold on any collections until the transfer goes through. I don’t want Kolek’s men showing up at any of my assignments.”

“Lirium, I wouldn’t—” She stops at my cold stare.

“I killed Kolek’s enforcer and two of his henchmen.” I lean in again and she tries to find a hole in the chair with her back. “I don’t plan to be anywhere you can find me until the relocation goes through, but if I happen to meet someone from Kolek’s mob in a dark alley, you had better hope they’re the winners in that fight. Because I’ll be coming straight here afterwards. Or maybe I’m foolish to allow you to live at all,” I muse. “Maybe I should just kill you now. I hear there’s good freelance work in Florida.” I’m completely bluffing now; I don’t even know if debt collectors freelance outside the mob.

She visibly swallows. “Lirium, please…”

I straighten up from her chair. “As much as I enjoyed my time in the mob…” I flex my hand open, and her gaze fixates on the red burn marks across my palm. She knows exactly what those are. “I would really prefer a cushy government job somewhere tropical.”

She nods fervently.

“Log in, register me, and submit the transfer. While I watch.” I gesture to the screen on her desk. “Those are the terms. You can say ‘yes, Lirium’ or you can die now, and I’ll find out how good the freelance business is in Florida this time of year. Your choice.”

Candy’s eyes go wide. “Yes, Lirium.”

“Good girl.”

My palm phone buzzes. “Get started,” I say to Candy, ignoring the phone. But then I realize the only person who has my number is quaking in front of me, wondering if I’m going to kill her after all… and Apple Girl.

I flip open my palm screen and take the call. “Yes.”

“Joe!” Elena’s voice makes my heart jump, and not just because I like that she’s speaking to me. There’s panic in it.

I turn away from Candy and drop my voice. “What is it?”

“You need to get over to Mercy Hospital right away. I’m sending you the coordinates. I’ll meet you there.”

“You’re meeting me there? What…?”

“Joe, I found your mom.” Her voice is soft now. “She’s scheduled to be transferred out today.”

My mouth works, but nothing comes out. My mom is in the hospital. Candy’s chair behind me squeaks, and I swing back to look at her, my mind spinning with Elena’s words. Candy reaches inside her purse for something, so I drop my phone hand from my ear and lunge for her. I catch her wrist, and she yelps as I pull her hand out of her purse, but she’s only holding a tracker scanner. I shove her away, and she recoils back into the chair.

Words slam through my head. My mom is sick. They’re transferring her out. The world telescopes down, playing them again and again in my mind. The bottom drops out of my stomach. I stare at the login screen on Candy’s computer, still waiting for her to key in the passcode.

Something squawks from my hand screen. I lift it to my ear.

“Joe!” Elena cries. “Joe, are you okay?”

“I’ll meet you there.” My voice is dead. “I’m leaving now.”

I take a taxi and yell at the driver the entire way to Mercy Hospital. It’s a wonder we don’t get in a wreck. I leave without paying, ignoring the cries of protest. I hope the driver doesn’t come after me or try to slow me down, because I might kill him if he does.

I stride into the hospital lobby, but stall out in the middle of the entrance, unsure what to do. I’ve never visited someone in a hospital before, even though I’ve been in one dozens of times on business. I freeze up. Should I flash my debt collector badge and ask for Alice Miller? If I were really here to collect her debt, I would already have her file.

Oh God. Some debt collector has her file.

Panic starts to bubble up through my chest. How can I find out what room she’s in? How can I get her out without the staff calling security to arrest the rogue debt collector who’s kidnapping a patient?

What if she doesn’t want to see me?

I run my hand through my hair, clutching a fistful of it and trying to think.

“Joe.” Elena arrives at my side, seemingly out of thin air and slightly breathless.

I grab hold of her shoulders. “Elena! Do you know where she is? I need to get her out! What am I going to do?”

Elena gently pries herself out of my grip and hooks her arm around mine, dragging me off to the side. I can tell I was making a scene by the way heads turn, following us to the small upholstered waiting bench. I put a hand to my temple in a belated attempt to not broadcast my face to everyone in the room. The attention slowly drifts from us.

Elena keeps her voice low. “I found your mom’s original health records. She changed her name a couple of times, but she always had to use Alice Miller when she was checking in for health services, so it wasn’t that hard to track.” She speeds up with my panicked look. “Anyway, she got sick about two months ago. She had a small heart attack. They were going to let her go, but she contracted pneumonia while she was in the hospital and got very sick. Almost died. She was in intensive care for almost a month.”

“Intensive care?” I say, my voice weak. Intensive care is very expensive. There’s no way my mom has that kind of money. That must be why they’re transferring her out. Elena takes my hand. I don’t notice it shaking until it quivers in hers. I grip her hand, mostly to stop the shakes.

“The intensive care wiped out what savings she had,” Elena says. “The actuarial tracker automatically engages whenever someone goes into intensive care. That’s when she got on the Department’s radar. But she recovered, and she was doing well for a while. They were about ready to release her, when—”

“She got sick again.” I know the story. I’ve read the files of too many debtors not to see the pattern. Once you’re sick, the bills pile up. You use up your savings, then you get a secondary infection or illness. If you don’t recover fast enough, you quickly use up whatever you could possibly earn. Especially if you’re a pharmacist’s assistant, living hand to mouth with a low-wage job. Even if you’re still young. My mom’s too young to be having heart attacks, but if you start having them that young, then something’s wrong. Something genetic. Which means your life expectancy goes way down.

“She had another small heart attack,” Elena says. “This time they did surgery, but the damage was already severe.” She pauses and searches my face. “She needs a transplant, Joe.”

“A new heart.”

“Yes. They could have put in cybernetics, but—”

“Cybernetics cost money.” I can’t look at Elena now. My gaze sweeps the waiting room, and I see the other faces: the sick and their families, coming to the hospital for what they hope will be their cure and not their death. Sometimes it can be both—a cure that works, but then some secondary problem takes hold, and the bills pile up until the debt collectors are called in. The actuaries can’t foresee everything. Normally, if they know there’s no way the debtor’s life will cover the balance, the doctors don’t even try. Those patients are lucky: they just go home to die, taking the rest of their life energy with them. The unlucky ones—like my mom, with no family to help pay, no one to care for her—rack up bills at the hospital. Until they reach the balance and are transferred out.

“I’m so sorry, Joe,” Elena says, pulling my gaze back to her.

“I should have been here for her.” I’m not sure if I’m talking to her or myself.

“You’re here now,” she says, and that snaps me out of my fugue.

I drop her hand and cover my face with both of mine, rubbing away the remorse and pain and panic. My mom’s dying, and I’m only here because I screwed up so massively that the mob is looking to kill her first, if only they can figure out where she is.

I push all that away. There’s only one thought I can afford to have right now.

“I have to get her out, Elena.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I have a plan, but I’m not sure if it’s going to work.”

I look at her for a moment. Her soft brown eyes are lit with that serious determination again. “Thank you.” I want to say more, but the words are stuck in my throat.

“You might want to wait to thank me until you hear my plan.”

I ride the elevator to my mom’s floor by myself.

Elena has gone to find her nurse-friend in the pediatrics ward. The one who has helped sneak out kids before they can be transferred out and who will help us smuggle out my forty-year-old mother who is dying way before she should.

The elevator dings on my arrival, and the doors slide open. I stride out, my face set in my typical mask: a stoic imitation of Death come to reap the dying’s life energy and transport it to someone more worthy. I hope the mask sufficiently covers everything that’s roiling inside me.

My trenchcoat flaps against my legs as I stop briefly at the nurses’ desk to flash my credentials. The nurses hardly look up. They’ve already seen me coming with my jackboots and aura of death. They must know Alice Miller in room 403 is on the list. Looking the other way is what nurses prefer to do, and I hope these nurses in particular are the kind who keep their distance while the actual killing happens.

Because that’s what I’m going to do—kill my mother.

Elena’s plan is terrible. Horrific. And probably the only way we can get my mom out of the hospital alive. I didn’t realize how difficult it was to get the kids out of the system; I just didn’t spend any time thinking about it, really. But I should have known it would take more than just signing out, once the Department of Health and Life has decided that your life energy belongs to them and sends a debt collector for you.

I whisk away from the nurses’ desk, my boots scuffing the polished floor. My reflection runs ahead of me. It’s the spook that has haunted me ever since I joined the Agency, making his appearance again. I don’t spare him any more than a glance as I arrive at the door of room 403. I’m not an angel of death today, and the spook can go back to hell where he belongs.

I hesitate at the threshold, bracing myself, then force myself to cross it.

I don’t get more than two steps inside the door before my feet refuse to go any further. My mom is hooked up to monitor patches and IVs and generally looks like the dying I visit all the time. Only they don’t normally have my mom’s pretty face ravaged by two months in the hospital. Her beautiful, long brown hair has thinned, and it tangles in a limp attempt to cover the pillow. Her long fingers have turned into sunken sticks, knobbed at each knuckle, like the flesh has already left and only her bones remain.

I must have been holding my breath, because all of a sudden, I have to pull in air, and a sound escapes me. It draws her attention away from the blind-covered window letting in small stripes of hazy sunshine. Her clear blue eyes have the same dead look as the last time I saw her more than two years ago. But they come alive for a moment when she realizes it’s me.

“Joey.” Her voice is a wheezy imitation of her true one. “I should have known it would be you that would come to collect my debt.”

Her words suck all the air from my chest. “Mom,” I say, but I can’t seem to move, like my boots are welded to the floor by the weight of her assumption. My head slowly shakes as if I can ward off her words with the motion. “I’m not… I wouldn’t…”

She frowns, just slightly, like even that is more effort than she has energy for. “Then what are you here for, Joe?”

I can’t help it. My face twists up, and tears crowd the edges of my eyes. My legs finally unlock, and I stumble to her. I fall to my knees by her side and hold her hand to my forehead. It’s cool and frail, but I press it to my feverish head, like I can’t live without the contact.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” My words are sobs. “I’m so sorry I left. I shouldn’t have… I should have found you sooner. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Joey.”

I feel a light pressure on the side of my head. She’s petting me, the way Elena did with Tilly. I keep my eyes closed, head bent, hoping she doesn’t stop. But she does. I look up through tear-blurred eyes. Her worn-out blue ones have leaked tears as well. I gently brush them away. Her skin is so thin, too thin, under my careful touch.

I swallow the rest of my tears and say, “I’m here to get you out of the hospital before your debt collector comes.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She pets my hair again. Her hand is so light, I almost don’t feel it. “I’m dying. There’s no stopping it. You of all people should know that.”

Her words slice through me. “You still have time. We still have time. You can come with me and we can… we can have that time together.”

“I need to pay my debt, Joey.”

“No!” I say fiercely. “You don’t.”

“It’s not something you can change. There are some things that happen. Bad things. To people you love.” She pats my cheek. “Like when you found out what you could do. That you would have to be one of those people who… do this.” She makes a small motion with her shoulders that might have been a shrug if she wasn’t a woman on her deathbed. “If I could have taken that away from you, I would have. I never wanted you to have to live this way. Bringing death to so many, just so others could have their piece.”

“I know you hated what I was. What I am. But none of that matters now.”

“I don’t hate what you are, Joey. I never could hate you. You’re my baby boy.”

The tears slide from the corners of my eyes, and I don’t bother to try to stop them.

“I hated what I knew it would do to you.” She drops her hand to the bed, fatigue drawing down her face as well. She lets out a long sigh. “I wish I had been stronger for you, Joe. I am sorry for that.”

“Well, I’d tell you all the things I’m sorry for,” I say, wiping my face and standing up, “but right now I’m going to get you out of here. Then we’ll have time to tell each other all our mistakes.”

“You can’t just take me out of the hospital. Besides, they’ll find out what you did, and you’ll get in trouble. You don’t need to do that for me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’m going to die anyway, Joe. I might as well pay my debt.”

“Well, we’re certainly going to make it look that way.”

She frowns, and I can tell she’s not following me.

“I’m going to have to drain you of some life energy, Mom.” I can hardly believe I’m saying these words to her, and they twist a knife in my gut. “The nurses think I’m here to collect your debt, so we need to convince them that I have. They won’t be fooled if you don’t look, well, like you’ve been collected. I won’t take all your life energy… but I’ll tell the nurses that I’ve transferred you out. You’ll have to lie very still and, well, pretend that you’re dead. A nurse will come to take you away, but she’s a friend. She’s going to help us get you out. Then, once you’re away, I’ll give it all back to you—and more. You’ll feel better. I promise.” I don’t tell her that I’m afraid her heart won’t be able to take any of it. That I might actually kill her with this horrible, desperate idea to save her. But I know that her true debt collector is on the way, and we don’t have any other options.

“I don’t know, Joe. I’m worried that you’ll get caught for this. It can’t be legal.”

I give her a small smile. “It’s very not legal. One of the better not legal things I’ve done in a while, let me tell you.”

That earns me a smile. It’s a faded echo of the smiles I remember from my childhood. It almost breaks my heart.

“Okay.” I shuffle closer to her. “We don’t have a lot of time. I should probably… start.” I strip off the monitor patches and their signals go dead. The nurses shouldn’t be alarmed because this is what they expect to happen.

My mom nods, then looks up into my eyes. “Will it hurt, Joe?”

“Yes.” I bite my lip to stop it from trembling. “It will feel like you’re dying. But I promise you won’t. I promise, Mom.”

“Okay.”

I lay my hand on her forehead and take a shaky breath.

“I love you, Joe.”

“I love you, too, Mom.”

Then I start the transfer. The flush of energy through my palm does nothing to keep the stabbing feeling from my chest as she seizes up, the death cramps taking hold of her as I drain her life energy. Tears stream down my face, and my hand shakes so bad I can barely keep contact. I close my eyes, feeling past the contact point, sensing how much life energy she has. It’s not much. I keep draining down, but I want to leave plenty of margin for error, so I stop, probably too soon.

My mom’s arms and legs fall limp, and her head lolls to the side. My heart lurches, and I’m afraid that I somehow made a mistake. I press my fingers to her throat: I can barely feel her heart throbbing in her neck, but it’s there. I bend my ear to her half-open mouth, and a whisper of air tells me she’s still alive.

But barely.

I swipe open my phone and quickly punch the number. Elena picks up, and before she can say anything, I whisper into my hand, “We’re ready.”

“We’re on our way.” She hangs up.

They should be here in less than a minute, just enough time for me to clear out and meet them downstairs. At the morgue. Where Elena and her nurse-friend will be wheeling my mother in just a few minutes.

I wipe my face and slap my cheeks a few times, to remove all traces of tears, then stride out of the room. I barely slow down at the nurses’ station, just long enough to say, “Patient in room 403 has been collected,” and move on. I force myself not to hurry to the elevator, but it takes an interminable amount of time for it to arrive.

My jackboot taps nervously on the tiled floor, but finally, the elevator door slides open. Inside is a man in a long, dark trenchcoat. With black boots. I hardly think, just react, striding quickly into the elevator, brushing past him, then reaching back to grab him around the neck.

But it’s too late; he saw me coming.

He reaches back to grab my face, grasping for skin contact, while I wrench him backward. We both fall to the elevator floor as the doors start to close. His reservoir of life energy is deep, but he’s not as strong as me. I have a lock on his face with my hand, draining him at a near scorching pace, while simultaneously choking him with my arm cinched around his neck. He’s pulling life energy through his hand on my face, but he keeps losing contact as I whip my head back and forth, just out of his reach. It’s a death dance on the floor, but I’m winning, and we both know it.

“Wait!” he chokes out, beating against my head instead of trying to draw life energy from it. I don’t let him loose. His movements slow as the elevator starts to plummet. We were only on the 8th floor, so I don’t have much time. I shove him away, still alive, and spring to my feet, ready for more, if he’s going to push it.

“Walk away from this collection,” I say. “I’ve already taken care of it.”

“What the hell…?” he says, his voice still raspy.

I slam the button on the elevator for the third floor. Less security there. Easier to make my way to the morgue undetected.

“Say you’ll walk away, and I’ll let you live,” I say.

He just stares at me.

“Say it!” I take a step toward him.

He cowers back into the corner with his hands up. “Okay!”

“Just walk away. Tell your bean counter the patient was already dead.”

He frowns at me like I’m crazy, but he gives me a slow nod. The door slides open. I punch the button for the bottom floor and slip out just as the doors close. At least he’ll have to make a trip to the ground floor first. With any luck, he’ll walk away. Or Elena will do her thing before he thinks it through and checks on the patient.

My mom.

I fly down the stairwell, heading for the exit out the back of the morgue and hoping to actually find my mother there alive.

There are four ambulances lined up at the back dock of the hospital. Three are empty and the fourth has a driver who looks way too young to be involved in the illegal smuggling of bodies out of the morgue. But he looks over my debt collector trenchcoat and boots like I’m just another day at the office for him.

“You coming along for the ride?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He opens the back of the ambulance and I climb in. I take a seat on the cushioned bench where the EMT’s would sit while treating their patients. The driver stands guard in front of the open door, arms crossed, watching the back door to the morgue. It seems like a small eternity, but it’s only a few minutes later when Elena and a young nurse in scrubs wheel out a gurney with a bright blue body bag strapped to it. They’re in no small hurry as they run down the ramp. The driver throws open the second ambulance door and the three of them slide the gurney inside. Elena climbs in first, and the nurse gives the driver a quick kiss before following her in. The driver slams the doors shut, and we roll away from the hospital while I’m still working at the strap over the body bag.

The nurse shoves aside my hands and expertly unlocks the strap. The front of the bag peels away with one heart-ripping sound, and inside is my mother, limp and still as death, just as I left her. I quickly place my hand on her forehead and pulse in life energy, praying I won’t feel the same nothingness that Ophelia had when she died. Or when Valac slipped away. There’s only a whisper of presence in my mom, but I feel it, and I step up the rate of transfer. The nurse places monitor patches on her cheek and chest.

“You should infuse here,” the nurse says, laying her hand on my mother’s chest, right above her heart.

I put my other hand there, pulsing energy in through both hands while carefully watching the nurse’s electronic readouts play out on the screen mounted on the ambulance wall. I don’t know what all the numbers mean, but there’s a blip for her heart, and it makes a reassuringly steady rhythm.

My mom’s head stirs under my hand, and she pulls in a deep breath. Her eyes flutter open, and after a moment of searching, her gaze finds my face.

“Joey,” she says.

“Hey there.” I don’t try to say anything more.

“Where are we going?”

I let out a small laugh and look to Elena. She’s smiling, her eyes shining. Even the nurse grins.

“Somewhere you’ll be safe,” I say.

I keep trickling life energy into her all the way to Madam A’s.

My mom’s eyes are closed, her body lying still on the bed. She’s not dead—her chest rises and falls, rapidly, like she’s perpetually short on breath. Even in sleep her body has to fight to stay alive. I want to reach out, lay my hand on hers, and give her another hit of life energy, but I don’t. She can only take so much, and she needs her rest. I keep my hands on my knees and lean forward in my chair to peek, for the hundredth time, at the monitor by her bed. Morning sun glares off the screen, but I can still see the pulsing electronic signature that says her heart is beating: too fast, irregular, but pumping life through her, nonetheless.

The nurse set her up in a private room—Madam A didn’t want my mom out with the sick kids and neither did I. It would be too stressful, too much to explain. It's private, but there’s not much more décor in my mom’s room than the bed and the chair I’m sitting in. I think it’s actually Grace’s apartment, but it’s devoid of personal effects, so I can’t be sure.

I lean back, rub my face, close my eyes, and wrestle with the debate that’s been raging through my head since we arrived at Madam A’s church-turned-hospice yesterday. Do I stay by my mom’s side and continue to feed her as many small life hits as her heart can tolerate? Or do I finish spying on my psych officer so I can stop her from transferring out more terminal kids? The interruption at her office yesterday might have destroyed any chance of digging through Candy’s files. Now that she’s expecting me, she’ll be more likely to shoot me than let me get close to her Agency records.

Yesterday there was no question where I had to be: my mom needed me. But now the nurse says she’s stabilized. Of course, there’s no guarantee that her heart will keep beating from one moment to the next. And the idea of not being here, for even an hour of the few she has left, has kept me in my seat ever since we arrived.

The apartment door creaks open, and feet shuffle across the polished wood floor behind me. I don’t move, keeping my eyes closed, hoping whoever it is will take the hint and leave.

“’Morning, sugar!” With that perky Southern accent, it has to be Annabelle, the girl Madam A sent while I was still trapped in Kolek’s mob. “Thought you could use a jolt. You’re moving slower than a Sunday afternoon.”

I give in and open my eyes. She stands next to me, holding a steaming cup of something. I pray that it’s coffee.

“You’re not actually human, are you?” I ask with a grin. “You’re some kind of Southern guardian angel.” Then my smile dims. I called Ophelia that, and I only managed to get her killed.

“The angels are busy looking out for your mama.” She hands me the cup. “I’m just looking after the collectors who help them.”

“Collectors and angels aren’t exactly on the same side.” But I give her a smile and breathe in the rich coffee bean smell, cradling the cup in my hands. The mercy hits I’ve been doling out to my mom have left a low-burning golden feeling inside me, but my body is running on too little sleep. Exhaustion crowds my mind. The coffee is hot on my throat, but it jump-starts my brain almost immediately.

“How is your mama?” Annabelle asks.

I look at my mom’s wrinkled brow, the torment showing on her face even in sleep.

“I’m afraid to leave her. I don’t know how much time she has.”

Annabelle eases onto a corner of my mom’s bed, her small frame hardly weighing down the mattress at all. “Everyone feels that way, sugar. We practically have to throw the parents out of here every night. But she needs to rest, and you lingering here all the time isn’t going to make her get any better.”

“The hits I can give her might,” I say, even though I know it’s not true. The hits might postpone her death, but they can’t give her a new heart.

Annabelle leans over to pat my hand. “There are others who need those transfers, too.”

I nod slowly and take another sip of the coffee. “I can do those while she rests. Are the kids ready now? I know Madam A wanted their parents present.”

“There are a few who are waiting in the main room.” She tips her head to the door. So, she’s not just bringing me coffee; she’s wrangling me to fulfill my promise. Not that I need much prompting. I want to pay out, or transfer, or whatever it is they need. And staying near my mom, just in the next room over, eases the wrestling in my mind for the moment.

I rise up from the chair, careful with my coffee. “Lead the way, Miss Angel.”

“Oh, don’t get all flirty with me, mister,” she says, batting her eyes as she rises from the bed. “I know you’re sweet on someone else.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, and I sincerely hope she doesn’t either. Annabelle’s far too perceptive—and talkative. I’m sure my special… relationship… with Elena and her sister Tilly is the talk of Madam A’s brothel, especially now that Elena literally saved my mom’s life by helping me get her out of the hospital. No one knows it was part of our deal, in exchange for me helping with Madam A’s kids, but either way: I owe Elena a debt I can probably never repay. The least I can do is not feed any rumors about her. Or us.

Not that there is an “us.”

Annabelle shoots me a knowing look as she sways toward the door. I roll my eyes with dramatic effect, hopefully quashing any rumors before they get started, then follow her out of the room.

I’ve transferred three small hits to three even smaller children, all without losing control. I consider it a major win. Or it could be the roiling inferno of goodness burning inside me, the after-effect of the mercy hits lasting well past the time I lift my hand from the kids’ tiny foreheads. Each of the transfers was donated by a different one of Madam A’s girls, and each time I doubled the payout. I’m not sure if anyone has noticed yet—I hope not. I don’t want to explain where that extra life energy is coming from.

But everyone—parents, nurses, sex worker donors—are all focused on the flushed faces and happy smiles of the children. I take a couple steps back from the little girl I just paid out to and hold onto the foot railing of the bed next to hers. The nausea is still working its way through my system, and I’m afraid the coffee will come back up. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths to fight through it. I should probably take a break. Go check on my mom. Maybe rest a little before attempting any more.

I don’t want to push my luck.

Better to pace myself than have an uncontrolled payout, like with Tilly. I don’t know why that one was so hard to pull back from. Maybe it’s the remembered connection to that first time, when paying out to Tilly was mixed up in my mind with Apple Girl pressed against me in that bathroom.

“Joe?” A soft voice, close to me, startles me out of my thoughts and pops my eyes open. It’s Elena, which makes me panic for a moment, as if somehow my thoughts were written plain on my face.

She frowns. “Are you all right? Maybe you should sit down.”

I sigh with relief. She only thinks I’m sick from the payout. Which my seized-up stomach reminds me is actually true.

“I’m fine,” I say, and swallow down the sourness at the back of my throat, just to be sure. I glance at the parents still huddled around the girl and gesture Elena to follow me a few more steps away. “Hey, I wanted to thank you. For helping me get my mom out of the hospital. I can’t really repay you for that, but,” I incline my head to the girl in the bed, “I’m going to give it a try.”

She studies my face. “You didn’t need my help this time with the mercy hits. You must be getting better at it.”

My gaze drops to my feet. “Yeah.” Embarrassment makes my throat thick. “With a little more practice, maybe I can even pay out to Tilly without passing out.”

She doesn’t say anything, so I look up. She’s holding something back.

“What?” I ask.

“Before, you said you were going to visit your psych officer. To find out more about who’s ordering the kids to be transferred out. Did you get a chance to do that? I mean, before I called you away to the hospital.”

“I started to, but…” I don’t want to go into the details about my visit with Candy.

“You were with your psych officer when I called, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say, my head spinning back over that brief time on the phone. Did Elena hear anything? “My plan was to have Candy give me access to her files without suspecting that I know about the kids. If I can find some evidence of what she’s doing, and who’s involved, then I can take it to my bean counter, Flitstrom. He’s a pretty straight arrow. I think he can help.”

“You thought your psych officer would give you access to her files? Just like that?” Elena’s skeptical look makes me squirm.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly going to be voluntary,” I say, hoping she won’t think I’m a monster again.

But instead she nods, bites her lip, and looks like she wants to say something, but isn’t quite sure how to spit it out.

“These aren’t nice people, Elena,” I say, a little too defensively. “I’m not going to get the information I need just by asking nicely.”

“I know.” She nods her head more vigorously. “That’s why I want to help.” She peers up at me, her dark brown eyes catching bits of the morning sun. “If that’s okay with you, I mean.”

Okay with me? My heart does a small lurch, and I’m a bit lost for words. Then my better sense gets hold of me. “This is dangerous stuff. The people involved—they’re more than willing to kill children. They’re not going to hesitate to kill anyone else. I don’t think—”

“You can use my help,” she cuts me off in that earnest way of hers. “Can you still get Candy to give you access to her files?”

“I don’t know. It’s going to be more tricky now.” I swallow. I didn’t plan on Elena ever knowing this part. “Look, I had to threaten her. Convince her that I would kill her.” I don’t say that actually killing Candy was more tempting than I want to admit. “But now that I’ve made the threat, she’s going to be ready for me. I can’t just stroll back into her office and pick up where we left off.”

“What if she’s not expecting you?”

“She’ll definitely be expecting me. She’s probably already called Kolek to get one of his mob henchmen to guard her office. They would both rather see me dead. Even if she hasn’t called in reinforcements, I’m pretty sure Candy will shoot me before I have a chance to get a hand on her.” I wince after the words are out of my mouth. I'm basically saying I would attack her.

But Elena just nods thoughtfully again. The poisoned darts of disapproval have been sheathed, at least for the moment. “Maybe I can help you with that, too.”

“What do you mean, too?”

“What if you had your psych officer’s home address? She wouldn’t expect you there, right?”

“Maybe not, but—”

“And once you’re there, you can get access to her files. But you’re not going to have much time to search if you’ve got her looking over your shoulder, right?”

“Well… she might be unconscious.” More squirming.

“Even so, what are you going to look for?”

She has a point.

“Okay, Miss I-falsify-my-own-birthdate. What should I do?”

She digs into her pocket and pulls out a flexible film with a tiny black dot in the center. “You plant this on her computer. Once she’s logged into the secure server at the Department, it will give me ghost access to everything. I can datadump her files to a secure grid, then mine them for patterns and maybe even augur some events. Pinpoint a vector that can help us.”

“Um… okay.” I only understand half of what she’s saying. A very small half. I point to the film she’s holding between her fingertips. “So, you’re saying if I plant this on Candy’s computer while she’s logged in, you can get access to her Department files?”

“Yes,” she says, like that was completely obvious.

“And then you’ll…” I trail off hoping she’ll put it into English for me.

“Then I’ll find the evidence we need to put an end to this insanity.” She gestures around us to the beds filled with kids. Some work on their screens, while others stare at the ceiling because that’s all they have strength for.

“That’s what I thought you said.”

“So?” she asks.

“So what?”

“So, will you do it? Let me help?”

I don’t like the idea of Elena coming within a mile of Candy. But I’m really way out of my depth here. “Okay. I mean, as long as you’re just doing stuff remotely, it shouldn’t be dangerous. And it would be a tremendous help.”

She looks relieved.

I frown. “You thought I would say no, didn’t you?”

Her lips purse. She hesitates, then says, “I would be accessing your files as well as everyone else’s and… I guess, you’d have to trust me.”

I’m too stunned to say anything at first. Then I say quietly, “I’m the untrustworthy one, remember?”

She gives a small smile. “And I’m the one who’s really good at lying.”

I grin.

She holds the film up for me to take.

It’s so thin I’m not sure how to grab hold of it. “Um, how do I make this thing work, exactly?”

“You snap it to activate the adhesive.” She demonstrates by taking the two ends between her delicate fingers and pulling them quickly apart. The film makes a small pop sound and turns purple. “Snap it again and it deactivates.” She does so, and it clears. “Once it’s active, put it on your finger or your palm. It will automatically stick and become virtually invisible. Just don’t touch anything metal with it until you’re ready to transfer it to her screen. The bio-glue will preferentially lift off your finger and transfer through the film to the other side and adhere to the metal surface. After that, it will be practically undetectable.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” I ask, carefully taking the film from her.

“I read a lot.”

I lift an eyebrow.

“And I have a lot of time on my hands.”

That reaches inside me and stirs things around. An aching curiosity wells up and wants to know what she does with her time, besides spending endless nights in the chair next to Tilly. But the more I know about Elena, the less I think she’ll want anything to do with me, outside of rescuing kids. Maybe my efforts in that regard offset the fact that I’m planning to beat up my psych officer to do it. Maybe, in her mind, that makes me not as much of a monster. But she’s smart and beautiful and good and brave… the extreme opposite of everything debt collector. Still, I’m thinking of excuses to just talk to her, learn something more personal, when Grace scurries up to our side.

“Lirium,” she says, slightly breathless. “There’s a man at the front door. He’s asking for you.”

“What?” Alarm trips through my body. I shove Elena’s tiny spy film into my pocket. “What does he want?”

“He says he knows you,” she says quickly. “His name is Dr. Brodsky.”

My shoulders drop. “It’s all right—I do know him. Let me talk to him.” I leave Elena with a smile that says we’re not done talking yet and follow Grace to the front. I gave Madam A’s address to Dr. Brodsky, just in case, but I didn’t expect him to show up so soon.

That doesn’t bode well for his granddaughter.

Dr. Brodsky’s granddaughter isn’t as young as I expected. I guess I pictured Tilly when he talked about her, but she seems closer to twenty than ten. Madam A has them stopped cold at the entranceway, like she’s planning on pulling her gun on the seventy-year-old inventor and his granddaughter. Tatiana appears half-dead already, slumped in the wheelchair that Dr. Brodsky is leaning on.

Madam A gives me a look like she’d rather pull the gun on me. She’s already fingered me for bringing more people to her cloistered hospice. And she’s not exactly wrong.

“Dr. Brodsky meet Madam Anastazja,” I say, eyeing her. She stands ramrod straight, but the gun stays tucked in her silk holster behind her back.

“Please forgive me, madam, for intruding on your home,” Dr. Brodsky says. “But you were right, young debt collector,” he says to me. “They had stopped giving Tatiana her life hits.”

“I told you, Opa, they’re just being prudent,” Tatiana says with a wheeze. “No sense in wasting life energy when it’s just putting off the inevitable.”

She adjusts her position in the chair. Her withered arms and legs take too little space in the cushioned confines and don’t seem to have enough muscle to make the movement happen. I’m uncomfortable just watching her. She should be in a hospital bed.

Dr. Brodsky pats her shoulder. “All of life is simply putting off the inevitable, Tatiana. There is no crime in that.”

“But there is in what you’re doing now, Opa.”

“Some crimes are worth committing, are they not, debt collector?”

“Yes, sir.” I turn to Madam A. “Dr. Brodsky is working on a technology that might, one day, help patients like the ones you keep here. I warned him about kids being transferred out, just in case…” I gesture to Tatiana. “Well, in case it got personal.”

Madam A’s cool, glittering eyes regard Dr. Brodsky, and he stands up to the scrutiny well, returning it with his mechanical eye dilating and measuring her. Finally, she gives a short nod. “Grace will take Tatiana in back and find her a place to rest. She needs attending.”

Grace hurries to Tatiana and wheels her toward the back of the entranceway.

Madam A watches them go, then returns her gaze to Dr. Brodsky. “Perhaps we can discuss this technology of yours. Did you bring it with you?”

“No. I keep a few small prototypes in my laboratory, which is all that really exists of the concept now, other than what I keep in here.” He taps the side of his head. “But I would be happy to discuss it with you, madam.” I’m afraid he’s coming off more crazy-old-man than brilliant-inventor, but Madam A seems to take him at his word. She beckons him to follow her.

Before they leave, she gives me a cold look. “I hope you are quite done bringing strays into my house, Lirium. We have reached our quota.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I say and hold my smile until she turns her back.

I stroll toward the apartment building that is my psych officer’s home in a slow, canvasing walk around the block. The apartment complex is more upscale than I expected, sleek white-and-gray granite blocks interspersed with glinting chrome balconies. The neighborhood is respectable as well, filled with the kind of potted palms and lush greenery that only money can maintain.

Candy must make a tidy sum selling out kids’ lives.

Elena sits in a coffee shop two blocks away. I insisted that she arrive there on her own, so we wouldn’t be connected, in case things went bad. But in spite of the upscale neighborhood, I’m worried. I swung past the café earlier, and the coffee shop clientele looked less interested in coffee than skeet. Elena and I waited until evening, hoping to gain some cover for my breaking-and-entering activities, but now I suspect the night-life here supports a hidden drug den in the back of the café. I don’t like the idea of Elena there alone, but she has to be in range for the data-dot-thing to work.

I flip open my palm phone to call her. I already checked in before I arrived, but I want to be sure everything’s still good.

She answers in one ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.” Her words are measured, tempered for whoever in the café might be listening in, but there’s worry in her voice.

“Sorry, I’m just checking on you.”

“I’m fine.” Impatience.

Okay, I’m being obvious, but I can’t help it. “Watch out for anyone trying to sell you a hit. You can just tell them you’re not interested. And keep your head down. Don’t make eye contact with anyone, just, you know, look busy. Work on your screen.”

“It’s not my first time in a café.”

“It’s the skeet den in back that I’m worried about.”

“Not my first time there, either.”

“Wait… what?” I ask.

There’s a soft laugh on the other end.

“You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asks, but I can hear the laugh still playing in her voice.

“Right. Sorry. I forgot how much of a badass you are. I’m hanging up now.” But I don’t. I wait to see what she says.

“Good luck. I’ll be waiting.”

I hang up, not sure if the smile on my face should be there or not. But thoughts of what I’m going to do next wipe the grin from my face.

Getting into Candy’s apartment won’t be difficult—it would be harder if she lived somewhere lower rent. But the centralized security system in her building apparently has to register with the local law enforcement, fire department, and other public safety offices: all government agencies which share information with the Department of Life and Health. Elena’s ability to get hold of the passcode both makes my job easier and scares the shit out of me. And makes me worry for her again.

She’s risking a lot to help me.

I remind myself this isn’t for me. Or her. It’s for the kids who are having their lives stolen by Candy and whoever else is involved. Part of me wants to walk in and drain the life out of her until she tells me everything she knows. We’d get what we need, and it would be immensely satisfying in the process. And I’d give that life back to the kids she stole it from—justice all around.

But that wouldn’t stop it from happening again.

If I leave Candy dead in her apartment, whoever she works for is going to start covering their tracks. And if I don’t leave her dead, she’ll call them, and the result will be the same. So, keeping Candy unaware of my true intentions is still the only way to make this work.

Really unfortunate.

I arrive at the front door of Candy’s apartment complex and stride up like I’m supposed to be here. I swipe my palm to open the door. There’s a quarter-second beat when nothing happens, and I’m afraid the passcode doesn’t work, then the door tones and slides open. I take the elevator—all mirrored walls and shiny stainless—to the nineteenth floor. I guess blood money is one way to live above the smog.

I hesitate in front of Candy’s door, one of only three on the floor. I’d like to keep this quiet if at all possible. It won’t help if the neighborhood watch decides to call the police.

I switch the passcode on my palm to the one for her door and swipe my hand past the sensor. It slides open and I stride in, hoping to find Candy before she finds me. There’s no one in the living room off the entryway, but a light shines from down the hall to the left. I walk slowly to keep my boots silent on the polished wood floor of the hall and manage to steal up to the open door of her bedroom without a sound. She sits in bed, screen in her lap, legs buried in a satiny-white comforter.

Unfortunately, she sees me at the edge of her door before I can make a move inside. My black trenchcoat and boots give me away even before she looks at my face. I sprint toward the bed, rushing at her, but she’s already rolled to the side and yanked open the drawer of her bedside table. Just as I scramble across the slippery comforter, I see the gun.

I lunge, going for the bare skin exposed by the hiked-up back of her pajama shirt, but she swings the gun toward me, so I grab for that instead. My hand locks around hers and the gun. I could drain her, but her finger is on the trigger, and the tiny muzzle is uncomfortably close to my ribcage. Plus any gunshots will bring the police.

I wrench her hand with the gun away from my body. She rakes her dagger-like nails across my face. I growl through the pain and slam her hand against the bedside table. The gun drops and tumbles across the carpet.

I start to drain her, and her body tenses up. She’s stretched half off the bed, so we both slide to the carpeted floor. I keep a grip on one of her hands, while I bring the other to my face. Life energy pulses through the contact on my cheek, giving me a hit through the raw flesh where she carved lines in my face. The sting eases, and the flush of life energy helps to calm my breathing. I’m tempted to keep drawing her down, drain her completely, but I’ve got to stick to plan. I pick up her screen off the floor, where it was flung during our brief fight. Elena’s magic dot is adhered to my pinky, so I make sure to press that to the backside of the screen before setting it in front of Candy and letting her go.

She gasps and recoils from me. While she fights to suck in oxygen and recover, I stand and scoop up her gun. It’s small, and it makes me wonder where her standard-issue weapon from the Agency is stashed. Hopefully, not nearby. Her bedside gun is probably the one she uses for her unofficial dirty business.

I hunch down to peer at her. “That’s really no way to treat one of your debt collectors, Candy.”

“Lirium.” She coughs. “I didn’t realize it was you—”

“I understand,” I cut her off in my most patronizing voice. “You were too busy going for the gun.” I tap my chin with one hand while keeping the gun lazily pointed at her. “Let’s see, where were we? Before our discussion in your office was interrupted… right, you were going to submit that transfer request for me.”

She stares at the screen I’ve left on the floor, then looks back to me. “The what?”

“The… trans-fer… re-quest.” I say it slow, like she’s mentally impaired. “You know, the official document that says I never have to see you again. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I… um…” She frowns, like she can’t believe I broke into her apartment just to get her to submit a form. And it is a fairly flimsy excuse. It makes more sense that I’m here to kill her.

I stand up, take a step closer, and point the gun at her head. “Do you have a problem with that?” I figure logic doesn’t have much of a chance when you’re looking down the business end of a weapon, even if it is a tiny, snub-nosed one like Candy’s.

“No!” She cringes, holding a hand out against the gun. “I just… okay! I’ll enter your request, just give me a second.” She picks up the screen and quickly swipes across it.

I wave the gun at her. “Show me.” I bark the words and she jumps. I don’t want her calling the police or sending some kind of message. She scoots to the side, so I can see what she’s doing. She’s on the official Agency page, tapping in her login. When it brings up the internal screen, I try not to show my relief.

Now I just need to buy some time for Elena to do her data snatching thing.

I hunch down again to talk to her, cozy, like we’re friends. “I’m really going to miss you, Candy.” A little crazy talk should help keep her off balance. “We were just getting to know each other.”

She flinches but doesn’t look at me, just keeps tapping on the screen. The transfer request form fills out in record time.

“Which…” She falters. “Which division in Florida do you want?”

“Pick one,” I say. “You know I’m not idiot enough to go there, right? So don’t bother sending any rental-thugs. I’d just like to keep collecting my government check for a while.”

She taps in more information, her fingers shaking. When it’s complete, she submits it and looks up at me.

“I did what you asked.” There’s a quiver in her voice. “Now you don’t need to… you can let me go.” She’s looking at me like she thinks I’m crazy, which will work as well as any explanation I can come up with.

“Good girl.” I switch the gun to my left hand and hold out my right arm. “Now log in my tracker.”

“I… I don’t have the tracker scanner.” Fear makes the whites of her eyes grow larger.

Shit. “It’s in your purse, right?”

She nods, a jerky motion.

“Where is it?”

“By the front door.”

“Well, get up, then. Bring your screen.” I motion her up with the gun and step aside. As soon as she’s past, I slip in tight behind her and grab her neck. She lets out a whimper. I hold her neck with one hand and shove the gun in the small of her back. “Nice and slow.”

We march down the hall, past the living room, to a small table by the front door that I didn’t notice on the way in. Her purse sits on top of it. I shift in front, keeping the gun trained on her, and dump out the bag. The tracker gleams silver on the glass tabletop.

I toss it to her. She scrambles to catch it while still clutching her screen. I hold out my arm. She tentatively reaches out, scans the tracker, then enters the information.

“Excellent,” I say. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Even in the dim light coming from her bedroom, I can see that Candy is pale and shaking.

“If you kill me, Lirium, they’re going to know it was you,” she says, obviously buying completely into the Lirium-is-crazy act. “They’ll see that I entered your information just now. They… they’ll find your prints on my purse!” She jabs the tracker scanner at the purse as if it’s going to be Exhibit A at my trial.

“I’m not going to kill you, Candy,” I say with wide crazy-eyes, just to see her reaction. She lets out a small peep. I almost laugh, but I’m afraid it would sound more amused than demented. “I got what I came for. And I sincerely hope to never see you again.”

Unless it’s in jail. I might come visit her in prison, just for a laugh.

I fling my hand out to make contact with her forehead before she can flinch away. She crumples to the ground under my life energy drain, and I have to scramble to go with her. I hover over her body, her wide fear-frozen eyes staring at me.

“You’re not going to die,” I say. “But I might take a few years off your life, if you don’t mind.” I don’t have time to do that kind of drain, and I don’t need another burn mark on my hand, so there’s no way I’m taking years from her. But she doesn’t need to know that. I drain down a couple months in no time, pulling it in as fast as I can without injury. To me, at least.

When I stop, she’s weak from the drain, but still conscious.

“I’m going to assume you’re smart enough to not call the police,” I say. “Otherwise they’ll be very interested in how you sell out your debt collectors to the mob. But just in case…” I grab her wrist and twist her palm up to show her screen. I slide the gun away from us, and it sails down the polished wood floor toward her bedroom. Then I swipe through and reset her password, locking her out of her own phone. She stares at me like she thinks I’m going to drain her again, which I’m not, but I don’t need her calling for help while I’m on my way out the door. I drag her to the side table, where her emptied purse and the rest of the room is unfortunately bare of anything to tie her up. So I reach for her red silk pajama top. She barely fights me as I rip it up over her head, but once I stuff some of the fabric in her mouth and try to tie it behind her head, she puts up a weak resistance. I stop and glare at her, and that’s enough to put an end to that. I cinch the slippery fabric tight around the back of her head, then triple knot it to the leg of the table. That should occupy her for a little while.

I leave her tied up in her apartment without a look back.

Watching Elena work is my new favorite hobby.

Not that I have any other hobbies, unless you count drinking to excess and using sex workers. Last I checked, those were actually vices, and besides, it’s been a while since I’ve done either. But watching Elena is almost as intoxicating.

She sits at Madam A’s desk, perched on the edge of an overstuffed leather chair. Her screen lies flat on the giant mahogany desk in front of her, both pieces of furniture looming large and making her thin frame seem almost child-sized by comparison. Her sneakered toes barely touch the floor, and her back is perfectly straight. The casual pants and simple t-shirt she’s wearing suit her—earnest and sweet, in a clean-scrubbed way that would normally be plenty to make my knees weak.

But that’s not what entrances me.

A computer-sensing visor wraps around her head, sleek and glittering and sexy in a technology-enhanced way that makes me shiver a bit. She stares straight ahead at whatever she sees inside the visor, presumably holographic projections of the grid she’s manipulating. Since her eyes are covered, and her attention is rapt on the data, I can watch unfettered. Her slender fingers weave a delicate dance in the air. They alternate between a slow stroking, as she teases something out of the matrix, and fast flicks that are almost angry, as she whips away offending data. Every once in a while she halts the sinuous finger motions to tap something into the screen. Programming? More data manipulation? I have no idea, but I pretend to study my palm screen until she goes back to the dance. Then I watch again, mesmerized by the silent, seductive tempo of her work. And I think dangerous thoughts about how I’d rather have those fingers dancing on my skin than on the air.

Her fingers freeze, as if stricken, and then push her holovisor up on her head. Her hair bunches behind it, and she turns to me.

“It’s hard to concentrate when you stare.”

I cough. “Stare? I wasn’t…”

She’s not buying it.

“Have you found anything interesting yet?” I ask, hoping redirection will work.

Her perfect posture slumps a little. “There’s a lot to work with. I’ve written a few algorithms for pattern matching, but I’m having a hard time pulling signal out of the data.”

“That sounds… not good.”

“No, it’s just going to take more time,” she says. “And I’m going to tap some other Department records, see if cross-referencing might bring something out of the noise.”

“Okay.” I don’t get what she’s doing, but I’m happy to listen. And would be happier if she did the finger dance again.

She stares at me.

“Can I help?” I ask, just to be nice. I know I’m useless.

She drops her gaze to her hands, which, sadly, now rest in her lap. “Maybe you can go check on your mom?”

I try not to feel the small crush of disappointment in the center of my chest. But it’s there. “I’m bothering you.”

She looks up, her gaze falling on the mostly-healed scrapes where Candy clawed my face. Elena didn’t ask what happened, and I didn’t tell—it was our silent understanding that I did what I had to in order to get the data we needed. Her gaze drags up to my eyes, and she gives me a small, apologetic smile. “It’s just hard to concentrate. You know, with the staring.”

I swallow. So busted. “Right. Sorry.” I get up from the chair I’ve been slouched in. “I’ll go check on Dr. Brodsky. See how he’s settling in.”

“I’ll let you know when I have something.”

I give her a nod and hurry out of the room, scraping my dignity off the floor as I go.

I decide to visit my mom before I seek out Dr. Brodsky, but then I find him in my mother’s room, sitting by her bedside, head bent. She’s awake, and I seem to have interrupted a serious conversation between them. I don’t know what they could possibly have to discuss, but my heart beats a little faster as I skim over the things that he knows about me that I’d just as soon my mother didn’t.

They both have guilty looks on their faces as I approach the bed.

“Dr. Brodsky? Is there something I can help you with?” I say it with a distinct undertone of, step away from my mother now and we won’t have to make this messy.

“We were just having a little talk,” my mom says. She doesn’t look much better than when I left. My annoyance with the inventor dissipates in my concern that I’ve been away too long. My mom could probably use another hit.

I step to the opposite side of the bed from Dr. Brodsky and take my mom’s hand. “As long as you’re not sharing embarrassing stories from my childhood. How are you feeling? Are you ready for another transfer?” I reach past my hand to feel the reassuring presence of her small cache of life energy and check the monitor by her bed at the same time. She’s weak, and her heart is still an irregular mess on the screen, but at least it’s beating.

“I’m fine. Dr. Brodsky was keeping me company, telling me all about his very interesting research.”

I narrow my eyes at him, hoping he’s not giving my mom some kind of false hope. “I’m glad he kept you entertained while I was gone.”

My mom’s sigh pulls me back to her. Her eyelids droop. I bend close, still holding her hand. “If you’d like, I can give you a hit right now. Just a small one. It will make you feel better.” I can hear the begging in my voice, but I don’t care. I’m desperate for anything she’ll let me do for her now.

“I think, maybe, I just need a little rest,” she says. “Besides, Dr. Brodsky has something he wants to discuss with you.”

I don’t even glance at the old man. “Dr. Brodsky can wait. How about I give you a hit first, and then you rest?”

“There are others who need it more, Joey.” She pats my hand, the one holding hers. The feel of her paper-thin skin makes my jaw clench. It’s a reminder of the shortness of time I have left with her.

“There’s no one I’d rather give it to.” Then I drop my voice to a whisper. “Please, mom. Let me do this.”

She lets out another sigh. “All right. But just a little. Then let me rest and you listen to what Dr. Brodsky has to say.”

I frown but waste no time in trickling a small hit through our clasped hands. It starts a warm glow inside me, the effect of the mercy hit, but that’s nothing compared to the feeling of relief when her hands warm and a small flush of pink races across her cheeks. I stop, being careful not to give her too much. I’m not sure what her heart can take. But she looks a little better, and my own heart calms in response.

She closes her eyes to rest, and I reluctantly let go of her hand. Dr. Brodsky is already on his feet, waiting by the door to the back. I know it leads outside, because it’s the one Grace brought me through when I first arrived at Madam A’s. I don’t say anything, waiting until we’re out in the alley behind the brothel, door safely shut behind us.

“Son, I want you to know that this isn’t my idea,” he starts, and already my stomach is in knots.

“What did you say to my mother? You know she’s dying, right? So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t upset her with any crazy ideas.”

“I’m aware of your mother’s condition.” His voice is heavy, like this is a burden he would prefer to set down. “Madam Anastazja’s assistant informed me of your situation. It is a terrible thing, and I am deeply sorry. And now, I’m afraid I may have made things worse, although that was never my intent.”

“What did you say?” But I know it before he answers: he’s told my mother about his world-changing device. The one that’s not ready yet, but that she might think could save her, giving her some kind of cruel false hope.

“I regret that I shared my research with her.” His watery blue eyes are asking for a forgiveness I’m nowhere close to giving. “Please understand, it was simply idle conversation. I was filling time, explaining Tatiana’s condition and how I hoped to someday help young people like her.” He pauses, then stops the nervous wringing of his bony-fingered hands. “Your mother is a very intelligent woman.”

My face is hot, and flattering my mom is not doing much to assuage my anger. “That doesn’t mean you have to get her hopes up!”

“No, you are quite right about that.” He folds his arms and leans against the railing. The small, three-step stoop we’re standing on is close and crowded. My hands itch to reach out and wring Dr. Brodsky’s neck, but I keep them shoved in my pockets.

While I’m trying to contain my anger, he keeps talking. “What your mother suggests is completely unethical. Something I would never consider. Have never considered until today, and even so, it is a moral outrage.”

“What?” My anger sputters, then turns into overdrive. “What are you talking about?”

“Your mother…” He holds his hands out, palm up, as if he’s defenseless. “She wants me to test the device. On her.”

“What? But… you said it’s not ready!”

“Precisely what I told her. Although she was not long fooled by that. You see, I had already shared with her the extent of my experiments. How I had tested it on smaller mammals, gauging the effectiveness and making slow strides toward a human trial. So, she already knew I was mostly lacking a means for a human trial to proceed, a critical stopping point in the research given…” He shrugs his thin shoulders. “Given that most of the scientific community believes my tinkerings are those of a crazy old man desperate to save his dying granddaughter.”

Through his speech, the heat of my anger cools. I feel the same tug of false hope my mom no doubt felt listening to him. “So, what are you saying? That it actually does work? That you can use it to cure my mother?”

“Yes, it works.” His voice grows more strident. “On animals. But no, I cannot use it to cure your mother. It’s completely untested on humans. It is as likely to kill your mother as cure her. Probably more likely to result in her death. It’s unconscionable to even consider it.”

I press my hands to my temples, rubbing the headache that’s building there. “So, it’s untested on humans. But it works on animals.” My mind zings from hope to despair and back to hope again, a vortex of confusion that makes my head hurt. “How much difference is there between the effect on animals and people? I mean… is it possible it could work?”

“Possible?” he asks, like I’m being ridiculous. “Anything is possible, young debt collector. Before the vaccine mutated, before you and those like you started to express the ability to transfer life energy, who would have ever thought such a thing possible? Any reputable scientist would have called it absurd! But, once the thing was real, an indisputable event that happened before their eyes, then… then they had to broaden their imagination. Then they scrambled to find why a simple bioelectromagnetic organism, a tiny ingredient added to a vaccine, could have mutated and spread and changed the very DNA of so many people. Then they had to decide all the reasons why it was, indeed, possible… because it had already happened.”

I swallow. I can feel it: the infectious enthusiasm these damn high potentials always have, convincing you of their theories and ideas. But this is my mother’s life we’re talking about, a life that’s quickly slipping away from her. “Are you saying it could work on my mother?”

“There is no question that it could work,” he says gravely. “The only question is whether it will work. There is by no means any kind of guarantee.”

“Tell me about this… device.”

“I do not want to get your hopes up as well.”

“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?” My anger flares back. “You’ve already told my mother! So I want to know everything you’ve told her. Then I can decide whether it’s worth the risk.”

He frowns and doesn’t speak for a moment, like he’s weighing the risks of further explanations. As if they’re bombs to be treated with the highest care. Only he’s already exploded one on my mother, so he’d better not hold out on me. Or he’ll have one very angry debt collector on his hands. My steely-eyed look must have convinced him, because he takes a deep breath and begins.

“Are you familiar with the long term effects of repeated exposure to life energy?”

“Longer life?” I ask, sarcastically. Valac told me about some of the effects: a cessation to aging, immunity to disease, increased strength and stamina. I felt some of that myself, just from repeated collections during my time in the mob. But I want answers from Dr. Brodsky, not pop quizzes.

“Yes, of course,” he says. “But there is much more. Cellular degeneration stops. Immune function becomes unparalleled. The consistent doses of life energy act as a kind of youth serum. All the most basic cellular functions rejuvenate, as if they are flush with the attributes of the young: resilience, strength, the ability to withstand and repair damage at all levels.” An intense look takes over his face. “The problem lies in the amount of life energy required to obtain this effect throughout the body. Years and years of life would have to be used to keep the whole body in this state of perpetual youth; and it would have to continue, an endless supply, in order for the effects to maintain themselves. As you can imagine, this is not feasible, nor in any way moral. As I told you before, young debt collector, so much of this is an abomination to even consider. Those years come from others; people whose lives we have no right to take.”

“I know a little bit about the collection process, doctor.” I don’t need to be reminded of the horror of where the life energy comes from. “But you said your device wouldn’t do that—that it would use the body’s own life energy, right?” Maybe I misunderstood him before.

“Yes, yes,” he says. “That is where the fantastic possibility of my device lies! If we can harness the life energy of one part of the body and shift it to another, the moral dimension eases. We are free to make decisions with our own bodies, are we not?”

He eyes me, like this is a critical question, but I just nod. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since I arrived at Madam A’s: slowly doling out the years of stolen life I acquired while in the mob. But I would do it with my own life as well, if it came to it. Especially if it would help my mom.

“But finding a source for the life energy only solves the moral quagmire,” he says. “The technology itself has two distinct challenges: we must have a way to initiate the transfer from one part of the body to another, and we must find a way to contain it.”

“Contain it?”

“For example, with your mother,” he says. “She has a failing heart, yes? Why do you not simply infuse her with your life energy? Am I wrong to assume that you would at least consider this?”

“I’ve been feeding her hits ever since we left the hospital.”

“And yet, it is not having the effect we would all desire: her heart is not repairing itself, renewing at the cellular level the way we know a longer term exposure would result in.”

“Are you saying I just need to keep giving her hits over a longer period of time?” My heart lifts. “I can do that.” At least until I run out.

“No, no, son.” His furry eyebrows draw together. “You wouldn’t have enough to induce the desired effect, even if you transferred every bit of life you have. Once the energy enters the body, it dissipates, yes?”

I find myself nodding again. “It’s like there’s a big lake of it. Whatever I feed in just goes into the reservoir.”

His eyes light up. “Just so! You are filling the reservoir of your mother’s life energy. But her heart is a leak, one which constantly drains that energy away. Faster than you can ever replace it. What we need is not to pour more life energy into the reservoir, but to stop the leak.”

“Okay. What if I concentrate my life energy transfer directly into her heart?” I’ve seen the effects at the point of transfer before; that’s how Ophelia was able to heal my wounds. But she said it was simply my body reacting to the infusion, accelerating a response, a healing, that would have occurred anyway, given time. And my mom’s heart isn’t healing itself.

Dr. Brodsky confirms my doubts with the shake of his head. “There are small effects at the point of transfer, but they are just a temporary boost to the life processes already taking place. The life energy is not contained for long enough to have the desired local effect. It dissipates. To use your lake analogy, it doesn’t matter what part of the shore you stand on—when you throw your life energy in, it goes to fill the reservoir as a whole.”

I frown. “Because it’s not contained in her heart. It dissipates to the rest of her body.”

“Precisely.” His eyes are shining now. “However, if we could build a barrier, a cage of sorts, that would keep the life energy contained in the organ—if we can stop the dissipation—then we could accelerate those beneficial effects. The flush of energy would be concentrated, constant and intense, right where it is most needed. And that, my young friend, could reverse the damage. Stop the leak.”

“So your device is a cage? To capture life energy?” My hopes lift again. “How does that work?”

“The tissue connector device wraps around and encloses the organ it is transferring to. You can think of your own body as a cage. You contain life energy within yourself, yes? Unfortunately, you cannot take your mother’s heart inside your own body in order to heal it. But the tissue connector can: it literally takes the organ inside of its own generated field, containing and concentrating the life energy right where it is needed.”

I try to picture this, but it makes me queasy. “So it’s some kind of device that… covers the organ and traps life energy inside.”

“In a way. But it is no mechanical device. It is, in fact, living tissue.” His mechanical eye measures me, like he’s watching for my response. “I have taken DNA from collectors and identified the mutated gene—it is quite similar to the original bioelectromagnetic source material, the sea creature used in the vaccine which gave you this ability. I used this mutated gene to change the DNA of a host animal, producing an altered physiology very much like your own. From that host, I grew a tissue culture which now has the ability to harness life energy. In my experiments, I used mice, but the resultant tissue connector is not a mouse; it is simply a mass of living cells derived from the mouse’s body. It has no mind, no conscience, not like you, debt collector. It doesn’t care whether it transfers or not.”

I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. “So how do you make it transfer?”

“That is precisely the trick!” He’s fully into mad-scientist mode now. “The tissue connector’s cells are much like those you carry in your hands. Each and every cell of your body is a small electromagnetic field generator capable of manipulating life energy. This is what you do, debt collector, every time you transfer. You push and pull the life energy, directing it wherever you wish it to go. Your body generates the field, but it lacks purpose. It has no will. Until your mind generates a controlling field to shape and direct the life energy transfer. Your mind’s field and the field your cells generate… they are distinct, but they are part and parcel of the same process.”

This I understand. All the mental imagery that Ophelia taught me to use makes sense to me now. My body already had the ability to direct the energy, to generate this field Dr. Brodsky talks about—I just had to figure out how to use my mind to shape it and make it work.

“So your device mimics what I do, when I collect or pay out. Because it has living cells, like mine. But it doesn’t have a mind, so you need something else to direct it?”

He nods. “A field must be created to activate the tissue connector—to induce a transfer from one end to the other. Unfortunately, the precision of that waveform, that electromagnetic field, must be quite absolute. What you do with your mind, debt collector, when you initiate a transfer is a very complicated process. Your mind commands the forces at work in your tissues, but it is a subtle manipulation, one you probably don’t consciously understand in full. It is not an easy thing to do, I would imagine.”

“No.” I frown. “At least, it takes some practice.” It isn’t as simple as envisioning the spigot or holding back the reservoir of life energy. It’s a constant battle to fight the craving for the hit, to resist the urge to recoil from the payout, or to withstand the drowning glory of a mercy hit. To say it’s not easy is definitely an understatement.

“For me, I only have a few mechanical generators and the clumsy physical setup of my laboratory to work with.”

“So… it doesn’t always work right.”

“It is quite repeatable. But unfortunately, it must be tuned to each patient, each configuration for the transfer. And that tuning must be precise.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then instead of the tissue transferring from, say, your mother’s kidney to your mother’s heart, draining the life energy from one and bathing the other in it, the connection could go in reverse. Or drain both.”

“That does not sound good.”

“Indeed. While I do have a tissue connector of the proper size that is cultivated to work with human organs, I haven’t been able to test it. For obvious reasons. It should function much as the smaller connectors have, for my rodent patients, but it will be very uncertain. Very imprecise.”

“It could kill her.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not willing to take that chance,” I say. “I’ve only just… She only has a short time left. I don’t want you taking that from her.”

He heaves a long sigh. “You are quite right. And I was afraid that might be the conclusion you would reach. It is entirely reasonable. But, you see, my young debt collector, it’s not up to you.”

My voice drops, low and menacing. “You can’t force her to do this experiment of yours. I won’t allow it.”

He doesn’t seem to register my threat. His voice just turns sad. “You misunderstand me. Your mother has already decided. She wants the procedure.”

My fists ball up, but I can see the torment in his eyes. “You could refuse to do it.”

“I could. And I should. But I will not.”

My breathing starts to become uneven. “I could stop you.”

“Yes, you could. And perhaps you should do that. I leave that to you and your conscience, debt collector. But I would advise speaking to your mother first about it.”

My chest is tight, air fighting its way in and out of my lungs. I can’t believe Dr. Brodsky has talked my mother into this. That I was the one who allowed him to come here. That all of this is slipping out of my grasp. I heave a couple more breaths, then turn my back on him to yank open the door to Madam A’s brothel, determined to stop my mother from volunteering to be his lab rat.

My mom’s eyes open as I approach, and she turns toward the sound of my boots on the floor of her room. I stop by her side, and the soft hum of the monitors fills the silence. All I can see is the hollows of her cheeks, the thinness of her hair, the way her chest lifts and falls too fast, as her lungs try to compensate for the failings of her heart. It’s far too easy for me to picture her body completely still as the death that’s chasing her finally catches up. But I want to cheat him of every second that I can… not have her die even sooner under Dr. Brodsky’s mad experiment.

“Mom, don’t do this.”

“Joey.” She reaches a hand out to me, and I take it in both of mine. “I want to do this.”

“But… it’s just that…” I have to fight to keep the tears burning hot inside me instead of spilling onto my face. I clear my throat. “I didn’t bring you out of that hospital to have you be experimented on.”

The back door whispers open. Dr. Brodsky closes it again, quietly, behind him, but he stays by the door. Which is good, because if he tries to convince my mother to be his lab rat in front of me, I might be tempted to do something I don’t want my mother to see.

“Joe.” Her voice is breathy, and it rivets my attention. “I’m going to die anyway.”

“It doesn’t have to be today!” My voice is more of a cry than I want. I’m not going to convince her this way, like a child. I should be stronger, but I can’t find it in me.

Her thin fingers pat my hand, reassuring me. “Joe, you have to let me do this. I know it’s not likely to work. I know it will steal some of the time we might have had together. And I am sorry for that. I would be dead already if you hadn’t taken me from the hospital. If I had paid my debt then, at least my life energy would have gone to serve some better purpose.”

My face twists. I don’t want to say that it would just go to some CEO so he can shine a little brighter in his rise to the top. I’ve seen too much to believe in the justness of the system anymore. I know how corrupt it is.

“Mom—” But I stop myself, uncertain if I should tell her.

“I want my life to mean something, Joe. I want it to count.”

Her words tear at me, given that is exactly what I’ve been desperate for.

“And this,” she lifts one hand to wave weakly in Dr. Brodsky’s direction, “will give my life some purpose, what’s left of it. I wasn’t able to be strong for you, Joe. I couldn’t take away the life that has been dealt to you. But Dr. Brodsky’s device could change things—it could change everything, even that terrible gift you’ve been given. If there was a way that life energy could be harnessed without using debt collectors… Joe, you have to let me be a part of making that a possibility.”

And like that, I am trapped. I cannot say no to her dying wish to be part of changing the world that stole her son from her. I bow my head, words stuck in my throat, tears leaking out. I give her a small nod, my gaze fixed on her hands, unable to look in her eyes as I agree to let her die.

There’s a soft whisper of sneakered feet on the floor behind me.

“Joe!” Elena’s voice is filled with excitement and a little breathless, like she’s run the whole way here from Madam A’s office. “I found it! The algorithms—” Her words break off as I raise my head to face her. “Oh.” She floats a look between me, my mom, and Dr. Brodsky, who has now approached my mother’s bed, hovering a few steps away near the monitors.

“I… I can come back.” Elena turns like she’s going to run out of the room.

“Wait,” I say. The word is soft, but it freezes her in her tracks. She slowly turns back to me, eyes round and solemn. “I want to see what you’ve found.”

I wipe my face and bend to kiss my mother’s forehead. I don’t have any words for her, so I give her a small smile instead. I don’t look at Dr. Brodsky or Elena as I stride out of the room. I hear her following behind me, but I don’t turn back, trying to master the pain that’s ripping my heart into pieces before I have to speak again. She doesn’t say anything either until we arrive at Madam A’s office. Elena’s screen lies on the desk. I press my fists against the hard wood of the desk’s surface and focus on the data shining from the screen.

It means nothing to me. “What have you found?”

“Joe.” Elena’s voice is hushed. “What happened? Is your mother okay?”

“She’s going to die.” My throat closes up, and I have to fight through it to keep speaking. “Dr. Brodsky’s going to do an experiment on her that will most likely kill her.” I look up, and Elena’s face is contorted, like she doesn’t know what to say—as if she’s afraid whatever she says will be too little or too much.

I spare us both by looking away from her big brown eyes and studying the screen again. “Please, just tell me what you’ve found.”

She hesitates, then taps the screen to bring up a file. “After I accessed Candy’s financial records, I was finally able to find the pattern. There’s a correlation between when she receives a deposit in her accounts and when certain kinds of collections are assigned. It was difficult to track down at first, but then I cross referenced it with records from the Actuarial and Assessor’s offices, and found there were no corresponding payouts.”

I rub my forehead, trying to keep in the emotions wracking my body, so I can follow her explanation. “You’re saying there are collections but no payouts. And those are the kids they’re transferring out?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t look that way in the records. I had to dig further to tie those ghost collections to kids who died in the same hospital around the same time. The ghost collection records always had an identical diagnosis—82-year-old female patient, with cancer, complicated by sepsis.”

“That’s a pretty common diagnosis. Couldn’t that just be a coincidence? And what do you mean by ghost collections?” My head pounds as I try to grasp onto what she’s saying.

“They’re ghosts because they don’t really exist. Someone has borrowed a different patient’s record and just changed the name.”

“So Candy’s falsifying the records? That’s good. That’s something we can hang on her, if nothing else.” I’d prefer to get her on murder charges for the kids, but I’ll take records tampering for now, if that’s all we’ve got.

“Well, yes, she’s falsifying records, but she’s not the only one. Someone else is setting up the ghost collection—it’s the signal that starts the whole chain of events, because it always comes first. Then the children are transferred out. Then the deposit is made to Candy’s account—always a slightly different amount from one of five unrelated accounts. But it’s made close in time, every time.”

I rub a hand across my face, feeling muddled again. Her big brown eyes look worried, and that doesn’t help with my attempts to focus. “I’m sorry. I just… can you spell it out for me? I’m going to have to explain this to my bean counter, Flitstrom, and I need to make sure I understand.”

Her lips pinch together, but she nods and swipes a delicate finger across the screen to bring up a patient record. “Here—this is a cached record of Candy’s psych officer account three weeks ago. See the 82-year-old cancer patient with sepsis? Mary Trenchant?” She points to a record that’s flagged for collection.

“Yeah.”

She taps into the record and brings up the history, then pulls up a second screen. “Mary Trenchant is a ghost. See this other record for Lucy Hoffsteder? It’s identical except for the name. Only Lucy is real. And she was transferred out a week before Mary Trenchant showed up on Candy’s screen. There’s no other record for Mary—she’s a copy, made after Lucy’s record was archived.”

“Because no one would pay attention to a dead woman’s record.”

“Exactly. At least not for the short amount of time that Mary, the ghost record, shows up in Candy’s collection notices. And deep inside Mary’s file…” Elena taps a few more levels down into the record. “…you see this code? The diagnosis? It says ‘cancer complicated by sepsis’ in the description, but that numerical code? It doesn’t mean cancer. It’s a pediatric code.”

“That’s the kid they want transferred out?”

“Yes. This code is the same diagnosis given to Hope Salinas, an 8-year-old with leukemia in the same hospital as our ghost patient Mary Trenchant.”

“So this is the order for the hit? Candy gets this, and then what?”

“Then she assigns one of her debt collectors to Mary Trenchant. It’s always the same collector. Someone named Moloch. On that same day, Hope Salinas suddenly takes a turn for the worse and dies.”

“So the collector transfers out the kid. But what about the ghost collection?”

“It’s marked as ‘expired before collection’ and then deleted from the system. The only reason I caught this one was because it happened in the last year, which is how far back the cached records go. I pulled all that data, and that allowed me to pattern match case after case like this. Always a ghost record that shows up with that particular diagnosis, dies before collection, then is deleted from the system. Always a child dies in the same hospital. And always Candy gets paid. All within the same 24 hour period.”

I stare at the screen that she’s gripping tightly in her hands. “Elena, you’re a genius.”

She gives me a sad smile. “Not genius enough. There’s another ghost collection record that showed up in Candy’s files today, just before you tapped into her records. Julie Sanders, 82-year-old cancer patient with sepsis. Scheduled to be transferred out tomorrow morning.”

“Is there a pediatric code too?”

She nods. “It’s the same code as Sophie Miles, ten-year-old heart patient in the peds ward, same hospital.” She swallows and looks up into my eyes. “Joe…”

“I know. We need to do this now,” I say. “I hope Flitstrom is working late tonight.”

“Do you think this will convince your assessor to do something to stop it?”

“I think so. I mean, at the least he can put the collection on hold. Or move the kid. Or something. This is perfect, Elena. Just what I need to convince him to go whistleblower and get an investigation launched.”

A better smile lights her face.

I flip open my phone and bring up Flitstrom’s number. Before I tap it to call him, I stop, realizing that I can’t just take off and bring all this to him. Not while my mom is…

I close my phone.

“What’s wrong?” Elena asks.

“Could you do something for me? I mean, something more, because you’ve already done so much…”

She looks puzzled.

“Can you make sure that Dr. Brodsky doesn’t…” I can’t force myself to say experiment on my mother. “Can you just ask them to wait? Until I get back? I would ask her myself, but if I go in there, and she asks me to stay…” Time is short—for her and for this kid that Candy has scheduled to transfer out. “If I have to choose…” I’m fighting, hard, to keep my voice level. Elena has already seen me cry today. The last thing I want is a repeat of that.

“I understand.” She hands me the screen. “Everything you need for Flitstrom is on here. I’ll make sure Dr. Brodsky waits until you get back. And I’ll see if we can arrange to have Sophie smuggled out of the hospital. If nothing else, at least we can stop that from happening.”

She has that determined look, softened only by the deep brown of her eyes peering up into mine.

“You know what?” I say. “You’re not just a genius. You’re like a really short, kind-hearted drill sergeant.” I let out a low breath. “But I think I already knew the kind-hearted part.”

She drops her gaze to her hands, then tucks them both under her arms. The small blush on her cheeks makes me smile in spite of the heartache that’s tearing around inside me.

Then she looks up into my eyes again. “Just stop these guys, Joe.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

It’s late, nearly ten o’clock, and Flitstrom isn’t happy I’m calling him at home. I’ve got my full debt collector regalia on, and I keep my voice low as I stride through the dark streets toward the metro. I’m already on my way to meet him, even though he hasn’t agreed to it yet.

His voice exudes impatience over the phone. “Whatever problems you’re having with your psych officer, you can take it to internal affairs in the morning.”

“Sir, this really can’t wait. And by morning, my psych officer may have called internal affairs herself.” Which is highly unlikely, but sounds like a good excuse. It’s only been an hour or so since I tied Candy up in her apartment. I’m sure she’s already worked her way loose, and she might have even called the police, although I doubt it. She’ll probably just go about her business as usual—which unfortunately means transferring out a kid name Sophie in the morning.

An audible sigh drifts over the connection. “Can you tell me the problem over the phone? Maybe we can work it out.”

“This really has to be in person.”

“This is highly… irregular, Lirium.” The doubt in his voice makes my chest tight. Flitstrom is so by-the-book he even schedules out his coffee breaks to the minute. Which is precisely why I think he’s the guy to bring this to, if only I can get him to step out of his routine for two seconds.

“We don’t have to meet at the Department,” I say, hoping that will reassure him. I don’t want this meeting documented by security anyway. “How about that café around the corner, where you get your coffee. The Official Bean?”

“How do you know where I get my coffee?” Definitely suspicious. And I’d be disappointed if he wasn’t. He’s skeptical of anything out of the ordinary, which is why he’s the better man to be the whistleblower on this—not a near-washing-out debt collector who may or may not have recently been involved with the mob.

“You always have a cup from the café when I check in.”

There’s silence on the line for a moment, and I can just imagine Flitstrom’s little bean counter gears turning, calculating the odds that I’ve gone rogue debt collector on him. Or that I’m dragging him out for something less dangerous, but pointless. He’s all about efficiency and making the system run like a well-oiled machine. Which is why this monkey wrench I’m about to toss into the gears will upset him—and get him to call for an investigation.

I hope.

“All right,” he says, and the tightness in my chest eases. “I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes, waiting.” I close my phone and hurry to catch the metro as it slides into the station.

Flitstrom strides into the café with a nervous look over his shoulder, like he already regrets coming out at night to this part of town. Not that the neighborhood near the Department of Health and Life’s east-side division is exactly low-rent. At least, I’ve spent time in a lot worse places. But there are probably more junkies hit-seeking out at this time of night than what he normally sees in his nine-to-five.

I hold a hand up so he’ll see me. He slouches a little as he walks over and slides into the booth, sitting opposite me. He’s dressed in the same plain blue jacket and tie he wears to the office. I wonder if he has any other clothes.

I’ve already ordered coffee for both of us, hoping that will put him at ease. I slide it over to him, but he ignores it and glances at Elena’s screen lying between the cups.

“All right,” he says. “What’s this about?”

I take a breath and go right for it. “I have evidence my psych officer is illegally transferring out underaged kids.”

He stares at me, processing what I said. I know he’s heard every word, so I wait. The café is nearly empty, just a kid making out with his girlfriend in the corner and a bored staff member bouncing his head in time to music only he can hear. Neither pay any attention to us.

Flitstrom reaches for the coffee. The liquid on top forms shuddering rings with each shake of his hand. He sips, swallows, and blinks several times as he sets the cup down.

Finally, he says, “What evidence?”

I frown. He’s not questioning that it’s possible. There’s a very slim chance that I’ve read Flitstrom wrong all along. Maybe he’s not a straight arrow. Maybe he takes illegal hits on the side himself. There’s even the possibility that he’s involved in Candy’s scheme. I don’t think so, or I wouldn’t have come to him. But he should be outraged by this, not cold and calculating about the evidence. Then again, he is a bean counter.

“I have copies of government records that show how it’s set up.”

“You’ve been accessing government records?” he asks. “How?”

There’s no way I’m telling him about Elena. “I’m a debt collector. We have ways of convincing people to give us information.”

He narrows his eyes and notices the scrape marks on my cheek. “Unauthorized access to government records is illegal.”

I meet his stare. “So is transferring out kids.”

He rubs his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut. “Okay. You’re right.” He looks at me. “It just seems likely this is some kind of mistake. That can happen. Records can get corrupted or deleted or switched. Kids die and the parents want to blame someone, so they accuse the Department of transferring them out, when statistically it was going to happen sooner or later.”

“This isn’t a mistake, Flitstrom.” He looks startled by the anger in my voice, so I lower it and try to keep it even. “I’ve seen the kids. They’re little and they’re dying and their parents are forced to smuggle them out of the hospital before they get transferred out—”

“The parents are emotionally impacted by this. Maybe they mistakenly believe—”

“I’m emotionally impacted by this.” I stop and pull in a breath. “Look, this isn’t a file or a statistic, this is a flesh and blood kid. Are you the kind of man that can stand by and let that happen?”

His voice goes cold. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m not heartless—”

“I know, I know,” I say, backing off and hoping it’s true. “But some people are. People like Candy Kane Thornton are ruthless and all too happy to steal whatever’s left of these kids’ life energy in exchange for regular deposits into their debit accounts.”

Flitstrom frowns. “Okay, let’s say this is actually happening.”

“I have records to prove it.”

“Okay. Fine. But are you sure this is something your psych officer is involved in? Because the Agency carefully screens all its—”

“Don’t quote the rule book to me. It’s happening and Candy is involved. What I need to know is if you’re going to help me blow the whistle on this and make it stop. Because it’s still happening. There’s a little girl scheduled to be transferred out tomorrow. Are you going to stand by and let that happen or are you going to help me?”

“Okay! All right.” He holds up his hands, like he’s fending off my words with them. “Just calm down. Let me see what you’ve got.”

I don’t realize my fists are clenched under the table until he asks me to show him the screen, and I have to force myself to uncurl one of them. I slide the screen past his coffee and swipe open one of the records that Elena found. Or stole. Whatever.

I show him the ghost collection record. “Someone sets up this fake record. It’s a signal that tells Candy to send a collector to transfer out this terminally-ill kid.” I bring up the pediatric file. “It’s always the same collector: Moloch. After the kid is transferred out, the files are deleted from the system, and Candy gets a nice fat deposit in her account.” I quickly pull up those records as well. “There are dozens of hits that fit this pattern, all in the last twelve months.”

Flitstrom leans back, taking the screen with him. He’s fully engaged now, swiping and sifting through the data. I keep quiet, waiting, giving him time to do his analysis thing. He reads, swipes, reads some more. I take my coffee cup in my hand and sip, just to have something to do, while I nervously wait for him to come to some kind of conclusion.

Finally, he says, “So these records were obtained illegally?”

“They’re real, Flitstrom.”

“No, I know they’re real,” he says. “It looks like you’ve slashed into not only your psych officer’s records but files from my office and the Actuarial office at the Department of Health and Life as well.”

“I told you—”

He holds up a hand to cut me off and sets the screen down. “I really don’t want to know how you obtained these. It’s better if I don’t.”

“Okay.” I frown. “But it’s enough for you to start an investigation, right? Call internal affairs and go whistleblower. Or maybe the district attorney…”

He folds his hand on top of the table and stares at them a moment. My stomach clenches.

“I can’t do anything with illegal records, Lirium.”

“What do you mean? The evidence is right there! All you have to do is show them—”

“Show who?” Flitstrom asks. He’s sympathetic, I can tell. He wants to do something with this, but he’s acting as if his hands are somehow tied and he can’t do a thing. “Internal affairs will bury this. I’ll have to go to the Department Ombudsman at least, and even then… do you know who in the Agency is involved in this? Who knows that you’ve accessed these records? How pervasive is this? Is it just your psych officer or are there more?”

“I don’t know.” I swallow. “I… this is all I have. I was taking a chance, just coming to you with it. I figured you were too straight to be involved in something like this.”

He makes a disgusted face. “Of course I’m not involved. But the truth is that someone else clearly is. This goes beyond your psych officer. There could be several others involved. At the minimum, there’s someone with the ability to tamper with records and create that ghost file in the first place. And the payouts have to go somewhere. Did you think about that?”

I hadn’t, actually. “No,” I admit. “But we can prove that Candy’s involved. Isn’t that enough to get the Ombudsman or whoever to start a real investigation? I don’t know, like subpoenas and things. Get the real proof of everyone involved.”

“I’m not sure I can trust the Ombudsman with this. Not when we don’t know who all is involved.” I can see the weight of this on Flitstrom’s face now. He’s figuring the angles, and it’s not coming up good. “I’ll have to take this outside the Department. Which means we need evidence that will stand up in a court. Or at least be enough to get a warrant to subpoena government records, which is no small thing.” He rubs his face with both hands. “This isn’t going to be enough, Lirium. We need proof that the kids are actually being transferred out. And some way to tie that to the Agency.”

I like the “we” part of that sentence, but not the rest. “What kind of proof do you need?” Exasperation makes my voice squeak. I’m not sure I can wring anything more out of Candy, and the clock is ticking for Sophie and whoever else Candy has lined up to transfer out next.

Flitstrom’s lips pull into a tight line, then he leans forward. “You said there’s a kid that’s scheduled to be transferred out tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “And it would be really great if we can shut all this down before then.” I don’t mention that Elena’s already working on smuggling the kid out.

“No,” he says. “Don’t shut it down. Use it. If we can catch them in the act, Lirium, if we can get it on record, then we’ll have something I can take to the DA.”

“Catch them in the act?” The horror in my voice attracts the attention of the couple in the corner, who momentarily break their fevered clutchings to stare at us. I lower my voice and lean forward. “You mean let them transfer out the kid and somehow record it? Are you crazy?”

“You don’t have to let them go all the way through with it,” he whispers back. “We just need to get it on record, then stop them before they finish.”

“By we you mean me,” I say harshly. “And by finish you mean kill. Do you have any idea what you’re asking here?”

“I’m asking you to get me evidence that I can use to stop this.”

I put my hands over my face, wiping away the horror and trying to replace it with the kind of steely-eyed determination I’ve seen on Elena’s face so many times. If catching a debt collector palm-to-forehead in the act of killing a child is what I have to do, then that’s that. I have to do it. And somehow not let the kid die in the process, because I would never be able to forgive myself for that.

“Okay,” I say to Flitstrom, who’s watching me with the intensity of a hawk. “I’ll do it.”

Dr. Brodsky’s laboratory is as creepy as I remember. The mini operating room he has set up for my mom’s procedure isn’t as horrifying as the collection of wayward cybernetic limbs on the second floor, or the table of toes on the third, but the worm-like thing he’s holding in a glass container of blue fluid has a creep-factor of ten all by itself.

“What is it?” I ask, vaguely horrified and not sure I really want to know. But Dr. Brodsky is showing it to me for a reason. It’s about two feet of pink fleshy tube with tentacles at either end. It floats with the sloshing of the blue liquid, but the tentacles seem to move of their own volition, opening and closing like twenty-fingered hands.

“This is the human-based tissue connector I told you about, Lirium. It is the device that will, I fervently hope, bathe your mother’s heart in life energy and bring her to recovery.”

“Wait… you’re going to put that thing inside my mother?” I’m not in favor of any part of this procedure, especially since the most likely outcome is my mom’s death, but the idea of implanting that thing inside her turns my stomach. “Does she know about this?”

“I’ve explained the entire procedure to her,” he says, “just as I’m showing you now. It’s quite similar to my previous work with smaller mammals, and the procedure itself is very straight-forward. She is quite aware of the details, I assure you. Her willingness to volunteer for this human trial deserves the highest respect. I would do nothing less than inform her completely.”

“And she still wants to do it?” I ask, knowing the answer. A tiny hope lives deep inside me that she’ll change her mind before it’s too late. There’s another, even smaller, hope next to it that this device will actually save her, not kill her. I can’t let either of those wishes out of the dark recesses where I’ve stuffed them; when they both fail to come true, it will be just that much harder to endure.

“I’ve asked her again, twice,” Dr. Brodsky says. “Once before and once after I explained the procedure. Your mother is a brave and selfless person.”

I give him a bitter smile. He’s going to kill my mother with his experiment. I want to tell him to go to hell with his praise. But I let it simmer inside me and say, “Tell me how it works.”

He nods in a solemn way, and his bushy gray eyebrows draw together. “We’ll put your mother under sedation to implant the device. It will be done through a small incision for minimal invasiveness. One end of the device will be positioned over the heart; the other over one of her kidneys. The incision will be closed, with the device remaining in place.”

“You mean with the creature still inside her.” I swallow back my revulsion.

“It is not a—” He stops at my dark look. “Essentially, yes. Then we will slide your mother into the induction machine.” He gestures to the large metallic cylinder lying on its side and taking up half the improvised operating room. “I have modified a standard magnetic resonance imager to create precisely the directional field we need to activate the device’s life energy transfer capabilities.”

“So the creature—or device, whatever—won’t start to transfer until you turn on the field.”

“Precisely. I expect the operation to go smoothly. The difficulty will come when the field is activated. I have programmed an induction field tailored for your mother and tested it, but the test is imperfect. Without a source of life energy for it to transfer, the test does not accurately represent the conditions the device will encounter within your mother’s body. But it is all that I can do. When we turn on the machine, however, we should know rather instantly if it has achieved its purpose.”

“You mean, when you turn it on, it will either save her or kill her.”

He sighs, and worry, or perhaps guilt, creases the corners of his eyes. “We will know immediately if it will kill her. If the device does not work properly, the transfer will happen inappropriately or in some way hamper your mother’s cardiac function. Her heart is weak and will not sustain any level of damage. But if the device functions properly, it will still be some time before we will know if it will heal your mother’s heart. The device wraps itself around the heart muscle, and the field which activates the transfer will likewise completely surround the heart. In this way, the life energy that is transferred—all that the device has drained from her kidney—will be constrained to stay within her heart, bathing it in a concentrated amount and bringing all the healing properties of that immersion. After a while in that environment, my hope is that we will see improvement in your mother’s heart function.”

I can’t quite squash the hope that those words dredge up. “How long will it take before we know? Hours? Days?”

“I am sorry,” he says. “I don’t know the answer to that. The animal tests were still preliminary, and nothing like this has been tried before—”

I cut him off with a wave of my hand and stuff the hope back where it belongs. I have to prepare myself for the inevitable result of this experiment. “Can I speak to her before you put her under?” I need to say goodbye.

Dr. Brodsky bows his head. “Of course.”

He takes his creepy flesh-device off to the side while I cross the dozen feet to where my mom lies on a hospital-type bed. It’s adjustable, so she’s sitting up for now, resting with her eyes closed. An anesthesiologist stands by, waiting.

I touch my mom’s hand to let her know I’m here. When she opens her eyes, I say, “Hey.” Not very articulate, but how do you say goodbye to someone you love? It’s an impossible thing.

She gives me a strong smile, like the ones I remember from my childhood. “Joe. I’m glad you’re still here.” She squeezes my hand but it’s weak. Much weaker than the smile. “I thought maybe it would be too hard for you to watch.”

It will be too hard for me to watch. Staying to watch her die is harder than saying goodbye, which is already impossible. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” I try to keep my voice steady for her. “Would you like me to give you a small life hit before you go under?” I hope she says yes, just so I can give her one last thing.

“I don’t think you should,” she says. “The anesthesiologist says it might complicate putting me under.”

I nod. She’s right, of course. Mixing life energy with any kind of medication is dangerous. That’s what medical needs training is for, to keep you from killing the patients you’re trying to help. “I’ll be watching from the office.” I tilt my head towards the glass-window-enclosed area just off the makeshift operating room. “Dr. Brodsky wants everyone not involved in the operation to clear out before he starts. I think he’s flushing the area with some kind of sterilization gas.”

She nods, but I can tell just my few words are tiring her. I want to say something about how proud I am of her, but I don’t want her to think I expect her to die. Which is how it would come out, because that thought is pounding in my head, over and over.

Instead, I say, “I’ll see you when you wake up.” I bend down to kiss her cheek, and she pats mine while I’m there. Her skin is cool from the low room temperature. I don’t know if the coolness is part of the procedure, or just that Dr. Brodsky’s warehouse-turned-operating room is drafty, but I can’t help thinking that the warmth of her body is already fleeing. That I’m already losing her.

I turn away, before I start to cry, and stride back to the office.

Elena is there, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She bites her lip. “Are they starting?”

“Soon.” I stand next to her, arms also crossed to hold in the anxiety. Dr. Brodsky soundlessly orders his assistant to do something. A thin, gray gas rains down from some overhead system lost in the shadows. It shrouds the entire operating theatre in a mist that makes it all seem even more mad-scientist than normal. The anesthesiologist places monitor patches on my mom, talks to her briefly while her bed reclines to flat, then places a mask over her nose and mouth. We’re about thirty feet away. I can’t hear anything through the closed door of the office, but I see my mom’s eyes close and her body grow still under the sedative.

Now we wait.

A small screen Elena configured to mirror the monitor patches is mounted next to the window. The blips show my mom’s heart is still the chaotic mess it’s been ever since we rescued her from the hospital. Only the beats are slower now that the anesthesia has taken hold. The screen doesn’t make any sound, just pulses electronic beats that scrawl out my mom’s living energy in a blue line.

The silence makes the anticipation a sharp knife on my nerves, so I talk to Elena while I watch Dr. Brodsky and his preparations. I had already told her my bean counter wasn’t satisfied with her stolen records—he needed proof that the kids were actually being transferred out. Which meant catching a debt collector in the act of killing a ten-year-old girl. A terrible plan, but the only way to get proof that it’s happening.

“Were you able to put a hold on smuggling out Sophie?” I ask.

“Yeah, that wasn’t a problem,” Elena says. “But, honestly Joe, I’m glad you’re going to be there when they try to transfer her out.”

I frown and peer at her. “Why is that?”

She unlocks her arms, but now her delicate fingers twist themselves red. “It’s not that easy to convince the parents, sometimes. No one wants to believe a debt collector is coming for their kid.”

I take a breath and look back at my mom. Brodsky has brought the blue cylinder and a tray of shiny operating instruments to my mother’s bedside. I decide I really don’t need to watch this part, so I turn half away from them and face Elena. “So, you couldn’t arrange to smuggle Sophie, because you couldn’t convince the parents that a debt collector was coming for her?”

She stops wringing her fingers. “I just haven’t had enough time. Usually it’s the nurses who know the patients and their families. My nurse-friend, the one who would smuggle Sophie out, doesn’t know the case. Or the parents. So, she’s walking in cold, trying to convince them that something impossible—something unthinkable—is going to happen to their child.”

“I can see how that wouldn’t be what they want to hear.”

She peers up into my eyes, solemn. “Which is why I’m glad you’re going to be there to stop it.”

I shake my head, because of the craziness of this idea, not because I disagree. “I won’t let this Moloch character kill Sophie, if there’s any way to stop it. But the whole thing is risky. I don’t know how strong this debt collector is going to be. If he’s going around doing illegal collections…”

Elena’s brow scrunches up. “Does that make him stronger for some reason?”

“It means he might be doing a lot more collections than normal, in which case, yes, he could be a lot stronger than me. And if I catch him in the act of killing Sophie, he’s going to have a lot of incentive not to let me live to tell about it.”

The scrunch transforms into a frown. “Maybe you could bring a gun or something?”

I let out a small laugh. “Well, yes. That might help. If I had one. And if I could get it past the hospital security scanners.” My half-smile dims. It’s going to be a lot more brutal than just waving a gun at him, but I don’t want to get into the details of that with Elena. “If it comes down to him or me, I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough. And I’m worried about what that means for the girl.”

“Because he’ll kill her, too.”

“That’s what he came to do.” I don’t want to admit the possibility, but Elena should be prepared, in case I fail. I should probably give her Flitstrom’s number, just in case. “I’ll do everything I can to stop him. But if I can’t, if I don’t come back—”

Something in the operating room catches her eye. I twist around to see Dr. Brodsky signaling us. When he sees us watching, he and his two assistants take hold of my mother’s bed and slowly wheel it toward the giant metal cylinder that comprises the imaging machine. I suck in a breath and lose whatever train of thought I had in the realization that Dr. Brodsky must have already implanted the creature-device in my mom. My hands fall to my side, clenched tight, as I watch my mother disappear into the machine. It swallows her whole, and a door slides down at the end so I can’t see her. This makes my chest ache. A warmth slides over my hand. Elena’s small one slips into mine, and I grasp onto it, hoping the tension that’s stringing my body doesn’t make me squeeze it too tightly.

My gaze falls to the monitor screen, the only indication I have that my mom’s still alive inside the machine. A low thrumming starts up, followed by a mechanical pumping sound that is loud enough to reverberate through the office windows. Its rhythm is about twice the pace of my mom’s beating heart, only more steady, and it grates on my nerves. Dr. Brodsky stands at the control panel on the far end of the machine, intent on his own display. Suddenly, a tremendous racket starts, a clacking of something within the machine that makes my own heart stutter in response. I’m glad my mom is unconscious for this part, but then I see something on her screen jump. Her heartbeat picks up speed, seemingly in response to the noise.

I clench my jaw shut against the tears threatening to come and hold tight onto Elena’s hand. The electronic pulse of my mom’s heart races, and it seems too fast. Impossibly fast. It would have to give at out this pace, even I know that.

The tremendous clacking sound shuts off, leaving a hollow of noise beating on my eardrums. The heart signature continues to pound at its wild speed.

And then stops.

I gasp and brace a hand against the window.

My own heart stops with it.

We wait.

I hold still in that breath of space.

The monitor beats out a pulse.

Once. Twice.

Again and again. The rhythm is slower. Steadier. I suck in a ragged breath of air and drag my gaze up to the operating room. I can’t see my mom—she’s still enclosed in the machine—but even from here I can see Dr. Brodsky’s smiling face as he hugs his assistant.

I push back from the window and stare at my mom’s steady heartbeat on the screen.

I wait for a full five seconds, just to make sure my eyes aren’t lying to me, then I turn to Elena. The smile is huge on her face. Without thinking, I drop her hand and take her in my arms, squeezing her small frame tight and burying my face in the crook between her shoulder and her neck. My gulps of breath bring in the apple scent of her hair, and that, combined with her arms around my neck, drain the tension from my body in one, stomach-dropping gush.

It’s real. The procedure worked. My mom is still alive.

I slowly realize that Elena may not want this hug as much as I do.

I ease back, dropping my arms and ducking my head. Avoiding her gaze, I look back to the screen. The heartbeat trace looks like every one I’ve ever seen: regular, rhythmic, identical one beat to the next. I let out a long, low breath, the leftover tension leaking from my body.

“Dr. Brodsky said it would take some time before we knew if it would really help,” I say, turning back to face Elena. “That the device has to bathe her heart in life energy for a while to see if it will heal. And she’ll probably be under sedation for some time, too.” I pause and swallow the dryness leftover from the wracking tension of the procedure. “I should go. That debt collector might show up early, and I need to be ready for him. Can you… can you tell her, when she wakes up, that I stayed for the procedure? That I’m proud of her for doing this?”

Elena frowns. “You should tell her yourself. When you come back.”

Her confidence fills me with warmth. “I meant, in case I don’t come back.”

Her fingers do that twisting thing again. “You should have a gun. Maybe Madam A can lend you hers.”

I take her hands in mine to stop the agitation. “It won’t help, Elena. Shooting a debt collector in a hospital… it won’t get us the evidence we need to stop these guys.”

“But you could—”

“It’ll be fine,” I reassure her, even though I’m not sure at all. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t said anything. “Just promise me you’ll tell my mom. Okay?”

She nods once, ducking her head and studying our hands, mine still gently holding hers. When she looks up, the fierce seriousness is back. I think it’s my favorite look on her.

“No matter how this turns out, Joe, you’re a good man for trying.”

A rush runs through me, like a burst of life energy coursing up through my body and flooding my brain. My mouth hangs open for a second, unspoken words filling the space, wondering if she knows what her words mean to me. Her deep brown eyes are a well that I’m all too ready to tumble down. How can she look at me like that, say those words, and expect me to resist kissing her?

So I don’t.

I slip a hand to the back of her neck and bend down. Her silky hair brushes my hand, and her lips are soft against mine. She’s surprised by it. I should stop. Even though it’s the last thing on earth I want, I start to pull back. She lifts up on her toes to chase after my retreating kiss. Her fingertips find my face and dance across it to weave into my hair. All thoughts of gentleness sweep out of me. I crush my mouth to hers. My hand slides around to her back and presses her body into mine. There’s no air left between us as every pent-up desire I have welds her to me. Her hands skim my hair, roam my shoulders, press their fingertips into me, and I’m just as hungry for her. Her mouth opens to me, and she tastes of sweetness and goodness and light. I’m starving for this, for all of it—her lips, her approval, her body—in a way that feels wild and freeing.

I ease my grip on her and run my hands up to her face. I cup her cheeks and cool the fervor of our kiss with half-dozen smaller ones. She’s breathing hard. I’m hardly breathing at all. I’m lost in her, completely. All I want in the world is to stay and explore all the ways I can kiss her.

But I can’t. I have to go.

Ending that kiss ranks as one of the harder things I’ve ever done.

Our faces still close, it feels as if something new has sprung into being between us, fashioned from thin air and a hot kiss. Something alive and filled with potential. I peer into her eyes to see if she feels it, too.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispers, avoiding my stare. Her hands retreat from my neck to rest lightly on my shirt.

It’s not quite what I was hoping for, and I pray this wasn’t just a good luck kiss. I take a chance, kissing her one more time, soft and longer than I should. Her lips are still eager, and the temptation to stay surges like a physical thing that wants to bind me to her.

I force myself to stop, turn, and walk away.

I’m dressed in scrubs and lurking in the dark recesses of the pediatric ward.

If I’m caught, I’ll probably get arrested for being some kind of pervert. At least I should be. It almost annoys me the ease with which Elena’s nurse-friend was able to procure a cover for me as an intern from another hospital doing charity visits with the kids. If there were tighter security in pediatric wards with dying kids, maybe a debt collector wouldn’t be able to slip in and kill them.

Sophie, the ten-year-old heart patient on Candy’s hit list, sleeps in her bed nearby. Luckily, the second bed in her room is empty, and with the curtain drawn between them, I have a convenient hiding place, wedged between a rolling cart of supplies—anti-viral gloves, wipes, and a bin of puzzles and toys—and a highly polished metallic bank of instrumentation at the head of the bed. The lights in the room are dimmed so Sophie can sleep, but I can still see my reflection in the silver surface next to me.

I look startlingly normal. The scrubs hang on me, because they’re a bit oversized, but the usual bags under my eyes are missing, and I’m clean-shaven for once. Even my eyes look like they’ve finally got some life behind them. I stare at my reflection, wondering in what alternate universe I could have been this image of a caring pediatric intern, visiting kids to brighten their final days with magic tricks and clean jokes.

Instead, I’m a debt collector here to record one of my own attempting to kill Sophie.

I check my palm screen for the tenth time, partly to see the time, and partly to make sure it’s muted. I don’t want it to make any sounds when I start to record. Stealth is imperative, at least until I have my recording. After that, this Moloch character will definitely be aware of my presence.

I shift from one foot to the next, flexing out the cramp in my leg from standing in one position too long. I’ve already been here an hour. I’m afraid the wait will be so long my feet will fall asleep just when Moloch arrives. Or I’ll be forced to take a bathroom break, and he’ll slip in to kill Sophie during the twenty seconds I’m gone. Elena’s records showed the collection—albeit for a “ghost” patient who doesn’t really exist—was scheduled for 10 am. It’s my fault that I arrived an hour early, but I’m only going to have one shot at this.

I start to contemplate how I’m going to feed myself if the wait goes on for hours, when I hear the slightest whisper of fabric and a familiar squeak—the kind that collector boots make on the scrubbed-clean tiles of a hospital floor. Every nerve in my body jolts fully awake, and I slip my hand, recorder started, to the thin crack between the curtain and the wall. I checked the angle before, to make sure that I would have Sophie in the recording frame. I glance at the blacked-out wall screen opposite Sophie’s bed and see him in the reflection on the dark glass: a thin figure in a trenchcoat that drapes like a shroud to the floor behind him. He stands at the foot of her bed and checks her chart.

Making sure he has the right child to murder.

A gag starts in my throat, and the compulsion to rip aside the curtain and stop him before he can step closer to her is stronger than I expect. But I hold my position and carefully control my breathing, mouth open, to leave no sound that will give me away.

The reflection of the debt collector moves from the foot of the bed and quickly takes the two strides to the head. His hand is on her forehead, and I physically flinch with my need to stop him. I have no idea how fast he’ll pull. There’s no reason to go slow, and I don’t know how much life she has left. I wait one second more, just to make sure I have his attempt at murder on record, and then I move.

I rip aside the curtain and lunge toward the bed. I aim for his hand on her head, partly to break that connection as quickly as possible and partly because I need solid skin contact. He’s fast; his hand slips away. Sophie falls limp, and she looks like death, but I can’t stop to check. I reach across her and grab at the collector’s coat. I just catch the edge of it and yank him back toward the bed, but now I’m awkwardly sprawled across the girl and the bunched blankets. The collector is still startled by my sudden appearance, but he quickly recovers and attacks.

His hand latches onto my wrist, but I’m ready for him. I pull life energy through the contact point at a scorching pace. It feels like his hand is a pair of red-hot tongs locked on my skin. I bite down hard to stifle the scream. He fights the pull of life energy I’m draining from him, but his eyes are wide in horror at a battle he surely didn’t expect. In spite of springing out of the shadows, I’m dressed in scrubs and look like a well-meaning intern, not a collector.

His knees buckle, but his grasp is still firm on my wrist, and he drags me across the bed. I have to go over the side and tumble to the floor with him or risk losing contact. I expect my fall to be cushioned by his body, but he rolls fast to the side. The floor hits me hard, and my grip on him is lost. The space between the bed and wall is crowded, but he has the advantage now. I curse and struggle up to lunge for him, but he smacks my arm away and follows it with a fist to my face. My head whips to the side, pain lashing across my jaw. I kick blindly at him and hear a grunt as I connect with something. I turn back and sail a fist to follow up the kick, landing another lucky hit, straight to his face. It knocks him back against the wall. I take that split second to lunge for his throat. His hands find my face, but I tighten my grasp, pulling life energy and choking him at the same time. His eyes bulge. I can feel him fighting my life energy pull—through my hands and his—and we’re close to evenly matched.

But I have my hands on his throat.

The more I pull and choke, the more he weakens. The more his eyes bulge.

I’m going to win.

I know it. He knows it.

He stops gripping my face to claw at my hands around his neck.

I can kill him. He deserves to die. Who knows how many children he’s murdered—he deserves something much worse than being choked to death on a hospital floor. If I don’t drain him of his life energy first.

Something inside me hesitates. I slow the pull, but keep my hands at his neck. His lips turn blue, and his clawing at my hands slows. He deserves to die, I tell myself. There’s no question in my mind about this. And for him, I hope the other side is the cold, dark place that Valac tasted. This child-killer deserves that, too.

The problem is he’ll take everything he knows with him.

I push past the contact point on his throat into his well of life-energy. He has a lot, but it’s draining fast as I choke the life out of him.

I wait. I keep draining. I wait some more.

When his life energy level starts to rocket down, and his eyes roll up in his head, I release him, shoving him against the wall hard. He slumps, choking in air, his hands weakly holding his throat, as if he can force the air in that way.

I stand up and tower over him. He’s half-dead and propped against the wall.

“I could kill you.” My voice is harsh with the fight and the pain still throbbing in my jaw and my wrist. “I will kill you, if you don’t tell me what I want to know.” I want some answers, something I can take to Flitstrom besides just the recording. As I think of it, I swipe my palm and hold it up to him. Whatever he says is going on the record. This is probably an “illegal” interrogation, and Flitstrom won’t like it, but I really couldn’t care less.

Whether I’ll kill him when I’m done is still up for debate.

He stares up from the floor, and I finally get a good look at him. He’s older, maybe thirty, and his debt collector attire has seen years of use, just like his hands, which are scarred with a multitude of brands. They make me think about the girl, Sophie, and I spare her a glance. Her face is gray and more haggard than any ten-year-old’s should be, but her small chest moves. She still has life in her.

I swing back to the collector. His blue eyes are fixed on me, but he hasn’t moved. He rubs his throat, but doesn’t say anything.

Then again, I haven’t asked him any questions. “What’s your name?”

“John Hancock.” His voice is raspy, probably from me choking the life out of him.

“Your collector name.” Asshole.

“Did you want to invite me to tea?” Now I can hear it: a British accent. It’s faint, but it’s there.

“Are you sure you want to make this difficult?” I ask. “Because I would really enjoy draining the life out of you.”

He peers at me, his blue eyes narrowing. “Who are you?”

I step closer to him, just out of reach, and hunker down. “You really don’t understand how this works, do you? Let me explain: answer my question or I’m going to finish what I started.” I’m within striking distance. All I would have to do is land a hand on him now, and drain the little he has left. He knows this—I can tell by the way his back presses into the wall just to gain that extra inch of space.

“Well, I’m glad you cleared that up,” he says, his face grim. “My collector name is Moloch, if you must know.”

“Who do you work for?”

One corner of his mouth quirks up. “The Department of Life and Health, Agency of Collection. Just like you, I imagine, although…” He gives a look to my scrubs. “It would appear you’re doing a bit of freelance work as well.”

“Who do you work for in the Agency?”

He lifts one eyebrow. “Candy Kane Thornton. But then, if you’re here, you must know that already.”

I do. But now I have it on record.

“Who else within the Agency is involved?”

He narrows his eyes. It’s obvious I’m fishing. “I’m not sure.” He shrugs. “I take my orders from Candy and do my work.”

“Transferring out kids.” I don’t even try to hide the venom in my voice.

He glances at Sophie on the bed. “These ones aren’t going to recover. You know that as well as I do. Might as well have their life energy go to some useful purpose.”

I curl up a fist. I may need to beat him for a while. Just because. Then I remember what Flitstrom said. The payouts have to go somewhere.

“What useful purpose?”

“I doubt you really want to know the answer to that question.”

“Should I convince you of my sincerity?” I lean forward a little and ready my palm. He doesn’t say anything, so I reach for him.

His hands fly up to protect his face. “Wait! All right.”

I wait. “Where do the payouts go?”

His gaze lingers on the flaming burn across my wrist which matches the stripes across my palm. “We are called Gehenna,” he says quietly. “And you, my friend, might be just the kind of collector who would find a place among us.”

Anger tightens my throat. “Gehenna,” I repeat. “Sounds like a fancy name for asshole child-killers. Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with killing collectors like you.” But my mind is spinning. So this isn’t just an Agency thing. This Moloch character is a collector for Candy, but he’s also part of some crazy group that’s putting a hit on these kids. I still don’t get what they’re using the payouts for, though.

“Are you quite certain about that?” His gaze is steady on me now. “You might find our purpose more similar to yours than you think.”

I highly doubt that. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

Moloch heaves a sigh. “Aren’t you tired of the Candy Kane Thornton’s of the world pushing around debt collectors like yourself? You have the power of life and death in your hands, and yet a bureaucrat holds the reins of power? Don’t you think that is out of the natural order of things?”

“I don’t think there’s any natural order to things.” And I’m not interested in a philosophical discussion. “Just tell me who you make the payouts to. Is it to this group, Gehenna? You said it’s a group of collectors. Are you simply hoarding up the life energy for yourselves?” I give him a disgusted look, thinking he might be on the plan Valac talked about—living forever. But why would a rogue group of collectors need to go through the Agency to steal life energy? I frown as I try to puzzle through it. Maybe they need someone to cover their tracks.

He gives a sort of laugh, but it’s choked, coming out of his still-rough throat. “No, we put that life energy to much better use. Forget all that Agency propaganda about making the world a better place by feeding life energy hits to the high potentials of the world. Do you want to really make a difference in our world?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Now I’m genuinely confused.

“I can see it in you—you’re the kind of person who wants to change things. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here in a wrong-headed attempt to interfere with my work.”

I’m thinking Moloch is the one with something wrong in his head.

“But if you want to change things—truly change the world—you have to go the source. The power. The people who have the ability to make change happen.” His voice has turned far too confident, and it raises the small hairs on the back of my neck. I get the distinct feeling that I’m being lured into something—or at least that Moloch is trying to manipulate me.

“And who would that be?” I feel like I should be more demanding, but this “interrogation” is slipping away from me.

Glints from the low overhead light panels show in his blue eyes. “The Governor. A key congressman or senator on an important piece of legislation. And for particularly important measures, even higher.”

“You’re selling life energy to politicians?” I flash back to the congressman buying hits from the mob and taking it in the sleaziest possible way from Ophelia. “So Gehenna is a mob family.”

“No,” he says. “We are a family, of sorts, now that you mention it, but we’re not mafioso. Not as you think of them, at least. We don’t exchange life for anything as simple as money.” He has that oily look to him again. “We ask for something far more important.”

“Power,” I guess, and it’s starting to come together in my head. A group of rogue debt collectors, corrupting the Agency to pull life energy from places no one will suspect, or even be able to track, and then using it to manipulate politicians to do their bidding. But to what end? That part still doesn’t make any sense to me.

Moloch watches me process it. “Do you recall a piece of legislation that recently passed, tightening regulations on assessors?”

I don’t follow politics, just what I see on the news. And even then I don’t pay attention. I shake my head slightly.

“Those regulations were supposed to make it more difficult for people be transferred out. In fact, they contained several loopholes that will allow for even more people to join the transfer rolls. Several key congressmen were persuaded of the importance of this legislation, and to overlook the loopholes, by some discreet donations of life energy to themselves or members of their families.”

“Why do you care what legislation passes?”

“Gehenna cares a great deal about laws that impact debt collectors,” he says. “Or the general pool of life energy. But we have more than small-time legislation in mind. That was just one of our more visible achievements.”

Shit. Gehenna is some kind of crazy, world-domination group. Made up of rogue debt collectors. Ones that apparently have access to government records and high-ranking politicians. My stomach turns sour. There’s no part of this that’s any good at all.

“So… what’s your grand plan?” I ask.

He nods slowly, like he thinks he has me on the hook. “Why don’t you join us and find out?”

And there it is: the sell. Moloch wants to sign me up for his collector cult, or at least convince me to lower my guard, so he can find a way to kill me before I kill him. Although, for a man whose life I hold in my hands, he seems strangely unconcerned.

“Not interested in the cult, thanks.” I tap my palm recorder off. I have the evidence I need: a record of a debt collector trying to transfer out a kid, as well as his testimony that Candy is involved. Hopefully it will be enough for Flitstrom to get the DA to open an investigation and find out who else in the Agency is dirty with this. I don’t know if any of Moloch’s talk of Gehenna is true, but Flitstrom’s not going to do anything about it without evidence. And this Moloch character could be batshit crazy for all I know.

But if he’s not… if Gehenna is real…

I suddenly realize there’s no way I can let Moloch go.

If I do, he’ll tell whoever he works for that their operation is blown. I could kill him, but his buddies will figure it out just the same. Maybe not before I get the evidence to Flitstrom, but still… the idea of killing him makes me unexpectedly queasy. Part of me wants nothing to do with taking another life again. Any life.

I’d rather see Moloch live and suffer for what he’s done.

But if Gehenna is real…Moloch said the Governor is on the take. And maybe even higher. That’s a lot of powerful people who could make this whole thing disappear. Or intimidate a lowly bean counter like Flitstrom or the Los Angeles DA out of prosecuting. Then Gehenna would simply shift their operations, and debt collectors like Moloch would just keep killing children.

I don’t want to kill Moloch, and I can’t let him go… maybe I can subdue him and drag his ass back to Flitstrom. Maybe Moloch can be my evidence. The DA can force him to testify, offer him immunity or something.

My silence is too long, and when I raise my gaze to where Moloch sits, propped against the wall, I think he figures it out.

He moves, fast. I expect him to lunge at me, but instead he pushes backward, away from me, digging his boots into the floor and sliding along the wall. I think he’s trying to escape, and I scramble for his throat, but before I can get there, he shoves his collecting palm into his mouth and bits down so hard he draws blood.

Horrified, I stall out and pull my hand back. His eyes roll up into his head, and his mouth foams around where it’s clamped down on his hand. I watch, mouth agape, as he convulses on the floor. His hand flops free of his mouth and smacks repeatedly on the polished tiles, sending spatters of blood and foam all over. Finally, he stops, his body frozen in a cramped position. His wide-open eyes stare at the ceiling, but only the whites show.

I slowly stand up, unable to tear my gaze from his contorted body.

Holy shit.

Moloch just… killed himself. Apparently, he would rather die than be caught. I’m not sure what he thought I was going to do, but instead of letting me take him, he… did this. I’m suddenly a lot more convinced his Gehenna shadow organization is real. Or maybe Moloch was genuinely, severe-mental-illness crazy.

I rub my hand across my face while my mind races. I can’t leave the body here. That much I know. Beyond that… I look at my scrubs and back at Moloch’s standard debt collector attire.

I have an idea.

I take time to pay back the life Moloch stole from Sophie, plus some extra that I stole from him. She wakes briefly, pink shining in her cheeks, but fortunately, she doesn’t have time to ask about the body lying on her hospital room floor before fatigue captures her again.

Or why a debt collector is feeding her a hit instead of collecting her debt.

Moloch’s trenchcoat and boots don’t really fit—they’re a size too small—but when you’re wearing the costume of the Grim Reaper, people tend not to stop you to ask what you’re doing. Or why you’re pushing a wheelchair with an unconscious intern out of the pediatric ward.

I leave Moloch’s body in an alley outside the hospital.

When someone finds him dressed in hospital scrubs, their first thought shouldn’t be “debt collector suicide.” And the false ID I left with him should throw the police off for a while. By the time they do a DNA check, and it gets back to Candy that her dirty-work collector is dead, I should have the evidence in Flitstrom’s hands.

I can’t bring it to his office at the Department, for obvious reasons, and a meeting at the café is too public for this business. I told Flitstrom I would call him from a safe location as soon as I had what we needed. The metro ride is short to the run-down neighborhood of Madam A’s safehouse, and soon I’m punching in the code and sliding open the door.

I’m surprised to see Elena there, waiting for me. Or at least I hope she’s waiting for me.

“Hey,” I say, stepping the rest of the way in and closing the door. “Is everything all right? I didn’t expect…”

She steps toward me and reaches up to give me a hug. It’s fast, over so quick that I hardly have my arms around her before she steps back again, blinking and looking embarrassed. “I just… I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

I grin. “You were worried about me.”

A small blush creeps on her cheeks. “Only because you were being stupid by not taking a weapon.”

My grin fades a little. “I didn’t need it.” I don’t want to tell her that a man is dead anyway.

“Were you able to stop him in time?” she asks, eyeing the burn mark across my wrist.

She frowns as I slip my hand into my trenchcoat pocket, hiding the mark.

“Yeah,” I say, then I remember I’m wearing the dead man’s clothes. Even if I wasn’t the one who killed him directly, it still feels dirty. I shuck off the trenchcoat and toss it to the side. Madam A’s safehouse is bare of furniture, except for the musty mattress in the corner, so the coat just lies in a heap on the floor. “And I got the evidence. I need to call Flitstrom and tell him, so he can come get it.”

She nods and holds up her palm. “Here. Give me a copy. I’ll upload it to a secure grid.”

I smile and touch my palm to hers to transfer the record. “Afraid I’m going to lose it?”

“It’s always good to have a backup,” she says. “Besides, you want to have multiple copies, in case someone tries to destroy the evidence. That way they never can get all of it.” She taps her palm, looking at the recording, and I second guess whether I should have given it to her. I stopped it before Moloch’s death, but I’m not sure I want her to see the parts before that either.

Well, it’s too late now.

“I’m going to call Flitstrom,” I tell her as I punch in the number into my phone.

It takes a couple rings, and when he answers, his voice is hushed. “Flitstrom.”

“It’s me, Lirium.”

“How did it go?” He sounds nervous.

“There were some… complications,” I say. “But the girl is fine, and I have the evidence we need. You should come get it soon. Like now. We might be on a bit of a time table here.” I watched the news on my palm on the metro ride over, but so far, no breaking news flashes about dead interns in alleys.

“Where are you?” he asks.

I give him the coordinates, then say, “Look. This thing may be bigger than I thought. Are you sure the DA is the right guy to take this on?” I don’t want to give Flitstrom any more to worry about, but I also don’t want all of this to be for nothing, if the DA is going to be easily intimidated.

“I’ve already talked to him,” he says. “He’s aware of the situation. Once I get him some real proof, he’ll be ready to issue warrants and move quickly.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Okay. Good. That’s good to hear.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says and hangs up.

I close my phone and look to Elena. She’s watching me with a strange expression. Intense, but not serious the way she is sometimes. And there’s a hint of a smile that makes her face light up. It makes me smile even though I’m not sure why.

“Your mom is doing well,” she says, the smile getting clearer on her face. “Dr. Brodsky says the life energy is healing her. At least, her heart is stronger now than any of their other readings.”

I take a deep breath and let it out. Relief makes my head dizzy. “Thank you. For staying with her for me.” I step closer to Elena, but don’t touch her, even though I’m dying to run my fingers along her hair. “Did you tell her what I said?”

“That you’re proud of her for risking everything to help others?”

I smile and give in to the urge to touch her hair, just skimming along the edges that frame her face. “I don’t think I said it exactly that way.”

“No.” She moves closer and looks up into my eyes. “That’s what she said about you.”

My fingers stop. “She said that?” My voice is thick.

“Yes.” She’s so close we’re almost touching. “I told her you were reckless and kind of an idiot for going off unarmed.”

“Thanks for having my back.” I smile. “And I’ll have you know I’m never truly unarmed.”

“I know.” Her voice is soft.

I can’t help staring at her lips and wondering if I can get away with kissing her for no reason other than I desperately want to.

“And I told her that, in spite of your being somewhat foresight-challenged, I was very proud of what you were doing. And I just wanted you to come back safe so I could tell you...” Her lips stop moving and stay slightly parted.

“Tell me what?” My words are almost nonexistent, because I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“That you’re much more than I expected.”

My heart pounds. She should know better by now about saying things like that. I lean in to kiss her lightly, and whisper, “I like exceeding your expectations.” My lips hover over hers as I speak, brushing them, and I feel her smile curve up. I kiss her for real this time, my hand slipping around her back to pull her close, my lips working against hers, saying things I can’t put into words. I want it to be sweet and tender, but the way her hands dig into my shoulders and pull at my clothes, ignites a fire deep inside me. It’s clean and hot, like a mercy hit, only so much sweeter and filling me with life instead of taking it. My hands slide under the back of her t-shirt, and the softness of her skin makes me ache. My fingers find all the small dips and curves of her body as I work her shirt off. She tugs at mine, and I release her for a split second to lift my shirt free, but that’s all I can stand before I pull her against me again. My hands bunch in her hair, and my mouth is on hers as I breathe in the apple scent that’s released from her hair. Her bare skin against mine sends shivers through my body.

I don’t realize we’ve backed up to the mattress until she bumps into it and tumbles out of my arms. She gives a half-laugh, lying half-naked on the mattress. The thing is old and musty, but at least it’s better than the carpet. I stare at her for a moment, not quite believing this is happening. Then I hurry to kick off my boots.

She’s up on her knees, her hands tugging at my clothes, which I shed as fast as possible. I make quick work of hers as well, craving the moment when there will be nothing between us, just skin and air. When we get there, I’m all hands and mouth, touching and tasting her like she’ll disappear if I don’t map out every square inch of her body.

I take a couple gulps of air and pause my frenzied pace.

I want to do this right. For all the women I’ve had, for all the moments of ecstasy I’ve had with girls I can’t even name, I’ve never wanted so badly to get this right. Elena deserves better than me in so many ways, I don’t want to give her anything less than the best I have to give.

I slow my caresses, but hers have picked up speed. She’s touching me and making sounds that override any thoughts of slowness in my brain. I move on instinct now, responding to her as she moves with me, a give and take that soon has us joined together, rocking on the mattress, a tangle of limbs and sensation so complete I don’t know anymore where I end and she begins. I have a faint notion that I should slow down, draw it out, make it better for her, but her soft sounds of pleasure are driving me mad and coiling tension deep within me. When she grabs at the mattress, gasping in air and calling out my name, it tips me over the edge.

A white rushing noise of pleasure blanks my mind, and the intensity of it stretches, lasts, makes me whole. I’m immersed, floating in a haze of happy. The first sensation I have of the real world again is her fingers digging into my back then releasing, again and again, like she’s trying to pull me closer, even though we couldn’t possibly be any closer than we already are.

I can’t imagine anything better than this moment. Holding her. Shuddering with the pleasure of being with her. Feeling her tremble around me. I hold onto it as long as I can, afraid to move and disrupt the spell… but eventually our bodies cool. Our breathing slows. The pounding of her heart, which I feel pulsing through me, steadies out.

When I allow just a whisper of air between us, it’s like being separated from half of myself. I immediately want to press against her again, but instead, I shift so our embrace is more cuddle than heat. I silently curse that our first time together is on a moldy mattress in Madam A’s safehouse. Elena deserves better than that, and I vow to give her better.

In everything. All the time. As long as she’ll have it from me.

Her eyes are closed, but her lips are parted. The glow of our lovemaking is on her, and it steals my breath. She makes the dinginess fade, and there’s nothing but her deep brown eyes lazily opening to look up at me.

“You are so beautiful.” My voice is a reverent whisper, like I’m in a church, worshipping at the altar that is Elena. Something I would happily do again and again.

“Isn’t that the line you’re supposed to use before you get me in bed?”

I laugh. It’s a deep, mattress-shaking movement. I have to hold onto her in order not to roll off the edge of the three-inch-high springs that are all that separate us from the floor.

“Damn!” I say. “I knew I would find a way to mess this up.” I smirk and shift again so that I’m in no danger of sliding off, then gently smooth down her passion-mussed hair. “Let me start over. Hi. My name is Joe.”

“Hello, Joe.” She smiles wide. It’s the most gorgeous thing.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Will you come to bed with me?”

She ducks her head into my shoulder, and her soft puffs of laughter tickle my neck. It gives me a warm glow feeling inside that rounds out the settling heat of our bodies. She runs a hand up my neck and into my hair. It’s a caress and a tug and makes me think of her fingers dancing in the air and how that made me ache for her touch on my skin. I lean in for a kiss, thinking less about tickles and more about all the ways I want to make her ache as well. Then I remember…

Shit. “Flitstrom!” It’s a curse that I whisper into her neck where I just kissed her.

She pulls back, the same look of alarm dawning on her face that I feel running shock waves through my body. “When is he supposed to be here?”

“He was coming right over. I don’t know! He could be here any minute.”

She scrambles for her clothes, and I scoop her t-shirt off the floor and toss it to her. As she catches it, I point to the back. “There’s a bathroom over there.”

She scurries off, naked and clutching her clothes, and disappears behind the bathroom door. It’s cute and funny, and I can’t help chuckling as I hastily pull on my pants. I’m half-way through buttoning my shirt and have one boot on when there’s pounding on the door.

“Shit!” I say under my breath. I step into the second boot and grab Moloch’s trenchcoat off the floor, hoping that my half-unbuttoned shirt won’t stand out so much if I’m dressed like a collector ought to be. I shuffle to the door and punch the button to open it.

It’s not Flitstrom.

I don’t know these two men.

I fling a hand toward the taller one’s face, but just as I make contact with his forehead, something explodes. The sound cracks the air in half. Then it’s like the world’s most powerful fist punches me in the side. I curl into the man. Twin pains hit me simultaneously: a searing burn from my hand on his forehead where I’m pulling life energy from him, and a wave of pain in my side that reaches my brain like a second bomb going off. It turns my vision into a crazed circus of stars and light streaks. The man and I both crumple to the ground. I have a brief realization that he’s not a debt collector, and that I’ve been shot, but then his body pins mine down, and the crush of pain makes it impossible to think. Everything goes black, then the circus of light surges again. I blink through it to see the second man’s gun pointed at my head. He grabs his partner’s jacket with his gun-free hand and tries to wrench him away. We fight for possession of the body. I vaguely sense the only thing keeping him from firing is that he’d have to shoot through his partner to get me.

Pain kicks my brain like a bronco. My grip weakens, and the second man wrenches his partner’s body free. Just as he swings his gun to me, a high-pitched scream jerks his attention away. His gun jumps toward the sound and fires. The sound cracks through me, and my body jolts from it, but I take that moment of distraction to reach toward him and shove my hand up his pants leg. I find bare flesh and pull hard. The fresh pain from the burn brings back the dancing lightshow, but I keep hold of him, draining, as he slumps to the ground.

I pull until he’s dead.

When I release him and roll back, my hand instinctively goes to the wound in my side. Everything is wet. Too wet. Like I’ve turned to liquid, and I’m melting in the middle. I can’t pull in a breath, like the weight of a hundred feet of water sits on my chest.

A thought fights through the suffocation and pain. He wasn’t pointing the gun at me. And I can only think of one other person he would shoot.

Elena.

No! I don’t say anything out loud, because my lungs aren’t working, but a moaning sound echoes around my body as I twist on the ground. I see her, lying with one leg sticking up from the floor, bent from when she fell.

When she was shot.

With a bullet meant for me.

An animal sound crawls from the very depths of me and gurgles up through my throat. Pain eviscerates my stomach, but I pull myself across the carpet toward her. Each motion of the crawl is a fresh lance through my body, but I get closer. There’s nothing but silence and the wheezing gasps of my own half-breaths. My vision tunnels to her. My arms weaken and shake, but I reach her.

Her eyes are closed, her face scrunched, and there’s a dark, wet stain spreading underneath her right shoulder. I pull aside her bloody t-shirt and see the hole, neat and round. A black, bloody mark that doesn’t belong. It’s close to her chest, and there’s so much blood already… I cover the hole with my uninjured hand and pulse a trickle of life energy into her. I can feel her energy well just beyond my hand. It’s there. Draining rapidly, but there.

She’s still alive.

I put my scorched hand to her cheek, flat for the most contact, and press my face into hers, touching her wherever I can to speed the transfer without burning her. But the energy dissipates, fleeing away and draining as soon as it enters her body.

A wash of weakness makes me tremble. Pain is a lion roaring in my head. There’s an answering blast from the heat of the mercy hit. I keep pulsing energy into her, and soon the clean burn wins, dimming the pain and making my head swim.

Dr. Brodsky’s words float up from somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind and dance around in the shimmering heat of the mercy hit. What we need is not to pour more life energy into the reservoir, but to stop the leak.

I need a cage to contain the life energy where she needs it most: her gunshot wound. I imagine a cage, but it gets me nothing. I focus on my hand over the bullet hole and close my eyes, because the strength to keep them open is more than I have to spare. Her life energy well is gushing, draining away fast with the blood that’s leaking out of her body. I can’t stop it. I can’t push back against it, any more than I could push my hand against a waterfall.

I have no idea what to do, and my body weakens even more with that thought.

I reach further into the wound, and I feel the edges of the bullet’s path: it’s a tunnel of destruction through her body. I picture Dr. Brodsky’s creepy flesh-device, reaching its many fingers around my mother’s heart, and I can feel my reach enclosing Elena’s wound in a protective shield. I pulse more life energy into her and… it stays. It swims around and around the damaged flesh, like a cyclone trapped in a bottle.

I slump into her chest, no longer able to hold up my own weight. Every bit of my concentration focuses on her, feeding in life energy until the cage brims with it, burning bright. Darkness crowds my mind. I don’t know how much life energy I have left to give. I don’t know anything at all, except that if I can stop the leak, if I can hold on long enough to do that, then maybe she’ll make it.

Her life is worth it. Worthwhile. Worth everything to me.

I picture kissing her one more time, because I can’t lift my head to do it for real.

The mercy hit burns brightest right before the darkness closes in.

Oh, Lirium. I have so much to teach you. It’s Ophelia’s voice, but her lips don’t move. They’re red and full, but there’s no blood, just her dark hair flowing down her back like a cascade of shadows. But you always were a fast learner. Then she becomes the shadow and disappears into darkness.

Another form emerges. Valac’s hair is slicked back, as sleek as his clothes and the smirk on his lips. An altruistic debt collector? You’ll get yourself killed with that kind of thinking, Joe. Then his smile fades, along with the rest of him. He’s just a vapor, and he speaks without air. I’m going to let go of you now, little bird.

The vapor whisks away, and in his place stands Elena. Her face is bright like the sun, so bright it should burn my eyes to look at her, but it doesn’t. I stare at her lips. They’re moving, but no sound comes out. I yearn for whatever she’s saying, lean toward it, but there’s nothing but silence and a small, distant beeping sound. Steady. Keeping time with the movement of her lips.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Then she dissolves into mist. It swirls and swarms toward me. Engulfs me. I’m surrounded by the tiny bits of her, a bright glow of whiteness and light. Her soundless words rush around me. You were much more than I expected.

Blackness falls over me like a blanket, cutting off the distant beeping sound along with everything else. New sensations flood my body. Slivers of light stab through the darkness. A thousand pound weight on my chest sinks me into something soft. Numbness holds back a disembodied pain, like a foot that’s fallen asleep, just waiting to be woken into pinpricks of agony.

My throat is dry.

A breath of life fills my lungs, and my eyelids drag apart. I’m blinded by overhead panels and silver cabinets, and white, everywhere white, glowing like in my dream. Only now I think I might possibly be awake.

Alive.

I’m not quite sure how that’s possible.

Out of the whiteness and glare, I see Elena’s face. She smiles. I force my eyes to blink, once, twice, but I’m still not sure.

“Are you real?” I ask, but only a croak comes out. She frowns and disappears into the glare. I wonder if I’ve frightened her away, but she’s back an instant later, holding a cup to my lips. I must be sitting up, because it doesn’t choke me, just slips smooth and cool into my mouth. My tongue is freed by the water, and I manage to swallow, but some liquid slides down my chin. I lift my hand to wipe it, embarrassed that she’s seeing me like this, but my arm is a dead, inert thing that only manages to flail against my chest. I use my shoulder to wipe my chin clean instead and vaguely notice that my hand has bandages across the palm and wrist.

What’s wrong with me? I close my eyes, afraid to know the truth.

“Joe,” she says, “can you hear me?”

I drag my eyes open again. My hospital room has the standard two-person setup with a privacy curtain. The lack of extensive equipment cabinets tells me it’s a long-term recovery room, not post-operative care or intensive care. A monitor patch peeks from underneath the cheap, fabric hospital gown I’m wearing. A thin, white blanket covers my body, which feels numb. I tell my toes to move, and a lump under the blanket where feet should be makes a reassuring motion. Which allays my worst fear—that the numbness was more than just painkillers or anesthesia after-effects.

I lick my lips before trying to speak. They’re chapped and stiff, like I’ve spent a week in the desert. When I finally look at her again, I see her arm and shoulder are wrapped in a silvery bandage. It’s clearly meant to immobilize her arm.

“You okay?” I manage to get out, even though my throat rasps like sandpaper.

The worried look on her face disappears into a smile. “I’m doing better than you.”

I want to smile, but my face is still sluggish. I fight through it to muscle up a half-smirk and make my words clear. “That was the result I was aiming for.”

Her face loses the humor. “Then it’s a good thing you passed out.” She chastises me with a tiny scowl that’s so cute, the smile comes easier to my face. “Seriously, what were you thinking, Joe? You were shot! If you paid out too much, you could have died.”

I don’t bother explaining how little that matters compared to her dying from a bullet meant for me. But now that it sinks into my brain that she’s alive, and somehow I’m alive too, the questions rush in.

“What happened?” I have to swallow, but my mouth works better the more I use it. “I think I was unconscious for the good part.”

Another person strides into the room as I speak. My eyes still struggle with the light, but I quickly recognize Flitstrom in his jacket and tie.

“I’ll take some of the credit for you being alive.” His smile looks out of place, like an undertaker who’s having a great day. I think I like it better when he’s uptight and serious. “If I hadn’t showed up and called for medical care before you lost too much blood, I doubt you would have made it. It was a close call as it was.”

“You showed up?” I stretch my mind back to when everything unraveled at the safehouse. The memory is hazed by pain and a distance of time that’s unclear to me, like a patch of my life went missing while I was visiting a place where the dead spoke to me. I remember the two men appearing at the door. It couldn't be a coincidence, the thugs showing up at my doorstep when I was expecting Flitstrom.

The questions pile up in my head. “Who were those guys? How did they find me? And how long have I been here, anyway?”

Flitstrom glances at Elena, and she gives him a nod before he answers. “You’ve been out about a week. We almost lost you on the operating table. You apparently,” he raises his eyebrows, “have a large cache of life energy within you, but your wound was draining it too fast. I authorized some medical needs life hits to counter the drain long enough to get you through the operation. You’re just lucky the bullet missed any major internal organs.”

My face is slack with surprise. “Someone gave me life hits? While I was out?” My mind wraps around this, and I wonder briefly if it was someone I know. Probably not.

“You’re part of a major case for the District Attorney,” he says, the serious bean counter returning. “A key witness. We needed you alive.”

I nod—this side of Flitstrom makes my shoulders relax. “But who were they?”

“Kolek’s men, although we didn’t find that out until later. When I got there, one of Kolek’s men was dead at the scene. It appears you drained the other almost completely, but we were able to get him medical attention and resuscitate him. Which is fortunate, because now the DA can pressure him to help in the case against Kolek as well.”

I thought I had killed them both, but the first drain must have been interrupted by a bullet tearing a hole through me. I hold an arm across my middle and ease myself to sit straighter in my hospital bed. The movement feels dangerous, like my insides are going to fall out. I move like I’m Rip Van Winkle, stiff from a hundred year sleep.

“Good thing you showed up when you did,” I say with genuine appreciation. “But how did they find us?”

“That was indeed the question,” he says. “We were able to track their phones back to Kolek’s estate. The order came from there, but there was no way for us to determine how they found the safehouse. When we reviewed your recording, we had the evidence we needed to get a search warrant for Candy’s office. It was there that we found the records to make the connection. Your psych officer had a tap on my phone. She must have overheard the coordinates when you called. Phone records show she contacted Kolek, who then sent his men.” Flitstrom’s face draws down a little. “I’m sorry, Lirium. I should have realized she would try to eliminate you before you could expose her operation. I’m afraid I inadvertently put you in danger.” He looks as contrite as a bean counter can, but it makes me cringe.

“It’s not your fault, Flitstrom. I didn’t exactly tell you everything.”

Flitstrom’s eyes narrow.

I sigh and lean back into the cranked-up hospital mattress. “Remember the ‘illegal records’ I showed you? I shook Candy down to get them. She had plenty of reason to want me dead, even if she didn’t know I was on to her about the kids. I should have told you that.”

He frowns, but only says, “Well, she’s in custody now. And after the search of her records, we were able to connect her to another psych officer named Kennedy. He was the one altering records to create the ghost files. As far as we can tell, there were no other Department personnel involved.”

“That’s because the hit was ordered from outside the Department.” I glance at Elena. “You looked at my recording, right? The part after I stopped Moloch from killing the girl, I mean?”

Elena nods. “They wanted to lift it from your palm screen while you were out, but I told them not to. That I’d made a copy, and they could use that instead.”

I give her a smile and remind myself to kiss her as soon as it’s reasonable. Possibly even when it’s unreasonable.

“What about Moloch?” I ask Flitstrom. “Did you find the body?” I’ve been out a week. They must have put all of that together by now.

“Body?” Flitstrom asks, throwing a look to Elena, who is also puzzled.

“Moloch’s body? The one dressed as an intern? Dumped in the alley outside the hospital?” I wasn’t the one to kill him—he did a fine job of that himself—but I did drag his body to a dank alleyway and leave it there. My attempts to conceal it were weak at best. After all, I expected it to be found eventually.

“We didn’t find a body,” Flitstrom says.

Elena adds, “Your recording ends with his attempt to get you to join this group, Gehenna. We just…” She glances at Flitstrom. “… assumed that you let him go? You didn’t mention anything about it at the safehouse.”

I suck in a breath, really not wanting to lay this all out. But the confused look on their faces leaves me no choice. Moloch’s body is probably lying in a morgue somewhere as a John Doe, and he’s prime evidence in the case. They need to find it.

“Look, it got a little… messy after I stopped the recording. He didn’t just walk away from that whole encounter.” I avoid Elena’s wide brown eyes and focus on Flitstrom’s steely blue ones instead. “He was pretty drained already. I had to do it… to keep him from killing the girl and to get him to fess up about the whole operation.” My voice is getting more defensive as I go. “Anyway, I realized I couldn’t just let him go, and I didn’t want to kill him. I was going to try to knock him out, or bring him in, or something, but then he…”

The memory of him biting down on his own hand makes me queasy. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m still recovering from being shot. Elena stares at me. I hurry to explain how it really went down, to short-circuit whatever she’s imagining.

“He figured out I was going to bring him in. At least, I think he did, because he did this crazy thing where he bit down on his hand and took some kind of poison. Foamed at the mouth and everything. Killed himself right in front of me.”

They blink at me.

“I know,” I say. “I didn’t believe it at first, but I couldn’t just leave the body there. So I switched clothes, wheeled him out, and dumped the body in the alley. Someone must have found him. He had the fake ID on him that I used to get into the hospital. He’s probably in a morgue somewhere.”

Flitstrom is already on his phone, searching.

I look to Elena, hoping she doesn’t think horrible things about me again. “I wouldn’t have killed him,” I say to her. And it’s true, at least I think it is. I certainly didn’t hesitate to kill Kolek’s thugs at the safehouse. But they tried to kill me first. And nearly succeeded. And they shot Elena—and if I’m honest, that alone would have earned them a life-draining death from me.

She nods and puts a hand on mine, the one without bandages. “I know. I’m sure whatever you did was necessary. And right.” Her fingers are warm on the back of my hand. I flip it over to hold hers, relishing the softness, her touch, the fact that she has faith in me. I drink that in like it’s the sweetest life hit I’ve ever had. Even if I have to borrow that faith from her, see it in her to believe it, just doing so makes the thought stronger in my mind. No, I wouldn’t have killed Moloch. Not if there was a way around it. But I would have done everything to keep him from perpetuating his crazy brand of evil on the world. Because I have a choice about the kind of man I want to be. And I want to be the kind that makes Elena look at me the way she is right now with her big, brown eyes.

Like I’m something decent. Something worth keeping.

I tug on her hand, urging her closer, because I’m afraid to lean over the edge of the bed to reach her. She leans in, and the corner of her mouth lifts as she realizes I’m bringing her in for a kiss.

We stall out when Flitstrom shakes his head and mutters, “That’s the last one.”

I give Elena a small smile that promises we’ll get back to the kiss. She stays closer to the bed, her hand lightly tracing a dance on my arm.

I force myself to ignore what that does to me and turn to Flitstrom. “What’s the last one?”

“What?” Flitstrom looks up from his palm screen.

I sigh. He wasn’t even talking to us.

“Oh,” he says, taking in the near cuddle that Elena and I are now engaged in. His face goes all business again. “I’ve searched all the morgues in the east side. There are no outstanding John Doe’s without DNA procedures complete. And we have Moloch’s DNA on file with the Agency. There’s no match.”

I frown. “Maybe his friends in Gehenna found the body and took it away?”

“Possibly.” Flitstrom nods.

“Could Moloch have faked his DNA with the Agency?” Elena asks. “Maybe he’s one of the bodies in the morgue, they just have the wrong DNA on file?”

I peer up at her. I’d make some kind of teasing comment about her being the only one who tampers with her own records, but Flitstrom’s in the room. And besides, that could be the kind of thing that an organization like Gehenna could pull off.

“Or maybe he’s not really dead,” Flitstrom says. “I’ve done a facial recognition scan with the recent morgue entries as well. Unless he had plastic surgery since you killed him, he’s not in the morgue.”

“I didn’t kill him,” I say pointedly. “He killed himself.”

“Are you sure?” Flitstrom asks.

My shoulders tense up. I didn’t actually check his pulse. How could I have forgotten to do that? “He seemed pretty dead to me at the time,” I say, but it’s weak. “Foamed at the mouth, seized up. Didn’t seem to be breathing when I hauled his cramped body into the wheelchair. In fact, I could hardly get him in there. He was dead weight and stiff.”

“Stiff?” Flitstrom asks.

“Like a board,” I say.

“Rigor mortis doesn’t set in for hours,” he says.

“Like I said, he took some kind of poison.”

“It could have been something that mimicked death for a short while,” Elena says. “Maybe he was buying time until this Gehenna group could come get him.”

I didn’t want to admit it, but she could be right. “He did seem to be relatively unconcerned about my threats to kill him. And he rambled, but I thought he was just stalling, afraid that I might—”

“From the recording, it sounded more like he was trying to recruit you,” Flitstrom says.

“And he knew he had this fake-poison option all along,” Elena says. “He wouldn’t be worried about you killing him if he was planning on faking his own death until his friends could come rescue him.”

I nod. “So, maybe he had an incentive to stretch it out.” I sigh. “Great. Moloch could still be out there, and if this Gehenna thing is real…”

“…they’re going to come looking for you again,” Flitstrom finished for me.

I was going to say they would keep killing kids. Or maybe try to stop the DA. But Flitstrom has a point, and Elena’s got that cute frown on her face again.

“Which is why,” Flitstrom says, “we’re keeping your identity here at the hospital  a secret. Officially, you died at the safehouse. As far as any records are concerned, Joseph Miller is a deceased debt collector. And I’ve made arrangements for you to enter Witness Protection.”

My mouth hangs open as Flitstrom speaks. I finally shut it and say, “What?”

“You’re safe from Candy and her partner, Kennedy, given that they’re in custody,” Flitstrom says. “Kolek may believe the official story about your demise—he did send people to kill you, after all, and you did almost die. Even if he doesn’t, he may hesitate to come after you, given that you’re not central to the case against him, not with his own thug turning states’ evidence. But this Gehenna organization has already shown an interest in you, and you are clearly aware of them. They may want to know just how much you do know. Or try to recruit you again. Or…”

“Or try to eliminate me as a threat,” I say. It’s not hard to imagine Moloch showing up one night and trying to turn the tables on me.

“Either way,” Flitstrom says, “you’ll be safer if we move you. Witness Protection will give you a new identity. You won’t be able to collect anymore, because the pool of known collectors is too small. It would be too easy to identify you. You’ll have to get some training, find a profession you want to work in, but the Marshalls will help you get established in your new life.”

A new life? I stare at Flitstrom as he speaks, but my mind has a hard time grasping it.

“So I wouldn’t be collecting?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “As soon as you’re well enough to relocate, the Marshalls will move you.” He gestures to the closed hospital room door, and I finally notice that I’m alone in my two-bed hospital room. “We’ve had a twenty-four hour guard on you ever since you came out of surgery. But we can’t maintain that forever.”

“But… where would I go?”

“New Mexico. Possibly Texas. You’ll have to ask the Marshalls once they take you into the program.”

Elena’s hand in mine loosens slightly. I look up at her, but she keeps her face blank, like she doesn’t want me to know what she’s thinking. I tighten my grip on her hand, and she gives me the barest smile. It falls off her face almost as soon as it starts. She’s blinking more than she has to.

I look back to Flitstrom. He’s waiting, letting me think about it.

A new life.

I wouldn’t have to traffic in death anymore. I’d have to give up my addiction to life energy hits, too, but that’s a price I’d be willing to pay for not having to be the Grim Reaper. But there is a lot more I’d have to give up. My mom, who I’ve just finally gotten back. The mastery of the mercy hits that I’ve finally obtained. The chance to do more good with Madam A’s kids, at least until she doesn’t have any more kids to care for. The DA’s investigation should shut down the need to smuggle children out of the hospital, and kids like Tilly should be able to live out whatever they have left of their lives.

I would lose Elena.

I could have a new life, but it would be empty of all the things I’ve finally found worth living for.

In a strange way, I already feel like I have a new life. From the moment I paid out to Tilly… from the first time Elena kissed me… when she was in my arms, and I couldn’t imagine anything better… I’m just starting to figure out what life I can have.

I’m just starting to know what I can truly do in the world.

Which makes me think about those last moments on the floor of the safehouse, pouring my life energy into a cage, trying to give Elena a chance at life. I tighten my grip on her hand, but I look at Flitstrom. “I have a few things here I’m not done with yet.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“There’s something else I learned in the safehouse,” I say, carefully. “Something I need to sort out before I can think about leaving LA.” I’m not sure how much of my new-found ability I should share with Flitstrom. He saved my life, but he’s part of the Department. And this isn’t something that I want the government involved in. Not yet, at least.

Flitstrom looks to Elena to see if she has any idea what I’m babbling about, but she’s just as confused. That’s okay, I’ll tell her soon enough.

“We’re taking care of the investigation, Lirium,” Flitstrom says. “You’ve done enough for that already. You’ve given us the evidence we need. And it’s really no longer safe for you here. You should leave as soon as you’re able, so you can keep intact the cover story we’ve created that you’re dead. If you don’t…”

He looks at Elena’s hand wrapped in mine. A dawning appears on his face, but then he looks grave. “If you don’t, I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“I’ve got news for you, Flitstrom.” My voice is serious, but my heart is light. “You can’t guarantee my safety no matter what.”

His mouth pinches together, like he wants to say more, but I can see he’s running the calculations in his head, and the odds of convincing me aren’t coming up good. Which is just as well.

Something silent passes between him and Elena. Which I don’t care for. Then he says, “I’ll give you a chance to think about it. I need to make a coffee run anyway.”

He tips his head to me then strides out the door.

As soon as he’s gone, I pull Elena down to sit with me on the bed. The cute frown has taken over her face, but mine is stretched with a smile.

“Joe, you should go into Witness Protection.”

“Probably,” I say. “But then I’d miss the chance to do this.” I pull her towards me. I can’t chance leaning forward too much, and I don’t have the strength to bring her into my arms, but she obliges, and I spend some time running my bandage-free hand through her hair and kissing her. Not hurried, even though who knows how much time we have left. But softly. And like I mean it.

She pulls back before I’m ready, but I’m in no shape to stop her. “Joe, you can’t stay just for me.” Her hands are twisting in her lap, and she won’t meet my gaze. “I mean, I’d like you to, but it’s not safe—”

I stop her before she gets too far. “It’s not just for you.”

She looks up, questioning. I don’t like the worry on her face, so I reach up to smooth it, and it disappears under my touch. That alone would keep me from vanishing into Witness Protection, but I don’t tell her that.

“When you were shot at the safehouse,” I say, “I did something I didn’t even know was possible. You know the device that Dr. Brodsky used—the one that helped my mom?”

She nods.

“Well, I figured out how to do something similar.” I touch her shoulder lightly, where the silver sling still holds her arm captive. “I reached inside you to focus the life energy transfer.”

“Don’t you do that all the time?” she asks.

“No.” I smile. “This is something completely different. I was able to flood your wound with life energy and hold it there. I know that didn’t do all the healing, but I know it did something. Something different. Something that could change everything about how debt collecting works.”

Her eyes are wide, and the deep, soft brown draws me in, like it always does. “You can heal people?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure exactly how it works, or how much I can do it, but here’s the thing: Dr. Brodsky and I need to have some serious conversations about all of it. What it means. How it works. And what I should do with it.”

She nods as I speak, then a slow smile spreads across her face. “So, you might need to stick around for a little while?”

“Well, I’m kind of an idiot,” I say, grinning. “It might take longer than you think.”

She takes my face in both hands and kisses me, pushing me gently back into the cranked-up mattress of the hospital bed. And while dull aches prod me from my wound, and I’m still weak from my final encounter with Kolek’s mob, there’s no place I’d rather be than with Apple Girl’s hair falling around me, her lips eagerly pressed against mine.

I don’t know how much life I have left, but I know for certain that every moment of it will count for something.

The story continues with a new debt collector in Season Two:

Wraith haunts the bedrooms of rich "high potentials" by night while working by day to end debt collection as a whole… until Gehenna discovers her secret, and everything she loves may be destroyed by the one thing she can never fix—the sin of being a debt collector herself.

“Wraith is amazing and just as compelling as Lirium--once again I'm hooked!!”

“I loved being back in this world! Wraith has captivated me.”

Debt Collector (Season Two)

Watch the Debt Collector trailer on YouTube

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More Stories from Susan Kaye Quinn...

THE SINGULARITY SERIES

young adult science fiction

What would you give to live forever?

Singularity Series

The Legacy Human (Book 1)

The Duality Bridge (Book 2)

The Stories of Singularity #1-4 (Novella Box Set)

The Illusory Prophet (Book 3)... coming 2016

Seventeen-year-old Elijah Brighton wants to become an ascender—a post-Singularity human/machine hybrid—after all, they’re smarter, more enlightened, more compassionate, and above all, achingly beautiful. But Eli is a legacy human, preserved and cherished for his unaltered genetic code, just like the rainforest he paints. When a fugue state possesses him and creates great art, Eli miraculously lands a sponsor for the creative Olympics. If he could just master the fugue, he could take the gold and win the right to ascend, bringing everything he’s yearned for within reach… including his beautiful ascender patron. But once Eli arrives at the Games, he finds the ascenders are playing games of their own. Everything he knows about the ascenders and the legacies they keep starts to unravel… until he’s running for his life and wondering who he truly is.

The Legacy Human is the first in Susan Kaye Quinn’s new young adult science fiction series that explores the intersection of mind, body, and soul in a post-Singularity world… and how technology will challenge us to remember what it means to be human.

~*~

THE MINDJACK SAGA

young adult science fiction

When everyone reads minds, a secret is a dangerous thing to keep.

Mindjack Saga

Open Minds (Book 1)

Closed Hearts (Book 2)

Free Souls (Book 3)

Mindjack Short Story Collection (Novella Box Set)

(Audiobooks)

Sixteen-year-old Kira Moore is a zero, someone who can't read thoughts or be read by others. Zeros are outcasts who can't be trusted, leaving her no chance with Raf, a regular mindreader and the best friend she secretly loves. When she accidentally controls Raf's mind and nearly kills him, Kira tries to hide her frightening new ability from her family and an increasingly suspicious Raf. But lies tangle around her, and she's dragged deep into a hidden underworld of mindjackers, where having to mind control everyone she loves is just the beginning of the deadly choices before her.

There are three novels in the original Mindjack trilogy (Open Minds, Closed Hearts, Free Souls), as well as five novellas that accompany the series... and plans for another trilogy in the works (see Susan’s latest novella, The Locksmith, for a peek at a new Mindjack character for the coming trilogy).

watch the live-action trailer

~*~

THE ROYALS OF DHARIA

sweet royal romance

Romance, sword fights, and skyships

Royals of Dharia

Third Daughter (Book 1)

Second Daughter (Book 2)

First Daughter (Book 3)

Aniri is the Third Daughter of the Queen of Dharia—and she has zero royal duties. She’s just the backup daughter, in case her older sisters’ arranged marriages don’t quite work out. But then the impossible happens—a marriage proposal. From a barbarian prince in the north, no less. And if Aniri refuses, the threat of their new flying weapon might bring war. So she agrees, only to discover the prince has his own secrets… and that saving her country may end up breaking her heart.

This Bollywood-style royal romance takes you to an alternate East Indian world filled with skyships, saber duels, and lots of royal intrigue.

~*~

THE DEBT COLLECTOR

sexy, gritty future-noir

What's your life worth on the open market?

Debt Collector

Season One

Season Two

(audiobook)

In this sexy, gritty future-noir, debt collectors take your life energy and give it to someone more "worthy"... all while paying the price with black marks on their souls. Intended for ages 17+.

Watch the Debt Collector trailer on YouTube.

~*~

CHECK OUT SUE'S SHINY NEW WEBSITE

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Writing this serial has been an adventure. My first thanks go to the readers who took the adventure with me, reading along and giving feedback—you truly inspired me, with every release of every episode (and all the in between times, too).

The idea for Debt Collector snuck up on me during a long car ride and refused to let go. Special thanks go to Dianne Salerni and Leigh Talbert Moore for their early encouragement to write this story, even though there was no place for it in the schedule. They were also my first critique partners, along with Matthew MacNish. All three helped keep this story on the rails as I wrote. Thanks also go to several writer friends who gave feedback on the early episodes, including Magan Vernon, Becca Campbell, Megg Jensen, and Tina Stoval. A big high five goes to Liz Searle for swapping pages with me all through the intense writing of the first season, and a special thanks to my SCBWI critique group for letting me bring Lirium to class, even though he was not a young adult.

Writing is always an act of faith—on the part of the writer, that the end result will be worth the agony and ecstasy of the writing process, and on the part of the reader, that time spent between the pages will be worthwhile. Thank you to everyone who has taken this leap of faith with me, whether you read episode-by-episode or waited for the full season to be complete. I hope you enjoyed the ride!

Susan Kaye Quinn is the author of the bestselling Mindjack Trilogy, which is young adult science fiction. The Debt Collector series is her more grown-up SF.

Susan grew up in California, got a bunch of engineering degrees (B.S. Aerospace Engineering, M.S. Mechanical Engineering, Ph.D. in Environmental Engineering) and worked everywhere from NASA to NCAR (National Center for Atmospheric Research). She designed aircraft engines, studied global warming, and held elected office (as a school board member). Now that she writes novels, her business card says "Author and Rocket Scientist," but she mostly sits around in her pajamas in awe that she gets paid to make stuff up.

All her engineering skills come in handy when dreaming up dangerous mind powers, future dystopic worlds, and slightly plausible steampunk inventions. For her stories, of course. Just ignore that stuff in the basement.

Susan writes from the Chicago suburbs with her three boys, two cats, and one husband. Which, it turns out, is exactly as much as she can handle.

Susan loves to connect with readers online! Chat with her about our coming robot overlords in her Facebook group, like her Facebook Page, or check out her website to learn about all her books.