Wraith (Debt Collector 10) (7 page)

My suit.

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

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

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

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

It’s a bad combination. I know it.

I’m doing it anyway.

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

There’s nothing obvious to hate about Hughes.

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

I step into the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m definitely scared.

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

I start to edge away.

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

I break for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smirks. “Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Same as your trenchcoat, I imagine.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh shit.

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

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

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

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

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

I run.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I fight hard, growling out my own frustration.