Wraith (Debt Collector 10) (8 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To my utter amazement, he pushes away from me and climbs to his feet. I hesitate, then quickly scramble up from the floor. I have no idea what’s happening.

He shakes his head. “Someone like you… someone in your
position,
shall we say, could have a lot of influence in Gehenna.”

“What the hell is Gehenna?” My brain is swimming: from the pitched life energy battle
,
from the crazy things he’s saying, and from this sense of
motion
under my feet, like the world isn’t steady anymore.

He glances back to Hughes’s bedroom, like he’s just now piecing it together. Why I’m here. What I was doing to Hughes. But he doesn’t understand me—he can’t possibly know. 

He looks back to me. “It’s an organization of collectors," he says. “And they want the same thing I think you do.”

“You don’t know what I want,” I toss back. But I’m casting for a solid anchor to hold on to, something that makes sense in all of this.

He straightens his trenchcoat, rumpled from our fight. “You want to make a difference,” he says coolly. “You have the power of life and death in your hands, and you want to do something
important
with that. Am I wrong?”

I don’t say anything. The sense of panic is tamped down by an unwelcome hope. I don’t want to believe anything this debt collector is saying, but there’s a part of me that wants to hear what he has to say.

He nods, even though I haven’t replied. “I have someone who will very much want to talk to you. I’ll be in contact to set up a meeting.”

“You’ll… what?” It sounds like he’s letting me go. Which spins the gears in my head one more time.

“Go home, Alexandra.” His voice is deadly serious now. “I’ll call you soon.”

I frown, unsure. He’s letting me go, but with the threat, or possibly the promise, of meeting later. With this group, Gehenna. Which could be something that will destroy me or… I can’t even think what the alternative might be. I have this overwhelming sense it will destroy me either way. That a guillotine hangs over my head, regardless. But at least for the moment…

I take a step back, testing. “How about we just forget all this happened? No need to call me in the morning.”

“Trust me, that’s not an option.” He folds his hands in front of his trenchcoat, but doesn’t move to stop me as I slowly edge away.

I turn and run out the back door.

Writing a serial is just like writing a novel... if you were writing that novel while on crack. Or high from life energy hits. Actually, writing a novel and writing a serial are completely different experiences
—
one is a marathon of story and words, while the other is series of story wind-sprints in which you tell a connected chain of events within a larger story-complex
—I think of it as nestled 
harmonics that fit together to give a larger story experience than is possible within the constraints of a novel. There
’
s a reason why I continue to write both serials and novels: they
’
re different ways of telling stories, and I love exploring the possibilities of both.
Not everyone writes serials with the rapid write-release-write-more-release-again pacing that I do with Debt Collector. But that
’
s the way it began with Season One, and I
’
m continuing the tradition with Season Two. This insanity would not be possible without the help of several key people. Huge thanks are due to my critique partners, Dianne Salerni, Leigh T. Moore, and Liz Searle. Their rapid-turn-around feedback helps keep the story on the rails as I plow full-steam ahead. Thanks are due also to Steven Novak, who not only makes the series gorgeous with unique cover art for every episode, but he likewise doesn
’
t bat an eye when I say, 
“
Oh crap, I forgot the paperback cover for episode one, can I have that, like, immediately??
”
 Strangely, he hasn
’
t thrown me overboard for less demanding, not to mention non-psychotic, clients.

The biggest thanks of all go to my Debt Collectors
—
those special readers who join the crazy head-long rush while I
’
m writing the seasons or who wait until the end to read the completed season and then turn around and immediately ask when the next one is coming. Your enthusiasm for the series is like a continuous supply of life energy hits (legal ones, of course)! Thanks for keeping me going.