Wraith (Debt Collector 10) (6 page)

“Thanks for waiting, Jax.” My bright red heels are a stark contrast to the accumulated grime and smog-filtered light that’s sucked all the color out of the room.

“Wraith,” Jax says in acknowledgment, but her gaze is glued to the screen. Her fingers flit rapidly over it. I wait while she finishes.

Jax’s real name is Joanka, and she’s a distant cousin of the east side mob bosses. She doesn’t strictly work for any of the three brothers, but she’s friendly enough with Emeryk that she has both protection and contacts when she needs them. Jax started working for my father when my mother was cashed out shortly after my birth. My father was convinced it was a revenge kill for his early anti-debt-collector activism, but it turned out to be simple bad records keeping. Jax stayed on retainer since my father’s activist work only increased afterward. She grew up around mob collectors and dirty justice, and e
ven though she helped him keep tabs on the illegal life energy trades, she never seemed to judge any of it. When I found out what I was, she was literally the only person I could turn to. But I don’t remind her of that any more than I remind her of the fixing she’s already done for me.

We stick to business as much as possible.

And today, that’s finding me a payout I’m desperately in need of.

A trilling sound from the screen signals Jax’s defeat and probably a need for more debit cards from me. She snorts in disgust and tosses the screen onto the workbench, where it slides into a dust-covered can of micro-pliers. She crosses her arms as she leans back, then gives my attire a startled look, like she’s just noticed it.

“What’s with the costume?” she asks, her voice gravelly like she’s had too much wódka over her lifetime. I’m not quite sure of Jax’s other vices.

“I was in a hurry.” My leg itches again, and I glance down, but I’m not bleeding. “You said you had someone set up for me?”

Her face wrinkles up to show her age. “What happened to Madam A? Seemed like that was a sweet gig for you.” She’s got that holding-back tone, like she’s more curious than she lets on. Given Jax set me up with Madam A in the first place, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s getting favors in return. And I know Jax is a fan of the high-class female sex workers that Madam A specializes in.

“Things have changed there,” I say, opting for honesty. Jax knows everything about me anyway. “Madam A has a new debt collector she wants me to work with.”

A light of recognition smoothes out the lines on Jax’s face. “Ah. I can see how that might be a problem.”

“It was good while it lasted.” The tremors are ramping up again in anticipation. “So, what do you have for me?”

“Keep your skirt on, girl.” But she nods as if that’s plenty explanation for her. I love that about Jax—she never asks more than she really needs to know. “But yeah. You’re gonna like this.”

Jax doesn’t oversell. In fact, quite the opposite. So my fidgeting ceases, and I perk to attention. “I’m going to like what?”

She straightens up from the workbench and adjusts her trenchcoat. I grit my teeth. Jax doesn’t oversell, but she sure likes to tell a story. Especially one where she’s the hero. “I know this nurse,” she starts. “Very pretty by the way and outrageously good in bed. I met her at a—”

“Jax,” I warn her. “Can we skip ahead to the part where you’ve found the perfect payout for me?”

The wrinkles show up in her face again, but she sighs and gives me what I want. “The nurse’s name is Melinda. She scouts for people in her ward who are right on the edge: in danger of getting put on the collection list, but not yet triggering the mandatory review, because their prognosis is still good. People who don’t qualify for a medical needs hit because they’re not high potentials. She’s got a sweet heart and wants to save them. I tell her you can’t buck the system, but does she listen? Not the first hundred—”

“For the love of God, Jax.” I don’t think it’s my plaintive look that gets her. It’s the way my hands are shaking even though I’ve made them into fists.

“All right, let’s go,” Jax says with a sigh. “The hospital’s nearby. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

I nod my gratitude. I’ll pay her later—we always settle up separately from meeting—but the relief is intense as she hustles me out of the dusty electronics store and hails us a cab with her phone.

Jax’s nurse friend
is
pretty. I make a mental note of Jax’s preference for tall, willowy redheads with kind smiles, just in case I need to know this later, but right now I’m focused on changing into the hospital scrubs she’s shoved in my hands. Jax is waiting for me in the lobby. I’ll need a ride home when I’m done, and I won’t be in much shape to get one myself.

Melinda watches the locker room door while I change. “Just stuff your clothes in that bag,” she says, not looking at me.

When I’m done, she grabs it and gestures me to follow her out into the oncology ward. I try not to fuss with my fake ID or look too nervous. Melinda leads me to room 704, which is a two-patient room, but there’s a privacy screen. I already know who we’re looking for: Alice Jones, mother of three with an obscure form of breast cancer. She’s responding to treatment, but the secondary infection is taking down her compromised immune system hard. The kicker is, if she can beat the virus, she’s already killed the cancer. But her family is stretched thin, and the hospital costs put them on the edge of going into debt to save her. And that’s a path no one wants to go down. Jax’s nurse friend was arranging for them to buy a hit from the mob when Jax offered up my services.

Melinda ushers me in. I’m used to paying out to kids with terminal diseases, so Alice’s sallow cheeks, hairless head, and IV drips don’t shock me. Or the wheezing sound that sneaks around her oxygen mask. It’s the way her eyes light up when Melinda introduces me that gives me a pulse of surprise. Her cancer isn’t infectious but the hope on her face is.

With the kids, it was all about making them comfortable during the short time they had left. Which was why I’m achingly jealous of that other debt collector’s ability to
cure
them. But with Alice
…
I might actually be able to save her.

My palm itches. I can’t wait. “Are you ready?” I ask in a soft voice that won’t carry.

“Yes.” Her voice is so wheezy, it’s a wonder she’s getting any oxygen at all.

I don’t waste any more time, just place my hand on her forehead. She lets out a low sigh as the life energy trickles in. That alone brings a small smile to my face. But then the mercy hit sparks inside me. This is what I’ve been craving—the kind of pure emptying feeling I imagine monks experience on a fast. Or at the pinnacle of their meditation. I don’t know why the mercy hit feels this way, I just know it washes away the dark spots on my soul, if only for a moment. I open up the flow a little more, and the contact between my hand and Alice’s heats. I can’t go too fast—for her sake and mine—but I push it, just a little. Then a little more.

Because it feels so damn good.

I close my eyes and tip my head back. The small sun in my chest blossoms and grows, consuming me with a righteous fire. I lose all sense of the room. I’m floating on a high so vast, I’m a small sailboat skimming the waves of a deep, deep ocean. Something tugs at my mind. Tugging, tugging… something’s wrong. I suck in a breath, open my eyes, and awareness comes swimming back. My eyes blink to make sense of what I see.

The red-haired nurse bending over me. Lips moving. Speaking without words.

I’m on the floor.

I gasp in more air, and sound comes rushing back. Then Melinda is saying, “Honey, can you hear me? Can you see me? If you can speak, say something.”

“Alice…” My lips are numb.

“Alice is fine.” There’s a clear look of relief on her face.

She helps me up to sitting, but the nausea curls into me, and I’m back on the floor. Wave after wave hits, and just when it seems like it’s never going to stop, it slows a little. Enough that I can unfold from my fetal position and sit up.

Jesus, how much did I pay out?

I completely lost track. Usually the steady drip registers some flow of time in my brain: weeks or months. Occasionally a year. Whatever I pulled from Odel, I’m sure I paid out more to Alice. A lot more.

Shit.

With Melinda’s help and a grasp on Alice’s bed, I get to standing. Alice is sitting up, respirator gone, eyes-wide at my hunched over frame.

“Are you okay?” She seems genuinely panicked.

I try to wave her concern away, but I’m weak. So weak. My bones feel like they’re going to break just from standing up. I straighten anyway and hold in the moan. The clean burn of the mercy hit buoys me. Plus Melinda’s surprisingly strong arm is around my shoulder, keeping me upright. I want to say something to Alice, but I need to get out before I’m sick. Get home so I can collapse and ride out the aftermath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jax,” I wheeze. “Give it to me.”

“No.”

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

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

My next target.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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