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
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
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