Ecstasy (2 page)

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 was 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.