Wraith (Debt Collector 10) by Susan Kaye Quinn Page B

bed, and bioluminescent creatures undulate through the clouded water. They cast a blood-red glow that oozes in between the slices of darkness. I have no idea how the man sleeps in this room, but his barely audible breaths are the slow, steady rhythm of the unconscious.
    There’s a lot of floor to cover before I can reach him, so I keep my footfalls muted. I give silent thanks that he’s alone in his bed—I could handle two at a time, but his companions are probably innocent of any real crime, with the exception of their bad taste in men. I slowly tug off my gloves on the way and tuck them in the back of my suit. The less DNA I leave behind, the better. Not that my targets are eager to call the police—too much scrutiny in their lives might turn up the source of those ill-gotten hits. And the mob doesn’t like it when a bright light shines on their bustling life energy trade business. The mob cutting Odel off from his supplier would be the best he could hope for. The worst would involve caskets and weepy nighttime companions. At least with me, he only stands to lose the years of life he’s stolen.
    I reach the bed without him waking. His bio says he’s ten years older than me, but thanks to a steady supply of life energy, he looks about my age: twenty-five, if you count the years, not the mileage. With all that life energy in store, he would outlive me by a long shot, if he kept everything he has taken.
    I’m about to fix that.
    Getting into position without waking him is a little tricky. I reach my palm toward his forehead. Just as I make contact with his skin, I climb onto the bed in one swift motion and trap him under the blanket by straddling his body. I keep one hand free, but I don’t have a gun or a knife or anything like that. My bare hands are far more dangerous weapons.
    Odel flinches, reacting to the sudden weight, even from the depths of sleep. My hand is aching with need, so I take a taste—it looks like I’m giving him some kind of blessing, hand-to-forehead, but I’m actually sucking the life energy right out of his body. It starts as a trickle, but even that small amount rushes the liquid gold feeling I’ve been craving. A little gasp escapes me with the relief. Odel arches his back, frozen by the death-feeling that’s flooding his body. The contact point on my hand heats with the hit, and I want more. So much more. I want to suck down every last drop he has. But I fight the urge and manage to slow the pull… and eventually stop. Odel gasps air back into his lungs, his eyes now wide-awake and staring in horrified surprise.
    Nothing quite like waking up to find your nightmare is real.  And sitting on your chest, ready to deliver more.
    “Adrien Odel,” I say with my best judge-and-jury voice. This part is important. I want him to know why I’m here. I’m not a debt collector for the mob or some rogue collector out for juice on the side. I’m not the government’s grim reaper, cashing out the destitute to feed a corrupt life energy supply system. I’m something he’s never heard of: a debt collector who will make him pay for his sins. A vengeful angel brought to his bedroom by his own foul actions. At least, that’s what I want him to think.  The suit usually helps, along with the wild-flowing curly black hair.
    “I… what…” He’s still breathless. But he’s smart, too, and quickly figures it out. His legs are trapped under the blanket, but his arms are free, so he lunges for me—the typical response. If he tried to twist away, making me lose contact with his bare skin, I might actually get into trouble. But my targets almost always go for my throat, especially the men. And most of them are men. I’m not biased—I’ll hunt down anyone who trafficks in life energy—but while the occasional socialite, movie star, or female corporate executive might make my list, it’s usually the men who think they can make deals with the mob and get away with it. And when they see a woman in