The Wrong Goodbye

10.

When he finally released me from his grasp, I slumped back to the floor, a bemused grin breaking across my face.

“I’ve got to be honest with you, sweetheart —that meat-suit of yours isn’t exactly my type. But still, it’s good to see you, Ana.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Sam.” All trace of her meat-suit’s Southern accent had disappeared, replaced by Ana’s crisp Balkan tone. She looked at me a moment from behind those dull, close-set eyes, and traced the line of my jaw with one thick, calloused finger.

Then she slapped me again.

This time, I wasn’t so surprised. I turned my head in time with the blow, so this one was like getting smacked gently with a two-by-four. But hell, she hadn’t killed me yet, which by my reckoning meant things were going better than expected. Then again, the day was young.

Ana Jovic was without a doubt one of the best Collectors the world had ever seen. In the fifty-four years I’d known her, I’d never once seen her falter in her task; she did every job with quiet efficiency, neither hesitating nor belaboring the kill —and never, ever, missing her mark. It was Danny who’d discovered her back in ’57, possessing unwary travelers between collections and living feral among the ruins of her old village —a burned-out farming community thirty miles east of Sarajevo. And it was Danny who suggested, as he put it, that we “bring her in" —that we invite her to join our little Collectors’ supportgroup/cabal. At first, I was reluctant —the girl was wild and uncontrollable, living like an animal off the land —but once I gained her trust and heard her tale, I realized we couldn’t not.

See, Ana was born in 1931 to a family of ethnic Serbs in what was then Yugoslavia. When the fascist Ustaše seized power in ’41 and declared Croatia an independent state, they set out to purge their nation of Serbian influence in the interests of cultural purity. The Ustaše called it ethnic cleansing, but it was genocide, pure and simple.

In February of ’42, Ana’s village was overrun by an Ustaše death squad. The men, they rounded up and shipped to work camps. The women, they raped. The children, they shot dead in the streets. Ana, even then a resourceful child, fled into the woods, seeking refuge in the icy mountain wilds. The rest of her family was not so lucky. Ana watched from afar as, along with the rest of the townspeople, her mother and father were slaughtered, and the home that had been in her family for generations was pillaged and vandalized. Something in her snapped, then, and that frightened little girl made a choice that sealed her fate forever.

For her home was not the only thing her family had passed down through the generations: it was said that Ana’s family had the Gift —that hers was a line of mystics dating back to Roman times. Of course, Ana had thought little of the stories, or of her mother’s teachings; after all, it seemed that nothing ever came of them —never once had she seen any evidence that they were any more than family lore. But once the men had come and killed her family, Ana thought differently. Ana came to believe.

She spent a month out in the woods before the demon came, and in that month, the soldiers had all gone. Their places had been taken by Croat families who set about rebuilding the town and claiming it as their own. They were not to blame for what had happened, but at that point, Ana hardly cared.

Now, summoning a demon is a difficult task —one that the most powerful of mages might try their whole lives in vain to accomplish. It is blood magic of the most potent and dangerous kind. That Ana managed it at all is impressive; that she did it at the age of eleven is unprecedented. And the creature she summoned was no mere foot-soldier, but a demon of the highest order. He was so taken with the young girl that summoned him, he decided that rather than simply smite her for her impudence, he would offer her a deal: her soul in return for whatever she desired.

What she wanted was her parents back —but as the creature told her, that’s beyond even the most powerful demon’s reach. But of course, he said, there were other options —other ways for her to rectify the wrongs she had endured. At first, she wouldn’t hear them, but her demon was both patient and persuasive. So in the end, she settled for revenge.

When the demon finished with that town, there wasn’t a person left alive. He’d torn flesh from limbs, and ripped still-beating hearts from panicked, sweatslick chests. He had bathed in the blood of innocents. And all at the behest of one frightened little girl.

Of course, that frightened little girl had assumed that there’d be comfort in what she’d done —that once she’d avenged her family, she’d find some measure of peace. But she couldn’t live with the knowledge of the damage she had wrought. For weeks, it ate at her, until finally she couldn’t take it anymore. So she did the only thing she could think to do. She wandered back into her once more ruined town, her once more ruined home. With bloodied hands, she wrenched a shard of glass from the shattered window in her family’s empty parlor. And, lying on the floor of what was once her bedroom, she sliced deep into the tender flesh of her wrists, only to find that, for her, oblivion was not in the cards.

Her body died, of course, but Ana herself remained. She honed her abilities as a Collector, but between jobs she would return to the village she had twice seen destroyed. Maybe it was penance; maybe it was to remind her of who she’d been in life. Whatever her reasons for returning, it was clear the place was poison to her soul. But Danny and I, we changed all that. We brought her in. We spirited her away. We flattered ourselves with the thought that we were helping fix this damaged creature out of the kindness of our hearts, but the truth was anything but. We were all of us beyond fixing —and of the three of us, Ana was the only one with the courage to admit it. Which is probably why we both fell so hard for her.

“So,” she said from behind her boy-mask, “are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

I rubbed absently at the spot on my cheek where she’d slapped me, palm rasping against two days’ stubble. “I told you, I’m here to see Quinn.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“Honestly, I don’t give a damn what you believe.”

“Sure you do, Sam —you always have. Tell me, in the twenty-seven years since Quinn was shelved, how many times have you come to see him? Once? Twice?”

The truth was more like a half a dozen, but still, I knew it wasn’t enough. Not for Ana. Not for Quinn. “I don’t see how it’s any business of yours,” I snapped.

“I suppose it’s not. Except that you never seemed to give a damn about what happened to Quinn, and now out of nowhere here you are, and on a Monday, no less —the very day I always visit. It does cause a girl to wonder.”

She was right, of course, about why I was here —that it was her I was here to see —but she was dead wrong about me and Quinn. I didn’t stay away because I didn’t give a damn. I stayed away because it hurt too much to see him like this. I stayed away because I couldn’t help but feel responsible. I stayed away because I was a coward.

See, Quinn was a mistake —my mistake. I’d collected him myself in Belfast, back in ’72. Like the rest of our little cabal, Quinn was a contract kill. Belfast back then was at the height of the Troubles —by spring of that year, clashes between the Unionists and the IRA had reached a fever pitch. Between the bombings and bouts of open war in the streets, hundreds of innocent lives were lost, and thousands more were injured. One such innocent was Quinn, who lost an eye and both his legs when a car bomb detonated a few yards from where he stood. At the time, he was a scholarship student at Queen’s University, working toward a degree in engineering. Quinn was from a working-class Catholic family, and his father had died when Quinn was still a child; it had been his dream that his studies would one day allow him to support his widowed mother. But when a roadside bomb ended that dream, Quinn was forced to find another way.

The deal he made was simple: his mother would be taken care of, in return for his immortal soul. When I came to collect him, he didn’t protest, didn’t fight —he just closed his eyes and smiled. And when I wrapped my fingers around his soul and his lifetime of experiences washed over me, I wept at his decency, his tenderness —at the cruel acts of heartless men that had led him to my grasp. So when I heard that he’d been forced into Collection, it was only natural that to me we bring him in.

Truth be told, I don’t know what tipped off the higher-ups to the fact that he’d been disobeying orders and consorting with other Collectors. Maybe he’d been acting oddly. Maybe one of the dead-drops we used to communicate had been compromised. Maybe it was just bad luck. What I do know is that when they found out, they brought the full weight of hell down on him. They tortured him for days —and you’d best believe that demons know a thing or two about inflicting pain —but still Quinn never talked; he never gave us up. Maybe if he had, they’d have spared him —allowed him to continue his existence as a Collector.

But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. And in punishment for his unwavering loyalty to those he loved, hell’s response was merciless.

Once our demon masters tired of hearing him scream, Quinn was shelved —stuffed into a useless body decades from expiring. He was still fully aware, but trapped, unable to summon the strength to leap away. The only release for a Collector who’s been shelved is the death of the vessel in which they’re ensnared. By that time, though, it’s usually too late —the shelving nearly always drives them mad. And of course, the vessel in question is mystically protected —no amount of violence, either physical or magical, will cause Ms Mariella Hamilton to expire before her time.

So how is it I know all this? Easy —Lilith told me. And from what I heard from Ana and Danny, they got the same spiel from their handlers. What I don’t know is whether we were told because they suspected we were involved, or whether Quinn was simply made example of to every Collector in existence. Not that it really matters. Quinn’s shelving broke something inside me. I withdrew into myself, hitting the bottle pretty hard and focusing on whatever collection was at hand, but I couldn’t keep the guilt at bay. Ana didn’t understand that what I was doing was trying my best to cope —she saw it as callous and uncaring. And that’s when Danny made his move. Somehow, he convinced Ana that it was me who had hung Quinn out to dry. I hadn’t the faintest idea what he told her, or whether he himself believed it. I guess it doesn’t really matter what he believed, because either way, it spelled curtains for our little club. Ana and Danny rode off into the sunset, leaving me and Quinn behind. I guess sometimes friendship is a bitch.

“I admit,” I said, “it wasn’t only Quinn that brought me here. I wanted to see you, too —make sure you were OK.”

Ana eyed me with suspicion. “Why wouldn’t I be OK?”

“Ana, I talked to Danny.”

“Ah,” she said. “So that’s why you’ve come —Danny told you he and I were over.”

“That’s right.”

“And you came running all the way to Nowhere, Alabama just to see if I needed a shoulder to cry on? Why Samuel, I’m touched.”

“It’s not like that. I’m not here to get you back.”

“Get me back? I wasn’t aware you ever had me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I assure you, I do not. You and I, we had our fun, Sam, but I know full well your heart belongs to someone else.”

Elizabeth. She was talking about my wife, Elizabeth. “She was a long time ago,” I said. “Lifetimes now, it seems. And you know as well as I do I’m never going to see Elizabeth again.”

“True,” she said, “but that doesn’t make you love her any less. I mean, you damned yourself to an eternity in hell to save her, Sam —how could I possibly compete with that? How could anybody? Besides, with you and Danny, it was never about loving me —it was about fixing me, possessing me. I swear, I wish the two of you would get it through your heads that I’m not some delicate little flower to be sheltered and protected. It would have saved us all a world of hurt.”

“I told you, Ana —none of that is why I’m here.”

“Then why, exactly, are you here?”

“I’m here because Danny’s in some kind of trouble.”

“And you think that you can help him.”

“Something like that.”

“You do so like to play the savior, don’t you, Sam?” Her eyes drifted over to the woman lying still beside us, to the Collector trapped within. “It’s a shame you’re so goddamn lousy at it.”

“I don’t have time for this verbal sparring bullshit,” I said. “Danny’s missing, and I aim to find him. Now are you going to help me or not?”

She stared at me for a long moment, eyes narrowing in thought. “Why, Sam, I misread you! You’re not helping Danny —you’re hunting him. What, pray tell, did he do to piss you off so much?”

I considered lying to her, but at that moment, there was a rasping in the corner. A massive, bulbous wasp —too large by half for Alabama, but dead-on for the jungles of the Amazon —was skittering along the joint between ceiling and wall. The dry rat-a-tat of its wings against the plaster was like a death rattle. I wondered how long I had before its friends arrived.

“He stole something from me,” I said. “A soul that I was sent to collect. And now I want it back.”

“He stole a soul.”

“That’s right.”

Ana shook her head in weary resignation. “Daniel, you idiot,” she muttered, more to herself than to me.

“You don’t sound too surprised.”

“I wish I was. Truth is, I’ve seen something like this coming for a while, now. It’s why he and I are no longer together. Although even I’m surprised he would have brought you into all of this…”

“All of what? Ana, what the hell is Danny up to?”

“Sam, Danny’s a junkie.”

I don’t know what I’d been expecting her to say, but that sure as hell wasn’t it. “Come again?”

“You heard me fine the first time. He’s been skimming for a couple years now.”

Jesus —skimming? This shit with Danny was even worse than I thought.

The skim-trade is big business in the demon world. It’s sort of a black market for happy memories. Demons like to play all big and scary and superior, but the truth is, when it comes to humankind, the Fallen are jealous as all get-out. See, when they fell, they were removed from the light of God’s grace, and doomed to an eternity of darkness and despair. Skimming’s their way of reversing that —for a time, anyway. If a demon with the proper set of skills can get his hands on a human soul before it’s interred, he can shave off tiny fragments of life experience. This process is, of course, forbidden in the underworld, and it’s dangerous as hell —word is, one slip of the hand and the soul could crack, releasing enough raw energy to level a city block. But done properly, those skimmed fragments provide a high no demon could attain on their own: the high of love, of life; the warm embrace of a moment in God’s grace.

“But I thought skim was just for demons,” I said. "I didn’t think they’d deign to deal to humans —alive or otherwise.”

“That’s mostly true, I guess —but they’ve got to get their product somewhere, right?”

I frowned. “You’re saying Danny was funneling them souls? But why? How’d he get involved?”

“About three years back, he was approached by a demon who runs a skim-joint outside of Las Cruces. Somehow —I don’t know how —he’d found out about Danny’s relationship with me, and he exploited it for all it was worth. He said it would be a shame if our handlers found out about us —especially when such a discovery could be so easily avoided. He offered us protection —that, and access to all the creature comforts we could ever want. In return, all he asked for was a day or so to tinker with whatever soul Danny had collected. Once he extracted what he needed from the soul, he returned it to Danny for interment, and no one was ever the wiser. The system worked well enough for a while —and I confess, distasteful as the demon’s protection racket was, the nights Danny and I spent dining and drinking in the finest hotels without fear of discovery were among the happiest I’ve ever known. But then somewhere along the way, Danny’s method of payment changed.”

My face twisted in disgust. “Do you have any idea how fucking stupid you two were not to simply break it off with one another? What if you’d been caught? Or what if Danny’s demon-friend fucked up and cracked the soul Danny was assigned to inter? What do you suppose his handler would do then, huh? You want him to end up like Quinn? ’Cause make no mistake —if he were caught failing to perform his duties as a Collector, that’s exactly what’d happen.”

“Of course it was stupid, Sam. I knew it; Danny knew it. But can you even remember what it’s like being happy —even if for just a moment? Danny knew the risks, and as he told me a thousand times, even if he was caught, he wasn’t hurting anybody but himself. Of course, when he started using, everything changed. He retreated into himself, and shut me out entirely.”

“So when your gravy train runs out, you up and bail, huh?”

Her eyes flashed with sudden anger. “You’re a bastard, you know that? You have no idea what it was like. You have no idea what that shit did to him. When he was skimming, it’s like he wasn’t even there —and when he came down, it was even worse. He was hollowed out. A ghost. After a year of trying to reason with him, of begging him to give it up, I couldn’t take it anymore. So finally, I left. You know a thing or two about leaving, don’t you, Sam?”

I let that comment pass. “Still, Danny’s actions don’t track. I mean, the bigwigs only tolerate the skim-joints because they stay below the radar —they don’t disturb the status quo. You said yourself, they borrowed Danny’s souls, they didn’t steal them. So where’s the upside in having Danny snatching Varela?”

“How the hell should I know? Maybe demand is on the rise, and the usual methods for obtaining skim can’t keep up. Maybe the recent unrest between heaven and hell has disrupted the skim-joint’s regular supply, forcing them to look elsewhere. Or maybe Danny’s just desperate. Maybe he needed a fix, and figured you for the sucker he could take it from.”

I shook my head. “You know full well only a demon’s got the reflexes to pull a successful skim. Danny wouldn’t stand a chance —he’d crack the soul, and blow his meat-suit all to shit.”

“That’s assuming he’s still in his right mind.”

“Come on, Ana, this is Danny we’re talking about. Junkie or not, you know he’s working some kind of angle.”

“Maybe. But I certainly couldn’t tell you what it is.”

I thought a moment, played the angles in my head. “This demon who’s been pulling Danny’s strings,” I said, “he got a name?”

Ana’s gaze, which until now had met my own, dropped. She stared at the floor a moment, and when she spoke, her tone was scarcely more than a whisper.

“Dumas,” she said, her voice tinged with shame and regret. “The demon’s name is Dumas.”