KAMI GARCIA
I’ll never forget the first person I killed. The world went silent, and there was nothing but the sound of my heart pounding and his body hitting the floor. I spent days picking the dried blood from underneath my fingernails afterward.
I was barely sixteen, but I only had one regret.
I should’ve done it sooner.
It was after midnight when I finally made it back from the Triangle—twelve blocks where the city’s roughest neighborhoods converged, and a haven for drug dealers, hookers, and junkies. Not the kind of place most fathers sent their daughters, unless your father was a sick son of a bitch who took in foster kids to pay the rent and score him drugs.
I stared at the bare bulb above the front door. It flickered like it was as scared to burn out as I was to go inside.
“Petra?”
Will stepped out of the shadows, his lip cut and the skin around his dark eyes ringed in fresh bruises.
I came down the steps and reached out to touch his face. “What happened?”
He caught my hand and pulled it behind his back, drawing me closer. “Jimmy and I got into it again. Same shit, different day.”
I kissed the cut on his lip. “I wish you didn’t have to let him do this to you.”
Will shrugged, long hair hanging in his eyes. “Don’t have a choice.” Not while his little brother lived in Jimmy’s house—that was the part he didn’t say.
He leaned his head against mine. “Let’s get outta here. Tonight. After Jimmy passes out, we can take Connor and go.”
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a life without dirty needles on the kitchen counter and puke all over the bathroom floor—a life without Jimmy.
“We don’t have enough money yet,” I said. “And we can’t squat in abandoned buildings with your eight-year-old brother.”
“Maybe it’s better than this.”
The words hung in the air.
Years later, they would still haunt me.
I looked up at the lightbulb again. “I should get inside. He’ll only get worse if he doesn’t get a fix.”
Will nodded. “I’m gonna find somewhere to crash tonight.”
I pressed my lips against his one last time.
Will walked down the sidewalk backward, smiling at me, until he disappeared into the night.
When I opened the door, Jimmy was waiting at the top of the stairs tweaking and sweating pomade, his rayon dress shirt buttoned on the wrong buttons. “Where the hell have you been? You got my shit?”
I handed him two cellophane bags, hoping he would lock himself in his room and speedball his way through what was enough coke and heroin to kill any normal person.
Instead he grabbed my arm, his dirty nails digging into my skin. “This won’t even get me through the night.”
I shrank away. “You only gave me a twenty.”
Jimmy tightened his grip and dragged me down the hall. “Doesn’t matter. Castillo’s gonna hook me up after I hand you over.”
My blood turned to ice in my veins.
I had heard about the girls who disappeared in the run-down houses Castillo controlled in the Triangle. Most of them went inside looking for drugs. Then there were the others—girls like me who were handed over like crumpled twenties.
By tomorrow night, I would be lying in a filthy bed in one of those houses, drugged out of my mind and offered up to any scumbag that walked in the door.
“Jimmy, please—”
His fist slammed into my jaw. A rush of pain shot up the side of my face, and I stumbled back.
He caught me around the waist, pinning my arms against my body. “I waited two years for you to hit sixteen.” He slid something out of his pocket—a needle filled with enough of his poison to leave me unconscious, or at least compliant.
I twisted and squirmed until one of my arms slid free. The table where Jimmy kept his works was only a few feet away. I reached for the edge, trying to pull myself away from him.
Something rolled under my fingertips, and my hand closed around it.
I plunged it down over and over.
I didn’t stop when I felt the pen slide into Jimmy’s flesh. Or when he jerked away, screaming.
I didn’t stop until the pen slid from my blood-soaked hand.
Killing a man is easier than you think. It happens fast—in the span of a few heartbeats.
I don’t remember grabbing my backpack and leaving the house, or much of anything in the weeks that followed. I stayed in a shelter until they started asking questions. After that, I slept in Dumpsters and ate out of trash cans behind a Chinese restaurant.
Every night, I fell asleep picturing Will’s beautiful face, promising myself I would go back for him. But those dreams morphed in the darkness, and every morning I awoke in a cold sweat with the memory of Jimmy’s dead eyes staring back at me.
Whatever hope I had of seeing Will again was just that—hope. I was a murderer and possibly payment for one of Jimmy’s drug debts to Francis Castillo.
There was no going back.
Three months later, I met Kate. She never told me much about herself, except that she had left home at fourteen and figured out a way to make enough money to buy her meals instead of scavenging them. Turned out, I had a talent for stripping cars. If we picked the right ones, it paid well enough for the two of us to pool our money and sleep in cheap motel rooms.
Until the night everything changed again.
I was working the rims off an expensive SUV when I heard a voice behind me. “Need some help?”
I whipped around, wielding the wrench in my hand like a bat. The guy towering over me looked like he was in his thirties and had missed a few shaves.
The guy pointed at the rims. “You know the trick to that?”
“What?”
He flashed his badge. “Don’t get caught.”
I turned to run, but he caught my arm before I got more than a few feet.
“Please don’t arrest me,” I begged.
He hesitated and really looked at me. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Where are your parents?”
It was a question I had been asked a hundred times. The answer never got any easier. “I don’t have any.”
“You don’t have any, or you don’t like the ones you’ve got?”
For once, I had the truth on my side. “My mom was a junkie. I grew up in the system.”
He loosened his grip on my arm without releasing me. “Criminals and cops have something in common. They both see the world in black and white. Only difference is their white is our black.” His face softened.
“Maybe you’re just on the wrong side of the line.”
Four years later, his face is harder, from a combination of too many nights working undercover and too many bottles of whiskey, like the one on the table between us. But now we’re on the same side of that line, and I’m a cop instead of a criminal.
Bobby saved my life that night. I’ll never understand why he gave me a place to live and a chance to turn so many wrongs right.
I know something is bothering him because he’s not talking, the thing Bobby does better than anyone.
He pours himself another shot and downs it. “We’ve got a chance to get someone on the inside. Castillo’s triggerman turned up floating in the river the day before yesterday.”
Castillo.
“Are they sending you in?” I ask.
“No. They need someone who knows the players and the neighborhood.” He takes a swig straight from the bottle. “Someone with a range score above ninety-two.”
It feels like someone sucked all the oxygen out of the room. “I’m the only person with a range score that high.”
He won’t look at me. “I know.”
It’s too much.
Castillo and the Triangle. Kidnapping girls no one will miss and selling them like raw meat—and they were the lucky ones. The rest ended up in the high-rises, their veins full of junk, servicing Castillo’s crew and anyone else willing to pay.
I was almost one of those girls.
“Wait.” I hold up my hand. “Castillo won’t trust somebody off the street. I’ll have to prove myself.”
Bobby raises his eyes to meet mine, hope and shame so tangled together that it makes my stomach turn. “I know.”
I’ve only killed one person, and I can still hear him screaming.
I push my chair back, and it drags across the floor. The bartender glances over, and I lean closer. “You’re asking me to execute people,” I hiss under my breath.
His jaw sets, transforming him into the cop who can convince even the most hardened criminals that he’s one of them. “You wouldn’t be killing people. The guys Castillo works with are scum. Dealers. Rapists. Cop killers. The way I see it, you’ll be doing the world a favor.”
Bobby has to see it that way, or he won’t be able to justify what he is asking me to do.
Twenty years on the street changes a person, especially a cop. Bobby had seen things that kept him walking the halls at night and swimming in a bottle during the day.
“What happened to all that shit you told me the night we met about criminals just being on the ‘wrong side of the line’?” I ask.
Bobby stands up and lights a cigarette, tossing a few bills on the table. “You don’t believe that anymore, do you?”
Francis Castillo isn’t what I expected. Clean-shaven and handsome, in a dark suit and pressed shirt, he looks more like a businessman than a psychopath. He’s sitting in the back of Machiavelli’s flanked by his lieutenants, sipping espresso and reviewing spreadsheets. The restaurant isn’t open yet, chairs still flipped over on the tabletops while the staff bustles around in the kitchen.
He glances up at me and turns back to his paperwork. “A woman. I like that. No one expects a face that pretty to be the last one they see.”
Castillo hands the guy to his left a folded slip of paper. “Set her up with whatever she needs.”
I play the part—sugar laced with a little cyanide, that’s what he’s looking for. I let my eyes drift across my cleavage and down to the holster inside my leather jacket. “I’ve got everything I need right here, Mr. Castillo.”
His expression changes and even in his two-thousand-dollar suit, I see the hunger in his eyes that led him here. “I bet you do.”
I follow Castillo’s lieutenants, aware that his eyes are still on me. Another one of his thugs comes in as we’re leaving and holds the door open for us.
“Is he in the back?” the guy asks.
The voice slams into me like a fist. I look up slowly.
Will’s dark eyes stare back at me from inside a man’s body. The boy I never stopped loving.
Will can’t hide his shock, and I look away, breaking the connection for both our sakes.
The lieutenant nods. “He’s waiting on you.”
I’m still reeling a few hours later, while I wait for my mark at a deserted construction site. I was right about Castillo. He’s not a trusting guy, and my first job is only hours after our meeting.
I force myself to stop thinking about Will and concentrate on what I found out about the guy I’m supposed to kill. Torres owns a couple of the high-rises where Castillo houses his prostitution operation. A few days ago, one of the buildings was raided and the cops hauled this loser in for questioning. My guess is that Castillo either thinks Torres made a deal or is thinking about making one.
The office goes dark, and Torres comes out of the trailer.
I try to wrap my mind around what I’m about to do—shoot a man in cold blood.
Not a man. A monster.
The voice is so faint I barely hear it. I turn around and scan the area, but there’s no one out here except Torres. He’s on his cell, standing in front of the trailer like a bull’s-eye.
Anyone with a passing range score could hit this guy from where I’m standing.
I take a deep breath and raise my gun.
Even in the dark, I can see my hand shaking.
If I don’t do this, I’ll blow my cover. I need to hear Castillo order a hit, or he’ll keep hurting girls who aren’t as lucky as I was.
I’m holding the grip so tight that my fingers go numb. I drop my arm and slip behind the Dumpster next to me. I close my eyes, the metal cold against my back.
My eyes fly open.
A guy stands a few feet in front of me. There’s something in his hand.
Instinct takes over. “Drop it.”
He cocks his head to the side and smiles as he raises his arm.
I squeeze the trigger. Even with a silencer, I can hear both shots. The bullets pierce his black V-neck sweater square in the chest. I wait for his body to fold from the impact, for him to stagger and fall.
None of those things happen.
He takes a penny out of his pocket and winks at me. “For your thoughts.”
He must be wearing a vest.
But he didn’t even flinch.
“Don’t move,” I say. “Or they’ll be picking up pieces of you all over this parking lot.”
He raises his hands, palms facing me. “You’ve got me.”
Before I have time to fire off another shot, he yanks the sweater up so I can see his bare skin.
There’s no vest.
And no blood—
I pull the clip out of my gun and check it to make sure I’m not losing my mind. Two rounds are missing.
“You shot me, Petra. I think we both know that.” He lets his sweater fall and snakes his thumb through one of the bullet holes.
It’s not possible.
I try to bridge the gap between logic and what I just saw. It has to be some kind of trick.
He brings a finger to his lips, signaling me to be quiet. “You don’t want to disturb Mr. Torres over there. He’s engaging in a very sensitive call with a tantalizing young lady, who is actually a young man in Ohio.”
“Who the hell are you?” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
“I’m a businessman, but I like to think of myself as a problem solver. And you have a problem I can solve.”
“What are you talking about?”
He gestures in Torres’ direction. “You need him dead, and you can’t kill an innocent man, though I’m using that term loosely. I can take care of him for you and no one has to know. But you have to give me something in return.”
His voice is hypnotic, like waves breaking on the shore. “What do you want?”
“Nothing you’ll miss.” He smiles. “A kiss.”
“Then what? I turn to stone or something?”
He laughs. “If past experience is any indication, you’ll enjoy it. And you can earn the Blood Merchant’s trust. Did you know that’s what they call Castillo?”
I remember Jimmy dragging me down the hall. The needle in his hand … how close I came to being sold to the Blood Merchant.
I step forward and press my lips against the stranger’s before I can stop myself. He slides his tongue in my mouth and I taste him—burnt toast and honey.
He steps back, with that Cheshire cat grin still on his lips, and crosses the parking lot.
Torres notices him right away and pulls his gun. He fires off three shots, but the stranger doesn’t even break stride. Torres stares, dumbstruck.
The stranger walks by and extends his arm, a single outstretched finger pointing at Torres. He doesn’t even glance up as a slit opens in Torres’ neck and slices across his throat, following the path of the stranger’s finger, like a laser.
Is he carrying some kind of military-grade weapon? What else could cut through a man’s neck that way?
Torres clutches his throat and drops to the ground in a pool of blood.
The stranger looks back at me and blows me a kiss before he disappears into the darkness.
Castillo was impressed with the scene at the construction site. “Cutting a man’s throat is a work of art, and it sends a message. Shows you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty.” I had only nodded, afraid to trust my own voice, and grateful I didn’t have to face Will again.
I wasn’t as lucky the next time Castillo summoned me.
It was two in the morning when my cell rang and three o’clock when the black sedan pulls up in front of the furnished apartment the department supplied for me.
Machiavelli’s is closed, but the lights are still on in the back room, and “La Bohème” is playing loud enough to break glass. Castillo sits in the corner with his eyes shut. The owner of the restaurant has his sleeves rolled up and gestures as if he’s conducting an orchestra.
“Can you feel it? The desperation? The sorrow?”
Castillo opens his eyes. “Yeah. It feels like shit.” He nods and one of his men kills the music. The owner scurries past me like I’m contagious. I wonder if he knows who I am, at least who Castillo thinks I am.
One of Castillo’s lieutenants takes a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and hands it to me. It’s folded four times like the love notes boys pass you in high school.
Castillo stands and walks to the front of the restaurant. He’s the piper, and we all follow like rats. “You have style, Miss Nicov,” he says. “I like that in a woman.”
He lifts his hat off the bar and puts it on. When we step out onto the street, his car is waiting. The driver opens the door, and Castillo slips inside. He tips his hat to me, a ridiculous gesture. “Let’s see if you can up your game.”
The car glides down the street, and he leaves me standing in the dark. I don’t want to unfold the paper and see the name of the next man I’m supposed to kill. I don’t want to know what kind of evil this man has perpetrated or the number of lives he has destroyed.
“Petra?”
My breath catches at the sound of Will’s voice. It’s deeper, but it still sounds like anger and desperation. I can’t turn around.
I feel him walk up behind me, sense the way his body fills the space between us.
“When I came back and the cops told me Jimmy was dead and you were gone, I thought … I don’t know what I thought.” He hesitates. “Did Jimmy hurt you?”
I don’t want him to dig any deeper. “He tried, but I stopped him.”
“Petra, will you look at me?” He’s fumbling, trying to figure out how to have an impossible conversation. “You don’t know how many times I imagined what it would be like to see you again.”
He touches my arm, but I don’t turn around. I don’t even breathe.
Will comes around from behind me so I have to face him. “Just tell me why.” He drops his head, embarrassed. “Why didn’t you come back? I would’ve gone with you.” He laughs, but it sounds lonely and faraway. “I would’ve followed you anywhere.”
“I couldn’t go back.” I choke out the words. “Not after what happened.”
Will reaches out and runs his thumb across my cheek. “Petra?” He swallows hard. “What did he do?”
“He was going to trade me.”
Will doesn’t ask me to elaborate. The details were written all over my bedroom ten years ago in Jimmy’s blood.
He pulls me closer before I can stop him, and I’m in his arms. He feels exactly the same.
“There’s never been anyone else,” he whispers.
His lips are on mine. It’s not like kissing the stranger who bartered for my affection. I don’t have to give myself to Will. I already belong to him.
My hands tangle in his hair.
“Petra,” he breathes, and I’m drowning in him.
I pull away, gasping.
He keeps his hands on my waist. “When I saw you with Castillo, it was like seeing a ghost.”
Castillo.
Will works for Castillo. He thinks we both do.
“I have to go.” I stumble away from him, off balance in every way.
“Stay.” He reaches for my hand.
“I don’t want you to get hurt.” It’s the truth even if he doesn’t understand it.
Castillo will find out that I’m a cop eventually, even if he’s in cuffs when it finally happens. If he thinks Will was in on any of this, he’ll make sure Will is the next guy who turns up floating in the river.
When I’m safely in a cab, I unfold the paper with the name of the next man I’m supposed to kill. I recognize it immediately from the case files: Enzo Feretti, heroin supplier for half the dealers in the Triangle—the half Castillo doesn’t control. At least he isn’t some poor guy who can’t afford his protection payments.
This hit is harder. Feretti isn’t hanging out at a deserted construction site. He’s at home with a harem of hookers, if the notes Castillo’s lieutenants gave me are accurate.
Castillo mapped out the whole place for me. I’m supposed to take out the guy covering the back door and access the service stairs to the second floor of Feretti’s house. One of the hookers is a plant, and she will text Castillo’s men when Feretti passes out for the night and the other girls get kicked out.
From where I’m hiding in the trees, I can see Feretti’s guy at the back door. I unlatch the safety on my Sig 9, and try to convince myself I can do this—that Bobby’s right and it’s all for a greater good.
Deep down, I don’t believe it.
“I would be happy to take him off your hands.”
I whip around. Standing right behind me is the stranger in the black sweater, the man who slit Torres’ throat without touching him.
“Where the hell did you come from?”
He shrugs. “Around. I like to keep an eye on my investments.” He glances at Feretti’s man. “Are you really going to execute a poor idiot with nothing but a GED and a bad gambling habit?”
All I can think about is some poor kid getting sucked in by Feretti. A kid like Will.
“What do I have to give you?”
He tilts his head, considering. “A memory.”
“A memory? That’s it?” I laugh. “Take them all.”
One corner of his mouth tilts up slightly. “I only want one, but I get to choose.”
“If you don’t kill the guy guarding the door.”
The stranger crosses his arms, clearly irritated that I’ve added terms. “Deal.”
He takes off in the direction of the house, keeping close to the tree line.
The stranger is behind Feretti’s man before the thug realizes it, and his arm slides around the guy’s throat. With one sharp pull, the stranger cuts off the guy’s air supply, and he passes out.
He gestures for me. I move quietly, but unlike the stranger, I can’t keep my footfalls silent.
I follow him up the back stairs to the second floor. He heads directly to Feretti’s room with no guidance from me, as if he has a map of his own.
The lights are out in Feretti’s bedroom, but the gold paint and white lacquer gleam in the darkness. The room smells like hard liquor and sweat, and my stomach churns. Feretti is sprawled on the bed passed out, his gut heaving with every breath.
My eyes meet the stranger’s, and I offer him my gun.
He shakes his head. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat’?” He unearths a silver lighter from his pocket, and the stranger’s face contorts into a wicked smile. “There’s more than one way to skin a man, too.”
The lighter sparks, and he tosses it on the bed. The sheets ignite, and the flames accelerate at an unnatural rate.
Feretti bolts upright, thrashing and screaming as the fire wraps itself around his limbs. I gag and cover my mouth. The smell is worse than rotting flesh—like the smell of pain itself.
Feretti rolls onto the floor screaming, every inch of his body completely engulfed in flame.
I hear voices. A moment later, people bang on the door.
The stranger pushes me onto the balcony and leads me along a ledge that snakes around the second story. We reach the slanted roof of the garage below us. He grabs my hand.
I don’t realize we’ve jumped until my feet hit the ground.
Smoke pours from the window we had climbed through only moments ago.
The stranger drags me into the woods.
When we finally stop running, I drop down on the ground and hug my knees, shuddering with every breath.
What have I done?
He’s watching me, his pupils wide and hungry. “You owe me a memory.”
“Which one do you want? My first kiss? Or the worst beating I ever took?”
He kneels down in front of me until we’re only inches apart, his icy blue eyes ripe with anticipation. “Something a little more interesting.” He runs his finger over my bottom lip. “Like how you ended up here.”
I rub my hands over my face, and streaks of black ash come off on my fingertips. “I’m not telling you that.”
“You don’t have to.” He leans closer and his mouth is on mine again.
I try to pull away. But we are bound by something more powerful than desire and I can’t break free.
“Petra,” he murmurs. “I want it all.”
The memory crashes over me …
“Castillo’s gonna hook me up after I hand you over.”
The stench of sweat and crack.
“I waited two years for you to hit sixteen.”
I try to pull myself out of the moment—the memory—but I’m drowning as the images pummel me and I can’t find the surface …
The needle in Jimmy’s hand.
My fingers closing around the pen.
His blood splattering all over me.
Silence.
The memory recedes slowly, like the tide drawing back from the beach. The stranger’s lips are still on mine as he whispers, “My sweet Petra. What did he do to you?”
I’m in his lap clinging to him. Tears run down my face as he tugs on my lip one last time. He breaks the connection between us, staring at me as if he experienced the pain along with me.
“What are you?” I ask the question while the taste of him lingers on my lips—the one I should have asked after he slit a man’s throat without even touching him.
“Some people call me a devil or a crossroads demon. But they all call me evil.” His blue eyes blink back at me, looking deceptively human. “I’m a Soul Collector.”
I untangle my body from his, struggling to catch my breath and desperate to get away. “You steal people’s souls?”
He walks toward the woods, stopping before he recedes into the shadows. “I don’t have to steal them. They give them to me.”
When I arrived at my apartment, covered in dirt and ash, a car was waiting. Castillo’s driver didn’t even give me a chance to change my clothes. He drove directly to Machiavelli’s and ushered me inside through the back door.
Castillo sits at a table in the back reading some papers and smoking a cigar. Will is nursing a drink at the bar. His dark hair curls around the collar of a shirt that looks like it cost more than Jimmy used to spend on a month’s worth of food when we were kids.
But we aren’t kids anymore.
Castillo sees me and rises from his chair clapping, the cigar still wedged between his thick fingers. “You burned the guy alive?”
Castillo and his men laugh—all except Will, who I’m too ashamed to face. My stomach roils. Castillo lifts the papers he was reading off the table and slips them back in the brown folder. I recognize them immediately.
My personnel jacket.
He drops it on the table between us, and a photo of me in uniform slides across the polished wood. “Now what kinda cop does something like that?”
Will’s barstool clatters to the ground, but I don’t turn around.
One of Castillo’s men clamps a heavy hand on my shoulder and takes the gun from inside my jacket.
Castillo signals someone on the other side of the room. “Take them down to the basement. I want to know who they’ve been talking to.”
My eyes find Will. Two of Castillo’s men grab his arms from behind and slam Will’s face against the bar, forcing him to look at Castillo.
“He doesn’t have anything to do with this,” I say.
Castillo moves closer and grabs my face roughly. “You think you’re the only one who can dig around and find some bones? I know you both lived with that sleepwalker, Jimmy Rollins.”
I glance in Will’s direction. “I haven’t seen him since we were kids.”
Castillo shoves my chin away roughly and nods at his thugs.
They drag us down to the storage room. Cans of olive oil and tomatoes are stacked against the wall, across from two metal chairs bolted to the floor. Castillo’s men zip-tie our ankles to the chair legs and our wrists behind the chair backs before they close the door and lock it from the other side.
Will stares at me, his eyes full of questions. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a cop?”
I almost laugh. “You work for him. What would you have done?”
“I’d never do anything to hurt you.” He says the words as if no one has ever spoken anything truer, and I can still see the boy I loved more than anything.
The one I left behind.
I want to tell him I never stopped thinking about him, but I can’t.
“How did you end up working for Castillo?”
He looks down at the floor. “I took off with Connor after everything happened. There weren’t a lot of jobs for a seventeen-year-old dropout.”
The door scrapes against the concrete, and Castillo steps inside. His suit jacket is gone, the sleeves of his expensive dress shirt rolled up. He grabs Will by the throat, the tendons in his hands straining. “That’s a sad story, William. Did you tell her how I hid you from the cops after they found that piece of shit foster father of yours stabbed to death?”
Will’s body jerks in the chair.
“How I gave you a job so you could put your kid brother through school?” Castillo squeezes harder, and the color drains from Will’s face.
“Stop it!” I shout. “He has nothing to do with this.”
Castillo releases the iron grip, and Will gasps for air.
His expression hardens, and Castillo kicks Will in the chest. “I thought I taught you something about loyalty.”
The chair falls back, and Will’s head hits the concrete floor and lolls to one side.
Castillo walks over and stands in front of my chair, a sadistic smile on his face. “You’re gonna tell me who you’ve been reporting to and exactly how much they know, or I’m gonna lock you up in the towers and let every junkie in the Triangle screw you.”
Something moves in the corner of the room.
The Soul Collector steps forward without a sound and stands only a few feet behind Castillo. His eyes find mine, silently asking me the question I’ve answered twice before.
“I’ll give you anything you want,” I say.
Castillo thinks I’m talking to him. “I know you will.”
The Soul Collector looks me in the eye. “You have to say it.”
Castillo whips around. “What the hell?”
“My soul!” I scream. “You can have my soul.”
Castillo goes for his gun, but the Soul Collector is faster. He reaches out, and his hand breaks through Castillo’s rib cage like it’s butter. Castillo’s body sways and drops to the floor.
The Soul Collector stands before me, holding Castillo’s heart in his hand. He glances down at Castillo’s crumpled form. “I’m taking this one for now.”
He leans in and kisses me, Castillo’s blood running down my neck where the Soul Collector’s hand cradles my head. “I’ll be back in one year to collect what you owe, Petra. Make sure you’re ready.”
Will and I disappeared together that night—the way we should have so many years ago. We left our guns and regrets behind and started over with nothing but each other. We didn’t talk about what happened in the basement, and I didn’t tell him about the stranger who saved our lives. I spent the next year trying to forget the Soul Collector, praying that another debt would outweigh mine. As the months went by, he started to fade like a dream you can’t quite remember—a memory blurred around the edges just enough to forget.
It’s still early when I come back from the farmers’ market. Will usually sleeps late, which gives me time to make breakfast. I want everything to be perfect today—the day I tell him he’s going to be a father.
When I open the door, I’m surprised to hear voices in the kitchen. We don’t have many friends, and they never stop by unannounced. Realization tugs at the back of my mind, but it’s eclipsed by anticipation of the news I can’t wait to share.
When I see him, I drop the paper bag in my arms and a bottle of milk explodes on the floor. In a single moment, a day I never wanted to forget has turned into a day that I hoped would never come.
The Soul Collector sits across from Will at our kitchen table.
Will’s face is a haunting mask of fear and pain. I wonder how much the Soul Collector told him.
“I’m sorry, Petra.” The Soul Collector stands and extends his hand. “But it’s time.”
“Please—” I’m prepared to beg, but he shakes his head, silencing me.
“You owe a debt, and I have to collect. It’s not something I can forgive.”
Will stands and walks toward us, his every movement and expression an act of determination. He looks so broken, and I know I’m the one holding the bat.
“Can we have a minute?” he asks.
The Soul Collector nods and moves to the door, waiting inside the archway. There’s something unfamiliar in the stranger’s blue eyes. Is it sadness?
The tears fall before I can stop them. “Will, I’m so sorry. I should have told you.”
“Shh. I understand why you did it.” He takes my face in his hands and looks at me the way no one else ever has—as if I have real value. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I stare at his beautiful face and wonder if he would have made a different decision if faced with the same choices.
“You’re the only person I’ve ever loved” are the only words I can manage.
Tears run down his cheeks, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him cry. He presses his lips against mine, telling me all the things we don’t have time to say.
Will pulls away and walks toward the stranger who killed for me, and ultimately saved both our lives. I know Will wants to find a way out of this, but I’ve seen enough to know that we’re beyond that point.
I’ve made thousands of choices in my life that led me to this moment.
“Will, there’s nothing else—” I can’t finish. It feels like my body has run out of breath and I’m already dead.
Soulless.
Will is standing next to the Soul Collector, whose hand is already on the front door, and suddenly I understand. I try to make my legs move, but I’m frozen in place.
Will walks across the threshold backward, smiling at me.
The Soul Collector stops and turns to me. “A sacrifice is worth far more than a trade, Petra.”
“Will!” I tear across the room and reach the door just as it slams shut. The latch hasn’t even clicked into place before I throw it open again.
The sidewalk stretches out in front of me.
Empty.