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.”