The Collector by Victoria Scott

other two days.”
    Stalling, I point to the clock. “Technically three.”
    She seems confused, then turns to glance at the clock. I expect her to laugh, but she doesn’t. “Okay, three.”
    I stand up from the bed and put my hands on my head, lacing my fingers together. Then I shake my arms out and sit back down.
    “What is it?” Her voice brims with concern, and it only makes me feel worse about the lies I’ve told her. This is exactly why I hate making things personal.
    “What I mean to say is I haven’t been honest about who I am,” I tell her.
    She leans back. It’s hardly noticeable, but I notice it all the same. “Well, this seems easy enough. Just tell me the truth. Who are you?”
    I’m a collector sent from hell to manipulate you into sinning until I can collect your soul.
    This doesn’t seem like the best way to start. So instead, I say, “I didn’t come to Peachville because of my mom’s new job. I came for you.”
    Charlie swallows. “What do you mean you came for me?”
    To seem like I care, I cover her hand with mine. “My mom doesn’t live down the road. I don’t live down the road. I’m staying at Wink Hotel near the plaza.” I squeeze her fingers. “Charlie, my job was to find you.”
    She wiggles her fingers free. “Why?”
    I don’t know what to say next, so I decide to just leap. “I work as a collector.”
    “Like a debt collector?”
    “No, Charlie.” I crack my knuckles. Here goes. “I work as a soul collector.”
    Charlie starts laughing and stands up from the bed, leaning on her good hip. “My gosh, Dante. It’s three o’clock in the freaking morning. If you wanted to mess with my head, why didn’t you do it at the party?”
    “I’m telling you the truth.”
    “No, you’re being a jerk. And I want you to leave.”
    “Charlie, listen.” I cross the room and grab her elbows. “I’m a collector. My job is to place seals on people’s souls.”
    “Why are you talking to me like I’m an idiot?”
    “I don’t think you’re an idiot,” I say. “I swear I’m—”
    “Okay, fine. Let’s say you’re a soul collector,” she says mockingly. “How’d you get the job?”
    “I was deemed the best for the position.”
    “By whom?”
    “By God.”
    I don’t know why I say this. Maybe because there’s no way I can tell her who actually employs me. But now that I’ve said it aloud, I realize the idea is brilliant. If I can convince her I work for Big Guy, she might agree to the contract. It’s not like there’s anything in the fine print specifying where her soul goes.
    “By God?” Charlie’s eyes narrow. “And why does God want my soul?”
    “Because it’s pure.” Though I’m lying, somehow this part feels true.
    “You got some sort of proof you work for God?”
    “No, I don’t, but—” I stop. Wait a second. Heck, yeah, I got proof. “Okay, I’m going to do something, and you have to promise not to scream or do any other loud chick thing. ’Kay?”
    She seems unsure, but nods anyway.
    I press my lips together and pull on my shadow, leaving her seemingly alone in the room.
    Charlie stumbles back and bumps into her dresser. A dozen crystal figurines teeter. “Dante?” she says, her voice quivering. “Where’d you go?”
    I remove my shadow and reappear.
    Her hand flies to her mouth. “You just disappeared,” she says through her fingers.
    “Word,” I say. “It’s called shadow. All collectors can do it with one of these bad boys.” I reach down, pull up my jeans, and point to my gold cuff—my Achilles heel. “The reason I never wear shorts.”
    “What. Is. That?” She runs her hands over the smooth metal.
    “It’s my cuff. It allows me to collect souls, and use shadow, and walk the earth after death.”
    Charlie’s eyes become enormous. “After death ? You’re trying to tell me you’re dead?”
    “Yeah. And the cuff keeps me alive. Honestly, Charlie. Do I look like the kind of guy that’d wear this for fun?”
    “No.