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
"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
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