The Collector
A Dante Walker Novel
Victoria Scott
Praise for The Collector
“I loved this book from the first page! Dante isn’t just your run-of-the-mill YA bad boy…he’s a villain. A real villain, who you often won’t like in the beginning. But at the same time, you can’t take your eyes off him because he’s hot, witty, and just fascinating. And all the while you’ll be thinking, I can’t wait to see this boy’s world get rocked.”
— Wendy Higgins, author of Sweet Evil
“Victoria Scott’s smokin’ hot paranormal debut, The Collector, left me breathless at every turn with its sizzling anti-hero, unlikely heroine, and the epic romance that unfolds between them.”
— Mindee Arnett, author of The Nightmare Affair
“Sexy boys, high stakes and heart-pounding romance combine in a book that’s full of humor and heart. I loved spending time with Dante Walker. Next book please!”
— Talia Vance, author of Silver
“Dante Walker is dangerously smooth, lethally seductive, and cocky enough for ten alpha males combined. This is a book that lives up to its hype and will garner fiercely devoted Dante fans.”
— All Things Urban Fantasy
“It comes down to perfect pacing, a killer voice and a motley crew with flair and personality.”
— Girls in the Stacks
“Author Victoria Scott has created a deliciously appealing main character, a story that feels very much an original, with pacing that moves lightning fast. And with a few surprises that will keep readers enrapt, The Collector is an exhilarating and absolutely riveting must read.”
— Fiktshun
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chaptyer Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thity-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Acknowledgments
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Victoria Scott. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Edited by Liz Pelletier
Print ISBN 978-1-62061-242-2
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition April 2013
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Chuck Taylor, Dumbo, Rainbow Brite, Armani, GQ, Smurfs, Nobel Prize, Lady Gaga, Martha Stewart, Skittles, Godzilla, Styrofoam, Playboy, Bergdorf Goodman, Neiman Marcus, Nordstrom, Versace, Target, LASIK, Lincoln, Escalade, Cheetos, Bose, Match.com, The Three Stooges, Nirvana, Beyoncé, American Express, Biggie Smalls, Hugo Boss, Kenneth Cole, Safari, Midol, Care Bears, Nissan, System of a Down, Marlboro Reds, Doritos, Anderson Cooper, Eminem, Dom Perignon, Louis Vuitton, Pandora, Korn, Christian Louboutin, Gucci, BMW, Jay-Z, Prada, Botox, Dolce and Gabbana, Jimmy Choo, Starbucks, Oscars, Sherwin-Williams, Glock, Justin Bieber, The Jonas Brothers, Popsicle, Disneyland, Dumpster.
For Ryan,
who insisted he loved me over French fries.
You are my person. I love you, I love you.
“All my life, my heart has yearned for a thing I cannot name.”
—Andre Breton
What’s up, people. Name’s Dante.
Last summer, I met this chick in Chicago. Homegirl said she dug my red Chuck Taylors, and I dug her fashion sense. We got to talking, and somehow, as the sun set and night crawled over us, I told her…everything. I don’t know why it came out. But it did, all the same. The chick, a writer it seemed, asked to share my story with the world, and for whatever reason, I agreed. It is what it is. Sometimes I like to gamble. That’s how I roll.
So this is it—my life, told by her hand. I guess this story was bound to leak one way or another. At least from me, you know you’re getting it straight.
That is, if you trust a demon.
—Dante Walker
Challenges
“Pride is the master sin of the devil, and the devil is the father of lies.”
—Edwin Hubbel Chapin
Chapter One
The Envelope
I’m in a slump, off my game, throwing up bricks, swinging and missing.
I’m having an off year.
My boss isn’t pleased, and he’s not the type of guy you want to piss off either. He’s the ultimate a-hole who doesn’t buy excuses, even the champion ones I’m slingin’. But hey, it’s a job. And generally speaking, I’m damn good at it.
I am The Collector.
It’s not as bad as it sounds. I’m kinda like Santa Claus. We’re both jolly guys with a passion for frosted cookies, the color red…and sorting souls. My job is simple: weed through humanity and label those round rears with a big red good or bad stamp. Old Saint Nick gets the good guys, and I get the fun ones.
Two years ago, I was just your average seventeen-year-old guy. That’s a lie. I’ve never been average. I look like a movie star and move like an athlete. That didn’t change when I kicked the bucket. It’s okay to be jealous, to covet me. It’s a delicious sin—tastes like chicken. But don’t envy my success as a collector. I earned it. Like Michael Jordan, I shot until I never missed. If there’s a bad soul anywhere on planet Earth, I can smell him out and turn him in. Bag and tag.
Boss Man runs the Underworld, and I’m his number one guy up top. I’m so good, in fact, that I train the other five collectors on how to be more awesome. It doesn’t take a genius to understand the game: collect souls that are sealed.
Seals are our friends. I say it slowly, because patronizing people is fun.
It’s an easy gig. So easy, I’ve been bored lately. Maybe that’s why my numbers have slipped. But don’t fret. I got t
his. I’ve never met a hurdle I didn’t like.
In fact, stumbling toward me is a herd of business suit–clad men way too old to be this wasted. What are they even doing on New Orleans’s Bourbon Street? Being creepers, that’s what. A guy with Dumbo-sized ears breaks away from the pack and heads toward a girl half his age. His arms swing in great big circles until yellow liquid splashes from his plastic yardstick drink.
Way to bring your A game.
The girl turns toward her friend in an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact with Drunk Ogre Man. But no matter. He whirls her around, shows her his colorful beads, and attempts to pull up her shirt. That’s the deal, right? Beads for boobs? Not this time. Homegirl slaps him and storms off, her heels click-clacking down the paved road.
Ogre stares after her, and his friends howl with laughter. His red-rimmed eyes go big for a second, and then he starts laughing, too. He got off pretty easy, all things considered. But we’re not done yet. Or better yet, I’m not done yet.
I gaze at the guy in a way only I can. A warm yellow light crawls over his skin and flickers. It almost appears as if his body is on fire. This light is his soul, and I can see the thumbnail-sized rectangles called seals that partially obscure it. Seals come from being bad, or as I like to say, exciting. If I could come back from the dead, the things I would do. I’d go out with a bang. But I can’t. And unfortunately, collecting leaves little time for recreational activities, if you know what I mean. So I just keep punching the clock and doing what I do best.
Amidst the dude’s mini black seals, there are other seals. Our seals. Collectors’ seals are bigger than the ones you get automatically when you sin and therefore do a lot more damage. In order for Boss Man to know who’s done what, our seals are different colors, and already this guy looks like Rainbow Brite. Now he’ll have one more to add to the others. I flick a finger, and a sizzling red seal—the length of a human palm—attaches to his light. He didn’t feel a thing, but he certainly deserved it. His soul light dims just a little more than before. Once his light is completely covered, it’s over. Finis! We’ll collect his soul and bring it downstairs. I form my hand into a gun. “Pow!”
Another one bites the dust.
Today I’m playing my part on Team Hell like a heavyweight. The game works like a gas gauge. On one side is hell, on the other is heaven. That little orange bar tips back and forth between the two, depending on who has the most souls. Collectors are Boss Man’s insurance policy that Big Guy (a.k.a., lord of the heavens) doesn’t win, but he should chillax. No one ever gets the upper hand. If they did, it’d mean the gates of heaven—or hell—would spill open onto earth.
Or some fairy-tale crap like that.
After Boob Man is gone, I stand in the doorway of the Cat’s Meow bar, watching people do the same things that led me to where I am now. This city is one of our standard posts. Since there are billions of people and only six collectors, we have to concentrate on specific areas, or we’ll never get anywhere. Most people go to Judgment Day, which may or may not mean eternity in hell, so Boss Man likes to bring them in before that happens if he can. And New Orleans, well, it’s one of the easiest places to make quota.
Seals fly from my fingertips with ease. I don’t have to think too hard about it, and for that, I’m thankful. I like this part of my job, the nameless faces. Collecting souls is nothing personal. I’m an equal-opportunity sealer. I’m not sure I could do it any other way.
But I guess I’m going to have to learn. I shove my hand into my pocket and rub the sleeping white envelope. I can almost feel it pressing against my thigh, as if it’s alive. As if it has tongue and teeth.
I spin around and see Max running toward me in a gray Armani shirt. “Dante. Oh, Dante. Seal me! Seal me so hard!” He grabs my hips and pumps his toward mine. “Oh, Dante! You’re so hot when you seal souls.”
I shove my idiot-of-a-best-friend off me and laugh. Max dances around in a circle with one leg pulled up, and people move away as if he’s mentally unstable. He and I are the only collectors that like to remain visible to the living. The other four roll incognito. Max finishes his dance and brushes his shoulders off.
“What the hell was that?” I ask.
“My new move,” he says matter-of-factly.
My fellow collector is six years older than me but acts like he’s thirteen. We met a couple of years ago after he kicked the bucket and came onboard. He talks so fast, I have trouble understanding him sometimes. I like to think he was the World’s Best Car Salesman before he croaked.
Max spreads his arms out and gestures to his suit. “Hey, what do you think of my new threads?” The only thing Max likes better than money is the stuff money can buy.
“Not too bad.”
“Not too bad?” He covers his heart in mock offense. “Shit. This work of art is on the cover of GQ. Know what else? George Clooney wore this very suit to a party last weekend.”
“No, he didn’t.”
Max runs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “No. No, I guess he didn’t. Think anyone else would buy that? I might try it on the honeys tonight. Oh, check this crap out.” He reaches down and tugs his pant leg up. The gold cuff wrapped around his ankle is decorated with Smurf stickers. “One of the other collectors did this after I crashed last night. Can you believe that mess? I can’t get the damn things off.”
I roll my foot around, feeling my own cuff pinching my ankle. The heavy restraint enables collectors to walk the earth. It allows us to eat, breathe, and carry on a normal existence among the living. It also allows Boss Man and the other collectors to know where we are if they’re close by. A little Big Brother if you ask me, but then again, we’re given the option to remove it, if you call breaking off your cuff and dying a final death an option.
Max elbows me. “Who’re you fantasizing about?”
“No one. I’m thinking about these damn cuffs. I wish there was a way to stay here without them.” Max doesn’t realize I know exactly where these cuffs came from. And I can’t tell him. The only reason I know is because Boss Man explained it while training me for my pending promotion. Maybe I shouldn’t be proud that the devil tells me his secrets. But I am.
“Well, there ain’t. So you can just get over that one, pretty boy.” Max rubs behind his neck and squints against the sun. “At least we’re able to get out of hell from time to time. Besides, why are you even tripping about it? Everyone knows you’re getting promoted to Soul Director. Then it’s permanent placement on earth, hombre. It’s like you hit the Underworld jackpot. Speaking of jackpots, I feel like gambling. I’ve got the itch.”
“I bet you’ve got the itch,” I say.
“You’re nasty, you know that? Just foul.” Max walks backward away from me, bumping into people as he moves down the street. “You nasty, you nasty. You mama said you nasty!” And then he’s gone. Vanished into thin air.
I shake my head at his dramatic exit. I feel bad for not mentioning the envelope. But he’ll just make it into a big deal. I pull it out and stare at it. Inside is the name of my target: Charlie Cooper. Boss Man wants her soul, says he’ll forget my recent downslide if I deliver. This is unusual. He typically doesn’t pinpoint specific people, and I hate that it’s going to make things personal. But I’m not here to question, only to do my thang.
It’s not like I have much of a choice.
I’m on it, I told Boss Man when he handed me the envelope. Like white on rice.
I didn’t say the last part. He wouldn’t appreciate the humor.
Chapter Two
Hittin’ the Hooch
I’m standing outside a two-story colonial house in a neighborhood so sweet I feel like gagging. Cooper is spelled out on the brick mailbox. I’m in the right place. As if I wouldn’t be.
The front door is painted a rich, bright red. The corners of my mouth curl into a smile. Have I mentioned my love affair with red? It’s a beautiful, trusting relationship. Nothing coated in such a wondrous color could ever be bad. I stride up the
walkway, run my hand over the red wood, and sigh. Then I see something that ruptures this magnificent moment.
At the end of the walkway is a cat. It struts with arrogance. You’d think it just won the Nobel Prize. But it didn’t. Know why? Because it’s a freakin’ cat. In case you missed the memo, I. Hate. Cats. I loathe them. They’re built with creepy little teeth and finger blades. I don’t know about you, but I’ll pass on that freak show.
The cat sees me and rolls its eyes. It does. I swear it. In my head, I imagine punting it across the street. I throw my arms up like a human goal post and scream, “It’s good!”
Behind me, I hear a click. I spin around and see an old woman who clearly thinks she’s a young woman glide through the red door… She’s wearing a silk kimono that shows way too much old-person leg. Her processed blond hair is sprayed out around her face, and she’s wearing more makeup than Lady Gaga. Without noticing me, the woman bends at the waist and reaches for the morning paper.
Thanks for the invitation. As a matter of fact, I will come in.
I breeze past her into the house. I’m sure she felt something, but her eyes persuade her otherwise. That’d be my shadow kicking in, the thing that allows me to become invisible whenever needed. It’s the only kickass ability collectors have, thanks to our cuffs.
Inside the house, I catch the scent of old people. You’d think the young girl would cancel out the smell of dinosaur, but it doesn’t. Not even close. I wonder where the chick’s parents are and why they aren’t around.
Every inch of the house is covered in flowers and lace and screams tacky. It’s like Martha Stewart vomited, and this is the crap that came out. I shake my head. These people need an interior designer. Stat. Mother would never have let this happen. She had refined tastes, and Dad was boys with Benjamin Franklin. Thinking about my father makes me remember That Night, and my stomach lurches.
A muffled voice creeps down the stairs. I’m too far away to hear what’s being said, but I know it’s her. Heading up, I imagine what kind of chick I’m dealing with. If Boss Man wants her soul, she’s got to be pretty bad, and I always did dig the bad chicks. In fact, most things I dug when I was alive were bad. Guess that’s how I ended up here. Most people got this thing in their head saying they’ll be with Big Guy when it’s all over. But let me tell ya, spend every day living only for yourself, every day indulging in little sins that aren’t that big of a deal, and one day I may be showing you the ropes in hell. Amen.