Something Grave: The Resurrectionists Series book two

by Leah Clifford

“I have to tell you something,” he says.

  Does he not want to stay here? Are the groceries a parting gift I took wrong? My lip finds its way between my teeth. I can still taste him on me.

  “Allie?” My name wavers. He runs a hand through the mess of his hair. It’s longer at the top, mussed from whatever he got up to today. “I think… No, I am… I’m in—I should’ve told you before. I was going to, but I—” His eyes hopscotch between mine before dropping to the barely attached stick-on tiles of the floor. He shakes his head as if talking himself out of whatever he wants to say.

  Dread puddles inside me. “What’s wrong?”

  He freezes, staring at me for a long second before a decision breaks across his face. “I was followed today,” he blurts. “By a hunter.”

  It’s so far from anything I’m expecting that for a moment, I don’t respond and then my mouth snaps into play, the questions rushing from me. “Are you okay? How did they know who you were? What did they want? Did you talk to them?”

  Even as the questions are tumbling from me, I’m taking him by the arm, inspecting him for wounds as if I’ll find a bloody mess I somehow missed.

  “I’m fine,” he assures me before he leans against the counter. “I swear. I’m fine.”

  This time, my mind spits.

  “I went downtown so I could earn some cash spanging. Spare changing,” he clarifies at my blank look. “It’s how I got the food money. I ran into a friend of mine, LowLow, from the Boxcar Camp, and he spotted the guy following me and tipped me off. I tried to confront the dude but—”

  “You what?” I gasp, horrified.

  “I was going to ask him who he was,” he says, clearly unnerved by my reaction.

  I’m squeezing his arm too tight.

  “Allie.” He pries himself loose of my grip. “I’m okay.”

  His lips recoil in what he means to be a smile of reassurance. It’s more of a grimace. In my head, I envision Sarah’s body on the floor of her living room, her mouth screwed into a scream, her bloody corpse stiff and dead and poisoned beyond resurrection.

  Christopher catches my elbow to keep me from dropping as my knees wobble.

  “Hey!” he says, startled. He gets me to my unsteady feet and moves one hand to the side of my jaw as he forces my eyes to his. “Take a breath.”

  I stagger an inhale and then swallow the air. It could have been him. My throat goes tight. I’m gasping, but only managing the tiniest sips of oxygen. So much air and I can’t get any of it. All I can see is Sarah, her intestines ripped from her insides, a rigored scream peeling her lips.

  Christopher’s fingers thread through mine as he moves my palm to his rib cage. Under it is the steady beat of his heart. His chest rises and falls. I mimic the motion, my own breath shallow before the second attempt evens a bit.

  “Better,” he whispers. “One more.”

  I lean against him, my forehead seeking the warmth of his skin where it bleeds through his shirt. “This didn’t use to happen,” I manage.

  I take another breath. Another. Under my palm, under every bit of him I’m pressed against, I feel that heartbeat. He leaves my hand on his chest as his arms come around me to crush us together.

  “I’ve got you.” The promise rumbles through him. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

  “But you,” I say. “Hunters? You’re sure?”

  At first, I think he won’t answer. “Fairly sure.”

  “You saw him? You’d recognize him?” I ask as he finally releases me.

  He nods, watching me until he seems satisfied I’m okay. “I got a good look at him.”

  Talia’s words, a mantra in my head. You need to make some serious moves here real damn soon.

  The hunters are following Christopher. I was never naïve enough to believe we’d get away scot-free. Every day I didn’t act was a dangerous roll of the dice. But their blown cover means we can find them. Christopher can identify whoever he saw. It’s a start.

  Without another word to him, I slide my phone from my pocket. Talia answers just before it cuts over to voicemail.

  “Hey,” I say before she gets through her greeting. “You were right. We need to talk about the hunters.”

  Ploy

  “Are you positive I should be here?” I ask Allie for the tenth time since we left her apartment.

  At the base of the shoddy wooden staircase, I let her go around me and lead the way up to Talia’s in-law suite above the garage at her parents’ house. Allie doesn’t answer my question, though she heard me.

  Talia may be her best friend, but there’s no love lost between the two of us. I’m fairly certain she won’t be welcoming me with open arms.

  Then again, she has good reason to hate me. She knows what I did to Allie. I can give them both all the excuses, except I’m not an idiot and neither are they. I did wrong. I made bad choices. I almost cost both of them their lives.

  And the biggest reason Talia makes me so uncomfortable is because I don’t know if it’s possible to re-earn her trust.

  Allie swivels around to see if I’m following, and embarrassment raises my hackles. I break free of my thoughts and trudge up the stairs.

  “You okay?” Allie asks as I draw up behind her.

  “Yeah,” I say, forcing myself to smile as if us being here is absolutely natural.

  “Be brave,” Allie teases. “Talia doesn’t bite.”

  “Have you met her?” I mumble and her laugh makes me feel marginally better.

  Allie knocks and a moment later, the door swings open. Talia’s already halfway across the living room before we start inside.

  Thumbtacked to the wall above her small desk are pieces of paper covered in scribbled notes. A laptop sits on the desk, the screen bright, showing what on first impression is some sort of website about cryptid creatures. Scrunched and discarded notebook pages litter the carpet underneath it, the ripped edges of spiral bound paper scattered like snowflakes.

  On the desk rest two empty coffee mugs. Another, half full, sits on a warmer, the light glowing red. Talia hooks the handle and slugs a mouthful from it before falling into her desk chair.

  “Okay,” she says without looking at us. “I’ve been working on this non-stop since you called me last night, so forgive me if things seem disorganized.”

  “You didn’t sleep?” Allie asks.

  “No time,” Talia says, her voice low. I’m not sure she meant to answer at all. “I didn’t want to step on your toes, but once you gave me the go ahead…”

  I stare in wonder at the pages and pages of information. Some of them are printouts of mug shots, others are selfies clearly cribbed from social media accounts. People in the foregrounds are circled, arrows drawn to profiles beside them, swaths of permanent marker and question marks over the blurriest of the unfocused shots. She’s tacked a dozen printed photos to the wall. A few have scribbled names or cities or odd details, a TV show they’re a fan of or some other random fact.

  “You did all this in the last twelve hours?” I ask.

  At the desk, Talia spins to me. I watch her in my peripheral vision though my attention is on the work she’s done.

  “Oh,” Talia says, the excitement dropping from her mood. “You.”

  “Me,” I say distractedly. My focus sticks on a single picture.

  “What is it?” Allie asks.

  I point.

  He’s smiling in the photograph, and instantly, I’m transported to the cabin. Allie and I were on the run. I’d been trying to cajole an excuse to sneak away and use the phone Jamison gave me, the one I still have, to hear what sort of accident ended with Allie’s aunt dead. Allie and I had trudged through a swamp to a cabin. There, we found the man in the photo posing as a resurrectionist.

  The man who eventually shot Allie in the chest.

  I’d wrestled the gun from him, firing twice until he dropped and stopped moving, neither Allie nor I aware yet his first bullet struck her.

  Another memory flashes. In it, I h
ear Allie’s desperate inhales, gurgled and wet. I remember the rattle of her last exhale, too long. I remember the way I shook as I drew the blood from my arm how she told me, as I gave her the boost she needed to hasten her return to me, as I realized Jamison would be there in minutes, as I gathered her limp deadweight and decided to run.

  I chose her.

  My teeth bite into my lip as I force myself to examine the picture. I’d never killed anyone before him. He was the first. But he wasn’t the last.

  My throat clicks as I swallow.

  “He okay?” Talia asks in a low voice. If she’s concerned about me, I must appear as thrown as I feel.

  “He’s fine,” Allie says quietly, though she grips my arm with her other hand as if to lend me extra strength. I peek at the girl beside me, alive and well. She points to the picture on the wall. “That’s Corbin, the man who shot me.”

  She says it so matter-of-factly. I angle to take her in, find her already watching me, her expression dark with concern and a hell of a lot of memories neither of us seem up to rifling through right now. Allie rises onto her tiptoes and knocks her forehead softly against mine. I close my eyes for a beat before I take a cleansing breath and turn back to Talia. She’s drawing a circle around Corbin with a red marker. I watch as she slashes a line through the center, his name now written under the photo in tiny block letters.

  “These are hunters?” I guess as I take in the others.

  She waggles the hand not holding the coffee cup. “Some I’m sure. The rest, I’m sitting at about ninety percent. Most of this is stuff I cribbed from posts exchanged on the local board where the conspiracy theory freaks trade info. I started there, mined for details, and then cross-referenced mutual friends. Overlap. Figured out who interacted most and tried to reverse image search. I haven’t gotten as far as I wanted,” she admits.

  I do a quick count. At least twelve hunters. I don’t know why I always assumed it was a couple persistent assholes instead of a club.

  “Sarah didn’t seem interested in moving against them unless they overstepped,” Talia says. “Once Corbin killed Jason Jourdain, it was game on for the rest.”

  The owner of the cabin wasn’t the first resurrectionist murdered here in Fissure’s Whipp. That was Brandon. He’d been new in town, secretive and protective of himself, and though we’d shared a boxcar, he never told me anything about being a resurrectionist. I thought it would only take more time, but Jamison grew tired of waiting.

  Even in death, Brandon’s barely a blip. Unremembered. Unmourned. I wonder if that’s how my own death will be. A violently discarded life.

  “We can start being proactive like they do out west,” Talia says to Allie. “We can do whatever we want now that you’re in charge of the cluster.”

  Surprised, I rotate toward the two of them. “You said you weren’t resurrecting anymore.”

  Allie opens her mouth to answer before she hesitates. “I—”

  “Wait,” I say. “Yesterday you told me you needed out and now you’re taking over?” It’s not that I’m angry. I’m not about to tell her what to do. It’s just that she seemed so certain. I don’t know what changed.

  “Stay out of it,” Talia snarls in my direction. “This is none of your business.”

  I hold up my palms in surrender. Allie can fight her own battles.

  “I never said I was taking over,” Allie breaks in, apologetic, though I’m not sure whether she’s answering me or Talia. Talia ignores her.

  “Sarah wasn’t actively on the offensive,” Talia goes on. “But that’s the best move now.” She pauses. “You know, for you. I mean, it’s what I would do if I were you.” The silence grows awkward as Talia studies the printed pictures. “I’ll help you. So far, from what I’ve seen, you can’t handle this on your own.”

  My annoyed sigh earns me an exasperated chuff from Talia. “What now?” she asks.

  “Never tell Allie she can’t do something.”

  “Thanks,” Allie says, sounding genuinely appreciative.

  “It wasn’t meant as a compliment,” I say.

  Her cautious smile fades. She crosses her arms over her chest as Talia hones in on our exchange, suddenly interested. “How was I supposed to take it?” Allie asks.

  “All I’m saying,” I start, “is the easiest way to guarantee you’ll do something is if someone says you can’t. You’re a little predictable that way.” I wince to dull the edge on the blow.

  To my utter shock, Talia sniffs a laugh that comes across as agreement. “What!” she says when Allie goes rigid. “He’s got a valid point. The last thing any of us needs is you charging in guns blazing.”

  Allie’s nostrils flare, a muscle twitching in her jaw. “You said I should be on the offensive.”

  “Not without a plan,” Talia clarifies. “And not on your own. You have me.”

  I fight the urge to mention I’m here, too.

  Allie bites the inside of her cheek as if stalling for time. Talia sips her coffee. I keep my mouth shut for almost ten seconds before I can’t help myself. “Plus, it’s not like you can go in for a melee attack and randomly murder them. You said yourself you’re not even sure they’re all hunters.”

  The mug in Talia’s hand stills. “I have pictures of most of them with Corbin. Group shots. He literally killed Allie. And Jason Jourdain before her. Sarah before him.”

  “Selfies together? Isn’t that pushing ‘guilty by association’ a bit far?”

  Talia points at me. “These people are all linked and they’re dangerous.” She pulls at the nape of her neck, massaging the corded muscles there. “You don’t get an opinion on this. You and your buddy Jamison were responsible for serious damage to our cluster.”

  “Don’t,” Allie warns. Her fingers slide effortlessly through mine, anchoring us together.

  “No, it’s fine,” I shoot back, my frustration clear. “I’m obviously going to end up the villain in every version of this story she tells herself.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot how you showed up just in time to save us!” Talia laughs, the sound garish in the small one-bedroom efficiency. She waves her hand around sarcastically. “Throw the boy a ticker tape parade.”

  “I—” I tried. I want to tell her. I came for them, to break them out. I played along with Jamison’s game because it was my chance to get Allie clear. But it’s my fault Jamison got them at all. It’s my fault Allie ended up cuffed in his cellar, bruised and bloodied.

  Talia rocks onto her heels when I don’t offer a comeback. She knows she’s won.

  “What do you want from me?” I ask.

  Allie’s fingers flex and I’m not sure if she’s tugging away from me, so I drop her hand before she can drop mine.

  “What do you want?” I ask Talia again, taking a step closer. If she’s remotely intimidated, she’s not showing it. I point to the space behind me that Allie occupies. “I killed for her. More than once. I would again.” The truth in the words breaks them apart, my voice cracking. “I screwed up. Do you want me to say I’m sorry? How many more times? Should I promise you can trust me? What do you want, Talia?”

  “I want,” she drawls. “For you to stop whispering in her ear. I want you to stay out of business that is none of yours. Mostly though, I want you to disappear.”

  Her entire attention fixes on me, cold and calculating while she assesses.

  And then, as if nothing went down, she returns to the pictures. “Allie said you were followed.”

  “Yeah,” I manage, not sure what to do with her shift.

  She gestures at the wall of photos. “Well? Is he up there?”

  I start slow, studying each of them. I’m not only scanning for the guy LowLow caught following me. I’m memorizing as many as I can to search for in the crowds. No one is getting anywhere near Allie. “Is the plan to kill any hunters you trap?”

  “Worried about your friends?” Talia asks. She’s smug enough that I know she thinks I’ve given her a gift.

  I keep wai
ting for Allie to jump in. Instead, she stands rigid, frowning.

  “They’re not my friends. I never met them,” I say as I move on to the next picture. I stare at the guy’s photo as if I can divine his secrets, his address, his plans. Maybe he only wants to know how the blood works. Maybe he, like Jamison, wants it for himself. Is he curious or dangerous? “You really think a mass execution is the answer?” I ask.

  Talia’s smirk reignites. “Under all the scheming and kidnapping and attempts on our lives, I suppose we should trust they’re good people at heart?”

  “No,” I say instantly. “I learned the hard way not to trust anyone except her,” I say, thumbing toward Allie. “And possibly you.”

  Talia humphs.

  “Not a lot,” I add with enough sarcasm that Talia smiles. It’s small, a curl at the edges of her mouth, but it’s there. “If they’re dangerous to you and your cluster, yeah, put them down. What if they just want to spot a unicorn up close?”

  “You think they deserve a closer look at me?” Her chin tilts, eyes narrowed to slits. “As if I’m some mythical creature?”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “Where do you expect that leads, Ploy?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t tell if her question is rhetorical.

  “Will they be satisfied once they see what my blood does? Or will they demand a sample? Why bother with a sample when they have a source?” she offers, her voice pitching higher.

  “People reach out to you and Allie,” I say. “They pay you to do your thing. They know what you can do. How are these hunters”—I throw a set of air quotes up on the word—“any different?”

  “Clients have to know about us. It’s how we help,” Talia says in a clipped tone. “The pay creates a power imbalance, and we use that to keep them in line.” For just a second, her attention slips to Allie before flashing back to me. “When someone starts with questions, when any single person learns too much, they become a threat. Threats need to be neutralized.”

  “Strikes me as a decent excuse to murder anyone who doesn’t bow down to you.”

  “Does it,” she deadpans.

  It’s in her heavy pause after that I realize what she’s implying. I’m asking questions. I know too much.