Something Grave: The Resurrectionists Series book two

by Leah Clifford

He smothers my denial against his chest. While his arm tightens around my middle, his lips graze my temple, then the lobe of my ear. A flare of goosebumps rises on my arms. I curve into the shape of him.

  “Better?” he murmurs, his voice a shiver I can’t shake. His smile sickles across my skin. I want him, want tonight, this, us. Yet, in my head, a timer is counting the minutes. Two, three, four.

  I swallow hard, my split second of joy forgotten. “I can’t stay.” I watch him for a reaction, tension crawling into my muscles. “Talia needs me.”

  He’s going to ask when he’ll come first. As long as I’m a resurrectionist, the answer is never. Let him go before he gets hurt, my brain whispers. Before this gets too complicated. “I’m sorry about date night,” I say.

  He kisses my forehead and slings a casual arm over my shoulders. “Don’t be.”

  He flashes a sign to LowLow, who stops playing. Around us, tourists step forward to throw coins into the banged up plastic Frisbee I didn’t notice in front of his drum.

  LowLow rises from the ground in the opposite of a pounce. He points at me. “Allie, until we meet again,” he says. “Be decent to Ploy, here.”

  I’m certain he’ll say something else, but Christopher’s tugging, drawing me elsewhere. Swallowing hard, I fight my attention from LowLow.

  “Everything go good with your call?” Christopher asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Standard drama.”

  He kisses my knuckles as I lead us across the square in a brisk walk. We’re out of time. Talia’s probably already waiting for me.

  Despite our speed, he swivels to face me, jogging backwards. “It was the couch comment, wasn’t it?” he asks.

  “Huh?”

  “That was the last thing I said before you got weird. I said you had a comfortable couch.”

  “No. It was that guy.” I meet his eyes. “Did you tell him about me or something? Did you mention the flowers and colors thing?”

  “Of course not.” His shock is enough to absolve him. “LowLow’s got his quirks, but he’s solid.”

  Getting to the meeting spot, I scan the street for Talia’s SUV and find nothing.

  “But, hey!” he says, and I turn to him. “You don’t think I’d ever tell? About you. Anything about you?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  I shouldn’t do this, not when we’ll be interrupted. Except I can’t stop myself. “Why,” I demand. I can’t help the hurt. “Why did you say you sleep on the couch?”

  “Because I do?” he says.

  “You wanted him to know we’re not together.” It’s an accusation. I take a step closer. “Am I wrong?”

  He flinches, the slightest of movements. “An angel,” he says with forced calm, “is a girl one of us cons.”

  “What?”

  He raises a fist to his forehead and then knocks it against his thigh. “One we treat special,” he goes on. “We get her attached, get into her bed, convince her she’s saving us, but we’re parasites. Money, food, anything pawnable. We clean her out. When there’s nothing left to take, we ditch her.” His throat bobs. “He wasn’t asking if we were together, Allie. He was asking if you were a mark.”

  For a long moment, I say nothing. Then the question escapes my lips before I can stop it. “Am I a mark?”

  He stares at me. “Are you serious? You’re really asking me that?”

  “What am I then?” I yell.

  From a bar down the block, a patron slurs encouragement in a loud, “Tell him, honey!”

  Amid the distraction, he moves so quick I don’t have time to react. His palms cup the sides of my face and force me to see the strained torture in his. “You’re never going to trust me, are you?”

  My mouth opens to deny it. I trust him. He has to know that by now. So why doesn’t he? Why can’t I say it?

  “Your call, right now,” he says. His tongue wets his lips. “Am I in or out?” He shifts his hands, his fingers sliding into the base of my bun, through my hair. “Tell me, Allie, because I—”

  Headlights sear across us and we wheel apart, wincing against the brightness. The SUV rolls to a stop at the curb. The interior glow illuminates Talia well enough to catch how annoyed she is to see Christopher standing beside me. In the back seat, I see the shadow of the kid.

  Christopher shades his eyes. “Forget it. We’ll talk after this.”

  He takes half a step forward and a curse slips from me.

  “Wait,” I say, stopping him. “You can’t come.”

  His hand lowers to his side as he watches to be sure I’m serious. “So I’m out,” he says. In the beams of the headlights, the angles of his cheekbones sharpen, hollow and shadowed. “That’s it then?”

  I wonder if it’d be easier for him if I don’t argue. A clean break. Behind me, I hear the window motor, hear Talia call. Resurrections are always a ticking clock.

  I lower my voice. “Of course that’s not it,” I hiss before I rise onto my toes. “We’ll talk later.”

  “But I thought—”

  I grip the neck of his shirt and yank him to my mouth hard and fast. “Not now. Go home.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “This is not up for debate. Go home,” I repeat as I get into Talia’s vehicle. When I close the door, he’s still standing there, bewildered. I nudge my elbow onto the edge of the open window to cut off his view of me, keep my focus forward. “Drive,” I tell Talia.

  A block later, when I check the rearview, he’s gone.

  Allie

  Compartmentalize, I tell myself. I picture shoving the last five minutes into a glass jar and jamming on the lid, except my worries come spilling out anyway. What if when I get back to the apartment, he’s not there?

  His voice echoes in my mind. Am I in or out?

  In, I want to scream. In because I’m too selfish to do the right thing! In because I can’t lose you! In because I don’t know how the hell you don’t already know this!

  My teeth cut into my knuckle, my elbow still balanced on the door, the sultry night air rushing over me. Well, at least I know it can’t be love, I think. Because love’s supposed to be easy and nothing with him and me has been easy.

  Four blocks later, the sick twist of my stomach settles and I’m fairly sure I can talk without sounding unhinged. “Hi,” I say, with false cheer.

  Talia ignores me, her attention on the road. There’s not sufficient traffic to justify her concentration.

  “Excited?” I ask, grabbing the seat rest to swing around and get a look at the kid.

  “Yeah,” he says. Grinning, he rubs a shaved head with the gangly arm of a teenager who hasn’t quite grown into himself yet. He’s about fourteen, a spray of pimples across his nose and cheeks. “I know it’s morbid to be stoked someone died, but I’ve been waiting a month,” he admits and then his smile falters. “Sarah kept saying she wanted an easy resurrection for my first.” He trails off as if remembering who I am. “Sorry,” he whispers. “She was a blast.”

  I decide to spare us both. The vehicle goes quiet, miles passing as we head out of town. Half an hour passes.

  “What do you have on you if this job goes wrong?” I ask suddenly.

  To his credit, CJ plunges straight into business mode. He lifts the hem of his plain white T-shirt to show me the hilt of a knife in a sheath at his waist. “Another on my ankle,” he says. “And I usually carry Mace with me but I didn’t have it tonight.”

  I grunt.

  “Won’t happen again,” he says. No apology, no excuses.

  “Good.”

  “Where’s your vial?” Talia asks from the driver’s seat.

  Slipping his fingers into the collar of his shirt, CJ tugs loose a beaded chain. A silver casing dangles where I’m expecting blue glass. In it is the mix we all carry—aniline and adder venom to break our blood cells into useless sludge, and a powerful and instant paralytic to ease our suffering. I should have taken mine two weeks ago, when Jamison came f
or us. Talia and I both. Except I’d gotten in the nasty habit of storing it in a zipper pouch alongside my medical supplies. Now, it’s tucked safe in a pocket sewn into the seam of my bra. Protecting the blood is everything.

  “Wait,” I say. “Isn’t that for cremains?”

  “No, pills. It unscrews for quick access and it holds liquid without leaking. Glass freaks me out.” He tucks the metal tube under the fabric before he taps his chest as if to reassure himself. “I used to have nightmares I’d break it and poison myself.”

  His lips purse and he leans against the seatback, studying me, then Talia in the rearview mirror.

  “Question?” I prod.

  “No, it’s fine.”

  Beside me, Talia flips the turn signal and trades the two-lane highway for potholed tracks leading us deeper into the trees. A single set of headlights follows from the flow of traffic, no doubt another resident of the isolated homes here. “Can’t learn if you don’t ask,” Talia says. “It’s Allie’s job to teach you.”

  To see it as solidarity would be asking too much. Still, it’s nice she’s not being spiteful.

  Despite our reassurances, he takes a full thirty seconds to summon his courage. “My mom said you were both taken hostage. Is it true?”

  The SUV shudders as it bounces over a patch of rough road. Behind us, the headlights of the other car do the same. Hopefully, they’re not going to the same address. The last thing we need is extra witnesses.

  My hand clamps the headrest, unsure how to answer CJ’s question.

  Talia sighs. “Briefly. We were in total command, which is why neither of us found it necessary to take the vial.” Convincing Talia to not mention Christopher’s presence, or role, had seemed an insurmountable task before she caved. I’m still not sure why she did. Our friendship would never come before the cluster’s safety, not to Talia. “We needed to get close to neutralize the threat.”

  “Neutralize?” the kid echoes.

  I don’t know what to do with the innocent confusion in CJ’s response. Fourteen, I think. At fourteen I was a year from orphanhood. At thirteen, I was a damned mercenary at hand-to-hand combat. At twelve, my proficiency with blades shackled me with a well-earned reputation.

  My mother’s voice is a whisper I almost remember. You’ll be leading this cluster someday, Allie. You’re the high bar.

  If this kid doesn’t toughen up right quick this life will end him.

  The GPS system dings. In the darkness, I can’t discern where the trees and heavy cover end and the driveway begins until Talia’s bouncing us into the ruts. The crunch of the gravel under the tires slows then stops as she parks. “Neutralized,” Talia says. “Killed. Dead. He wanted the blood. Allie gave him what he deserved.”

  CJ’s eyes widen before he grins at me. “Man, using yourself for bait though? That’s next level savage,” he says with a note of approval that turns my stomach.

  A pair of tight swallows later, the lump in my throat unknots enough for me to speak. “It was what needed done.”

  “I never would have thought of that. Guess that’s why you’re in charge of the cluster and not me,” he jokes.

  An awkward silence fills the vehicle. I have the presence of mind to round in my seat until I’m facing forward, white knuckling the hem of my shorts. Blood pounds through my ears, pulse mirroring the sound of Jamison’s footfalls on the stairs. The scent of dirt fills my sinuses and I suck a breath, release it in a shudder. Phantom pain corsets my ribs where Jamison’s kicks landed. Next level savage, I think.

  “CJ,” Talia says. She sounds like she’s talking to a five-year-old she’s about to bribe. “Showtime, kiddo. Why don’t you hop out and go do recon?”

  I flinch at the ding of the door as he opens it, then when it’s slammed a second later.

  Black dots fuzz the edges of my vision, leaving only the glowing green digits of the clock on the console. 11:03 p.m. I can’t breathe. My fingers claw into my thigh.

  In my head, I hear Christopher. Take a breath, he whispers.

  I do.

  Another.

  “Allie?” Talia says.

  A tiny sound of acknowledgement breaks free of my throat.

  “Are you losing your shit?”

  “Nope.” The word pops from me. I picture pressing my ear against Christopher’s chest. I picture him yelling at me in the living room. You’re not alone in this. Not on good days. Not when things go bad. Not if you don’t want to be. Steady heartbeat. Inhale. Exhale.

  And then I shove him from my brain.

  I can do this on my own. I gulp another lungful of air through sheer force of will. My vision clears.

  I don’t need him, I think as the rhythm of my breathing evens. Except the strangling vice around my chest doesn’t abate.

  You don’t think we make a good team? Christopher whispers.

  I reach for the door handle, but before I can open it, Talia squeezes my arm to call my bluff. “Is it wise to go in there like this?”

  “Like what?” I answer. “I’m fine.” I’m more than a little surprised to find it’s true.

  She frowns, slumping in her seat, studying me.

  “Let’s not leave the kid hanging,” I say. With that, I’m out into the sticky night air.

  Ahead of me, CJ’s climbed the steps I’m making my way up. He stands in the square of light leaking from inside the house. It’s on stilts, set in the shadows. From ground level, Talia calls my name.

  I keep going.

  “Of course, sir,” CJ is saying when I draw closer. He’s got a school backpack hooked over one shoulder. His jeans strike me as borrowed from an older brother, two sizes too big for him and belted, the extra fabric gathered around his ankles. His untucked T-shirt rides up in the back to expose the handle of the blade at his hip.

  Reaching forward, I sort him out and then drop a motherly pat on his shoulder. “Make us proud,” I say.

  CJ charges ahead. One of his shoes is untied, the laces flopping. Unless this goes off the rails, the kid’s on his own. Sink or swim time.

  Inside, the musty air smells sour. The dead girl is spread out on the floor, one arm looped above her head, auburn hair splayed in a half circle, picture perfect. Beside her left cheek is the source of the smell, a congealing puddle of sick.

  I note her presence only to prove the legitimacy of the job, then take a quick scan of the room, something CJ should have done immediately. Older man. Disheveled. Probably her father. Pacing. Framed photos are on the wall. The same man, younger, posing with a fish. Beside it is a picture of the dead girl. She’s in a dress, locks curled and piled atop her head, at a junior prom maybe, her smile shy.

  On the side table, in a silver frame, is what I’m after, a shot of them together, father and daughter, at least ten years old, Christmas tree in the background. It doesn’t prove this isn’t hunters setting us up, but it gives a bit of credence to the call. Then again, it could be photoshopped.

  I hear CJ asking about medical details. Hear him ask about drugs, which is what I would have assumed at his age. Experience taught me better. Teenage girls don’t overdose in their living rooms. They hide behind locked doors, wait until any responsible adults present have gone to bed, are found cold in the morning.

  It’s 11:10 p.m. on a Tuesday. It took us almost forty-five minutes to get here. I add in the time for Talia to get the call, arrange payment terms, collect CJ, then me. Whatever took her life happened in this living room at around nine p.m. Next to the picture on the table is a liter of ginger-ale, an empty glass, and an oversized bowl perfect for someone who was nauseated and too sick to reliably reach the toilet to puke.

  Seizure brought on by a fever? I think absently. Maybe she choked?

  “She’s been home with the flu the past two days,” the man says. “When she started shaking I didn’t know what to do.”

  Satisfaction tips a tiny smile onto my mouth.

  From the spot where he’s kneeling beside her, CJ looks up at me. I expect fear. Inst
ead, he nods once. He doesn’t hesitate as he rolls the girl. She can’t be more than a year older than him, close in age. They might have dated in another life. His fingers sweep her airway. He shakes chunks of puke onto the floor, wipes his hand on his shirt, and digs into his bag.

  “He’s professional,” Talia says in a hush from where she’s observing just behind me.

  I nod. “Didn’t scope out the scene, though,” I whisper back.

  We watch in silence as CJ sends the father into the other room for paper towels and a bowl of warm water, using the time he’s gone to stealthily draw a syringe of blood from his arm and inject it into the girl’s heart. When the man returns, CJ has already cleaned the area and gathered his used supplies in his backpack. A minute passes. Then another. CJ slides two fingers to the dead girl’s neck, resting on her pulse point as he waits for her to resurrect.

  At my back, Talia’s presence eases closer. “Remember your first supervised solo run?”

  I don’t answer her.

  “God, I was terrified,” she says. A soft chuckle escapes her. She waits. “You pissed at me about your date night?”

  “No.” I cross my arms over my chest, occupied with what’s transpiring on the floor. “I’m observing.”

  She sniffs. “I’m trying to give him a chance for you.”

  “Who?” I ask, refusing to be distracted. It’s been four minutes, each stretched into an eternity. The girl shows no signs of stirring.

  “Ploy.”

  At his name, I do turn.

  “After you bolted at my place, he and I damn near had a Hallmark moment.” Talia bites at the edge of a fingernail. “I mean, I told him to leave you, but still…”

  “Yeah, well,” I start and then stop myself. I don’t want to tell her not to bother. I’m going to fix things with him. I just need time. Of course, Talia takes my answer all wrong.

  “Trust has to be earned,” she says. “Like, how I earned the right to be informed you’re having panic attacks. Or how you’re not sleeping because your nightmares are that bad.”

  Apparently the two of them did have a heart-to-heart. About me. I’m about to lay into her when the sound of raised voices draws my attention.