“Sir!” CJ yells. He’s gotten to his feet. “Sir, please. I need you to relax.” He ducks again and gives the dead girl a hopeful shake. She flops, lifeless.
The old man’s bent-kneed as if he’ll attack. “Don’t you touch her, you monster!”
The moments before a resurrection takes are volatile. Whoever called us is traumatized. They just saw their loved one die. Their rational brain is dipping into the possibility that this is some sort of sadistic joke.
This job is par for the course.
“Shit,” Talia whispers.
“Got it.” My movements are quick and self-assured. “Hi!” I say as I slide between CJ and the dead girl’s father. The man stares at me, flummoxed to find a five-foot four girl in front of him in place of the pimpled subject of his wrath.
“You people are sick!” the old man yells before he switches gears. CJ steps around me, eager to retake control of the situation. Instead, the kid stumbles, tripping over that untied shoelace. He grabs for the man’s arm to catch himself.
“Get your damn hands off me!” The man yanks free. The motion drives his elbow into my stomach.
I double over in shock and pain. My brain spasms, the room goes black and I’m back in the cellar. This time, I won’t escape and Jamison will gut me. The dusty scent of dirt and abandoned spaces tickles my nose. I’m going to die. My body clenches. Shackles on my wrists, the bite of the metal, the chill of the damp floor. The first of Jamison’s ruthless kicks is coming.
Except it’s not.
That’s over. The thought breaks the spell. I’m sitting uselessly on the floor near the doorway, watching Talia secure the man while CJ tilts the resurrected girl to a sitting position.
For a fraction of a second, I wonder if the scene covered my reaction until I hear Talia. “Allie?” she asks. “All green?”
I’m too shaken to do anything but nod.
Twenty minutes later, we’re back in Talia’s SUV, on the road headed toward Fissure’s Whipp. We make the entire drive home before CJ breaks the deafening silence. “I messed up so bad,” the kid whispers.
At least the attention’s not on me. I’m eager to keep it that way. “Tell us how.”
Talia shoots me a reproachful look before she pins him in the rearview. “CJ,” she says. “You did great for your first job. Learning the subtle cues of an escalating situation takes years.”
“Or,” I add. “You could prevent it from happening at all. What should you have done differently?” I press, ignoring Talia’s mumbled warning.
In the back seat, the kid lists on his fingers. “I didn’t check for a trap. I don’t think I hit her heart with the needle so the resurrection took longer. I didn’t keep her dad informed which made him freak out. I…” He seems to have run out of steam.
“What single action could have prevented that entire scene?”
Beside me, Talia shakes her head, though she keeps driving without comment.
“Um,” he starts before he winces, unsure. “I don’t know.”
“Tie your damn shoes.” My face is a perfect mask of seriousness.
I fight to keep from laughing as he nods and then a slow smile creeps across his mouth as he realizes he’s not in trouble. “Shoes, got it.”
“You did fine,” I tell him as Talia stops in front of the path to the stairs that lead to my apartment. “Work on evasive techniques and balance.”
I go for the door.
“Speaking of,” Talia says. “You and I are on for sparring tomorrow, yes? Noon work for you?”
It’s not a question and I’m not stupid enough to think there’s a way out of it. It’s one thing for me to be having nightmares or losing out on a couple hours of sleep. She might have forgiven the tiny panic attack in the car, but Talia knows a simple elbow to the stomach shouldn’t drop me like it did.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say.
With that, I hop out, waiting until they’re gone before I start up the stairs and down the hallway to my apartment. Inside is a whole other mess of misery, this one of my own making.
Or, I think. He won’t be there at all.
Ploy
Last night, when I heard Allie’s keys rattle in the door after midnight, I faked sleep. After whispering my name, she retreated to bed without us hashing out what happened before Talia whisked her off on their secret mission.
Stretching now, I shake off my fatigue and blink against the harsh light of morning. In a few hours, last night will be a moot point. I’ll prove I’m worth keeping around.
My phone vibrates where it’s cradled in my palm. “Here” the text reads.
I slept in yesterday’s jeans and a T-shirt. A quick touch proves my knife’s still at my hip. With a final longing look at Allie’s door, I wiggle my feet into my shoes and then decide to leave my pack against the side of the couch. I don’t want to give her the impression I’m taking off for good. Then again, if I get myself abducted by the assholes she specifically told me to avoid, she’ll probably track me down to kill me herself. I ghost into the hallway and use my key to lock up behind me. Once I’m outside, I’m in the clear.
The bird chatter wrestles against the sun’s brightness to set my head pounding.
A block and a half down and around the corner from Allie’s place, a cab idles where Quinn said it’d be waiting. I slip into the back seat beside him. “Sorry, man,” I say.
Quinn doesn’t acknowledge me for a solid minute. “You couldn’t text me back?” he asks.
“I was sleeping. You’re aware it’s like nine in the morning?”
I don’t get Quinn’s strange laugh. “Well, today’s an exciting day.”
I make a mental note of the month, the week. “Is it a holiday or something?” I ask.
He pauses as if he can’t decide if I’m screwing with him or not, then holds his phone between the seats to show the driver an address, which means I don’t know where we’re headed. Allie needs every detail about them.
“Why’s today a big day?” I ask again.
Quinn moves his phone to his lap, furiously texting with his thumbs. “You,” he says.
“Me?”
Only now does he glance at me, eyebrow raised in scathing appraisal. “You know we’ve spent almost two weeks working to find you, Ploy?”
Slightly creepy, I think. Unease curls in my gut. Today’s the day I’m supposed to meet the others, but I never thought they’d be making a big deal out of things. I don’t like the idea that they’ve prepared for me. I consider hopping out at the next stop sign. Worst case, I can tuck and roll from the moving vehicle. With all the pedestrians, it’s not like the driver’s hitting the speed limit. Stop being a damn coward, I tell myself.
Quinn fishes for his wallet, withdrawing a bill as the cabbie takes a quick right before drifting curbside at whatever cross streets Quinn showed him. We could have walked the distance in ten minutes instead of wasting the money. I open the cab’s door and clamber onto the sidewalk.
We’re in the Chariot District, but barely. Houses dot either side of the street. Their yards are squat rectangles choked with weeds, each ramshackle porch a mess of warped boards and peeling paint. Up the street, a couple houses are in an obvious state of repair and restoration. Two painters on scaffolding roll white onto replacement shake shingles.
At my side, Quinn grapples out of the cab and stands. “Ready?” he asks.
For what? I think, but I give him a nod, anyway.
I let Quinn ahead of me on the sidewalk so I can take a minute to pull myself together. They wanted to find me. They searched for me. I’m one of them, I remind myself.
Four houses down, Quinn lifts the latch on a chain-link fence and swings it open for me. I scoot onto a cracked and uneven walkway leading through a rare, mowed lawn and climb the bowed planks of the steps onto the porch. The crystal dome of the doorbell is broken, rounded in jagged glass, the inside a mess of rusted wires.
“Go ahead in,” he tells me. “No need to knoc
k.”
I do what he says. The door opens into an old-fashioned parlor. The floor’s coated in a thick layer of dust, furniture covered with white sheets. It’s not a full-time residence, but it’s not trashed enough to be a squat.
His hands drop onto my shoulders to move me forward.
My brain dumps pictures of my father, his reared fist, alcohol on his breath as he coiled the neckline of my shirt, the strangle and choke, his grip as he hauled me into position to pummel me black and blue. My bones bear his marks, fissure-line cracks healed without hospital intervention.
I tear myself free of Quinn. “Don’t touch me,” I warn.
He splays his fingers, palms facing me. Leery, his posture stiffens as if he’s expecting violence and unsure what to do with me. “Sorry,” he says, sounding confused. “Christ, you’re jumpy.”
Don’t lose it, I tell myself, but it’s Allie’s voice I hear in my head. You’re safe. Allie’s voice quieting my raging heart rate to a quick staccato bump, even now slowing. He’s not here. You’re safe.
Well, not safe, but anything’s better than facing my father. My fingers ache. I shake my hands and stretch my neck to convince my muscles not to lock. It was Jamison who got me out of that house. Jamison who stood up to my father. I did nothing but cower.
But Jamison’s dead, and soon Allie might be, too, if I don’t get it together. Now’s not exactly the time to be working through this, I remind myself.
Voices flood the hall. I follow Quinn until he enters a boxy, old-fashioned study. The walls are paneled in dark stained wood. One is lined with bookshelves protected behind swinging cabinet doors, the glass inserts etched with flowering vines at the borders. Above, framed in gilded gold, hang painted portraits of uniformed military men. In the center, there’s a fancy etched pistol in a shadowbox, with a brass plaque underneath too small to read.
Claustrophobia edges through me, brought on by a combination of the room and the five people gathered into it. They’re behind and around an imposing desk, focused on a laptop open on its surface. Each face rises to look at me as we enter.
With Quinn, I played things rough, bullying him before the illusion of control had him believing he had me in a corner until I blew it a couple seconds ago. With these five, I’m uncertain what will work. I don’t want to piss anyone off. I might burn bridges I don’t have time to mend if Allie’s under threat from them. Swallowing hard, I nod once in hello. No one returns my greeting. Instead, they stare, doe-eyed, and it only makes me feel more like a predator on display.
The girl in the center has a flare of unnaturally red hair to the middle of her back. She opens her mouth, then closes it before her focus jumps to Quinn. “You got him out of there,” she says.
Quinn’s grin broadens. “I got him,” he says, leaning awkwardly over the desk before raising his fist to bump against hers.
She indulges him and then swings my direction again. The once over she gives me is invasive. She knocks an elbow against the guy standing beside her.
“Still not convinced,” he says in answer to a question she never voiced. They exchange a series of nods and nudges without a word. He’s a big dude, but his bulk is too proportioned, which means he’s a gym rat. I’m betting he’s awkward in a fight, untested. The others in the group murmur to each other.
Red closes the laptop, drawing my attention. “Jamison called you Ploy,” she says, her voice careful. “Is that what you prefer?”
“Ploy works for now,” I say. I’m not giving her my name. If she’s testing how willing I am to give up my secrets, she’ll figure I’m holding my cards close to my chest. The “for now” opens up the possibility of future trust.
“I’m Nico,” she says. Her flame of hair spills down her back as she gestures at the guy she had the exchange with. “This is my brother, East. Twins,” she says almost apologetically.
It’s not where my head went with the two of them. “Nice,” I say, and then feel stupid.
Nico gives me a nod, like she’s considering me in a new light. Part of me wonders if she expects I’m excited she’s apparently single.
I shift my attention to the tiny girl on Nico’s left.
Raising a hand, she offers a shy wave. “Keeley,” she chokes out.
She can’t be over thirteen. Her haircut isn’t helping, mousey brown strands lobbed into a first-day-of-school bob, barely long enough to tuck behind her ears.
“Hey,” I say, softening. It’s strategy to act hard to the others, but I can’t bring myself to intimidate a kid on purpose.
The last girl isn’t shy. It’s obvious by the glower, and sneer of her lip, we’re not about to be friends. She’s got “rebellious phase” written all over her from her coal-dark hair dye to the tattoo across her collarbone hidden beneath that hair. Her elastic top is strapless to show off the ink, but I can’t decipher the design aside from a set of shaded gravestones that roll when she flexes her crossed arms tighter.
“And you?” I ask.
“I’m Zen,” she says, and at first I assume she’s trying to make a joke, like she’s just a peaceful ball of light despite the hostility radiating in my general direction.
Before I can make a comment, Nico pats her lovingly on the crown of her head. “Be nice, Zen,” she says before her admiring gaze drags over me again. “We don’t want to scare him off.”
As the entire group of them shifts their attention to her, whatever doubt I might have had Nico is in charge dwindles. Her brother, East, appears to be second in command. Either Quinn or the youngest girl, Keeley, is at the bottom of the list. Wherever Zen falls, she’s clawing her way topside and from the glare she gives Nico, she’ll tear her apart on her rise.
“So, Ploy,” Nico says. “Quinn told you enough to convince you to meet us. Where are we at in this conversation?”
Pinned onto the wood of the wall is a splay of pictures and printed notes. It reminds me of what I saw at Talia’s place. For every bit of scribbled frenetic energy in Talia’s, this counters with methodical neatness, penned bullet point lists. The papers even have decorative borders and smiley stickers.
“You guys have been doing your homework,” I say, as if I’m excited to join whatever they’ve got going. The pictures are sparse, but I see Allie and Talia, and Sarah, Allie’s aunt. The others I don’t recognize. “Jamison said you all were observing the resurrectionists,” I say. “Lot of stuff here.”
For a moment, I wait to see if anyone jumps in with more information.
As I move around the edge of the desk for a closer peek at the fact sheets, the rest of the crew matches my movements, retreating as if I’m contagious. Part of me thrills. If Jamison weaponized me to these people, I won’t cast off a reputation I can use to my advantage. Then I catch the way Keeley winces as I reach toward Allie’s picture, and I’m not so sure I want to be the villain. The kid’s been through something.
“You the one who did this?” I guess, pointing to the display and dead giveaway of stickers. I’m rewarded with an enormous smile.
She flicks her fingers behind her ears, re-tucking the hair there. “Green border means we’re positive they’re a resurrectionist. Yellow, decent proof. Red, could go either way.”
Allie’s picture is a couple years old, framed in shiny green stars. The oversized sweatshirt she’s wearing envelopes her, her haunted expression peeking out from under the hood. Even though the shot’s not a closeup, obvious dark circles smudge her undereye as she stares at something blurred by distance. In the picture, she must be about fifteen, which means it was snapped right after her parents died.
Talia’s angry words at her apartment ricochet through my head. You’ve heard the stories, Ploy, but I was there.
Transferring my attention from the photo of Allie, I point to the sheet beside Talia. It lists random stats about her, her address, info on how she lives with her parents. Her name is spelled wrong. “No ‘h,’” I tell Keeley. “It’s Talia, not Thalia.”
“We wondered about that,�
�� she says. She opens a desk drawer and snags a pen to correct the mistake before she considers me through pale lashes. “Thanks.”
I can’t keep them happy on crumbs of information. A misplaced letter in a name isn’t doing much to foster trust. But there’s not a chance in Hell I’m throwing Allie under the bus.
Instead, it’s Jamison I sacrifice.
“Quinn mentioned we’re both missing friends.” I say it while watching Nico to gauge her reaction.
I’m surprised when she appears genuinely pained. “Corbin is ours. I’ve known him for years. He sided with us on the split.”
“The split?”
“Are you sure about this?” East interrupts.
Nico goes on, ignoring him. “Jamison came blazing in a few months ago thinking his ideas are revolutionary. Immortality, selling their blood for a profit.” She stifles a laugh. “Sorry. Everyone on the message boards knows the magic is limited. Whatever the resurrectionists do only works once.”
Wrong, I think. I want to ask about the boards, but I’m not about to stop her with East on a hair trigger.
Jamison started talking to them months ago? I can’t help the pang of betrayal. He never told me about them until the end.
She watches me. “Your boy doesn’t consider consequences of jacking around immortal beings, not to mention jacking us around.”
“He’s a little stubborn,” I offer.
“You said it, not me. Anyway—” She hesitates for half a beat, hazel eyes flashing to East as if weighing his objections. “There’s a scientist. He’s interested in studying the blood. Just before Jamison found us, this guy made a private offer to buy a resurrectionist,” Nico continues. “A very, very large private offer. The blood has to be fresh. We hadn’t considered just like, taking a whole person.”
A cold sweat breaks over my skin. It takes everything in me not to react. Allie’s biggest fear is someone getting ahold of the blood and learning too much.
“Most of us are more watchers than doers. The five of us here and Corbin ran the odds and determined the money was worth giving it a shot. We planned for weeks. The resurrectionist we targeted was newer here in Fissure’s Whipp, but we’d confirmed his status with our members out in Colorado.”
Something Grave: The Resurrectionists Series book two Page 10