Even before she finishes, I’m shaking my head. “I’m coming with you. Not up for debate.” When she flinches, I remember she used the same phrase on me yesterday. “Listen,” I say. “This is not us setting new standards. This is a onetime thing, but I’m coming with you.”
She tongues her bottom lip as she considers it. Now that she’s closer, I can see a purple splotch of bruise, healing but discolored. I thumb the mark, an invitation to explain. Instead, she tips a fraction of an inch from my touch.
“I answered the call,” I say as I drop my hand. “I’ve seen a resurrection. Hell, I did one on you.” I can’t watch her go alone. Not after the way I spent my morning. Not when this could be a trap. My body coils in anticipation of a rejection.
“In or out,” she murmurs to herself in the same intonation I said the words last night. When she glances at me, her stare is haunted in a way I don’t understand. “Toss that in the kitchen,” she says as she hands me the mail. “I’ll grab the rest of my supplies.”
“You got it,” I say, wrestling to hide my relief.
The second the messenger bag loops across her chest, it’s as if she heard a silent starter gun. I’m left struggling to lock up behind us, dropping the key in my rush. The carpet in front of her door still holds the noticeable stain where I bled out, most of it hidden under a cheap “Welcome” mat. I remember reaching, the chill in my bones spreading with that stain. I remember dying alone.
“Hey! Coming?” Allie calls from the end of the hall.
I shiver. “Yeah,” I manage.
The path to the address the woman gave passes in a near jog. It’s no more than five minutes, but by the time we get there, I’m soaked in sweat. We don’t speak. The only resurrection Allie took me on was a baby, with Talia running the scene. From the car involved, this guy’s older.
Heart attack? I wonder. Or maybe it’s a suicide. What if they don’t resurrect those? What if I’ve unintentionally set Allie up to break a rule?
I spot the place, a two-story version of a shotgun house. The garage looms at the end of the driveway. A for sale sign is sunk into the small patch of dying grass near the sidewalk. All the blinds appear to be missing. I can’t see much inside. I wonder if they lost the place, and the dude offed himself. Without a word, I point.
Allie stops, turning toward me, her bag slung over a shoulder. “You remember what to do?”
I stare at the closed garage door. “Stay out of the way,” I say. “Help if you ask for it. The code is flowers and colors.”
Absorbed with what could be in the garage, I finally tear myself away and find Allie softening as she takes me in.
“Cobalt,” she says. It’s the call and answer Talia and her cousin use to let each other know everything is okay. Talia taught Allie. Allie taught me. So far, we haven’t gotten more creative than the original pairing I heard them use.
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re really going to saddle me with ‘dandelion’ in this situation?”
Her smile is small, but I’ll take it. It’s the first of hers I’ve seen since yesterday. Warmth ripples inside me as I check out the house, the windows, and make sure we’re not being watched where we stand in the center of the driveway. No one stares back at us. The place appears abandoned. A rollercoaster drop starts in my gut. Setup, my brain hisses.
“Dandelions are survivors,” Allie insists. I hear the tease in the words.
“You’re calling me a scrappy weed!” I argue, attempting to sound insulted as I shade the sun, warily studying the house.
She cuffs me playfully across the bicep and my attention snaps to her. Her thumb feathers my jaw before she rises onto her tiptoes to kiss me. “Couldn’t think of a better set of petals to have my back,” she says, and then she starts us on the trek toward the garage.
Allie
“Grab his neck!” I scream at Christopher.
My hands are slick, blood covered as I struggle with the guy thrashing in the ancient Lincoln’s back seat. Somehow, he ended up on top of me in the ten seconds since he bolted upright and proved himself not even close to dead.
I watch in horror as the bullet wound in his neck spurts a fresh spray. It splashes across my cheek and soaks the top of my shirt before the rest of the arterial glug puddles against the leather underneath me. A shocked sound of disgust erupts from my throat.
“How much blood can this guy have in him?” I growl though I know the answer. A gallon and a half in a normal human male. Most of this normal human male’s is splattered across my clothes, my skin, in my mouth, coating a good portion of the car windows.
He’s incoherent, terrified, and the round in his neck isn’t his only problem. There’s another in his chest. His lung gives a hiss and rattle with each labored inhale and exhale. Not long now, I promise myself.
Above the guy and behind him, I see the whites of Christopher’s eyes, wide and wild.
“Help me, you scrappy weed!” I yell.
It’s the most ridiculous thing I can say but to my utter amazement Christopher rallies, snatching our very not-dead subject, dragging him off me and onto the garage floor.
Panting, I lay flat, exhausted, adrenaline twitching through my muscles. This is not what I signed up for, I think. And then another thought burns through me. You’re jumping in, both feet.
“Allie!” Christopher calls.
So much for resting.
I hoist myself, press a palm to help me scoot over and end up slipping. My attention skitters across the front seat as I fight my way free of the car. I’d have to be blind not to notice the enormous sidearm on the front passenger side, the ink-stained twenties and fifties papering the floor there.
Christopher’s got the guy pinned. Our failed bank robber’s not moving. Maybe he kicked the bucket.
I hear the unmistakable sound of a shotgun racking. Instantly, my hands lift skyward.
“Get the hell off him!” the woman yells. In the fuss and fun, I totally forgot her.
“Easy,” Christopher says. He’s got his knee dug into the middle of the guy’s spine.
“I was told you could fix him no matter how bad they shot him,” she says.
I dare a quick peek at the scrawny brunette and then slide my foot in an obvious move to draw her attention. The barrel of the shotgun swings toward me.
Good, I think. Keep it on me. Not Christopher.
“I’m a resurrectionist!” I plead. “I bring back the dead!” I point to her friend on the garage floor. “He wasn’t dead yet!”
Her mouth curls into a sassy snarl. “Real sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Yeah, I’ll add it to your bill,” I say, mimicking her, and I can’t help but wonder if in another life, we might have been friends.
“He dead now?” she asks. Her voice wavers.
I fixate on her every movement. “My boyfriend is going to check your man for a pulse, okay?”
Her head jiggles. The barrels of the shotgun twitch in a way that makes me supremely uncomfortable.
I turn toward Christopher. “Check his pulse, okay, Dandelion?”
“Okay,” he says, and I can’t gauge if he couldn’t work in “cobalt” on the fly or if he’s hurt. His bloody fingers snake up the side of the guy’s neck. Christopher winces, and then he shakes his head. “I don’t feel anything.”
The woman makes a sound that’s the audible equivalent of an eye-roll. “Fantastic,” she says. “Anything else standing in the way of you doing your goddamned job, blondie?”
“Nope,” I say with all the confidence I can muster. I’ve been on jobs that have gone south. I’ve been stabbed by a dead guy’s relative. I’ve been shot, though technically we weren’t on a job at the cabin. In the scheme of things, when a resurrection goes bad, it’s best to at least attempt whatever the hell they want you to do. This lady wants me to work on her partner. I’ll work on her partner.
As I stumble to my feet, my vision blurs. I’ve got blood in my eyes, but it doesn’t matter. Despite the sting, I can
see well enough to reach the spot where I dropped my bag of medical supplies.
When we arrived, we assumed we should go to the garage because of the details the caller gave Christopher. Only once we were whisked inside did I see the bullet holes in the rear window of the brown Lincoln, the copious amounts of blood and Benjamins, the woman levelling a shotgun on Christopher and me. That had been the moment I realized this job wouldn’t be the easy peasy resurrection I expected.
I kick the bag. “I’m going to reach for this,” I say, my hands still wide, palms out. “I’ll tell you everything before I do it, so no reason to get jumpy, clear?”
“Feel like I’ve got an awful lot of reasons to be jumpy right about now,” she says, and to my absolute horror, I snort before I can help myself.
“Yeah, I’m not sure who’s having a worse day, you or me,” I say.
She makes a sound that’s almost a laugh. “My money’s on him,” she says, gesturing with the gun toward her dead partner.
“Fair point,” I acknowledge with the slightest tip of my head. We’re building rapport, which is good. “Okay. I’m picking up my bag.”
As I bend, a lock of my hair tugs tight where it’s drying against my cheek. Another pendulums, heavy with gore. In the back seat struggle, I broke my ponytail holder. I grab the satchel.
“Unzipping,” I warn.
“Wait!” she yells, and Christopher jerks at the sound. She whips the gun toward him.
“No, no, no, no!” I don’t bother hiding my fear. “Here!” I flap the top of the satchel open, swallowing hard as I edge the zipper across the fabric. “Okay, I’m going to kneel and start working.”
I drop myself between the gun and Christopher, but angle to see what she’s up to on my left side. “I’m emptying the bag.”
“Do it,” she says, and I yank.
Syringes, gauze, scissors, and other assorted supplies bounce over the dirty garage floor. A spool of stitching thread rolls, catching in a puddle of what could be oil. I reach for it. I don’t think, only act, relying on muscle memory from years of resurrections. I snip through the back of the guy’s shirt, peeling either side away to see what I’m working with.
“Two bullet holes,” I say to no one in particular. I take up a pair of hemostats and fish around in his neck until I clasp the bullet and draw it free. Behind me, the woman gags. I drop the slug and go for the next. This one’s harder. I abandon the tool and jam the tip of my pinkie in, probing.
“Come on,” I whisper. Nothing. I can’t find it. In my head, my brain’s sorting steps. Find the bullets. Extract. Sew the wounds. Help the body where you can. Give him my blood. Wait for him to revive.
But I can’t find the bullet.
If I can’t find the bullet, I can’t get it out, and if I can’t get it out… “It’s not here,” I start before Christopher reaches to squeeze my hand.
“He had a hole in the front, didn’t he?” he asks. Then he nods as if convincing me. “Could it have been an exit wound?”
“Yes,” I blurt, grateful. It’s so obvious. How the hell did I miss it? “Yes,” I say, quieter this time.
I sew. My hands fly. Soon, I’ve got the syringe stripped from the plastic. I hold the length of rubber tubing out to Christopher.
“Tie this?” I ask, fighting the urge to swipe at my brow. Something’s dripping. Likely sweat, though it could be blood.
Christopher takes my arm in his hands. The brush of his fingertips against my skin is a balm. “Here?” he asks.
“Hell of a time to get high,” a voice behind me says.
“It’s medicine,” Christopher lies, the words clipped before he whispers, “Are you okay?”
I hate this. I hate everything about this life. “You?” I manage.
“Much more eventful than I expected,” he admits.
I feel a pinch at the bend in my elbow and realize he’s drawing a syringe of my blood.
“Just like at the cabin?” he asks me.
“Yeah,” I get out.
Behind me, the woman shifts for a better look. The last thing I want is for her to see how this works. She’s dangerous enough. I tug the rubber strap loose and stand. Like I’m hoping, her attention stays on me.
“I’m diabetic,” I lie. “Too much excitement throws my sugars off.”
Now that I’m closer to her, I see a spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She’s young. Maybe younger than me.
“Are you going to let us leave after this?” I ask.
“As long as everything goes according to plan,” she says, which doesn’t bode well for Christopher and me. Whatever itinerary she woke up with this morning is fully off the rails. She cranes her neck. “What’s your boyfriend doing down there?”
I’m not sure what to say. The less she knows, the better. “Seems like we’re both in industries that don’t take kindly to a lot of questions.”
The butt of the shotgun hits her shoulder. “Don’t get mouthy,” she says.
“I’m not!” My hands raise. “We’re good. Nothing’s changed!”
Dread sours my stomach. This is going to go wrong. I know it as sure as anything. After her partner resurrects, we’re two loose ends solved with a bullet to my temple, then Christopher’s. I glance at him. If I die, I won’t resurrect in time to save him. Worse, my body can’t heal what isn’t there. If she sprays my brains against the garage wall, there’s no guarantee I’ll resurrect at all.
“Can you not point that at her?” Christopher says, his words tight with worry.
“It’s fine,” I say, not letting my gaze stray from our captor. No, I think. Not a captor. She’s just a scared girl in over her head. No different from me.
“I am not asking you questions.” I let the words sink in. “It’s because I don’t have questions. I haven’t seen anything.” My voice rises higher with desperation. “Not one thing I remember. Obviously, I’m not the kind of girl who goes to the cops.” I gesture at the dead body, the gore covering me and Christopher, and give her a sheepish smile as if this is the most normal Wednesday I’ve ever had. “I don’t know your name and you don’t know mine. I don’t—”
Her finger slips onto the trigger, and I freeze. “You catch the news and you’ll be connecting the dots in no time.”
“Please,” I say, my attention skirting to the unmoving body beside Christopher. The syringe in Christopher’s hand is empty, injected during my conversation with the girl. We don’t have long until her partner revives, which means this negotiation needs fast-tracking. “Please believe me when I say I do not give a single shit about any of this.” I wave one of my raised hands at the car, the money, the bullet holes and blood. “My job comes with a level of trust on both our parts. I’ve seen worse than your little grand theft gone wrong here. It’s got nothing to do with me or him, and I am totally happy with our position.”
“He’s breathing,” Christopher says.
Disbelief washes over the girl’s face.
“That’s not…” She fades off, gawking at him now. I catch the guy’s chest rising and falling at the edge of my vision. Her wide eyes jerk to meet mine, her head cocking.
“Resurrectionist,” I say, as if to remind her. “Can you please lower the shotgun?”
My words are slow and calm even while her brain fights to wrestle what happened into a box that makes sense. I know the look well. Some lean on religion and call it a miracle. Some accuse me of witchcraft. The most rational ones don’t seem to ponder much at all. I’m not sure where she’ll land, but I’m not liking her panic.
“He’ll wake up soon,” I tell her, struggling with my own nerves. The gun’s on me. Her finger’s on the trigger. “He’s going to gasp. I’m worried it’ll scare you and the shotgun will go off. That’s a normal worry, isn’t it?”
Her gaze jumps from me to her partner to Christopher. “What in the hell are you two?” she asks.
“Not him,” I admit. “Just me. Please lower the gun.”
A shoe scrapes the concr
ete.
“He’s waking up,” I tell her. “He’ll need you to tell him he’s safe. If he flails, he could rip the stitches and we’ll have to start all over. I’m guessing you don’t want to be in this garage any longer than necessary.”
She rattles her head in a nod.
“So…lowering the gun?” I push.
Riveted on her partner, she does what I ask. “He’s really alive again?”
I wonder if she thought this was a trick. An attempt to arrest her where she ended up tabloid fodder in an article about stupid criminals. As if on cue, the guy sucks an alarmingly large breath.
The shotgun fires. I leap to cover Christopher as the scattershot hits concrete and ricochets. The weapon clatters against the ground and I wince, not sure if it’s going to discharge a second time.
For a long moment, we’re silent in our shock.
“I’m sorry!” she blurts.
I grab Christopher, run my frantic touch over his arms, chest, any skin, checking for wounds. When I find none, I grab his face and wrench it toward mine. “Are you hit?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his palm presses high on my ribcage on the spot I took the bullet at the cabin. Reaching for him, I cup either side of his neck, lock my fingers, and draw us together. His forehead knocks against mine as a rush of emotions swallows me. I cannot lose him. I won’t.
I lower my voice to a whisper. “We’re okay, right?”
He nods against me, once.
“What…the…?” our formerly dead bank robber murmurs from the ground beside us. He probes his neck.
“Welcome back to the land of the living!” I announce, as if this is some grand game. “Please don’t pick at your stitches.” Stepping out of Christopher’s grip, I cock a thumb at the girl. “Once you’re both in the car, head somewhere safe.”
“Here’s pretty safe,” she argues.
“‘Here’ has neighbors who heard a gunshot in what I’m guessing is a vacant garage of a vacant house? You two need to skedaddle.”
“But the car?” she says.
It’s a question for good reason. The rear window is spider-webbed with at least three bullet holes marring the glass. Not to mention the blood. To say it’ll attract unwanted attention is an understatement.
Something Grave: The Resurrectionists Series book two Page 13