Except, these people want Ploy.
A switch flips inside me and I’m all unstable ground, clawing for purchase to keep my head above water. It’s the side of me that hung tight to Jamison long after I knew what he was about, the part of me that takes the punches thrown around bonfires in the Boxcar Camp, the part that splits lips with fists and drags dead men wrapped in tarps down stairs. The part of me that clings, digs roots into the cracks I can find. Survives.
I charge. The single step East stumbles in retreat is all the ground I need to gain to reassert myself. I want more. I slug him once, aiming for his throat and at the last second shifting to his cheek. This is posturing, not an actual fight, proven in the way East immediately clutches his face instead of beating me bloody.
A palm slams against my rib cage as Zen throws herself between me and East. “Back off, Ploy!”
I hesitate, not only because it’s Nico I expected, but because there’s a flash of caution in Zen’s eyes. She knows something I don’t. Is this a setup? Is East trying to draw me into a fight?
The fingers on my chest spread a star of pressure. It’s enough to ground me in the reality that if I blow this, I’m putting Allie in danger.
“If you ever,” I start before I force myself to take a shaky inhale and tamp down the rage sparking inside me. “You don’t get to call me trash.”
East makes a noise of disgust, but I ignore it.
I scan the rest of them gathered around East and I, Zen sandwiched between us. Nico at a distance. Keeley uncertain, watching it all play out.
“East,” Nico says. The wording is careful, strategic. “He can get us what we need to know about CJ.”
I level my glare on Nico. “Who the hell cares about that?”
They’re switching subjects again. Why? I need to throw them off and I’ve got more than enough anger to spare for a show.
“You’re riding my ass about some random kid and you never even questioned what I found about Corbin. What about finding Jamison? What happened to that?” I pause long enough for the accusation to sink in. “I thought this was a rescue! If you’re after blood, why not ask me to lure Allie into your rat trap of a house? Bleed her dry. When you’re done with her though, I’d like to ask her what happened to my friend if it’s not too inconvenient.”
I’m never going to pull this off. Jamison saw right through my act. Allie didn’t buy it. It never worked. But Keeley won’t look at me. Guilt blooms across Quinn’s face.
Zen shifts into my line of vision. “Stop acting like you’re the only one who cares!” she demands. “Half the neighbors at his shitty apartment complex are convinced I’m a stalker.”
“You mean Jamison’s apartment?” I ask. She’s been to his place. Inside. It’s obvious that she would have been, it just never occurred to me. I picture her sitting on the cheap futon I only saw through his basement level window.
“I’ve been trying to catch him for weeks. Pretty constantly though the last couple days.” She stares at me, her expression haunted. “I keep thinking of what you said when Quinn brought you to the house.” Her mouth quirks into a frown as she finally lets her hand drop from my chest. “About how maybe Jamison got busy. You know him best, Ploy, so tell me. Would he do that?” Zen scans the crowd, arms crossed over her chest as if she’s cold. “Forget about me?”
Inside me, something goes tight. I remember the waiting. The light shot through those nights he showed up at the Boxcar Camp for the quick half hour hangouts he could spare when I had no one and nothing. The wicked truth of it is Jamison never forgot about me. Not for long, anyway.
When I find my voice, it’s barely a breath. “He wouldn’t forget about you.”
“Then tell me he’s alive.” She waits. Too long.
“Zen?” Nico says, the name a question. But Zen’s eyes never leave mine, and so I give her what she wants.
“Jamison wouldn’t go down without a fight,” I promise her. An image sears across my brain, the slur of his rage as the poison took hold, his last confused moments. I’d just wanted him to stop hurting Allie. I’d just wanted to understand why he shot me.
“Promise me you’re going to get Allie to tell you where he is,” Zen says. Her fingers grip my wrist.
I can’t get the words past the lump in my throat. Allie’s the only reason I thought twice about Jamison’s plan to get resurrectionist blood for ourselves. Without her, I have a pretty good idea where I’d be right now, and it involves Jamison and torture and too much blood on my hands to ever wash off.
I wouldn’t have gone through with it, I tell myself, but I don’t know if it’s true. Would I have stopped him if it wasn’t for her?
“Do you know something?” Zen asks. I hesitate as if I’m debating whether to trust her. There’s a pause as her gaze bounces to Nico, who gives her a slight nod. “We’ll make it worth your while.”
“Fine.” I snag my wrist free. “Allie said there were two people at her aunt’s house when she got there, but they took off. You all said Corbin and Jamison were spotted together the same day the cops found the body of Allie’s aunt. It had to be them.”
“Did Allie start that fire?” Nico asks.
“No. Said she saw the body, took off before the flames trapped her inside. She’s the one who called it in though. Anonymous.”
“Corbin mention being there to you?” East asks his sister. She shakes her head and he comes back to me. “Go on.”
“When I talked to Jamison later that day, he asked where I was, and I told him the Boxcar Camp. He said Allie might need some…” I wince, hating the truth I’m seeding in with the lies. “He wanted me to see if she’d let me crash at her place. Said I should be ready to offer her some comfort if she needed it.”
“What, sleep with her?” Zen asks. I concentrate on the concrete and let them come to their own conclusions.
“Did you talk to Jamison again after that?” East asks.
“Yeah. Once. Allie wasn’t home that night. I called him the next morning and told him I crashed at the camp.” I swallow hard. “Matches your timeline. Doesn’t add much to it, though,” I admit. “You said two days. Give me a few more and I’ll press her.”
They could say no, cut me off. Or…
“It helps,” Nico says. Beside her on the bench is the slushie her brother brought her. The cup’s gone dark red, the ice melting down into the juice. She pokes it with the wooden spoon but doesn’t eat any. “We followed Talia’s ride the other night after she picked up Allie. We think they took CJ with them to train him.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure where they’re headed with this.
“You gave us the idea,” Keeley says, beaming. “You said if we ever sell another resurrectionist, you want in. Nico got to wondering. She made a call. Turns out, our buyer’s in the market again!”
My heart stalls. I did say that. An uneasy chuckle breaks from me. “Well, damn,” I get out.
Zen moves to drop a palm on the crown of Keeley’s head. “We figure Allie and Talia will be with him when he’s resurrecting, so it’s best if we get him alone. And so tomorrow, our Keeley here has a movie date with CJ.”
Keeley grins up at Zen.
My skin crawls. The sharp tang of stomach acid fills my mouth as my gut roils uneasily. I toss what’s left of the snow cone toward the nearest garbage can, hear the slushy sound of it slamming against the metal.
When I come back to them, Nico’s watching me too close. “We wanted to offer you the chance to help us, since you were the one who gave us the push.”
I can’t gamble with CJ’s life. I have to come clean to Allie, tell her everything. Me proving myself to the other resurrectionists doesn’t matter anymore.
This is my fault. The realization crashes through me. Without my push, they would have left the kid alone. I made this happen.
“Sounds good,” I manage a couple seconds later. I yank my phone from my pocket and fake a response to a non-existent text message. “Hey, listen. It’s Allie. Some
thing came up. Sorry.”
The scent of dirt fills my nostrils, impossible in the crowds, the baking asphalt wavering in the heat. Part of me is stuck in that cellar, Jamison alive and whispering in my ear. You’re just like me.
My entire body erupts in goosebumps. “Keep me in the loop,” I say as I stumble backward. “I gotta go.” My quick steps speed into a jog as I shove past a middle-aged couple, nudging a stroller with my knee, begging apologies in my wake.
I’m already yards away, ducking through the crowd when Nico calls to me. “Ploy! Wait!”
I don’t stop. Ploy died in his grave beside the barn.
“Ploy!” Keeley yells before Nico’s attempt has faded.
Ploy’s dead, I think.
Allie
Talia texted me a couple minutes ago, so I’m not surprised at her knock. I undo the locks, the fastened chain, and then step aside while she opens the door.
“Hey,” I say, trying to get a read on her. She didn’t stick around at the gym two days ago while I worked with CJ, so we didn’t patch up after.
She closes the door before she leans against it, arms full. She’s carrying a thick folder and a notebook that looks suspiciously like my mother’s, which means she’s going to ask me to officially take the reins again. It won’t be the first time she’s asked, but I’m ready.
I head for the kitchen, my bare feet pattering across the floor.
“I called the other leaders,” I say to ease us into the conversation and save her the anxiety. “Tennisen’s a peach.”
Opening the refrigerator, I snag a Coke for myself and wait for a comment that doesn’t come.
I change tactics. “Tossed me into the deep end with that job, no? You here for the money?” I ask, though technically I’m the one who’s supposed to be dividing up the payments brought in by resurrections.
Silence.
After my talk with Christopher, we’d showered and decompressed. I should have called Talia to check in following the resurrection. She might have taken it as a slight, but now that I consider it, it’s strange that she never reached out either.
I set the Coke on the counter and open the drawer, blindly scouring the depths for the rolled twenties. I already took my cut. I tuck the remaining money into my pocket, grab the can, and lean around the wall to glimpse into the living room. “My first official back-in-the-game resurrection ended up being a pretty wild story,” I say.
Talia hasn’t moved from her spot near the door. She’s staring into the shadows of the bathroom, the bedroom.
I watch her, perplexed. “What’s wrong?”
“Is he here?” she asks abruptly. “Is he hiding?” She glowers into the empty bedroom. “I need to know if he beat me here.”
“Hiding? From you?” I almost laugh and then hesitate. “What do you mean, beat you here?”
“Allie, answer,” she prompts. “Don’t lie. Is Ploy here?”
Her tone brings the truth from me. “No. He’s downtown. Some of his friends from the Boxcar Camp meet him there. They scam the tourists out of change.” I hold up the Coke. “Spoils of his criminal behavior. Want one or are you morally against it?”
The sarcasm in my smile is forced. I pop the tab on the Coke and take a long drink before I cross to her, unnerved by her lack of reaction.
“You swear he’s not here?” she says.
I set the can on the end table. This isn’t like her, the nerves. “Talia, what’s going on?”
She fiddles with the necklace she’s wearing, sliding a tiny blue stone on a delicate chain of silver. “I did a thing. I’m not proud of it. Something just never sat right with me when it came to Ploy.”
“Christopher,” I correct, the name cracking out of me.
“Yeah,” she says quickly, as if what she said doesn’t matter. I’m about to lay into her but her expression stops me short. “At the gym, you mentioned he was acting strange.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “It was a split second of doubt. Probably has to do with you constantly putting it into my head that my boyfriend is out to get me.”
She winces. “I’ve been following him, Allie. For a few days.”
“You what now?” It’s such a crappy thing for her to admit it takes a second before my rage kicks in full throttle. “You’re obsessed with him! What you’re doing is so far past rational behavior I can’t even—”
“Allie!” she yells, cutting me off. “You said you’re not giving him up. I needed to prove to myself we can trust him.” She pauses. “He knows too much.”
“I suppose saving your life doesn’t cut him any slack?” I’m over it. Done. Crossing my arms over my chest, I face her. “Well, have you stalked him to your satisfaction?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“And?” At the least, I expect an apology. “And?” I say again.
I don’t understand why she can’t see him how I see him. I wish for one instant she could feel what I feel, the safety of knowing he’s close, the touch of him calming the constant anxiety of my existence.
She’s been my best friend for more years than she hasn’t. Every important event in my life, and Talia’s in the memory, too. Now, I’m going to lose her to jealousy over the only person who means as much to me as she does. “Don’t ask me to choose,” I warn.
But Talia doesn’t look mad. She looks heartbroken. Maybe she knows how this will end.
“He studied those pictures on my wall and swore he never set eyes on those hunters.” There’s a careful edge to her voice I don’t like, as if I’m fragile. “Ploy was with them,” she says. “Today. Just now.” She pauses as if prepared for a blow before her fingers dig into her pocket. “I took pictures.”
“Fine,” I say, reluctantly. “Show me.” Whatever she thinks she saw, it rattled her. The sooner we clear this up, the better.
She unlocks her phone and holds it out. Another flick of her finger and I’m staring at the headshots and closeups of several hunters we saw displayed on the wall at her apartment. She goes through them one by one, but I don’t need to commit them to memory to recognize them when she moves on to the first picture she apparently took today.
They’re in a group, downtown. I see the stream in the background, the black wrought-iron railing to keep anyone from tumbling into it, the benches under the live oaks. But no Christopher.
“He’s not even—”
Except in the next shot, he is there, on one of those benches, sharing it with the pretty girl with her unnaturally red hair. Her fingers grasp a fold of cash. She’s passing it to Christopher. In the following picture, the handoff has already happened. The girl lounges, sprawled out beside him, utterly at ease.
“I’m not sure if it’s information they’re paying him for or—”
She keeps scrolling, hesitating on each snap. I was expecting blurred shots. Indistinguishable shadows. Instead, there’s Christopher, angled toward the camera enough that there’s no mistaking him for anyone else. No mistaking the bright red hair of the female hunter beside him, the same girl on Talia’s wall.
“That’s impossible,” I whisper, but the last word chokes into silence. This can’t be right. It has to be a trick. Photoshop. How desperate is Talia to get him out of my life? I glance up at her to ask.
“I’m sorry,” she says as she moves her finger across the screen. A new picture. In this one, he’s got an arm around a younger girl of about thirteen. His chin rests on the crown of her head, comfortable.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, and she scrolls to another. A female with black hair and drawn-on eyebrows is leaning against the familiar fence. Christopher’s yelling at a guy with muscles cording his neck. They’re not quite fighting, though. None of the others seem alarmed.
Talia’s opening her mouth to talk again when the first laugh bubbles from my throat. I can’t help it. The sound is maniacal, building, and I wonder if she’s right to look a little afraid which makes me laugh harder.
She says my name, this time all caution. I le
an my palms on my knees as I fight for control.
“Allie?” Talia says. “You need to hear the rest.”
“There’s more?” Those pictures don’t lie. He was with them. Why would he be with them? I think of the money he offered me toward rent. The pride in his eyes. Nothing shown indicates he’s in danger or they’re forcing information from him.
“I didn’t want to get too close in case he saw me, but they were louder when they started arguing.” Every word that leaves her mouth makes this whole thing worse.
“Don’t.” It’s a plea to spare me, but Talia shakes her head and continues anyway.
“He wanted to lure you to a house. He said to bleed you dry and be done with you. He said it. I couldn’t make out anything else.”
My head starts a slow shake.
I rip the phone from her and scroll back, starting over at the beginning. I can’t come up with an excuse for what he’d be doing with them before the screen goes black. Something in my brain clicks. On this device is a picture of Christopher with the hunters trying to kill me. Enemies. All of them.
No, I think desperately. No, no, no, no. Not him.
Not again.
I clasp a hand to my chest as I suck a sharp breath and my heart breaks, tendons ripping apart, snapping loose. It hurts.
Because Talia’s always been right, I think.
“What do you want to do?” she asks.
“Give me a second.” I drop my hands to my hips as I go over the conversation Christopher and I had after the bus ride. He’d made a casual suggestion he infiltrate the hunters. Is that what I’m seeing here? Or has he been with them the whole time? Two days ago, he quizzed me on what happened to the hunter in the cabin. Was he finding out for them? Puzzle pieces shift into places they don’t quite fit. Nothing comes together in a way that makes sense.
“Allie?” Talia says.
“Something’s not right.”
He wouldn’t do this to me, I think. He wouldn’t.
Something Grave: The Resurrectionists Series book two Page 16