Every family has their legend. A great-great-grandmother who served as handmaiden to a queen, a famous actor who someone claims is a third cousin a dozen times removed. The murdered women are ours. “Three of the five victims were missing organs. Progressively more until the last woman, Mary Jane Kelly. He yanked her insides out and spread them around the room. Except her heart. That he took with him.” The Ripper had been learning what would keep us down as he killed. Our blood can do fascinating things, but it can’t recreate organs. “Dear Jack, as the story goes in my family, was one of the first ones to hunt us.”
Ploy gapes at me, the eggs forgotten, a certain amount of horror in his expression and I wonder if he’s realizing Jamison’s in the same category as one of the most infamous serial killers. I wonder if Ploy plans on joining him.
We both turn as Talia’s door opens. She saunters over, rubbing her eyes. “Look at you two, all seizing the day,” she says, her tone friendly and something inside me shrivels.
“Sorry, I didn’t wake you, did I?” Ploy asks.
“Nah,” she says. “I was reading. I usually can’t sleep after a case. Between that and the after midnight calls is why my parents decided it would be better to move me out here. Plus, I’m starving.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Didn’t poison it, did ya?” she asks.
Ploy grins. “Jesus, my cooking’s not that bad.” On the surface, the exchange is amiable. I wonder if Talia notices the pinch to his smile. “Plates?” he asks. As she moves to get them, I turn on my phone and unplug it from the charger.
He serves me up first with a heaping scoop of eggs and adds a piece of buttered toast. Talia sits down next to me with her own plate. I can’t help but notice she waits until Ploy starts eating before she takes a bite.
On the counter, my phone beeps. I brush the toast crumbs off my hands and pick it up, thinking the single missed call will belong to a number I don’t know, someone asking about a case. Instead, an impossible name glows quietly on the screen.
Shock must be written on my face, because on the other side of the counter Ploy stops eating. “What is it?” he asks.
“I missed a call from Sarah,” I say quietly. There’s no voicemail, no last words—just her name at the top of a list of numbers, a red phone icon beside it.
Talia’s fork lowers to her plate. “I’m so sorry, Allie. Are you okay?” she asks, but it’s Ploy that I look to for comfort. It’s become habit.
His face twists in confusion. “You used your phone at Sarah’s house. You didn’t notice it then?”
I shake my head, the phone cradled in my hands like a sacred thing, as if it’ll give up a message it doesn’t contain. I stare at her name and then the time of the call beside it. Everything inside me goes cold. “Because she hadn’t called yet.” I hold up the screen so they can see. “It came through at ten o’clock last night.”
“That’s impossible,” Talia says. “It must have been a glitch.”
There has to be a rational explanation; and then I find it. “I called before we found her, remember? Her phone was going off in the house. One of Jamison’s people must have picked it up when they were inside.”
“Or Jamison himself.” Talia takes another bite of eggs and chews. “Which means he wants to talk to you.”
Ploy makes a noise of disbelief, like it’s a stupid suggestion.
“Do you think I’m wrong?” she asks him.
“No.” He dumps the food off his half full plate into the trash and drops the plate into the sink. “I just don’t see what she could possibly want to hear from him. He’s going to gloat about what he did to her aunt.” He turns to me. “Are you sure you want to make that call?”
I look him dead in the eye. Are you afraid he’ll tattle on you? I wonder. I hit send.
“Allie, are you sure this is smart?” Talia asks.
“I guess we’ll find out,” I say. The phone rings once, twice. My palms are sweating. Talia’s right. This is stupid. I could give something away, blow our chance at catching him. I wipe my free hand on my pant legs. A third ring. I’m just about to hang up, and then someone answers. “Jamison.” I draw out the name. I want him to be aware that I know it. I want him to take it as the pathetic amount of knowledge it is. To him, I’m a girl throwing my best cards on the table, desperate, afraid. As long as I convince him he has the upper hand, I can’t cause that much damage.
“Who’s this?” the guy on the other end says in a gruff voice.
“I...” I can’t quite figure out if I’ve just woke him up or if he’s intentionally trying to throw me off. Either way, it worked. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, swallowing quickly. You’re supposed to sound frazzled. “It’s Allie. You called me on my dead aunt’s phone.”
I can almost hear him brighten. “Ah! Damn, Allie. It is good to finally put a voice with that face.”
The scoff is out before I can help it. “Is that supposed to unnerve me?”
“Allie, Allie, Allie,” he says in a chastising tone. I don’t like the way my name sounds in his mouth. The intimate way it rolls across his tongue. Across the counter, Ploy’s watching me, no doubt analyzing every word he can from my end of the conversation. Hearing Jamison speak makes me feel physically ill. I can’t listen and look at Ploy at the same time.
Before I go on, I have to close my eyes. “This is Jamison, isn’t it?”
“Did you expect me to be in jail?” he asks. “Your little stunt with the tires gave the police something to look into, but that car was reported stolen over a month ago. I was long gone before either they or the fire department showed up anyway.” There’s a pause. “You do know about the fire at the house?”
Hatred blisters inside me. I want to tell him we’re coming for him. That the people I’m sending will take away everything he loves, just like he did to me. That we’ll hunt them all down. Exterminate them. But I’m caught in the sudden memory of standing in the woods, Ploy tugging my arm as I realized the house was on fire, Sarah’s corpse burning inside.
“Why?” My voice cracks on the single word, my pain on display. “Couldn’t you even let me bury her?” From beside me, Ploy mumbles a word too low to catch but dripping with fury. Jamison isn’t the only one this act is affecting.
“To keep you on the run. Without your aunt or a place to hole up, eventually you’ll get tired of running. And when you do, I’m here to talk.”
“Murderer,” I snarl into the phone.
“You, too,” he says. “Tell me, did you consider bringing Corbin back after you shot him full of holes? Did you think about his kids? His wife?” Dead air fills the line. I didn’t shoot that man. Ploy did and blamed it on me, hid it from Jamison. Already, I’m coming out of this conversation with more intel than I had going into it.
Kids, I think. A wife. And they’ll never see their father again because of me. The phone in my hand is slick from my sweaty palm. “I was protecting myself. I’m not a murderer,” I say. Focus, I command myself. I can’t let him unravel me so easily. “I’m not like you. We’re not the same.” The words sound weak, petulant. “You’re a coward, sending—”
I cut off, my eyes flicking to Talia in horror. I’d almost said it. Sending Ploy to do your dirty work.
“Coward?” he says in surprise. In the span of silence, Jamison’s anger breaks. “I’m a coward? For letting you live?”
“Oh please! Don’t act like you’re in control. You don’t even know where we are.” We’ve watched Ploy. Made sure he hasn’t been able to get access to his backpack, to the phone hidden inside it.
Talia shoots me a warning look. “Hang up,” she whispers.
Before I can, Jamison starts speaking again. “Did you think it was a trap?” he says. Confidence bleeds from the words. “The reanimating of whatever corpse you traipsed off to not so many hours ago. Were you cautious? Is that what took you so long?” Everything inside me stills. I don’t answer.
He was here. He does know where we are.
“Not many people would ope
n the door to a stranger at three a.m. Please thank Talia’s parents again for their hospitality.” I can almost hear his smile. “They have such a lovely home.”
The call disconnects.
Ploy
“Please not them.” The words run together until the space between them disappears. “Pleasenotthempleasenotthem,” Talia whispers over and over, her hand on the back door of her parents’ house. Twice, she’s touched her fingers to the knob and pulled away as if it were heated by an unseen fire.
I know what to expect inside. Allie told us what Jamison said on the phone. I move slowly, nudge Talia’s shoulder, sway her backwards. “I’ll go in first,” I say.
I glance at Allie grimly as I twist the knob and open the door. It leads to a mudroom. We start through it toward the kitchen.
“Talia?” a voice calls and I freeze. The man it belongs to doesn’t turn, his attention on the pancakes he’s flipping in the skillet on the stove.
“Dad?” Talia whimpers in disbelief. She rushes past us. Before her father has a chance to turn, she throws her arms around him. It takes me a second to hide my surprise and replace it with relief for Allie’s benefit. Jamison left Talia’s parents alive.
“What’s gotten into you?” Talia’s father asks, a note of amusement in his voice until he hugs her back and catches sight of Allie and I standing self-consciously near the door. “Oh. We have guests?” He tips Talia from his shoulder. “Sweetheart?” he says with sudden concern. “What’s wrong?”
Her chin quivers. “Where’s Mom?”
“Joy!” he calls toward the entrance to the living room. He takes in his daughter’s tears and then his eyes shoot to us as if for an answer. I offer a short wave. Talia’s dad glances at Allie. “What’s happened?”
Allie licks her lips. “Um...” Talia’s eye barely twitches in a wink and Allie brightens. “Nothing! Just stopping by!” The change is effortless and instant as Allie slips into the new role. It’s almost unnerving.
Before it can grow awkward, Talia’s mom breezes into the room. “Howard! You’re burning them!” she says, taking the skillet with the slightly charred pancakes off the stove before she notices us. “Oh!” She sets the skillet down. She looks me over as if trying to place my face, slight recognition in her eyes. I’m pretty sure she’s dropped quarters in my cup a couple times up near the library. Luckily, she doesn’t make the connection. “You guys are up early!”
Without a word, Talia reaches to draw her mom, too, into the embrace. Finally, she lets them go. “Who was here last night?” she says in a shaking voice.
“Did that wake you?” her dad asks. “We thought we heard you leave.” His forehead wrinkles. “It was all rather odd, actually.”
“A boy had a bit of car trouble,” her mother says. She’s smiling, utterly unaware of how close to death she and her husband were last night.
Why didn’t he kill them? I want to believe it’s because I really did get through to him, but Talia is adopted. He must have known her parents didn’t carry the bloodline. Jesus, we’ve only been here a few hours. Unless Talia was one of the names and addresses he said he snagged from Allie’s aunt’s, he’s working quick.
Or he’s following me. Has he known where we were the whole time?
His phone call to Allie had me panicked, though I think I did a good job of hiding it. Did he just want us both aware he was close? To remind me he’s watching? I swallow hard, wondering what he’s seen between Allie and me. Not that I wasn’t expected to use any means necessary. I’m worried he saw through it. Saw the way I look at her.
If it comes down to the two of them, I’m not sure who I’d put my money on. I’m not sure who I’d side with. I have feelings for her I can’t deny. But Jamison’s done more for me than anyone else in my life. I owe him.
“A boy?” Talia asks, her voice flat.
“What was his name again, hon?” her father says.
Her mother’s mouth sets in a frown. “You know, I don’t think he told us.”
“And you just let him in?” Talia asks. I’m sure only Allie and I hear the bite to her words.
“He had a flat,” her dad answers. “Luckily, he had a spare, but no jack. He was so embarrassed. Of course, it was no trouble.”
“Did you ask him what he was doing out at three in the morning?” Talia asks. “Why he picked your house? He could have been a serial killer.”
Her mother shoots her a withering look. “Honestly, Talia, do you always have to think the worst of people? We forgot to turn off the living room light. He thought maybe we were up. And how did he know we weren’t serial killers? People in trouble have to help each other.”
Talia’s jaw twitches. It’s the only tell for the fury she’s swallowing down. “No,” she says. “They don’t.”
I wait, sure her mother’s going to hit her back with a, ‘you do,’ but instead, she sets her jaw and goes back to pouring batter onto the skillet. I can tell where her daughter gets it.
Talia’s father puts an arm around her. “Now what had you so upset when you came in?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly. “It was nothing. I just had a bad night.” Instantly, tension clouds the air. There’s no denying Talia’s parents love their daughter and she loves them. But her abilities seem taboo. No one asks where she was last night. Hell, they won’t even acknowledge she was gone though her missing car would have been obvious.
“Are you okay?” her mother asks, caution in the question. She genuinely cares. She just doesn’t want details.
“Yes,” Talia says as she pastes a smile on her face. “I’m fine.”
A moment passes before her mom blurts, “It’s nice to see you around again, Allie.”
Allie’s all smiles. “Yeah, I’ve just been so busy!”
“Okay,” Talia says suddenly. “I thought we’d stop by and see what was going on last night. Don’t worry if I’m scarce the next few days. I’ll be in and out.” She kisses her mom’s cheek and gives her dad another hug.
I fight against my imagination as it draws up a picture of me next to Allie, a team, making breakfast like I did this morning, like Talia’s parents do. Happy and in a home, with people I care about around me. The image holds in my mind before it drifts away like morning fog over the swamp near the boxcars. If you play this right, I’ll make sure you’ll never have to go back there again. But the voice in my head belongs to Jamison.
I want it gone.
I’m already through the door, but not quickly enough that I miss Talia’s mom asking Allie to tell her aunt she says hello. I can’t help my wince. None of us speak until we’re in Talia’s apartment.
“Jamison knows where we are,” Allie says to Talia as we walk in. “We need to move. Now.”
“I won’t leave my parents unprotected again,” Talia says. She tosses her keys onto the kitchen counter.
“Have they always known what you can do?” I’m not sure if she’ll tell me much, but I need to get what I can.
Talia grabs her plate of now cold eggs from the counter and sticks it in the microwave, biding her time. She punches buttons on the microwave, deliberately ignoring the question. It’s no longer a stall tactic. She’s not going to answer.
“They were told when they needed to be told,” Allie says.
Talia whips around. “Now you’re deciding how much I get to trust him with too?”
“It was a simple question,” she says. She’s fighting to stay calm.
“Which I had every right not to answer,” Talia spits back at her. I glance between the two of them, uncertain. Talia’s on my side of the island counter. Glaring daggers, she grabs her plate out of the microwave and goes around to slam it down at the place in front of the barstool beside Allie.
Talia took me on a case no problem. I run last night through my head, trying to pinpoint the moment I screwed up. After we got back, she and Allie had fought about me, my intentions. Now, she won’t even trust me with the smallest details. Something must have changed. Allie
’s watching me, waiting for my reaction to the blatant hostility.
Leaning against the stove, I throw my palms up, fingers spread. “Forget it. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Okay,” Talia yells. The corner of her mouth twitches up like a fishhook has snagged it. “Allie, it’s time to step up or get the hell out of my way. Before anyone else gets hurt.”
“Wait!” Allie yells as Talia shifts toward her bedroom. “Not yet.” She’s shaking. The slight tremble starts in her hands, travels up to her chin. When Talia pauses, Allie swivels to me. “Let me tell him,” she says. The tremors are gone. Her expression is eerily calm. “I’m ready.”
Allie
Ploy’s glance darts between Talia and I, frantic and caged, panicked. I watch his hands. I need to be sure he’s not going for the knife I know he has on him, the one we never took back last night. “Tell me what?” he asks.
I cross the few feet separating us with tentative steps.
“Relax,” I whisper as I slip my arms over his shoulder, my wrists crossed lightly behind his neck. I don’t care if she thinks I’m naïve for letting this all play out. As I kiss him, I don’t think at all. A relieved sigh breaks from him, smothered away against my mouth. He leans into me, uncertain and too trusting.
When it’s over, my nose brushes his, our breath mixing and I can’t shake the feeling of his treacherous lips on mine. I know what needs to be done. “Tell him,” I say to Talia.
“Tell me what?” Ploy asks as I step behind him. “What’s going on?” He’s facing Talia. Perhaps he thinks we’re imparting some deep resurrectionist secret. Really, it’s all a rouse to get his attention off me.
Careful to avoid his line of vision, I lower my hand to the sheath strapped to my ankle and draw out the blade in a slow, silent motion. When I whip it up, I scrape it against his neck, the metal drawing blood. I need him to know I’m not messing around.
“That it’s over.” The words come out hard as I finally drop the act.
Vial Things (The Resurrectionists Book 1) Page 18