Vial Things (A Resurrectionist Novel Book 1)

by Leah Clifford

  “When I woke up and you were gone,” I say quietly. “I thought you left me.” It hurts to say it out loud, let him hear how vulnerable he makes me feel. The effect he has. I hate it and yearn for it. I need it to stop. Because I can’t deny I feel something for him. And the way things are going, being with me is going to end up getting him killed in some way I won’t be able to fix. “It would have been for the best if you did leave, you know.”

  “Is that what you want?” he asks. His eyes lock on mine. And then, soft and slow, he kisses me again. Before I can stop myself, I return it, my mouth opening to him.

  Don’t do this, a voice inside me warns. Don’t get close to him. Why couldn’t he have just chalked last night up to a mistake?

  I break away, stand and take a step as if the distance will help any. My stomach’s jumping. My lips tingle as I speak. “If whoever was at Sarah’s is here in the woods, the cabin’s easier to spot in daylight.”

  He shoots me a quizzical look. “Yeah. We should go.”

  Crouching, I pick up the camping items from the ground and set them near his pack before heading into the shack. My hands shake as I roll up the sleeping bag. In my stomach, butterflies have morphed into something more evil, stinging and twisting my insides. You should leave him once you get out of the woods. I want the thoughts to shut off. I worked so hard at not getting close to anyone after my parents died, holding even Sarah at arms’ length. Kissing him has complicated everything. Really, the kissing? I think fiercely. More like bringing him back to life when it would have made so much more sense to let him go. But I know, even then, it’d already been too late.

  Ploy comes into the cabin. He doesn’t venture past the doorway. “So what’s the plan?” he asks. There’s carefulness to his voice. He doesn’t know where he stands any more than I do.

  I dig the address book out of my bag and hold it up. “Find someone in here who lives close. Tell them what I know. Hope they’ll help.”

  As far as plans go, it’s weak. I was never a strategist. Still, I’m not about to sit here and let Ploy and I both get killed.

  “Here,” Ploy says. He sets a handful of the beans from my aunt’s garden on the lower sleeping platform. It’s not until I see them that I realize I’m starving. I edge closer and grab a few, munching them down. “This plan,” he says. “Does it include me?”

  I stop chewing and swallow hard—flash back to the apartment, the way he’d made coffee and gotten us breakfast before he asked if he could stay. If I were braver, I’d tell him no, he’s not included, without this hesitation. Remind him not to go near the Boxcar Camp and hope he heads for some other state where he’ll be safe. He’s good at surviving on the run.

  Maybe this will be easier than I thought.

  “You’re free to go. I would if I were you.” I fiddle with one of the beans before popping it into my mouth.

  “These people who are after us—”

  “After me,” I correct.

  “Us,” he says again, and I know he’s right. Even if his abilities are going to fade, I’m not naïve enough to believe it’ll matter. He’s involved. I’m responsible for that. I tilt my head to acknowledge him the point. “If they’re tracking us both down, you know what to watch for, Allie, I don’t. They already killed my friend. I want to stay alive. I need you to do that.” There’s a long pause where I take in what he’s said. “You need me, too!” he adds, his voice pitching up in desperation before going fierce. “I know Fissure’s Whipp. I know the camps, where to hide us.”

  “I might not even go back there,” I say and shrug.

  “Even still.” He points to the sleeping bag at my feet. “Where would you be if I hadn’t had that? If I hadn’t grabbed the beans you’re eating? If I hadn’t seen this place?” His eyes search mine. “I’m useful.”

  Does he really think I see him as anything else? I work to keep the emotion off my face. “Fine, if you want to come, come,” I say as I grab a few more beans and finish packing my now dry clothes.

  He’s close. He could reach for me if he wanted.

  I zip the bag up. “How’s your stab wound? Any pain when you carry your backpack? Because if you need me to—”

  “I don’t,” he says and then quickly adds, “You must have done a good job on those stitches.”

  “Yeah, I’ve had practice,” I mumble and head out the door. He follows a few steps behind and then speeds up to walk beside me. As we head into the woods, I swing my pack around and take out the book. Flipping through the pages, I scan for a familiar name, a note that will tip me off as to whom I can trust. Of course, it’s not that easy. I find one person listed in the town we’re in. “Here,” I say pointing. “Jason Jourdain. He’ll have a phone. I can call my friend, Talia. She can help us figure things out.” I make a mental map of my aunt’s house, the woods we’re in now edging into a swamp at the center, the roads skirting the edge. As long as we keep heading West, we should be okay. Once I’ve got my bearings, I start walking again. “This way. It shouldn’t be far.”

  The boggy ground under our shoes is pungent, the scent of decaying plants and stagnant water heavy in the thick air. We head to drier ground so we don’t leave such an obvious path. My ankles burn with the pinprick welts of dozens of chigger bites.

  Two hours later, the trees finally break. We stay off the road, hiking in the woods until we’re near the address. It’s the only house around. We cut through to the back yard to scope it out.

  “I remember this place,” I say in wonder. There’s a spot as we creep across the lawn, a bald double scar of dirt. Even the back of the house looks familiar from this angle. “I’ve been here. There used to be a…” I fade.

  “The picnic table,” Ploy says. He points near the spot I’m looking. I look at him in shock. “From your picture, right?” he says. “And you can see where the swing set used to be.”

  The long rectangle of yard stretches before us, ending in a cabin. The back porch is made of the same logs as the house. It’s cluttered with junk, old wood, some crates loaded with soggy newspapers, a single rocking chair. We edge closer. Strung over the rafters, a strange array of items hangs. A pair of bird wings twists in a lazy twirl next to drying herbs. On one railing is an alligator skull, bleached white by the sun.

  “I thought you didn’t know who lived here,” Ploy says. There’s doubt in his eyes. “You didn’t recognize his name in the book?” I can only shake my head.

  “I was five when that picture was taken,” I say. That day is at best, hazy. Swinging on the swing set. A picnic at the table. Suddenly, something does come to me. “They gave me a peanut butter sandwich. I didn’t want to eat it.” I close my eyes, hoping for more, but nothing comes.

  “Should we go around front and see if the Cutlass is here?”

  I climb the stairs slowly. “No. They’d only have one spare tire, and I slashed two.” My foot pauses on the stair. “They might have taken my aunt’s Jeep before we got there though.” I double back. Ploy follows me around to the front. Here, there’s barely a yard before the forest encroaches. There’s no garage. No black Jeep. What passes for a driveway is crumbling away, the wilderness swallowing it bit by bit. “They don’t leave often,” I say. Walking over the boards, I make my way to the front door. I must have known whoever lives here. My aunt clearly did.

  “What if they’re already dead?” Ploy asks.

  “They’ll still have a phone.” I raise my knuckles and knock.

  After ten seconds, I rap harder. A bird screams from a nearby tree. My eyes swing around, but I can’t find it in the foliage. I wonder if the place is abandoned.

  I surprise myself by turning the knob. Even a few days ago, I wouldn’t have just waltzed into someone’s house uninvited. Things have changed. I’m not naïve enough to think I’ll find someone bleeding. Anyone injured inside will be a lot worse off than a stab wound or two. I need to know though. One of these times, I’m going to make it. Save someone. Help.

  The door is unlocked.
I swing it open without stepping inside.

  From what I can see, the place is remarkably neat. There’s a rocking chair, a match to the one on the back porch. Beside it is a small table with an unlit lantern on it. The living room is sparse—no television, no lamps even. I hadn’t noticed any wiring coming in. Maybe this Jason person’s living off the grid. I have to believe he’ll have some way to connect with the outside world.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” I say. Moving my shoe forward, I slide my foot across the threshold like it’s some sort of invisible barrier. I take another step, then another until I’m in the middle of the room. “Hello?” I yell. The word leaves my mouth and I realize I probably should have done that before I entered. Ploy’s on the porch, watching, leery. I wave him in. “Come on. No one’s here.”

  I run my hand over a knitted blanket slung across the curved back of the rocking chair and survey the place. There’s a door at one end of the living room that I assume leads to a bedroom, and the doorway to the kitchen is in front of us. My stomach gurgles. We haven’t eaten more than a handful of vegetables since yesterday.

  “I second the motion,” Ploy says, and heads toward the cupboards. “Even if someone does live here, he won’t mind if we take a bit, right? I mean, you guys go way back.”

  He’s passing a closet when a blur of an old man leaps from behind the door. His arm is around Ploy’s neck, holding a blade, before I have a chance to react. Because of Ploy’s enormous backpack, the man has to stand nearly beside him.

  “Got no money. Notin’ to take,” he says. The sound of the swamp runs through his tone, dry and scratchy like the chorus of bugs at night. “Head out the way you came and be on your way.”

  Ploy’s fingers are curled around the man’s arm. “We’re not here to rob you,” he says, but the knife only presses harder. “You know her.”

  “Right,” he says, drawing out the word with a twang of disbelief. “Just stopped by to say hello?”

  I ease closer. “Not exactly.”

  His eyes are on me as I move. I meet his gaze, searching for signs of fear or craziness, recognition. I need to know what I’m dealing with. Instead, he stares in icy silence. Which is good. What I need. When his eyes are on mine they’re not watching my body. He’s not prepared when I lunge.

  I bend his hand back at the wrist. The sharp cry of pain hasn’t even left his lips when I drop to the floor to pick up the knife. I use the momentum to roll on my shoulder and take out his legs. My messenger bag flops to the side, the backpack digging into my spine, but I manage to get the move done effectively.

  He drags Ploy down with him.

  “Stop!” I yell. “We’re not here to hurt you. You’re in danger.” It sounds so cliché. If I were him, I’d be trying to stab us full of holes, too.

  He freezes suddenly at my voice, his head tilting as he studies me from the floor. And then a wide grin breaks over his face. “You trained since I seen you last, Althea.”

  My full name catches me off guard. I gesture at Ploy. “Let my friend go,” I say. The old man does and then climbs to his feet. He might be getting up in years, but he’s certainly not rickety. From the corner of my vision, I see Ploy rubbing his neck. I don’t take my eyes off the man. I search for something I recognize in the odd shape of his too-many-times-broken nose, the keloid scar stretching from just above his eyebrow into his hairline, the sudden and strangely off-putting kindness in his dark eyes. “Are you okay?” I ask Ploy.

  There’s a shallow cut running across his throat. Already, it’s as thin as a hair, healing. I keep the knife pointed at the man.

  “Super fantastic, Althea,” Ploy says.

  “Don’t call me that.” No one’s used the name since my grandmother. She died when I was young. I barely remember her. Did this man know her? “Are you Jason Jourdain?” I ask him. “You know my aunt, right? Sarah?” He waves me off and hobbles toward the kitchen. He seemed just fine when he had Ploy at knifepoint. I didn’t see him struggling to get up. Is he faking the limp or am I being paranoid? “How do you know my name?” I ask again. “My aunt had your address.”

  “You don’t remember me?” he asks. He busies himself in the cabinets and produces a loaf of homemade bread. A mason jar of what looks like jam appears next and then he casts a glance my way. “Wager you don’t want me grabbin’ another knife. Blood on the one in your hand,” he says. He sets the loaf and jar on the table, and then sits, gesturing with hooked fingers. “Silverware drawer is on the end.”

  “Ploy?” I say quietly. He goes to the drawer and takes a breadknife. I practically salivate as he slices.

  The man gives me a knowing smile, his hands laid carefully on the table, palms down. “Been awhile since you’ve eaten,” he says.

  “No,” I say too quickly. It’s a stupid lie. There’s no way either Ploy or I will be able to pass up the bread.

  “Allie.” Ploy hands me a thick slice, what smells like strawberry jam dripping over the crusty edge. As I take it, he unbuckles his hip belt and slips his pack to the floor.

  I tear a chunk from the slice Ploy handed me and put it in front of the old man. “Eat it,” I command.

  With an amused chuff, he shoves the bread into his mouth. Licking his fingers to get the last of the jam, he leans back in the chair. “No poison. I don’t count on trouble comin’ my way enough to plan ahead. You two in trouble?” he asks, as if it’s not obvious from the way we’re acting. He crosses his arms. “Let me guess. Romeo and Juliet, on the run.” His squint focuses on Ploy. “Something bad happened. An accident, and you fixed up your boyfriend without Sarah knowing? She find what you done an you took off, no? You broke the rules,” he says, drawing the words into a childish sounding accusation. “What’d it cost the poor boy, Althea? Doesn’t look like he’s got much to pay the debt he owes you now.”

  “That’s not what happened,” Ploy says and then asks, “Rules? Debt?” as I slowly shake my head. I haven’t given him much detail on our world, how it works. It’s too late though, and he deserves an answer, even if the old man doesn’t.

  “We’re supposed to get clearance,” I say. I set my backpack on the floor beside my chair. The messenger bag I leave looped across my chest as I sit. “We can’t just bring anyone back. It would be chaos. There’s protocol to follow. You were an exception.”

  Ploy looks confused. “What debt, though?”

  I swallow hard and drop my eyes. Without answering, I switch my gaze to the man. “We’re being hunted. Ploy can identify the guy. I needed him alive.”

  A frown wrinkles the old man’s face and needles of anger pierce through me. Who’s he to tell me what I’ve done is wrong? Instead of the verbal lashing I’m expecting, he raises an eyebrow. “The hell kind of a name is Ploy?”

  Despite everything, a smile quirks up the corner of Ploy’s mouth. “I’m good at convincing tourists to part with things. The others started to call me their ploy.”

  “Part with things?” I ask.

  He clears his throat. “Things,” he says as he sits down at the table with his own bread. “Food, money…” He stalls with a shrug. “Place to sleep.”

  I stare at him for a full second before I manage to hide my surprise. “Well, now I don’t feel so bad for using you,” I murmur.

  He smirks, catching by my tone that I’m more amused than pissed off at him. “All’s fair, I suppose,” he says.

  I drop an elbow to the table and balance my chin on my palm. “So what’s your real name?”

  Any trace of humor drops away. “That is my name now.”

  He goes back to the bread in silence. I follow his lead. There’s no telling when we’ll eat next.

  “You did heal him though?” the man asks. Neither of us answer. The man looks amused. “You think we should at least let Sarah know you’re safe? Probably worried sick, ‘specially if you were in that storm last night.”

  My appetite disappears. “Sarah’s dead.”

  “You do that?” My shocked
look must exonerate us, because he backpedals quickly. “You get there in time to save her?”

  I shake my head, focused on the bread. Swallowing hard, I force the words. “The people who did it made sure I couldn’t.” He’s a resurrectionist, so I won’t have to use much detail. “Her blood was bad anyway.”

  “Oh, child,” he whispers and I have to blink fiercely to keep the tears hidden. “Who did this?”

  “We don’t know,” Ploy answers for me. “But he stabbed me and I got a good look. We saw the guy again at Sarah’s but he wasn’t alone so we couldn’t go after him.”

  “We came to warn you and ask for help,” I say, my voice breaking.

  The old man cocks his head and then locks me in a sharp gaze. Before I can say anything else, he stands. “Make yourselves comfortable. Eat. There’s more food and milk in the icebox. If what you’re saying is true, I need to make some phone calls.”

  I give him a grateful nod. Right now, the important thing is making sure everyone else is safe from the threat. “How well did you know Sarah?” I ask as he moves toward the living area. “There was a picture of me taken here when I was younger. With my parents.”

  He pauses in the doorframe, then mumbles about phone calls and heads into the other room.

  Ploy’s whisper is heated. “We need to go,” he says, leaning over the table. He grabs my upper arm and squeezes tight.

  For a second, I can only stare at him in confusion. “Why?”

  “You don’t remember him. And he hasn’t seen you since you were little? But he said you’ve trained since he saw you last.”

  “So? We all train,” I say, not sure what point he’s trying to make. “Obviously, I would have. They don’t start us on self defense until we’re a little older than five.” We’re not soldiers, I want to tell him. I have an irrational desire to stick up for the way I was raised, my life, even as I’m trying to get away from it. “Look, he can help us. And we need help. The others, they need to be warned.”

  His mouth is a tight line. “Why didn’t he know your nickname?”