A flicker of a memory sabotages my thoughts. My duffle bag, a precursor to the pack I carry now, leaned against the dresser, zipper stretched tight against the clothes mashed inside it. Me, cowering, broken, clutching cracked ribs on my bedroom floor as my father loomed above. The agony of breathing. An inexplicable metallic thunk.
Jamison saved me that day. Got me out of there. Beat my father unconscious with a baseball bat. Though I never so much as swung a fist, we both caught charges. Of course, I only heard about them second-hand. It was Jamison who convinced me not to show up for court because the police could force me home. I wound up hiding at the Boxcar Camp while his lawyer got him off. I had nothing and no one for an entire year.
No one except Jamison.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to offend you!” the guy says from where he trails me. He sounds miserable. “Damn it,” he mumbles. “I knew I’d mess this up.”
My brain’s spinning through a dozen scenarios at once. I remember the old man at the cabin.
I wonder what technique Jamison used to separate Corbin from the rest, if he isolated him the way he isolated me when he got me clear of my dad’s place. I wonder if Corbin grasped that he was being used, if Jamison convinced him to trap Allie as a test to measure how far I would go to protect her.
I spin on the hunter. When I speak, I thread my voice through with enough worry to sound genuine. “Jamison won’t answer my texts. All my calls go to voicemail,” I say before I scrunch my nose. “Who are you?”
“Quinn,” he says, reaching for a handshake.
I pump his fist once and drop it, ignoring how Quinn wipes his palm across the hip of his jeans.
“And you’re…” He hesitates. “Ploy?”
“Ploy works,” I tell him. This whole thing still seems weird. Out of all the hunters, they picked this one to approach me? Did they send their weakest member to give me the illusion of control? Or are they disorganized? Could he have come on his own?
A strange, unsettled feeling thrums through me.
“And this group you’re with?” I prod when he doesn’t take charge of the conversation.
“Oh! We’re…” Under the brim of his ball cap, his forehead furrows. “It’d be better if you told me what you gathered about the…” He fades into silence, and then a small sound of uncertainty escapes him. “About how people in this town can…” Leaning close to me, he whispers, “raise the dead.”
He steps back and I have about a quarter of a second to decide on the cold evenness in my expression. “What did Jamison tell you about me?”
It’s not the question he expected. I watch the confusion break through him and realize a moment too late where his brain is going. “You’re not a resurrectionist?” he asks.
There’s a weird confidence to the question, as if he already knows the answer and the asking is a courtesy.
“Of course not!” I force a laugh. It’s unnatural. I’m worried he’ll think I’m lying.
“Okay, he never said. He told one of our members you were his secret weapon. We’ve spotted you with Althea Delany.”
The paths in front of me are closing off one by one. In the drawn-out pause, he waits for me to fill in the blanks.
“Allie? Yeah.” I’ve got to give him something. “When Jamison and I started studying their powers, he had me get close to her. She lets me crash on her couch sometimes. I wasn’t sure what to do when he got scarce, so I’ve been sticking to the plan.” I feign bewilderment. “Be stupid to pass up a night inside, you know?”
He snorts and offers me a sympathetic look. “Wait, you’ve just been hanging out with her?” he says, chuffing me in the bicep like we’re old friends.
My new buddy wants to feel smart. I decide to oblige him. “I mean, sure. Jamison said keep an eye on her, so I have been. Honestly, she’s a waste of time, but hey, what he says goes.”
His head cocks. “You know who she is, though?”
I blink. That’s right, I think. Put me in my place.
“She’s the niece of their leader,” he says.
I wait a beat and then give him a nod. “Her aunt is dead, though. House fire.”
The memory of what really happened slithers through me. Jamison torching the house to hide the evidence. Me leading Allie through the woods, her heartbreak, the orange and red shine on the tree leaves, the smoke in the air, the scent of swamp and rain and then Allie’s warm mouth finding mine for the first time, all wrong in the darkness.
I swallow hard. “Apparently there wasn’t a funeral.”
His blank stare unnerves me. “You realize Althea is in charge in this area.”
It’s more Talia than Allie, but I don’t correct him. “She’s secretive about all that stuff,” I say instead. “But she’s been sloppy lately. I’ve overheard a few phone calls.”
A blaze of interest fills his hazel irises. “What’d you hear?”
We’re trading information. I have to prove to him I have details he might not. I size him up and then offer what I hope is a sympathetic smile. “Man, no offence. I don’t know you and Jamison never said anything about—”
“Sure, sure, sure!” he blurts as if to reassure me. “Listen, something happened close to when that house burned. Day after was the last time we heard from Corbin.”
I’m not sure how far I want to let this go today. My name needs to be in their mouths. Their curiosity is my guarantee of another meetup. “How many of you are there?”
Now it’s his turn to act cagey. “You and Jamison are tight, right?”
“Yeah.”
He obviously expects more, but I’m not about to go through a laundry list of childhood memories to prove myself.
“So why would he not mention us?” he asks, and I muster up a heartfelt sigh.
I hedge my bets and throw down my cards. “I’m guessing Jamison didn’t tell you much about me either.” I toss a pointed look and he’s forced to nod. “He keeps the people around him compartmentalized. Always has. He’s different things to different friends.” I shrug. “Part of me wonders if anyone knows the real Jamison.”
I clip the last word before I drop what I hope is a guilty gaze.
“You won’t tell him I said that?” I ask, working hard to balance the desperation with an edge of threat.
Just like I hoped, Quinn grins. “No worries,” he says.
We’re buddies now. Pals. As far as he knows, I’m trusting him with secrets about my best friend. Based on what I said, Jamison’s alive enough to warrant me being afraid of his consequences. I want my certainty to give Quinn hope for his own missing friend.
“Do you…” I bite the inside of my cheek and then wonder if it’s over the top, but Quinn seems to eat it up. “I mean, you don’t really think Jamison’s in trouble, do you? He’s probably busy. He gets busy sometimes.”
Quinn’s smile melts into a frown. “If we’re being realistic? I’d bet the resurrectionists are holding him and Corbin captive. I expect our guys saw something and got caught.”
My feigned attempt at concern is all wrong on my face.
“Hey,” he says. “We’ll find them. It’s going to take us all working together.”
“Us?” I ask.
His smile returns. “Give me a couple days to work out the details,” he says. “I think you should meet the others.”
Allie
It’s been two days since our bus ride to Talia’s. Two days since Christopher’s semi-intervention after and his insistence that I let him help with bills. That first day he came home with well over one hundred dollars he almost explained in a way that made sense—good luck, the right crowd, a friend who played the bongo and high school kids on a history tour who filled the bucket Christopher passed. Yesterday, he’d been bummed to only manage twenty bucks, though I did my best to cheer him up.
He did his part. Tonight, I’m doing mine.
Around us, the old-fashioned streetlamps flicker with faux fire, casting shadows on the cobblestones. The humidity is sti
ll disgusting in Fissure’s Whipp, but once the sun sets and the temperature falls, it’s bearable. Tourists are a background din of laughter and conversations as we walk. The first twenty minutes outside the apartment felt like I was waiting for the jump scare in a horror movie but I’m gradually relaxing. I just don’t understand why Christopher is so quiet.
“You all right?” I ask after another prolonged silence. We’ve switched places. He’s the twitchy one, while I’m doing okay for once.
His smile is phoned in. “Yeah,” he says.
I tip my head to let him know I’m not even close to buying it, and he lets the fake grin fade.
“Thinking,” he admits.
Asking him what about is a minefield of conversations we’re not ready to have. Too many wounds are still open and festering between us. Then again, maybe it’s time to rip off these Band-Aids. I’ve already got the fingers of one hand laced with his, so I swing my other to grip his wrist. “Tell me.”
There’s a pause where he parts his lips and it makes me brace. His chestnut eyes hit mine, reflecting the firelight of the lamps in their darkness. “Allie, what if I—”
My phone vibrates against my hip. Talia’s ringtone drones from my pocket. I consider ignoring it, and then I wonder if I want to hear whatever terrible subject he’s about to broach. “Hold that thought,” I tell him as I answer.
“I’m picking you up,” Talia says without preamble. “Five minutes.”
“Not home,” I shoot back. “Everything coming up daisies on your end?”
“Bluebirds and sunshine,” she says, answering with a color to my flower reference which means she’s not in serious trouble. “You’re needed.”
Beside me, Christopher gives a questioning okay sign. I waggle my hand in an uncertain gesture and mouth Talia’s name.
“Can it wait? It’s date night,” I tell her. Honestly, it’s just a walk, but the shy grin Christopher tries to hide makes me glad I went with the excuse. I lift my pointer finger so he’ll give me a minute. He nods and then wanders off in the creek’s direction to allow me privacy.
On the other end of the line, Talia makes a noise brimming with disbelief and annoyance. “Weird thing for you to be doing considering what we talked about.”
I adjust the phone and shift toward the shops. “What do you need me for?”
“Resurrection,” she says, and though she can’t see it, I instinctively shake my head. “I’ve got CJ with me,” she goes on as if that’s a name I should recognize. My steps on the cobbled pedestrian area of the square stutter to a stop.
“Okay,” I say cautiously. At least it explains why she didn’t blow up on me about Christopher still being around. There’s another person in the passenger seat listening.
“CJ’s been trying to reach you,” she says, her tone heavy with insistence. “Turns out he completed his resurrectionist training with Sarah and just needs a couple supervised jobs before he’s ready to work on his own. He’s eager to get those under his belt. A job came available tonight.”
“Damn it,” I murmur, so quietly that I can’t be sure Talia hears it, let alone the kid sitting beside her. Talia warned me my avoidance of not only taking over the cluster, but of resurrection, would draw attention. The wrong sort will drag both Christopher and me into a spotlight neither of us wants. Talia’s run interference for me longer than anyone else would have.
Technically, it is me in charge of this kid getting the final training he needs. I can’t step aside or half-ass this.
I rattle off a pair of cross streets far enough away that the pedestrians wandering about won’t be a problem and promise her I’ll be there.
“Allie?” she says as I move to end the call.
“Still here.”
“We’ll be there to pick you up in a few.”
She doesn’t need to add alone for it to come across loud and clear. I don’t want to remind her Christopher has already been on a resurrection with us. Deep inside, though, I know he has no place in what’s happening tonight.
“Didn’t even cross my mind,” I say.
“Good,” she answers before the line goes dead.
Tucking the phone into my pocket, I search the crowd for Christopher. He’s across the square, angled away from me. On the small patch of grass in front of him is a shirtless guy leaning against the black wrought-iron fence meant to keep drunk tourists from tumbling into Merciback Creek. His torn jeans are the color of dust. Two impossibly long locs hang off one side of his otherwise-shaved head as if whatever clippers he used to shear it ran dry on batteries with those to spare. An oversize pack resembling the kind Christopher uses is at his side. Clenched between his crossed legs is a bongo.
He stands and the light catches him better. Tattoos line the tops of his russet shoulders, dip into the trough above his collarbones and spill down the center of his chest to a large, scrolled piece covering his belly. A thin crown of black interconnected x’s circle his head. I hate to be judgmental, but with the tats, grime, and appearance, this guy could pass as part of an outlaw hobo gang.
I’ve absorbed bits and pieces about Christopher’s life at the Boxcar Camp. Enough to know maybe there are parts about his existence there he’d rather I not be told.
I can’t just leave though. Not without telling Christopher what’s going on. A text once I’m gone won’t cut it. I amble in their direction, hoping he’ll turn and spot me. Instead, it’s the other guy who notices me first. When he does, he bursts into a grin, revealing at least a couple of missing teeth he isn’t shy to show off.
“You the reason Ploy smells like a frat boy?” he says in a gravelly voice that has Christopher startling at my unexpected appearance behind him.
The roughness in the guy’s throat makes the question a threat, but his eyes are kind. I gather the tattoos he’s slathered in are nothing more than armor.
Returning his smile, I fake a cringe. “Nah,” I say, the word stretched. “Frat boys smell like musty socks and well liquor.” I hook a thumb to where Christopher stands as I break into the space beside him. “He smells like whatever shampoo and deodorant were on sale, same as me.”
His hands smack on the bongo to punctuate his laugh. The harsh, single pat on the drum swivels half the heads of the milling crowd in our direction. He pumps a fist at Christopher. “Knew you had an angel,” he says.
I hesitate. Color floods my cheeks. “Oh, gosh. I mean…”
“She’s not an angel,” Christopher says. His reply is even.
I’m not sure whether it should offend me. The way he’s standing at a careful distance has me wondering if I screwed up. “You don’t have to sound so confident,” I say in a way that makes it obvious I’m teasing. “I can be angelic sometimes!”
He’s watching me with a strange mix of trepidation and pride I don’t understand.
“Angel’s slang,” Christopher clarifies. “Means any female who will adopt one of us crusty bastards in the interest of reform, sobriety, and a life lived under the shackles of society’s expectations.” His definition is sarcastic, and from how the other guy laughs, they’re sharing a joke I’m not getting. The guy sets his bongo in the grass and Christopher leans forward to exchange a complicated handshake with his friend. When they finish, they’re both grinning.
“Allie,” Christopher says, gesturing. “This is LowLow, dirtbag pacifist. Emphasis on the fists.”
“Hey no!” LowLow blurts as if offended. “I don’t fight! They fight me!”
Despite his carefully constructed shell, a few seconds with the guy and I’m at ease enough to lower my guard. I offer a tiny wave.
“LowLow, this is Allie.” As Christopher finishes the introduction, his amusement sobers. “She’s no angel, but she sure as hell is something else.”
I have the distinct impression he’s not referring to the blood in my veins and what I can do with it. “Such a flirt,” I deadpan, to stop myself from blushing even as my stomach flip-flops.
“And,” he adds to LowL
ow. “She has a supremely comfortable couch.”
The happy bubble inside me abruptly pops. Why did he specifically mention he’s sleeping on the couch? Does he not want LowLow to think we’re together? My mind skips to the screaming match we had about the hunters, at the hints Christopher dropped about wanting an us.
What if he’s done waiting for me to muddle through my feelings? What if he discovers I’m blowing him off to do a resurrection and it’s the last straw?
“Ploy, your girl’s upset,” LowLow says.
I startle to find the gutter punk’s attention concentrated on me. “Who, me?”
“You went away from us.” He sets the drum aside and fiddles with the end of one enormous braided loc, studying me far too intensely. It’s insistent, like he’s gearing up to read my palm or another silly “talent” the street performers here use to scam the crowd. “You seem…blue,” he says and I’m almost positive he paused to set the color off on purpose, as if he knows the secret meaning.
“What?” I say, unnerved.
He smiles. “Forget it.”
I mentally shift LowLow from harmless to bright yellow caution. He doesn’t seem dangerous. Now I’m wondering if that’s what he planned. Except with his genial mood as he plops into the grass and takes up the drum again, I’m wavering. It’s the paranoia, I think. I’m reading into a totally innocuous exchange.
He pounds a new beat on the drum, deep and driving and steady. I’m hyperconscious of our audience. The crowd swells as LowLow plays, drawn in by the music. I’m working on what to make of him when Christopher’s touch skips over the bare skin of my shoulder, distracting me. “Come on,” he chides. “Don’t be mad.”
Before I can move away, he finds my elbow and tugs me to his side. When his arm comes around me, I feel the tickle of his breath at my ear before he whispers my name. He rocks us in a slow dance at odds with the drum.
“Sure you’re fine?” he asks. He twirls me once, scrutinizing, and then draws me close. “You’re not fine.”
Something Grave: The Resurrectionists Series book two Page 8
