Something Grave: The Resurrectionists Series book two

by Leah Clifford

  “Are the shoes salvageable?” he asks, changing the subject from my aunt.

  “Yup,” I say. “Always use cold water to get out blood. Peroxide over bleach because peroxide won’t break down fabric.”

  “Good to know. Figures you’d be an expert in this.”

  He means it as a joke, but these tricks of the trade have been second nature to me since childhood.

  I open the cabinet under the sink and duck to grab a long retired toothbrush I keep there for this purpose. “You should have cleaned these the second we got home,” I chide, and his grin goes sheepish.

  “Sorry. First timer.”

  “Liar,” I shoot back with a small smile, if only to give him crap. After our separate showers, we’d spent most of yesterday destressing with mindless TV talk shows. I’d balled the clothes we bought off the girl into a black trash bag and chucked it into the garbage beside the house.

  “Hey,” he says. “Can I ask you a weird question?”

  I have half a mind to tell him no. Tennisen had been my fourth phone call today, the last on my list, and I’m mentally exhausted. “Sure.”

  “Corbin. I mean, his body…we left it at the cabin. I’ve been thinking about, if… I was wondering if it’s still there.”

  I turn on the cold water, run the toothbrush under it, and start scrubbing at the bloodstain on his shoe. “You want to know what they did with his body?”

  “Yeah, I just thought…” He trails off. “I was the one who shot him.” He hesitates. “I keep picturing him rotting there on the floor, and I would feel better if he’s buried or cremated or something. Could you find out where he ended up? Is that stupid?”

  “No, I get it.” He’s not used to death yet. Hopefully, he never will be. “Typically, there’s a go-to person in each cluster, sometimes two, and they handle when things need fixing. Body disposal, cleaning up a scene.”

  “Those are the cleaners you talked about?” he asks, and I nod.

  “It’s nothing sinister. Resurrections don’t work if people lie about the time or there’s severe brain trauma and massive damage to organs. The cleanup at the cabin and Jamison’s dad’s place was an isolated situation. Their job, it’s not meant to be…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Nefarious.”

  He winces and I wonder if I chose wrong.

  “Being a resurrectionist isn’t usually so eventful.” My brain stutters over the word—eventful—the wrong one for Sarah’s death, for what happened after, bodies and fires and bullets. Almost a full minute passes as I scrub at the shoe, add a second dose of peroxide. It doesn’t bubble, only sort of seeps in and dilutes the last of the brown to a discoloration I’m sure will come out in the wash.

  “So, did they bury him? Corbin?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, the words quick and with an edge. “I can find out if—” I cut off, reconsidering. “No. It’s taken care of. Just let it go.”

  There’s more than frustration in his expression, but I can’t quite place what I’m seeing. I take a guess. “Are you really asking what happened to Jamison?”

  The surprise on his face catches me off guard. I was wrong. Okay, not Jamison. “His father?” I venture. “Or their house?”

  The more he shakes his head, the more puzzled I am.

  “Why are you so worried about Corbin all of a sudden?”

  He stammers through an excuse, a riff on the one he gave before about decay and flies we saw when Jamison took us to the farmhouse. But again, it’s not Jamison or his father Christopher’s asking about. It’s the random hunter who attacked us. Is he questioning a decent burial because it was his first kill?

  “How important is this to you?” I ask Christopher.

  He swallows hard and then meets my eyes. “I’d like to know.”

  I consider it. “Let me ask some questions.” I hand him the dripping pair of shoes as I head into my bedroom to raid the top of my dresser for enough quarters to send them through a wash cycle. “Here,” I say as I pass them to him. “Detergent is—”

  “Under the sink in the bathroom,” he fills in. His mouth finds mine, the gentle press of his lips startling in their softness. A strange chill spreads through my stomach and I wonder if I’m missing something before I figure out his wet shoes have left a damp splotch on my shirt.

  “Are you okay?” I ask abruptly.

  I expect an immediate yes or some other placation. Instead, for a long second he takes me in. “I will be,” he says.

  Staring after him, I watch as he retrieves the laundry detergent.

  “Be right back!” he calls to where I’m standing in the kitchen, arms crossed. He grabs his shoes along with a couple used towels to take to the main house’s basement, where there’s a coin-operated laundry machine I have access to.

  I will be, he said, which implies he’s not now and leaves me wondering if what happened with Corbin messed him up more than he’s letting on.

  Ploy

  I can’t decide if I’m smart or not for insisting on meeting Nico somewhere public this second time. She’s draped across a bench, her notebook open in front of her, one bud of her headphones nestled in her left ear. There’s no way to hear what she’s listening to over the din of the stream behind us.

  We’re not in the shade. The temperature’s easing while the humidity spikes, the threat of rain thick in the air. At least the streets are full, the crowds rousing from their lazy hungover afternoons to start the customary day drinking everyone seems to concentrate on when they visit Fissure’s Whipp. It’s cover. Yes, I wanted to meet somewhere public to not give Nico and her brother, East, a chance to off me, but I also don’t want to be spotted with them. Today’s the deadline Nico gave me to find info on Corbin. She hasn’t brought up the subject with any of her questions in the last twenty minutes, and I’m not about to broach it.

  In my pocket against my thigh is the new wad of cash she gave me to loosen my tongue. When Nico started texting me this afternoon, I told Allie it was LowLow. At least I’ve got the money to keep this charade going without pilfering from the tourists.

  “Let’s go through it again.” Nico’s pen poises above an already filled sheet of paper. “Start with the resurrection two days ago.”

  “Her phone rang. I answered it,” I say. We’ve already gone over this. I gave her the area of the house, easy to pinpoint with the for sale sign in the front yard. Nico can scour the garage for clues all she wants; she won’t find anything of substance.

  “You didn’t search her phone once the call unlocked it?” Nico asks.

  The new question makes me pause. “By the time I finished taking notes, Allie was back in the apartment. There wasn’t any opportunity.”

  Nico taps the pen against her lip as she studies me. A black dot of ink stains her crimson pout. “The bag she carries everywhere. You said it’s all of her medical supplies.”

  “Right,” I confirm.

  “But you’re not sure of what’s in there?”

  “I am sure,” I tell her. She’s rephrasing, as if she’ll get me to slip up. It’s making me second guess myself. “I told you, gauze, Band-Aids, and basic first aid stuff.”

  Nico’s expression is a perfect negative of mine. “Yeah,” she says, sounding vaguely uninterested. “Noted… What else? She uses her blood. That’s the consensus on the boards online. Did you learn how? Do you know how much it takes?” Her voice drops to a whisper as if she’s talking to herself, cautious about the chance of us being overheard. Not that anyone would take this conversation as anything but mad rantings, or a movie plot. “You’ve gone with her a couple times now when she’s brought a dead person back to life. You must have seen. I need details, Ploy.”

  Examining me through her fire-engine-red bangs, Nico waits for me to fill in the blank. Sweat beads across my neck. I paw at it and then wipe my palm on my stained jeans. I have to bend the conversation to Jason Jourdain and where he might be, without burning bridges.

  “Tell me the how of thin
gs,” Nico presses.

  My shrug is apologetic. “She made me stay by the door,” I lie. “I’m basically security for her.” When she rolls her eyes, I fake annoyance. “Closer than you’ve gotten. I’m building trust!”

  There’s a vendor set up across the square selling knockoff ghoulish renditions of the normal tourist fare—key chains with liquid inside them like blood and two vampire fang marks, postcards reading “We Went Crazy in Fissure’s Whipp!” with a stencil of a ghost in a straitjacket which is ridiculous given its non-corporeal arms. Keeley strides over from that direction, laden with slushies from a food cart.

  “It’s cherry,” she says, passing me a squat cup of snow cone filling and a throwaway wooden spoon. “That’s my favorite flavor.”

  Behind her are Zen and Quinn, carrying their own treats. Nico’s too caught up in her notes to notice she got skipped when Keeley takes a seat, licking sticky fingers.

  Zen pokes at the mess of colors in her cup until she stirs them into brown sludge. She nudges her wooden spoon in Nico’s direction. “Takes her forever to be satisfied your guts are officially spilled.”

  “Noticing,” I mumble, grateful for the excuse of shoveling cherry flavored ice flakes into my mouth to avoid the next barrage from Nico.

  Zen’s prickliness is not for show, which I admire in a way she’s picked up on. We’ve reached a tentative cease-fire. We’re curious about each other, and Jamison’s at the center. He’s an exploitable weakness I can use to manipulate her given the opportunity, but part of me wants to know what happened between them.

  Nico’s still mumbling as her pen taps against various things I’ve said over the last twenty minutes. She already had Allie’s address, so I gave it. I casually updated how often I stay overnight from a couple nights a week at most, to a more consistent pattern. The newness gives me plausible deniability on overhearing conversations, but I’m nervous about how closely they’re watching me and how long they’ve been at it. Keeley saw me kiss Allie, watched us fight. If she’s regularly following either me or Allie, I don’t want to contradict her surveillance.

  “Good?” Keeley asks.

  She’s been staring at me the entire time I’ve been lost in thought. I take a token bite of the slush. When I shoot her a nod and thanks, a blaze of red floods her from cheeks to neck.

  Behind the bench, Quinn laughs. “Jesus,” he whispers.

  “Fuck off, Quinn!” Keeley stumbles over the swear as if not quite used to it and judging from the surprise on Quinn’s face, I’m right.

  “Kiss your mother with that mouth?” he says.

  Keeley pales, save for those bright, burning spots on her cheeks. Her gaze falls to the slushie she’s holding as the spoon slowly lowers into the cup. Beside me on the bench, Nico isn’t scribbling in her notebook anymore. Instead, she’s staring at Quinn in horror. I see the moment he catches her reaction.

  “Oh, Keeley, damn it,” he says. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

  Zen shifts from her position, leaning against the fence along the river. Even she looks stunned.

  What the hell happened to Keeley’s mom? I wonder. Those wounds are still fresh enough that I don’t dare ask. Instead, I shoot Zen a questioning glance. If anyone’s going to fill me in, I figure it’ll be her, but her attention’s caught on what’s transpiring between Keeley and Quinn.

  Keeley lifts her forced smile to him. “It’s fine,” she says, squinting against the sun. “It’s just a saying.”

  Quinn shakes his head. “I didn’t—”

  “I know you didn’t.” Her attention dips pointedly in my direction and then drops to her cup again. “Can we forget it, please?”

  We’re all pretending we don’t see her tears. Everyone settles into an awkward silence. I wait for one of them to break it, say something, anything, while Nico and Quinn shoot each other increasingly horrified looks. No one moves.

  Standing, I sling an arm around Keeley and tug her against me in a side hug. For a long moment, my chin rests against the crown of her head, the only comfort I know how to offer. Finally, I give her a hard double pat with my palm. “You good?” I ask as I dig into my snow cone again.

  She heaves a cleansing sigh. “Yeah,” she says.

  Her voice breaks on the single word. It’s enough that I decide to do what she asked and move everyone on to a different topic.

  “So,” I say as I spin toward Nico. I’m hoping Quinn’s faux pas with whatever happened to Keeley’s mom will lower their guards. “The dude you all sold? Sounds like there was significant money paid for him.” If I can learn anything about the buyer, it’ll help me track down Jason Jourdain. Give me somewhere to start, I think. Tell me the whole story, who bought him, where they took him. I pause as if considering what I just said. “Do you have a way to reach him for a round two?”

  Nico balks. “Why did you ask that?”

  She turns toward Keeley, who already has her hands thrown into the air to declare her innocence.

  I’m not sure what I’ve stumbled onto here. “I might be interested in a side hustle,” I say, trying to sound casual.

  Nico draws a breath and then her attention shifts.

  When I follow her sightline, her brother, East, is making his way toward us. He’s carrying two of the same snow cone cups, one for him and one for Nico. She takes it without comment and dives in.

  East gives me a once over where I’m standing, my arm encircling Keeley. “Still around, eh?” he says.

  He’s the only one of the five still treating me with open hostility. I grin as if his attitude is a joke I’m in on. No use making enemies.

  “Down, Brother Mine,” Nico says, and I can’t help my cringe.

  I don’t get these two. Maybe it’s a twin thing. They’re infinitely more unnerving together. Nico alone is a tolerable powerhouse of questions. Her brother is a meathead. Half the time I think with Nico’s nod of approval he’d beat the same answers from me that she’s carefully extracting. The brains and muscle cliché doesn’t settle right.

  East raises his lip in a barely-veiled sneer that shifts from me to Keeley, and I feel her tense at my side. I tighten my grip and give her a friendly jostle just to piss him off a little extra before I release her. At least the threatening tears seem to have disappeared.

  “So the side hustle,” I say, picking up the conversation I was leading Nico into before her brother showed. “Who did you sell the resurrectionist to?”

  “Did you find out anything about the boy?” Keeley asks. “The one Talia was with when they picked up Allie the other night and left you behind?”

  I’m not sure if Keeley called me out on purpose, but the damage is done. I could take a risk, feed them lies, and hope they don’t discover them before I sniff out the location of the missing resurrectionist.

  I watch them as I feign confusion. From East’s expression he wants to knock some sense into me. The others don’t react in any real way.

  Damn it.

  “We were talking about your scientist guy having more than a single source for the blood,” I push.

  “He’s not a scientist,” Zen says. “He’s a doctor.”

  East cuts in with a snort. “Actually, he calls himself the Doctor when he signs his private messages to me in the group. He’s a pretentious douche.”

  “A rich douche,” Quinn says under his breath.

  “The best kind,” I say and Nico nods as if she’s answering a question I didn’t ask. Talia had printed stuff out from a message board when she’d been doing her research. I wonder if I’m taking for granted that they’re talking about the same site.

  “Allie saw the kid again the day before yesterday,” Nico says. “There’s a business not too far from here in a little shopping area. You need a key or a pass to access it. But Allie went in with a gym bag and came out sweaty after two hours. Talia was in there, too. The boy showed later and left after both of them.”

  “Yeah,” I say, plotting all the directions this conversation
could go, stalling for time. The day before yesterday was when I last met with these five. When I got home, Allie’s phone was ringing and I took the call and landed us on that job. Her hair was wet, because she’d just gotten out of the shower, her lip bruised. She must have taken a hit at the gym. “Wait,” I ask. “Who was watching her while I was with you?”

  No one answers.

  “Back to the boy,” Keeley prompts. “His name’s CJ. He’s my age. Tall, kinda scrawny. You remember him now?”

  She’s leading me to the right answers, at least trying, but it’s glaringly obvious. East snarls Keeley’s name and my stomach drops. What would have happened if I answered wrong?

  “Oh, that kid?” I give her a tight nod. “He’s new.”

  East cracks a knuckle. “Bullshit. He grew up here in Fissure’s Whipp. Keeley has school with him.”

  “Well, he’s a year above me,” she says.

  “Right, but he’s new to resurrecting,” I say, careful not to backtrack. They have to believe I’m telling the truth. Allie never mentioned the kid. Does it mean anything? Is she keeping her own secrets?

  I glance between Keeley and Nico, who seem to be having a private conversation mostly through gestures. “What’s going on?” I ask, but they ignore me. Zen’s hyper focused on the leather cuff at her wrist. “Quinn?”

  He, too, stays silent for a long beat before he sighs. “Not my call, but if it’s a vote, I say we bring Ploy in on this.”

  “He’s trash, Nico!” East’s growl of a sentence snaps my attention to him.

  I don’t know what they’re talking about yet, but if I keep letting East pull this alpha bullshit, he might convince them I’m not worth being included in whatever they’re stealthily discussing. I can’t take that chance.

  “What the hell is your problem?” I ask.

  Keeley tugs at my shirt in an attempt to get me to stand down, but I jerk from her grip, hear her whisper the name I’ve come to hate so much. I want to be done with this. I want to go home to Allie. I want to feel myself slip into the skin that is Christopher as easily as the key Allie made me slips into her locked door and opens it.