Vial Things (A Resurrectionist Novel Book 1) (2 page)

T
he gas lanterns lining the road flicker, illuminating the cobblestones with the barest suggestion of a glow.
Most Haunted Town In America!
a metal street sign proclaims. I trudge by without a second glance.

The supernatural is what brings tourists to Fissure’s Whipp, each of them scrambling for a glimpse of ghosts and ghouls they don’t truly want to see, a sleepless night in a hotel they can take home as a souvenir. The town has a feeling, a campfire story brought to life no one dares smother away. The cobblestoned streets and lantern light only add to the mystique.

You’ll love it in Fissure’s Whipp
, Sarah had declared three months ago when she’d handed me an ATM card and the keys to my new apartment. And I had. Right now though, I’m one thousand percent done with this whole town. I’d hoped the walk would calm me down. No such luck.

I’m well clear of the Chariot District before I decide it’s time to dial Sarah. I’ve given her time to get the inevitable phone call from the girl and convince her to call the police. We bring bodies back from the dead; we don’t handle disposals.

“Everything go okay?” Sarah says calmly once the line connects.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I seethe. “She didn’t call you? That kid was a
corpse
. He’d been dead at least six hours.”

My footsteps echo over the empty streets. The night air is heavy. A persistent mist of drizzle soaks into my clothes as I walk. It drips onto my shoulders from the Spanish moss laced over the lower tree limbs. “Hope you got payment in advance because she definitely lied to you,” I add.

I want to tack on that the girl had been drunk. That she’d screwed up and called Sarah hoping for a bailout. Our talents aren’t something we use lightly. From the way Sarah pauses, I know I’ve gotten my point across, so I manage to keep my mouth shut.

“Obviously she confused some details,” she says. I roll my eyes to the gated storefronts.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “And obviously I had better things to do than wait around for those details to bite her in the ass.”

“We’ve talked about professionalism, Allie.” There’s a calculated pause. “I’ll call her and sort this out. Last time though. You need to learn to see the resurrection through.” As long as she’s paying my rent, I’m at her beck and call. A convenient puppet she’s held the strings to since I showed up on her doorstep at fifteen. And as always, Sarah knows exactly which strings to pull. “Unless you’ve put effort into finding a job? A normal job?”

She’s hoping I haven’t. We’d fought, bad, a month after I’d moved out here. Sarah had thought I could be her new go-to for any resurrectionist gigs in this area. I’d had other plans.

“Unfortunately, the booming economy of Fissure’s Whipp doesn’t seem to have room for one more,” I fire at her before I can stop myself.

“I’ll make another deposit to your account tomorrow. For your trouble,” she says.

I stop at a wrought iron gate and lift the latch. The path splits an overgrown rose garden, where it dead-ends at a house. “Allie, if you’re reconsidering...I want you to know that’s okay. Preferable.”

I don’t want your money
, I want to say. I’ve watched Sarah extort people who couldn’t afford it more times than I can count. And sure, I’m guilty of reaping the benefits, just like every other carrier of the gene that gives us this ability. But I want to find another way. A better way. One that doesn’t leave me sick to my stomach.

Because I’ve seen what people can do when they’re trapped in a corner. It’s how I ended up living with Sarah in the first place.

Through a door at the back of the sagging house and up two flights of stairs is my miniscule apartment. A hundred years ago, my digs would have been maid’s quarters for a well to do family living on the floors below. Now, they’re a rental unit in a crumbling antique. But it’s a roof over my head and my bills are paid and I am being a total brat. Sarah and I don’t always know how to interact. She puts up with more than most people would if they got stuck with their sister’s kid to raise.

I soften my tone. “I’ll put in more applications tomorrow.”

It’s not the future I was expected to step into. Someday, Sarah will bow down as the point person for our cluster. I should be next in line. I should be living under her roof, learning how to run things. I’d told her I wanted to get more experience. Instead, I’d distanced myself. After a month, when she’d confronted me, I’d told her I couldn’t end up like my mother, my father. I’d told her I’d wanted out.

She’s still holding onto the hope I’ll come around. Tonight marked the first time she’d insisted I take a case in the two months since.

So far though, my grand foray into this tightly leashed freedom has consisted mostly of aimless wandering around town, a couple all ages shows at a blues bar and movie nights on my couch. I never exactly mastered the art of living it up.

My parents had known from infancy that I carried the resurrectionist gene. Growing up, my free time had been spent on training, both in how to bring back the newly dead and how to protect myself from those after my blood.

My mind goes back to the mansion, the girl. The soles of my shoes, wet from the damp streets, squeak on the warped wooden stairs. I long for my bed. A shower. Blessed sleep. “She really didn’t call you? Isn’t that a little weird?” I ask. I figured once she saw I bolted, Sarah would be the first one she dialed. “You don’t think that was supposed to be a trap?”

“How was she acting?” Sarah asks.

“She passed out drunk and found him that way when she woke up, I guess. But she was...normal,” I say. Actually... “She was almost too normal. Do you think she was faking? I wouldn’t know your friend’s daughter from someone planted there to take her place.” I pause. It wouldn’t be the first time someone got the idea our blood would be useful. I think of the small blue vial hidden in the zippered coin pouch that has no doubt settled to the bottom of my bag again. “You don’t think I’m being hunted?”

When I was too small to understand, I’d been terrified of a place called Throng Ands.
This will keep your blood from getting into Throng Ands, Allie.
The words haunted my childhood nightmares. I’d been petrified of accidentally wandering over an invisible border to this place and having my blood leap from my veins to stay out. Of course, now I know better.

The wrong hands.

The vial is a last resort to keeping our secrets safe when nothing else will.

“She said she was my friend’s daughter?” Sarah says carefully.

My feet shuffle to a stop. “She was, right?”

“How’s the town?” Sarah says instead of answering. “Have you seen anything strange in the papers?”

I snort. “It’s Fissure’s Whipp.” The strap of my messenger bag digs into my shoulder. “If she is a hunter, I hope she doesn’t try to track me down. I’m not in the mood for a fight tonight.” The scar from the old knife wound aches. I tell myself it’s the weather and try to ignore it.

“Maybe you can stay with Talia for awhile?”

Now she has my attention. Talia had been my only friend since childhood, the single other kid I knew growing up who was like me. Other kids our age had played tag together—Talia and I sparred on dusty mats until our hands bled. By the time we hit high school we’d known each other’s every strength and weakness. We still do. But we haven’t spoken much since graduation. “Why would I do that?”

“I just thought if you were scared,” Sarah says. “You could go to her place.”

“I’m not scared,” I say, more heat in the words than needed. I plod up the last few stairs and round the corner. “Listen, I’m sure the McMansion is crawling with cops already. Or her mom knew a really good cleaning compan—”

At the end of the hallway, against my door, lays a shape. For a terrifying second, I think it’s the drowned boy. My knees bend, fingers diving for the messenger bag. I sling it forward with my hip to unzip it one handed. Every nerve in my body fires.

“What is it? Allie?” Sarah calls into my ear.

In the bag, my hand closes around the hilt of my knife. It’s not the best weapon I have on me, but I’ve got easy access to it.

“Did you send me another case?” I ask breathlessly, but even as the words are leaving my lips, I know Sarah would never send anyone to my doorstep. I move slowly, alert, watching.

“Tell me what you see.” There’s no panic in Sarah’s voice.

“It’s…”  I don’t want to say. The shape in front of my door doesn’t move.

Is it dead?
I wonder. I’ve been playing the cat and mouse game as long as I can remember, long before my parents lost and I wound up at Sarah’s place. Random work doesn’t happen. It’s dangerous to be known any more than necessary. We go to the cases, they don’t come to us. I take a flurry of steps toward my apartment.

“Allie, answer me,” Sarah demands.

It’s a boy, at least from what I can tell. His shoulder blades jut against the material of his shirt, head under a curled arm.
If he still has a head
, I think. All body parts and organs need be present for a proper resurrection. At least the important ones.

I edge closer. He’s laying over something. Suddenly, the body rolls over and yawns and I see the oversized backpack.

My shoulders sag in relief. “Damn it,” I whisper. The tension flees as Ploy offers me a sleepy, apologetic smile from where he’d nodded off waiting for me. I let the knife drop into the bag, hooking it into the sheath by the tip and then hold a finger to my lips. “Sarah? It’s fine. Someone left a trash bag in the hall,” I say and stick my tongue out at him as he gets to his feet.

He mocks a playful punch to my stomach and I ‘oof’ out of reflex.

“I have to go. I’ll call you later,” I say.

“Allie…” I wait for her to go into the inevitable lecture. Don’t get close. Don’t trust anyone with secrets that compromise the safety of myself and the others. Don’t make ties that can’t be cut. Instead she says, “We’ll talk tomorrow,” and hangs up without waiting for a reply.

Shoving the phone in my pocket, I shoot Ploy the evil eye. “Christ. I thought you were dead.”

He raises his pierced eyebrow. “Bodies show up on your doorstep often?” He means it as a joke. Ploy has no idea what I can do. After the night I’ve had though, I barely manage a sarcastic laugh. “Can I crash here tonight?” he asks.

“Yeah, fine,” I grumble as I unlock the door, secretly relieved for the company. I hang my key ring on the hook by the door. My jobs
start
with dead bodies. Ending one the same way unnerves me. I snap on a light and carry my bag through the living room to my bedroom. As I toss it onto the bed, I hear Ploy latch the deadbolt, then the chain. I’ve trained him well.

“Everything okay?” he asks from the living room where he’s set his pack down beside the couch.

I grunt in answer.

He ducks around the threshold. “The aunt again?” He knows the barest details of my past—dead parents, sheltered three years with Sarah and now the apartment she pays for to keep me under her thumb. I know even less about him. He’s lived mostly at the Boxcar Camp, an abandoned railroad station, with a loose knit group for going on a year. He knows all best places to beg tourists for change. For a couple months now, he’s had a soft spot for my couch and feel good comedies as long as they’re not romantic. This is the first time I haven’t been home when he stopped by.

He runs a hand through his sandy blond hair. It sticks up in a faux hawk, whether from the drizzle or lack of shampoo, I can’t tell. “Everything’s in the normal spots,” I say, pointing to the frayed sheet folded on one arm of the couch, the comforter he lays over the cushions. “Shower first?”

He snickers. “Yeah. Point taken.”

“Towel,” I say, tossing him the damp one I used this morning. I dig into the laundry basket of clean clothes I haven’t gotten around to folding and pluck free the oversized sweatpants he borrows when he’s here. If he’s following past procedure, he’ll take his own clothes into the shower with him and scrub them as best he can with my body wash, dry them over the shower door. I’ve offered to put them through an actual laundry cycle, but he claims if he gets rid of all the grime, no one will recognize him. Part of me believes him. “Need anything else?” I ask.

Balling up the towel and sweats, he shakes his head, but stops in the doorway.

I give him a minute and then tell him I’m heading to bed just as he finally says, “I need to talk to you.” He clears his throat. “I guess it can wait until morning. Thanks,” he says holding up the stuff in his hands. He breaks for the bathroom without waiting for a response.

“Not a problem,” I call after and I mean it.

Despite his piercing and gutter-punk-light collection of clothing, Ploy wears ‘good guy’ like a stain he can’t scrub out. I’d watched him for days before I’d approached him for the first time—long enough to see what was underneath the dirt, ear gauges and eyebrow piercing. It’d taken me a week to build slowly from a casual ‘Hey’ to actual conversations when I purposely walked past him each day. It’d been another month before we were comfortable enough with each other that an offer to grab a shower and crash on my couch didn’t come off as an invitation to my nether regions. It’s a line I’ve never had to draw, though, because he’s never tried to cross it.