Vial Things (A Resurrectionist Novel Book 1) (10 page)

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?”

I shove the rest of my bread into my mouth and chew angrily. He’s being ridiculous. I know he is.

He taps the table in front of me until I look up at him. “My gut is telling me we get out of here.” One of his hands is wrapped around the strap of his pack, ready to pull it up and on at my word. “Let’s just go. Now,” he says.

When I don’t answer, he stands and edges around to me. “We warned him. That’s what you wanted,” he whispers into my ear. “And he’ll warn others. So if he’s legit, when we go to the next place, they’ll be expecting us. We’ll know we can trust them. And him.” He tugs at my arm. I can’t argue that he has a point. “Allie, trust
me
,” he says, letting go of my arm long enough to get his pack’s straps over his shoulders.

As he’s doing that, I give in and take a few steps into the living room. The bedroom door is closed. We can be long gone before Jason even realizes we’re missing.

“We need to use his phone.” I’m stalling, looking around for anything suspicious, anything to justify us being so rude.
He’ll understand
, I tell myself and then wonder why it matters. What’s important is staying alive. Ploy’s spent a good chunk of the last year trusting his instincts.

I stare at the picture frames nailed to the cheap paneling, searching for anyone familiar. Sarah’s in quite a few. Other people strike a hazy chord in my memory. My stomach gives an uneasy twist and I wonder if I’ve caught Ploy’s paranoia.

Ploy comes in from the kitchen and hands me my backpack. “We go out the front. Backyard is too exposed.”

As he starts to speak, I whip around, staring at the framed shots as the cause for my unease finally hits me. “He’s not in any of the pictures.”

“Go,” Ploy says. “Now.”

The bedroom door opens. The man doesn’t look particularly surprised to see us ready to bolt. “I’ve got a friend on the way,” he says. “He’s going to help us sort this mess.”

From behind me, Ploy sounds grateful. “Thank you so much! Allie was nervous you wouldn’t be able to reach anyone. Her aunt said she’d had trouble getting people to answer.”

The man only smiles. “Well, people fall out of touch when they shouldn’t. Don’t they, Ploy?”

I follow Ploy’s lead. “I’m just so relieved we got to you in time.”

The man leans against the door frame. “Even if you were late, I wouldn’t have had to worry, right? A little magic trick on your part and I’m right as rain.”

My backpack bumps against Ploy. No resurrectionist would ever refer to what we do as magic. Never. Behind me, Ploy gives a contented sigh. “All this stress is freaking me out. I’m gonna smoke on your porch,” he says. The lie will get him outside. “Allie, wanna come or were you good in here?”

“Oh, I’ll come, I guess.” It doesn’t sound even close to casual.

The old man shoots Ploy a look, a hand behind his back. “She can stay in here. We’ll talk. Reminisce about her aunt for a piece.”

Ploy’s hand finds mine. “Actually, I’d feel better if she’s with me.” He laces our fingers together.

The old man goes still. “What’re you playing at, boy?”

He draws his hand from behind his back. In it is a small pistol. “On second thought,” he says to us. “We all wait inside. Have a seat on the couch. Jamison gonna be here in a few.” He gestures to the couch.

We both move quickly, dropping onto the threadbare cushions.
Jamison?
I think, repeat the name to myself so I won’t forget it. I have the presence of mind to take off my pack and set it on my lap as I cross my legs. It offers enough cover that I pull up my pant leg and go for the knife hidden there. My hand’s closing around the hilt when the man notices my movements. We lock eyes.

I lunge off the couch with a terrified scream, knife raised. My shoulder slams into him hard, spins the gun away from Ploy’s direction and I come down with the knife, aiming for the soft spots that will do the most damage—throat, stomach—the way I was trained. An ear shattering pop rings out, but the bullet goes wild.

Ploy’s up and across the room. He tangles with the man who is not Jason Jourdain, punches flying. Ploy takes a hit to the side of his face, knuckles hitting bone in a flat smack. And then Ploy grabs the gun and shoots once, twice. The old man slumps, motionless.

“Are you okay?” Ploy asks me over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” I manage, staring at the man. Blood pools on the floor beneath him. My heart thumps wildly, a sick feeling growing in my stomach. I stabbed him and Ploy shot him and now he’s lying there not moving. “I’m okay,” I say. “I think I tore a muscle.”

A slow heat spreads across the left side of my chest. When I touch the spot it radiates from, my fingers come away wet. I hold them in front of me.