Vial Things (Resurrectionist #1) - Leah Clifford Page 0,18

door. I have to. My vision tunnels until all that’s left is the handle at the end of the hall, a tarnished brass beacon of a knob against the black. I crash into the wall and drop. Crawl. I have to make it to the door. I can’t die. Not like this. I lift my hand, too tired to even make a fist, and slam it against the wood. Again. Again.

Again.

“Allie!” I wheeze.

Nothing.

“Allie?” This time it comes out a whisper. Wetness soaks into my jeans. Blood. Too much to live through losing. She’s not just gonna have to heal me. She’s gonna have to bring me back. What if she’s not home? I think. I’m propped up against the door frame. I can’t make it down to Jamison. Hell, I can’t even stand. Jamison had told me once these people had limits on how long after death they had any effect. The first time they’d brought his mom back, it’d almost been too late for her. I’d told Allie I wouldn’t be here until dark. One last time, I manage to lift my hand to the door.

She doesn’t come.

Allie

I detour into a small grocery store, killing time. After walking the aisles for ten minutes or so, I pick up milk and a loaf of bread. I’ll have to ask Ploy what he likes to eat. Later, we can come here together and grab some stuff. With the extra money Aunt Sarah promised me after last night, I can actually afford real groceries.

Giving in to the inevitable, I hook the bag around my wrist and head home.

I’m a little surprised to see Ploy asleep against my door for the second time in as many days.

“Sorry, I was at the library,” I call, pulling the key from my pocket. He doesn’t stir. Halfway down the hall, I notice three streaks of maroon on the wall. I stop dead, the key frozen in my hand.

Dread worms up my spine. His head is drooped forward, chin resting against his chest. His legs are spread in front of him, one arm around himself, the other to his side, palm up on the carpet.

I crouch and drop the bag of groceries as my hand lowers to the knife strapped to my ankle. The handle is warm against my palm. “Ploy, wake up. Now.”

He doesn’t move.

Death isn’t exactly an unfamiliar state. I know a body when I see one. But still, my brain refuses to accept it. I ease my way forward, watching, sure any second his chest will rise and fall with a breath, that he’ll stretch and wake up and this will all be a terrible overreaction. My imagination gone haywire. Because he can’t be dead.

Reaching out, I give him a rough shake. His head lolls, rolls to rest against his shoulder. His eyes are open. They don’t blink.

“No.” I drop to my knees, my fingers racing up his neck to search for a pulse I know he won’t have. He’s warm. It’s not too late, a voice whispers. You can save him.

I slide behind him as I unlock and turn the knob. A double trail of blood follows his shoes as I wrench him into the apartment.

Racing to the bathroom, I grab a towel to cover the stain outside my door. There’s no reason for anyone to wander by, but if they do, the makeshift mat will hide the worst of the mess. I can’t do anything about the wall. I take a last look at the empty hallway, then close and lock the door, slide the chain. With shaking hands, I click the deadbolt.

Standing over his body, I almost bite my nails before I stop myself. What are the chances he got hurt, in a fight maybe, and got himself to my door? Not very likely, my brain spits. Which means someone did this to him on purpose. To get to me?

“Shit,” I murmur. “Shitshit.”

I glance at the clock. It’s been almost four hours since I left for the library. His brown eyes stare at the ceiling, unfocused, dilated but unclouded. Which means he’s been dead less than three hours. Rigor mortis begins to set in less than half an hour after death. He hadn’t seemed stiff when I moved him.

I kneel. “Okay, Ploy. Tell me what happened to you. Give me something.”

I can’t look at his face and stay focused. His side is wet and red. I close my eyes, concentrating. “Okay, blood on the wall. You got yourself here.” Was he