Vial Things (Resurrectionist #1) - Leah Clifford Page 0,84
beams above us. When I’m down, he pockets the old skeleton key.
The floor is dirt, compressed through a hundred years to near concrete. The air still carries the sick smell of death, but riding its back is the heady scent of earth and roots. There’s a tree trunk in the middle of the room, left there as a support to the house. Around it are wrapped two sets of chains, shackles at the ends of them.
He’s locking them down here.
A rush of anger thrums through me. I never signed on for hurting people, for trapping anyone in a cellar chained up.
Talia starts to struggle, but freezes when Jamison cocks the gun at her again. He darts his eyes at the shackles. “Put them on,” he says.
“I’ll kill you for this, I swear to God,” she mumbles. She does what he says though. When she’s fastened her wrists, he runs a padlock through the hinged clasp of each manacle. My arm is around Allie’s waist. I can’t let him do this to her.
I can’t do this to her.
Blood or power or money. I don’t care. But what am I supposed to do? Grab her and take off up the stairs and pray the bullets don’t hit us? Hope we get to the car? Fight him for the keys?
I could have stopped him, stopped this. Regret washes over me and cools the sweat breaking out on my neck. The air in the cellar is cold enough to pass for air conditioning. There must be some way to get them out of here without anyone hurt.
I fight to focus, use the moment to take stock of the room. Logs, the bark stripped from them a century ago, line the walls every five feet, holding up the house above. There isn’t much else—the three bare bulbs glowing on the ceiling, an old table made of rough leftover wood and a half dozen pockets carved into the dirt walls like shelves. On the shelves are dusty mason jars that look like they hold long forgotten vegetables. One nook has a set of rusted bolt cutters and a broken saw blade.
The locks he used on the girls have combinations. I can’t think of any reason he’d tell me what they were, not now. The bolt cutters might be their only way out of here. If they work. For now they’re not in reach. It’s better that way.
Jamison points at Allie. “Now you,” he says.
I can’t bring myself to watch. And then, I force myself to turn my head. Allie’s calm, collected to the point where I wonder if she’s in some sort of shock, but I saw this same murderous resolve in her at her aunt’s. I’d stopped her from killing Jamison then. Maybe I can talk him out of this. Diffuse things before they go further. Explain to him how the blood works, the immunity, make him believe.
Once Allie’s restrained, Jamison visibly relaxes. I try to catch Allie’s eye, give her some kind of clue that I’m on her side, that this is all going to be okay, but she won’t look. Jamison’s stare, however, burns into me. He’s gone silent.
“What now?” I ask. There’s a tremor in my voice. I don’t care. Let him think I’m the easily manipulated kid he’s been friends with all these years. Let him think I’m afraid. You are afraid, my mind whispers back. You’re the same person you’ve always been. A sheep. A follower.
Jamison seems to be weighing my words, my loyalty. “I know you hate it down here,” he says. “Let’s go.” Maybe it’s messed up, but just for a second, I forget I hate him.
Allie
Metal scrapes against ceramic as Jamison pulls each of the cords to the lights in turn, making his way toward the stairs. He’s already taken both mine and Talia’s phones. As he climbs the stairs, I realize he’s seriously going to leave us down here in the dark. Alone.
Okay, don’t panic, I think. Alone is a good thing. It’ll give us a chance to plan. But as the door opens and reality sets in, I can’t help but look up. Ploy’s standing in the stairwell, just over Jamison’s shoulder. Bastard, I think. I hate myself more for trusting him. How could I be so na?ve? For just a second before the door slams shut and plunges us into darkness, his mouth opens, as if he means to say something. He’s cut off before he has a chance.