Free Vial Things (A Resurrectionist Novel Book 1) by Leah Clifford Page A

thinking. When I look up her attention is locked on them, her knees shifted, ready to move, fight. Her arm sits at her side, disarmingly still, her fingers hovering over the knife she carries. I wonder if she’d use it on me, how quickly I’d heal if she did. I relax my hands and she, too, relaxes.
    Another pain shoots through me. How long is this going to last? I wonder. Jamison never said anything about how much it hurts. Maybe he doesn’t know.
    “I called my aunt as soon as you left today,” she says. “She’s looking into Brandon’s murder.” At the mention of her aunt, her brow furrows. “But if someone definitely attacked you to get to me, this changes everything. We can go to Sarah’s tonight and—”
    “Why we?” I ask. “You don’t need me.”
    I’ve been fighting my feelings for her—hell, even got Jamison to give me more time to work her—and the whole time I was utterly dispensable to her. I wonder if it was all a waste, if we should have done it Jamison’s way. Stop it , I think furiously. You stick with her and get information on the aunt, too. It’s what Jamison would want. “Unless you want me to come,” I say lightly.
    She stands and then bends to snag the syringe off the arm of the couch. The needle sends a shiver through me. She never said where she stuck it. “Right now you need to sleep. I’m surprised you’re conscious, to be honest,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads to the bedroom. “Sleep helps with the healing. Don’t move. I’ll make up my bed for you, just give me a sec.”
    But I can’t sit still. Nervous energy rumbles through me. On shaking legs, I make my way to her bedroom. I’ve never been inside—at least not further than the doorway. She’s in the closet, reaching for fresh sheets. I watch in silence as she strips the mattress and puts on the new set. “I’m fine on the couch,” I say, leaning heavily against the doorframe. I can almost sense the strength running out of me. “You’re not going to leave for your aunt’s without me?”
    “Your legs are shaking,” she says, distractedly. “Sit down before you collapse.”
    Sweat breaks out on my forehead. A wave of nausea rolls over me. This time, it’s not going to pass. “Allie,” I say, suddenly. I touch the back of my hand to my lips. “I’m gonna be sick.”
    She rushes toward me, brushes past. “Wait!” she yells behind her as she races to the kitchen. “Waitwaitwaitwait!”
    I hook an arm across my stomach as if it’ll hold the inevitable flood of what’s coming. I can’t even open my mouth to tell her to hurry.
    Doubling over, I heave just as she slides a giant plastic bowl under my face. Not much comes up but the few swallows of water, tinged yellow. Bubbles of spit float on the surface as I wait, sure there’s more. When I’m finished, I stay bent over, my hands on my knees. “Okay,” I finally manage.
    She pulls the bowl away. “What part of don’t move, stay on the couch, wasn’t working for you?”
    I nod grimly and wipe my mouth on the back of my shaking arm. “Point taken.” The vindication on her face falls away as she sighs.
    “Stay here,” she tells me.
    My eyes close as I clutch the doorframe, but the sound of her dumping the bowl into the toilet turns my stomach again and I have to open them.
    Allie lays a hand on my arm as she passes. “We’ll keep this close, in case,” she says, setting the bowl on the nightstand. She hands me a wet washcloth. “Clean yourself up. Before you sleep, I need to get the stitches out.”
    “Already?” I hesitate for just a second and then pull the tattered t-shirt over my head. Avoiding the wound, I scrub at the blood with the wet rag.
    “Can I...?” She slowly takes the washcloth from me. “Why don’t you lie down on the bed,” she says. Exhaustion floods my limbs as I release the door frame. She catches my wrist. “You okay?”
    I drop onto the bed, too tired to form the words to answer.
    “Lay back,”