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

she instructs and I’m more than happy to comply.
    My eyes drift closed in a long blink and when I open them I’m almost sure I catch her staring at my abs. Then she lifts a messenger bag onto the bed and takes out a tiny pair of scissors. Right. Stab wound. Not staring at my abs after all. Dispensable.
    She glances up as if expecting a protest, fear maybe. I throw an arm up over my head to give her better access to the closed slice. “I know the drill.”
    “Not quite baby’s first shanking?”
    The laugh stings my side. “I’m not exactly a stranger to stitches.” Any trace of humor fades from my voice as I remember the trips to the hospital. The pitying looks from nurses when I told them I’d gotten in a fight, fallen down the stairs, wiped out on my bike. I remember the day he caught me packing my stuff and the sound of my rib breaking and the pinch of my eyes swelling shut and the crush of his hands around my throat.
    I remember what Jamison did that day.
    Because of that, what Allie said before can’t matter. I have to get in with her and make sure she doesn’t see me as some sort of throw away, a bone for the dogs after her. I have to work this right for Jamison. For both of us. I didn’t graduate. I’ve got no address, no job. Getting this power is my only chance at a good life. Without Jamison and this plan of his, I wouldn’t have a chance at a future. Hell, I wouldn’t have even gotten out of my dad’s house.
    I swallow hard and remember the panic, no air, tightening hands.
    “It’s not totally healed yet,” she says, breaking me out of the memory. “The longer the stitches are in, though, the harder they are to remove and you need to crash soon.”
    I don’t bother denying it. Already, it’s a challenge to keep focused on her. I tense my muscles, willing them to fight sleep but my body melts against the mattress as she snips the knots one by one. With a pair of hemostats, she tugs each thread. “There,” she says when she’s done. “Do you want me to get you a new shirt?”
    “No, it’s fine,” I say, between slow blinks. My head’s fogged. The walls look corrugated, metal, the boxcar, but I know that’s not right. “Are you staying in here?”
    The question clearly catches her off guard. “Why?”
    Normally, the slightest sound wakes me but I can’t count on that now. “You were worried about someone coming after you.”
    She bristles. “No offence, but you’re kind of useless to me in that regard,” she says, and I think about before when she said she could protect herself. She fuels her confidence on control. Gaining her trust might be as easy as giving her control, even over me.
    “Okay, let me rephrase,” I say, changing tactics. “I just got stabbed to death, fixed up by magic blood, and I puked from walking fifteen steps.” I pause, waiting for her to get the point but instead she only crosses her arms over her chest. She’s going to make me say it. “I’ve watched your back, Allie. I’m asking if you’ll watch mine.”
    “Oh,” she says quietly. “I...I guess I can hang out on the floor,” she starts.
    “Don’t be stupid. There’s plenty of room for both of us on here.” I don’t mean anything by it. What I feel or don’t for her doesn’t matter. What I’d want if the circumstances were different. It doesn’t keep me from hearing the catch in her breath.
    “Fine,” she says, feigning nonchalance. “I’ll take the left side.”
    “Closest to the door? How’re you gonna escape if they can’t get to me first?” Her face falls and I trail off. “Bad joke,” I mutter. Why am I letting it get to me so much? “Can you get my pack? I need to change my pants.”
    She reaches into the laundry basket and tosses me the sweatpants I left folded in the bathroom. “Here. Wear these.”
    Before I can peel off my blood stained jeans, she shoots out of the room, closing the door to give me privacy I could care less about at this point. All I want is to