Page 49 of Uncontrolled

“Much more eventful than I expected,” he admits.

I feel a pinch at the bend in my elbow and realize he’s drawing a syringe of my blood.

“Just like at the cabin?” he asks me.

“Yeah,” I get out.

Behind me, the woman shifts for a better look. The last thing I want is for her to see how this works. She’s dangerous enough. I tug the rubber strap loose and stand. Like I’m hoping, her attention stays on me.

“I’m diabetic,” I lie. “Too much excitement throws my sugars off.”

Now that I’m closer to her, I see a spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She’s young. Maybe younger than me.

“Are you going to let us leave after this?” I ask.

“As long as everything goes according to plan,” she says, which doesn’t bode well for Christopher and me. Whatever itinerary she woke up with this morning is fully off the rails. She cranes her neck. “What’s your boyfriend doing down there?”

I’m not sure what to say. The less she knows, the better. “Seems like we’re both in industries that don’t take kindly to a lot of questions.”

The butt of the shotgun hits her shoulder. “Don’t get mouthy,” she says.

“I’m not!” My hands raise. “We’re good. Nothing’s changed!”

Dread sours my stomach. This is going to go wrong. I know it as sure as anything. After her partner resurrects, we’re two loose ends solved with a bullet to my temple, then Christopher’s. I glance at him. If I die, I won’t resurrect in time to save him. Worse, my body can’t heal what isn’t there. If she sprays my brains against the garage wall, there’s no guarantee I’ll resurrect at all.

“Can you not point that at her?” Christopher says, his words tight with worry.

“It’s fine,” I say, not letting my gaze stray from our captor. No, I think. Not a captor. She’s just a scared girl in over her head. No different from me.

“I am not asking you questions.” I let the words sink in. “It’s because I don’t have questions. I haven’t seen anything.” My voice rises higher with desperation. “Not one thing I remember. Obviously, I’m not the kind of girl who goes to the cops.” I gesture at the dead body, the gore covering me and Christopher, and give her a sheepish smile as if this is the most normal Wednesday I’ve ever had. “I don’t know your name and you don’t know mine. I don’t—”

Her finger slips onto the trigger, and I freeze. “You catch the news and you’ll be connecting the dots in no time.”

“Please,” I say, my attention skirting to the unmoving body beside Christopher. The syringe in Christopher’s hand is empty, injected during my conversation with the girl. We don’t have long until her partner revives, which means this negotiation needs fast-tracking. “Please believe me when I say I do not give a single shit about any of this.” I wave one of my raised hands at the car, the money, the bullet holes and blood. “My job comes with a level of trust on both our parts. I’ve seen worse than your little grand theft gone wrong here. It’s got nothing to do with me or him, and I am totally happy with our position.”

“He’s breathing,” Christopher says.

Disbelief washes over the girl’s face.

“That’s not…” She fades off, gawking at him now. I catch the guy’s chest rising and falling at the edge of my vision. Her wide eyes jerk to meet mine, her head cocking.

“Resurrectionist,” I say, as if to remind her. “Can you please lower the shotgun?”

My words are slow and calm even while her brain fights to wrestle what happened into a box that makes sense. I know the look well. Some lean on religion and call it a miracle. Some accuse me of witchcraft. The most rational ones don’t seem to ponder much at all. I’m not sure where she’ll land, but I’m not liking her panic.

“He’ll wake up soon,” I tell her, struggling with my own nerves. The gun’s on me. Her finger’s on the trigger. “He’s going to gasp. I’m worried it’ll scare you and the shotgun will go off. That’s a normal worry, isn’t it?”

Her gaze jumps from me to her partner to Christopher. “What in the hell are you two?” she asks.

“Not him,” I admit. “Just me. Please lower the gun.”

A shoe scrapes the concrete.

“He’s waking up,” I tell her. “He’ll need you to tell him he’s safe. If he flails, he could rip the stitches and we’ll have to start all over. I’m guessing you don’t want to be in this garage any longer than necessary.”

She rattles her head in a nod.

“So…lowering the gun?” I push.

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