Touch (7 page)

“No?”

“No. You’re just closing the door in the face of external concern.”

She grimaced. “I’m
fine
, Eric. Allison was the one—” She exhaled. She couldn’t see her best friend; Chase’s
back was in the way. Pointedly in the way.

“I’m okay,” Allison said. Her voice was shaky. No surprise, there. The Necromancers
hadn’t tried to kill Emma. Just Allison. Because Allison had been stupid enough to
join Emma while she walked her dog.

Her dog bounded toward her, and she felt a surge of both guilt and gratitude. She
knelt and let his wet nose leave tracks across her face. People were often put off
food by danger; Petal proved that in some ways, he was all dog. She offered him a
Milk-Bone, and he ate it.

“Eric’s worried about you,” Nathan said. Emma startled, which was embarrassing. She
ran her hands through her hair and then turned toward Nathan. He didn’t
look
different.

“He’s like that,” Emma replied. “Chase—the redhead with the broad shoulders—doesn’t
care if I die.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it. He was worried about Ally, though.”

“It’s why I can’t hate him,” Emma said, speaking quietly so Allison wouldn’t hear
her. “He’s attractive, he’s confident, he’s—I don’t know. A guy. But he does like
her. He didn’t even notice Amy—and I can’t think of another living male who hasn’t.”

Nathan smiled. “It’s hard not to notice Amy. If most women are bullets, Amy’s a nuclear
bomb—overkill on all levels.”

Emma didn’t even feel a twinge of jealousy; she would have, once. Eric glanced at
Nathan.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She was. She’d forgotten that Eric could see the dead. Eric, who
wasn’t a Necromancer, who wasn’t suspicious, and who Chase had not come to Toronto
to kill. “Eric, this is Nathan. Nathan, this is Eric.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Eric said. He didn’t hold out his hand.

Neither did Nathan; they stood sizing each other up in an almost painfully obvious
way. Emma cleared her throat. “We were going to leave?”

Eric nodded. “The old man’s coming to clean up. But you’re not going home yet.”

“Where are we going?”

“Our place.”

* * *

Chase was pissed off. Emma wasn’t in the best of moods herself, but she wasn’t angry
with Chase; he, however, was clearly annoyed with her. He inserted himself firmly
between Emma and Allison and made clear by the direction his shoulder was turned—toward
Emma—that that was where he was staying, period. Ally didn’t notice; Chase had his
arm around her shoulder
and she wasn’t saying anything. She was white as a sheet.

Nathan walked on the other side of Allison, glancing at her from time to time. He
made no attempt to touch her or speak with her—it was pointless—but seemed to take
comfort from offering her his entirely invisible support.

Petal stuck like proverbial glue to Emma’s side. He did attempt to eat a Milk-Bone
through her pocket; she shoved his nose aside—his wet, warm nose—to save her jacket
from saliva and teeth marks.

For a group that had survived death by Necromancy, it was pretty grim. The blood really
didn’t help. Eric’s hands were still red; his shirt, his coat, and part of his face
were sticky with blood. It wasn’t his—which did help—but it was disturbing. Mostly,
it was disturbing because he didn’t appear to notice or care. Both he and Chase acted
as though this sort of thing happened every day. Or every night.

“Eric,” Chase said, “I’m taking Allison home.”

Emma stopped walking. “No, you’re not. Not looking like
that
.”

Chase bristled. “Would you like to keep her here so someone else can try to kill her?”

Allison made a strangled sound and ducked out from under Chase’s arm. “Don’t say that!”
She was trembling, she was white, and she was—and this hurt—frightened. But she was
also angry, and that added a bit of welcome color to her cheeks.

Chase grimaced. “Allison—”

“Don’t ever say that again. Emma didn’t want me to stay—
I
wanted to stay.”

“And now you know why it’s a very bad idea. Look, Allison, I know the two of you are
friends—”

“Best friends.”

“Whatever. But she’s a Necromancer. You’re
not
. Even if there’s something you could in
theory
do, you don’t have the training, you don’t have the experience. The best you can
do is die painlessly. The Necromancers don’t always aim for best case. They don’t
care about you. They care about Emma because they think she’ll become one of them.
But they don’t spare friends or family. Trust me.”

Emma’s throat tightened. Chase was right. She knew he was right. Forcing herself to
speak lightly, she said, “If you take her home right now, her mother will see you,
covered in blood, and have a coronary. If you’re very lucky, she won’t call the police.
And I know you—you’re never going to be that lucky.”

Allison winced and managed a strained laugh. “She’s right.”

Chase swore. “Fine. Come with us to Eric’s and hope that we don’t get traced.”

“Emma,” Allison said, in a much more subdued voice, “I’m sorry.”

That was the worse of it. She apologized and she
meant
it.

“Why?” Emma said, wanting to grab her by the shoulders and shake the words so far
out of her they never came back. She was surprised by the anger, by how visceral it
was.

“Chase is right. I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t do anything.”

“Ally—neither could I.” Emma glanced down at her hands. At the hands that both Allison
and Nathan had grabbed. “I couldn’t do anything, either. I thought you—” she stopped
speaking; it took effort. “It’s not you who should be apologizing. It’s me. I—I should
have at least as much power as they do—and I couldn’t do anything, either. If Chase
and Eric hadn’t arrived, you’d be dead, and I’d be god only knows where.

“But I’d never, ever, forgive them.”

N
ATHAN’S SURPRISED AT HOW MUCH Chase seems to hate Emma, and how much Chase seems to
care about Allison.

Most of Emma’s friends at Emery are like Emma. They’re comfortable in crowds; they
fit in; they find energy talking about similar things. Clothing. Boys. Music and Drama.
They go shopping in packs, roving the malls with bright eyes and easy laughter; not
all of that laughter is kind, but it has an energy that’s fascinating at a distance.

None of those girls is Allison. Allison wanders into bookstores and paper stores.
She sits to one side of the group, buried in words that she didn’t write and won’t
have to speak out loud. She’s moved by things that are imaginary. Her head, as Nan
once said, is permanently stuck in the clouds.

What Nan doesn’t see is where Ally places her feet. Yes, her head is in the clouds,
but she’s rooted, grounded; when she can be pulled out of them, what she sees is what’s
there. Maybe, Nathan thinks with a grimace, that’s
why
she likes clouds.

There are no clouds for Allison now. Her eyes are dark and wide. There’s a livid bruise
around her throat, and her hands are shaking. She snaps at Chase, Chase snaps back.
Emma flinches with each exchange, although she stays out of it.

Allison feels guilty. Nathan recognizes it; it’s twin to his own sense of guilt. She
was there. She was
right there
. And she couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t stop the Necromancers. She couldn’t even
protect
herself
. She was dead weight. Worse. She was terrified.

She was afraid she’d die. That part’s simple. But the fear itself has branches. Death
is frightening to the living. Hell, it’s no walk in the park for the dead either.
But it’s not just that. Ally knows what her death would do to Emma.

Because Ally’s seen what Nathan’s death did.

Nathan’s seen it as well. He’s spent days watching Emma at school, like some kind
of crazed stalker. She’s still Emma—but she’s quieter. She still talks to Amy and
the Emery mafia, and they still talk to her—but it’s different. No one mentions Nathan’s
name. They’re careful not to talk too much about boys or boyfriends when she’s in
the group; they wait until she’s gone.

As if she understands this—and she probably does—she drifts away. She doesn’t want
to be a wet blanket. She doesn’t want to pretend that Nathan never existed. She doesn’t
want to force her friends to acknowledge him the way she did, because they didn’t
love him the way she did, and she’s fine with that.

But Allison almost never talked about boys. She talked about books, and with the same
happy, riveted intensity. She talked about Michael and his friends, about schoolwork,
about stray thoughts brought on by too much Google and not enough time outside. None
of that has changed.

Nathan is afraid that tonight, it has. Allison feels guilty.

And Emma feels guilty as well. Because Emma is a Necromancer, and if it weren’t for
Chase and Eric, Allison would be dead. Being a best friend has suddenly become a death
sentence. She didn’t
need
company, tonight. She had Nathan.

But she wanted company. She wanted to tell Allison that Nathan had returned.

Allison was not happy about his reappearance. Emma was surprised. Hurt. Allison recognized
that. So did Nathan—but Nathan weighs Allison’s unhappiness differently. She’s worried.
She’s worried
for
Emma.

And she should be.

* * *

“You can drive us home after you change. And shower. Get the blood out of your hair
and your hands.”

They’re still arguing. Chase, in the overhead light above the door, is the color of
chalk; his red hair makes him look even worse.

“Fine. Eric can drive us home. My mother will never let me out of the house again
if she sees you looking like that!”

“And that’s bad how?”

If Chase could see Nathan, Nathan would tell him to stop. He can’t. Allison always
seems meek and retiring to people who don’t actually know her. She’s uncertain in
social situations. She’s afraid she’s just said the wrong thing even when she hasn’t
said anything.

But once she’s made a decision, she doesn’t bend, and she is not bending now.

Emma, arms wrapped around her upper body, is exchanging glances with Eric, who looks
as much of a mess as Chase but without the red hair to top it off.

Eventually, they enter the house, where eventually means Chase shouts, “Fine!” and
opens the door and slams it shut behind him. Allison is practically shrieking with
outrage; Nathan laughs. He can; she can’t see him.

“I always liked her,” he tells Emma.

Emma gives him a shadow of a smile. But she’s not with him right now; she’s in Allison’s
orbit. When Allison yanks the door open and marches in—a sure sign that she’s angry—Emma
apologizes and follows her.

That leaves Eric on the porch.

* * *

Nathan doesn’t want to talk to Eric. He avoids Eric where at all possible. But given
tonight, given Allison’s reaction both before and after the Necromancers, he knows
it’s time to stop.

Eric folds his arms across his chest; Nathan lets his hang loose by his sides. There’s
nothing Eric can do to harm him. Not directly.

Eric gets straight to the point. “Why are you here?”

“I could ask the same question.” Nathan shrugs. “Did you come here to kill Emma?”

Eric’s a tough audience. He doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”

“She’s not dead.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

Eric’s gaze never leaves Nathan’s face. “Your girlfriend isn’t a Necromancer.”

“That’s not what Chase thinks.”

“And I’m not Chase. I’ve been doing this a lot longer than he has. Long enough to
know you shouldn’t be here.”

“Allison knows I shouldn’t be here?”

“She knows you’re here?” He exhales, loosens his arm, and runs a hand through his
hair. “Never mind. Of course she knows. She’s Emma’s best friend.”

Nathan chuckles. He can’t help it. He’s not much of a sharer; it took him a while
to get used to the fact that there were no secrets between Emma and Allison. Something
about the chuckle loosens the rest of Eric’s expression.

“Why are you here?” He asks again, in an entirely different tone.

Because he does, Nathan can answer. “I don’t know.”

Eric glances at the closed door. “Walk with me,” he says. He moves—rapidly—away from
the front porch, and Nathan follows.

* * *

“It usually takes the dead time to recover,” Eric says, as they walk. The chill in
the air is lessened by the start of snowfall, but it’s a gentle fall. Flakes cling
to Eric’s jacket and begin to dust sidewalk and road. “Two years, give or take a month.
Sometimes it’s longer.”

“But never four months.”

“No. You want to tell me why?”

“Not really. I will, though. I—” he glances at Eric. “I don’t know how much you know.”

“About the door?”

“Is that what you call it?”

“It’s what Emma called it, when she saw it.”

Nathan stops walking, frozen for a moment at the idea of Emma lost there.

“Emma hasn’t told you this?”

“I haven’t asked.” But the answer is no, and they both know it. He stumbles over words;
it’s not like he can stumble over anything else here. “I was there. I don’t think
of it as a door. It’s a window—a solid, bulletproof window. You can see through it.
You know what’s waiting. But you can’t ever reach it.”

Eric nods.

“She came to find me there.”

He stiffens. “Who?” he asks, but it’s clear he already knows the answer.

Nathan gives it anyway. “The Queen of the Dead.”

* * *

Eric says a lot of nothing for a few blocks. “Why did she send you here?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She told me to go home.”

“That’s it?”

Nathan hesitates. Eric catches it instantly. “No,” he finally says. “She also told
me I’d be safe from her knights.”

“Her . . . knights?”

“That’s what she calls the Necromancers.”

“
Knights
?”

“Sorry. Now that you mention it, it’s kind of stupid. She summoned her Necromancers
to her throne room.”

Eric is quiet. It’s a controlled quiet, a veneer of stillness over something so large
it might burst at any moment. “Does she spend all her time in her throne room?”

Nathan says, more or less truthfully, “I don’t know.”

“How much time did you spend there?”

“I don’t know.” He exhales out of habit, Nathan’s version of a sigh. “You know where
I was when she found me.”

Eric nods. It’s a tight, leashed motion.

“She was the only other thing I could see. She’s like a bonfire. I’m like a moth.
She’s terrifying—but she’s
there
.” He hesitates, then doubles down. “I see Emma the same way, except for the terror.
She’s luminous. When I’m near Emma, I don’t think about what I can’t have or where
I can’t go. I don’t think about an exit. I just think about Emma. And that’s natural,
for me.”

“How do you see the others?”

“The others?” For a moment, Nathan thinks he’s talking about Allison. Michael. Even
his mother.

“The rest of the Necromancers. Do you see them the same way?”

“Only in comparison to my friends. They’re brighter, sharper. They catch the eye—but
they wouldn’t have been able to catch my attention in the beginning. Not the way the
Queen did.”

“And Emma would.” It’s a question without any of the intonation.

“Yes,” Nathan replies, voice softer. “But I can’t be objective.”

Eric’s brow rises. “I don’t believe that.”

“What do you see when you look at Emma?” Nathan strives for casual, now. For objective
observer. Eric can touch Emma without burning.

Eric closes his eyes. “I see a naive, bleeding heart with a collection of scrappy
friends, a deaf dog, and a dead boyfriend.” He exhales, opens his eyes, and adds,
“I see what you see. Tell me what the Queen of the Dead said to her . . . knights.”

“She introduced us, more or less. She told them that if they touched me, if they mentioned
me at all in any capacity, they’d be serving her in a ‘less advantageous way’ for
the rest of eternity.”

“She meant for you to come to Emma,” Eric says, voice flat.

Nathan doesn’t argue. He wants to, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.

“Have you spoken with the Queen since you arrived home?”

“Yes. Once. She summoned me.” He slides hands into his pockets and regards Eric for
a long moment, trying to decide whether or not to say what he’s thinking.

Eric knows.

“She’s waiting for you,” Nathan tells him. He’s not sure why.

Eric slows; eventually he comes to a dead stop. Nathan’s not surprised to see that
they’ve returned to the cemetery. There are no corpses in the street, no obvious signs
of blood. No dead that Nathan can see.

“Did she tell you that?” Eric asks, hands in his jacket pockets, balled in fists.

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“There are two thrones in the throne room. They’re identical, at least to my eyes.
I don’t know what the living see—the only living members of her Court are Necromancers,
and it didn’t seem safe to ask. The Queen sits in the left-hand chair, if you’re facing
her—and no one stands at her back.”

“The chair on the right is empty?” When Nathan fails to answer, Eric turns.

“Yes. And no.”

“Which is it?” Eric asks, hands in pockets, eyes on the sidewalk just ahead of his
feet.

“It’s empty. But you can see an image—like a storybook ghost—seated in the chair.
It’s her magic,” he adds softly.

“You can tell that?”

“Yes. By the light, the quality of the light.”

“Whose image?” he asks, his voice dropping, his breath a small cloud of mist.

“Yours.”

Eric turns and walks away.

* * *

Nathan drifts to his grave. It doesn’t feel familiar, but it bears his name, and it’s
where Emma was waiting for him. He touches the headstone, or tries; his hand passes
through its marbled surface. Beneath his chiseled, shiny name, there are flowers.

Eric eventually returns, as if Nathan is actually alive and can’t be deserted. “It’s
not my image,” he says.

“No. He’s not dressed the way you are.”

“Please don’t tell me I’m wearing a dress.”

Nathan laughs. “No. You’re not wearing armor, either. You are wearing a crown, though.”

Eric snorts. “A crown.”

“A big, heavy, ornate, impressive crown. There’s less blood and more gravitas.”

“I bet. We’d better head back. Chase and Allison probably need a referee by now.”
He starts to walk, stops, and says, “What have you told Emma?”

Nathan follows, borrowing part of Eric’s silence. “Nothing,” he finally says. “When
I’m with her, I can almost forget I’m dead. I don’t want the reminder. I don’t want
a Queen. I don’t want to remind Emma of what the Necromancers represent.” It’s all
true, but there’s more, and it’s harder. “I don’t want to think that my presence here
is a plot against Emma.”

“If you found out that it was, could you leave?”

“Yes. But I’m not you. I don’t think there’s anywhere I can go that the Queen can’t
find me.” He lays out his fear. “If I left, if she knew, she’d send me back. If I
couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stay, she might even come here in person.”

“She won’t leave her city.”

“Why? She left it to find me.”

“No, Nathan, she didn’t. Her city is the only place she’s built where she feels safe.”

“You probably understand the Queen better than anyone. Why am I here, Eric? What does
she want from me?”

Eric says nothing.

There’s a question Nathan wants to ask, but he doesn’t, because if Eric answers, Nathan
will know—and if the Queen thinks to ask, Nathan will tell her what Eric said. Maybe
not immediately.

He contents himself with thinking it as they walk back to Eric’s house.

Could you kill her, Eric? Could you kill the Queen of the Dead? Could you kill someone
who loves you so much?