Touch (25 page)

T
HE DOOR OPENED BEFORE Emma could touch it, sliding in toward an ordinary looking front
hall. Ernest stood three yards back; his eyes were dark, his jaw set. “Don’t stand
there like gaping tourists,” he snapped. “Get in.”

Michael obeyed instantly. Petal started to growl. Emma looked once over her shoulder
and obeyed, stepping forward as if she were walking around the corner into a nightmare
landscape. It wouldn’t have surprised her at this point to see Ernest sprout horns,
fangs, or guns.

Amy appeared in the hall at his back. Given the expression on her face, horns, fangs,
and guns would have been gratuitous.

The door shut behind them. No one had touched it.

“Allison’s still not answering her phone,” Amy said, first up.

Emma nodded. “I don’t think she has it with her. I turned mine on,” she added quickly.

“Where’s Eric?”

“He’s gone to find Ally. And Chase.” Emma closed her eyes. “Ally’s brother was shot.”

“So was my father,” Amy replied. “They mostly missed.”

“Your mom?”

“She’s terrifying the police.”

“She knows you’re—”

“No. I told her I was going to Nan’s. I had hysterics and told her I couldn’t deal
with the police.” That was not—in any alternate universe Emma could think of—a remotely
believable lie. Sometimes she wondered at the optimism of parents. “There were no
Necromancers at my house. There were guns, possibly knives, and a lot of noise—but
no Necromancers. If Allison’s someplace without her phone, I think the timing is a
bit coincidental for a random, armed break-in.”

Ernest said, quietly, “We warned you. This isn’t a game.”

“Michael’s mother seems to be okay for now. But they know Michael’s not at home,”
Emma said, speaking past Ernest to the most dangerous person in the hall.

Amy nodded. “I took the liberty of packing.” She turned and headed into Ernest’s living
room while Ernest shut his mouth. “I don’t have much that’ll fit Allison, though.”

Michael opened his mouth.

“I raided Skip’s closet,” she told him. “You’re not the same size; he’s fatter. But
it’ll do.”

“Where are we going?” Michael asked. It was the sensible question.

“Someplace else.” Amy exhaled as she remembered who she was speaking to. “I borrowed
keys and a pass card from my dad’s office. We’ve got cottages and small chalets a
couple of hours outside the city in a bunch of different directions. Inside the city
isn’t safe at the moment; if they want us, we’ll make them work for it. They’re not
going to be able to pillage our information from the school records.”

“And our parents?”

“I don’t think they care whether or not our parents live or die,” Amy replied. “It’s
just us they’re gunning for.” She grimaced. “At least that’s the hope.”

“Your parents—”

“Yes. My parents are probably safe. My father can afford to hire a small army, and
has the smarts to figure out how to do it legally.”

“My mother can’t,” Michael said quietly.

Amy didn’t argue. “I’d tell my father,” she finally said, “who to look out for. But
to tell him that, I’d have to tell him pretty much everything
and
make him believe it. And he won’t leave it alone if he does. He’ll go to the police.
He’ll go above the police. It’ll be all over the place inside of a week.” She glared
at Ernest, who had come to stand behind a suitcase the size of a small fridge. “This
is the best I’ve got. I’m willing to entertain suggestions. From you guys,” she added,
pointedly excluding the man in black.

And he was in black. He had shed the old-fashioned tweed look that made him seem older
than he was; to Emma’s eye, he now looked like a lived-in version of Chase. She grimaced.
Chase was not the person she wanted to be thinking about now.

But Chase had gone for Allison. He had, according to her father, saved Allison’s life.
He might be keeping it safe even now—something Emma had no hope of doing on her own.

“Earth to Emma,” Amy said.

Emma shook herself. Amy’s implied criticism was deserved. There were decisions that
she could help make, things she could do. Better to do them than to become paralyzed
by the things beyond her grasp. “It’s going to look suspicious if we all disappear
together.”

“We’re not. We’re going on retreat together to an unspecified location. I’m obviously
so shattered by an armed break-in into my own home that I needed the time away to
put myself back together.”

Michael frowned. Amy looked angry; she didn’t look shattered. “We’re supposed to help
you . . . recover?” he asked.

“Exactly. I’ll call my mother before we leave, and I’ll tell her that I’m heading
out of town for a few days because I don’t feel safe at home.” She folded her arms.
“I’ll tell her I need my friends with me. My mother can call your parents first and
get their permission. Would that work?” She was mostly looking to Michael. She assumed
everyone else could just
make it
work.

Amy wasn’t above telling Michael what to do—she was Amy, after all. But she didn’t
particularly enjoy his version of panic, and she understood she’d be facing it soon
if he wasn’t handled with care. Amy’s version of care, but still.

Michael turned to Emma. Michael, who had already called his mother.

Emma swallowed. “My mother would buy it if your break-in hits the news. She won’t
be thrilled—we’ll be skipping school—but she’ll understand it. I think Mrs. Howe would
be worried—”

“Duh. Mother,” Amy snapped.

“—But I think, if your mother talked to her, she’d actually be relieved. Michael’s
already phoned to tell her he isn’t coming home.” She exhaled and fell silent.

“You’re not telling me something,” Amy replied, voice flat the way the side of a knife
was.

“Allison didn’t answer her phone because she didn’t have it with her. She’s not at
home.”

“And?”

“Yours wasn’t the only home that was targeted tonight. Chase—Chase somehow got Allison
out of hers, but he didn’t take down the people who were targeting her family. Her
brother was shot. Unlike your father, whoever shot him didn’t mostly miss. Ally’s
mother is probably out of her mind with worry—for Toby
and
Ally. I don’t think your mom’s going to be able to talk her down if she doesn’t know
where Allison
is.
And if she knows that your place was hit as well . . . she’s not stupid. She might
decide that the timing isn’t coincidental.”

“How? You
know
the timing wasn’t coincidental. How is her mother going to know that? The two probably
look entirely unrelated.” Amy frowned. “Let me think about this. We’re going to have
to sell it differently.” She swore softly and added, “Ally’s not going to want to
leave the city if her brother’s really hurt.”

Emma nodded, but added, “She’ll go. If she understands that her brother was in danger
because she was there, she’ll go anywhere you tell her to go. I just think her mother
will have a harder time with it, because Toby will be in the hospital.”
If he survives
. She couldn’t bring herself to say this.

Amy as a force of nature was a fact of life for the teachers in Emery; she was for
the parents of her many acquaintances and friends too. If Amy wanted you to do something,
you did it. Unless, Emma thought, you were Michael. Michael’s sense of reality often
collided with Amy’s sphere of influence.

But he wasn’t arguing now. He was nodding. He was nodding a little bit too quickly.
Hall guilt asserted itself. She should never have gotten Michael involved. She should
have taken Chase’s advice—his bitter, heated advice—and left town when she could,
without dragging all of her friends into isolation with her.

“You know,” Amy said, “you should have been Jewish.”

Emma blinked.

“You’re so good at guilt, you don’t need a mother reminding you of all the reasons
you should feel guilty. If you feel guilty for dragging me into this mess, spare me.
No one makes me do anything I don’t want to do. And no one stops me, either.” She
glanced at Michael. Opened her mouth. Closed it. “We’ll need clothing for Allison.
I think she’ll fit some of Skip’s stuff—width-wise, at least. I’ve got money. I’ve
got credit. I’ve got a car—I don’t know if we want to ditch it or not.

“But we’re going to have to decide what we do going forward. I for one don’t intend
to let some random Queen of invisible dead people dictate the course of
my
life. I don’t intend to let her kill me or my friends.

“She needs to go.”

* * *

“You make it sound so simple,” Ernest said, his voice dry as kindling in winter.

“It
is
simple,” Amy replied, folding her arms. “The logistics might be more difficult. I
don’t know how many of you there are. I assume all of you aren’t here, in my city.
I assume you’ve thought of all this before, and you’ve never managed to take her out.
I even sort of understand why.

“Doesn’t change the fact that she has to go.”

“You are all schoolchildren,” Ernest replied, folding his arms in the exact same way
Amy had, although Emma didn’t think the mimicry deliberate. “You can’t fight. You
don’t understand Necromancy. You can’t—without Emma’s help—talk to the dead. You have
nothing to contribute to the mission you so cavalierly dictate.”

She lifted a brow and then turned back to Emma and Michael. “We’ll need to talk to
Eric. And Chase, if he makes it back.”

Ernest’s lips thinned; so did his gaze.

“I understand that you think we’re useless,” Amy said—without bothering to look at
him. “Understand that we’re not. We won’t approach things the way you do—we can’t.
Doesn’t mean we can’t do anything. The first thing we’re doing is getting out of the
city for a bit. You can come with us, or you can stay here. I personally prefer that
you stay here. We’re going to take Eric and Chase with us.”

Margaret said, “I like that girl.” She had materialized—at least in Emma’s view—beside
the fireplace, between where Ernest and Amy stood, bristling at each other. “Her manners
leave a little to be desired, but these days, it seems everyone’s do. You understand
that Ernest is not wrong?”

Emma nodded. “But neither is Amy.”

Margaret smiled. “We forget that our world is not
the
world. We couldn’t predict you—yet here you are. You opened the closed door, dear.
The dead see you as clearly as they see the Queen. You carry our hope with you, but
I think that hope will falter if you’re forced to carry it alone—or forced, by circumstance,
to carry it our way. Ernest,” she added, although Ernest had not once looked in Margaret’s
direction, “we’ve tried for decades, and we’ve failed. Perhaps it’s time to consider
different methods or different avenues of approach. If I understand events correctly—and
I frequently do—the greatest risk we face has already been taken.”

“It was taken without consultation,” he replied, every syllable spoken as if he disagreed
with the decision.

“Of course it was. The decision was never yours—or mine—to make. But it’s been made.
We’re committed, whether we like it or not.”

He turned to Margaret. Amy, frowning, turned to Emma. “If the other half of this conversation
has anything to do with us, I’d like to hear it.”

Emma nodded and held out a hand to Margaret. Margaret glanced at it and shook her
head. “That will not be necessary, dear,” she said, smiling at the tail end of the
endearment. “I don’t require your hand. I’m bound to you; you hold me. If you desire
it, I can appear at any time.”

“Do you need my permission?”

“Yes. But permission is not a legal contract. It’s not a ritual. You don’t have to
say the words if the words themselves trouble you.” She turned, once again, to Ernest—but
this time she also had Amy’s attention.

* * *

Allison watched the pale green light grow brighter; her sleeve covered her mouth and
nose, but it wasn’t doing any good—she was only barely breathing. Chase, across from
her in the shadow of the nearest tree, nodded brief encouragement before his gaze
went elsewhere. He drew two knives from the folds of his jacket. They were longer
and slimmer than the blade he’d given her, but reflected no light at all.

She closed her eyes.

This wasn’t the first time she’d faced Necromancers, and at least this time there
was no baby involved. She didn’t have an infant to worry about; she didn’t have responsibilities
to fail. There was only Allison.

Why was it so much easier to fail yourself?

The light on the snow brightened, and the snow began to melt. No, she thought, watching,
breath held. It wasn’t melting; it was sinking and breaking, the crystals across its
hardened surface surrendering territory to familiar, burning vines. Those vines shed
light, and the light cast shadows. None of those shadows bore the familiar, attenuated
shapes of people.

She lifted the dagger, remembering the way the vines had wrapped—like tentacles—around
her exposed throat. She wore a necklace now that might protect her from the worst
of it. She wore a jacket that would have her on the outs with Amy for six months under
any other circumstance—not that she was ever “in” with Amy—that might stop the soul-fire
from instantly devouring her.

Neither of these was armor. Neither of these was skill.

She listened. She glanced at Chase and saw an odd expression cross his face, just
before she heard the first evidence of actual people. Someone screamed. Someone shouted
a warning.

Someone laughed.

None of these voices were familiar. One woman, by the sounds of it, two men. How many
Necromancers had Chase and Eric said there were? Three? Four?

As if he could read her mind, Chase held up a hand in the darkness. Four. He lowered
two fingers. She’d heard three distinct voices. At least one could use Necromantic
magic. The snow broke again, as if it were glass; small crystals fanned outward in
a cold spray. The vines began to move, creeping along the ground and breaking snow
as they traveled. Breaking it and melting it.