Touch (5 page)

Allison looked at her best friend’s face in the streetlight. The outer shell of socially
adept, polite Emma had cracked.

“I would have done
anything
. If it’d been me—if I’d been my mother and I’d seen Nathan at the hospital—I would
have done anything just to be able to talk to him again.”

“Em, your dad died eight years ago.”

“And that’s all it takes to forget him? Eight years? He wasn’t just a grade school
crush, Ally. He was her husband. It’s been eight years for me, too, but
I
wanted to see him. I wanted to talk to him again.”

When a conversation was going straight downhill, you could still control your descent.
You could just stop talking. Going off-map sometimes revealed surprising cliffs in
the conversational landscape. Allison felt the edge of one beneath her feet. She wasn’t
certain how steep the drop would be.

“He’s dead. Even if your mother could talk to him again, he’d still be dead. She can’t
touch him without freezing. She can’t talk to him without you. If you’re there, she
can’t say any of the personal stuff.”

“It would still be better than nothing.”

Allison wasn’t so certain.

* * *

“Chase, pay attention.”

Chase frowned. He didn’t argue; Eric was right. He wasn’t paying attention. Not to
the streets and the dwindling stream of people getting in the way of their stakeout.
Not to the cars that were parking on the street, and not to the ones that had slowed
to leisurely crawls in search of parking.

He wore three rings, all etched with symbols; one was solid silver, and two had iron
cores. He passed his hand through the air; nothing wavered. There was no visible distortion.
He slid his phone out of his pocket.

“What’s with you?”

“Checking to make sure you got the right address.” He slid the phone back into his
jacket pocket, because nothing had changed. They’d been sent to midtown to check out
two addresses. “We’re up,” he added, as the door to the apartment building swung open.

* * *

There were multiple ways to get into a building. Chase had been an electrician, an
apprentice plumber, a cable technician, a phone technician—in short, one of the invisible
people who kept things running. It was easiest, when necessary. In countries like
this, it was mostly necessary. Money opened doors—but only figurative ones.

He vastly preferred to hunt—and kill—Necromancers in the streets of the city. Any
city. Buildings were too easy to trap, too easy to bug, too easy to monitor. The Queen
of the Dead didn’t care much for modern life—and modern life was therefore their best
advantage.

But they didn’t catch all of the proto-Necromancers, as Allison called them. And some
of the ones that slipped through their fingers were also part of the modern age. Given
that most of them were teenagers, their understanding of the finicky bits of modern
life only scratched the surface; most of them didn’t know how their phones worked
or where their internet connections came from.

Then again, Necromantic magic was generally more useful than cell phones when it came
to communication.

They entered the apartment. “Number significant?” Chase asked, nodding at the door.

Eric shook his head. “I don’t think they had the time.” He nodded toward the kitchen
and the dining room beyond it. Chase headed that way; Eric headed to what were probably
bedrooms and closets.

The living and dining area was clean. Eric whistled, and Chase headed to the bedroom.
“Got something?”

“They’re here.” There was a mirror in the room, on the desk; Eric had already covered
it.

“All of them?”

“Two.” He lifted passports, tossed them to Chase, who frowned. One of the two was
twenty. One appeared to be in his thirties. “Not high in the upper echelons of the
Court.”

“Good. They didn’t leave much.”

“You think they’ve already gone hunting?”

Eric nodded. “Grab their passports.”

“Cash?”

“Some. Not much. They didn’t leave wallets here.”

“Robes?”

Eric shook his head. “They’re either wearing them or they don’t intend to grab and
run.”

“You think they’re going to kill her?”

Eric frowned. “Emma opened the door,” he finally said.

“She’ll know.”

Eric nodded. “Every other Necromancer alive might have missed it, but the Queen will
know. She won’t know how Emma managed it, but she has to suspect.”

“The lamp.”

“The lamp. If Emma dies, she won’t get her hands on the lamp.” Eric was examining
the phone. He swore.

“What?”

“Car. Now.”

* * *

The only person Chase worried about was Chase Loern. That had been his truth for a
long time now. Eric was his equal—or, on a bad day, his better; he could take care
of himself. So could Chase. Anyone who couldn’t was dead and buried in some unmarked
grave somewhere.

Chase wasn’t afraid of death—he just wanted the bastards to
work
for it. So far, they hadn’t worked hard enough. Rania had called him suicidal, back
in the day. She’d been a lot like Eric—proper, well mannered, well educated. Unlike
Eric, she’d become a casualty.

Chase had no illusions about death. Death was not a peaceful end. It wasn’t a release
into the great, happy beyond. There was no heaven waiting, no divine presence. Only
the Queen of the Dead. If she found Chase, he’d be a figurative lamppost in her city—if
he was lucky. Rumor had it she held a long grudge.

Then again, so did Chase. But he wasn’t a Necromancer. His grudge wasn’t worth much;
he made it count by killing Necromancers. But it was a stalling action. Sooner or
later, they were all going to end up in the same damn place.

* * *

“My mother’s not like yours,” Emma said. “We don’t talk about important things in
the Hall house. I don’t know if that would be different if my dad hadn’t died. I kind
of doubt it, though. But she talked to me about Nathan. After he died. She talked
about my dad. It was the first time I’d really thought of him as her husband. I mean,
I knew—but he was my dad first.

“He was her husband. She lost him. She had me—but it wasn’t the same. I have Petal,”
she added, with a wry smile.

“You’re more important to your mother than Petal,” Allison said. “Sorry, Petal.”

Emma smiled. “We had that in common. The loss. The way we understood it. I knew she’d
survived. So I knew I could.” Her smile faded. “On some days, I didn’t want to.”

Allison knew.

“Maybe Dad wasn’t as important to her as Nathan is to me. Have you ever noticed that
people seem to love less as they get older? I don’t want that to happen to me.” She
swallowed. “If I forget him, Ally, if I reach a point where talking to him, seeing
him, isn’t important enough—what was the point?”

“Emma—”

Emma smiled. “Hold this?” she asked, handing Petal’s leash to Allison without waiting
for a reply. Allison took it in gloved hands; they were numb. It was a cold night,
even for November.

Emma removed her right glove; Allison held her breath as Emma held her hand out to
the night air. She held her breath when Nathan materialized beside her best friend.
He wasn’t dressed for November; he was dressed for summer. The cold wouldn’t touch
him now. Aside from Emma and people like her, nothing could.

“Hey,” Nathan said. It was dark enough she couldn’t see the color of Emma’s eyes,
although she knew they were a lighter shade of brown. She couldn’t see the color of
Nathan’s, either.

For a long moment, she said nothing. And then, exhaling, she said, “Hey, Nathan.”

* * *

The problem with being Emma’s best friend was that Emma understood her. Allison smiled.
She
did
. But the expression was half-frozen; it was like a mask. Emma knew. Emma needed Allison
to be happy for her, and the best Allison could do was try.

But it was November, it was cold, and Allison knew that touching the dead sucked warmth
and heat out of Emma. “We should—we should go inside,” she suggested. It was a compromise.

Emma’s smile was fragile, and it broke. Her hand—her bare, gloveless hand—twined with
Nathan’s, tightened.

“It’s cold,” Allison said again. “And you’re not going to get any warmer if you—if
Nathan—” She shook her head. She had Petal’s leash, but Petal was no longer tugging
at it; he’d doubled back. Allison watched as he headed toward Nathan, whining anxiously.
His stub of a tail was still. He wasn’t growling. But he wasn’t happy, either—and
he’d always liked Nathan.

They all watched as he walked back and forth through Nathan, as if he were a particularly
solid shadow. He whined, and Emma eventually tried to feed him—but for once he wasn’t
interested in food.

Allison took the leash more firmly in hand and began to walk; Emma followed, Nathan
held just as tightly.

It was quiet. It was the wrong type of quiet. Emma said nothing, but Allison knew
the look. She wasn’t happy, but she didn’t want to start an argument about Nathan
in front of Nathan. Allison didn’t want to start an argument at all.

But she understood why Mercy had no desire to see her dead husband again. She was
certain that Emma wouldn’t see it the same way—and who could blame her? Ghosts didn’t
age. They didn’t change. Their touch was cold enough to numb. They couldn’t work.
They couldn’t eat. They couldn’t
live
, or they wouldn’t be dead.

Emma wasn’t dead, but she stood in death’s shadow—and she wanted to stay there.

You don’t understand
, Allison thought, because she knew that’s what Emma wanted to say to her. And maybe
it was true. But Nathan was dead. He was always, and forever, dead. She was afraid
that Emma would join him.

And she couldn’t say that. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Who is it hurting?

You, Emma. It’s hurting you
.

But Emma would tell her she’d lived in a world of hurt since last July, and this was
the first time she could see an end to that pain. There weren’t many things you couldn’t
say to your best friend—but Allison was facing one of them now.

Emma’s phone rang. Emma fished it out of her pocket without letting go of Nathan’s
hand, which was awkward; she was trembling with cold. Nathan watched her as she fumbled
and then looked past her to meet Allison’s eyes.

Allison wanted to talk to him about Emma—but that couldn’t happen now. Anything Nathan
heard, Emma would hear by default; she was his only conduit to the rest of the world.
He knew she was worried. He probably even knew why; Nathan had never been stupid.

And he’d never been selfish, either.

“Em,” he said, as she brought the phone to her cheek. “Let go. Ally’s right. It’s
cold.”

She ignored him. “Hello?” To Allison, she mouthed,
Eric
. “We’re just out walking Petal. I’m with Allison. No, we’re near the ravine, why?”
Her eyes rounded. The phone slid from her face as she turned.

“What’s happened?” Allison asked, voice rising.

“Eric says—Eric says we have two Necromancers incoming. He wants us to head to the
cemetery. Now.”

“Why the cemetery?”

“It’s closest to where he and Chase are. They’ll meet us there.”

* * *

“I don’t understand what the Necromancers want,” Allison said, shortening the leash
and picking up the pace.

Emma was silent for half a block. One phone call from Eric had turned quiet night
shadows into dangerous omens. “Ally, I want you to go home.”

Allison stared at her.

“They’re not—they’re not after you. If you go home now, you should be safe.”

Allison felt a pang of something that was like anger. Or hurt. Hadn’t she just had
this argument? Coming from Emma, it was harder. Her hands were shaking. Her throat
was dry. Speaking over the fear took work. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want you hurt.”

“Don’t say it.”

“If they’re here, they’re hunting me or Eric or Chase—”

Adrenaline made Allison’s hands shake; it wasn’t just the cold. The last time they’d
seen Necromancers, they’d had guns. Allison never wanted to see them again. “If I
go home and something happens to you—”

“Ally, what are you going to do if you don’t go home and the Necromancers find us?”

“I don’t know. We’ll figure that out if it happens.” Her eyes, made much larger by
her glasses, narrowed.

Nathan reached up to touch Emma’s cheek; his hand stopped an inch from skin and fell,
curling into a brief fist. “Em, listen to Ally. She’s right more often than she’s
wrong.”

“You shouldn’t be here, either,” Allison told him. “You’re dead. Necromancers use
the dead for power—and if they don’t have enough, they’ll grab whatever they can reach.”

Nathan shook his head. “I’m not in danger. I’m already dead. There’s not a lot they
can do to me to change that. There’s a lot they can do to you—but you’re staying.”
He hesitated, and then said, “If the dead have power to give to the living, I’m willing
to give all I have to Emma.”

Allison couldn’t argue. She didn’t tell Nathan that Emma didn’t know how to take that
power, and didn’t know how to use it. Emma believed that—but Allison wasn’t certain.
Emma had walked into the phantasm of a fire that no one else could see unless she
touched them. Emma had walked out again, hair singed, clothing black with soot.

Emma had given Maria Copis the ability to see her dead son—and the ability to pick
him up and carry him, at long last, out of the fire that had killed him. If Em wasn’t
trained in magical, Necromantic magic, she could still do things that Allison couldn’t
explain. And could never hope to do herself.

But Emma’s question hung in the air between them. Nathan at least had the sense to
stand on the far side.
What can I do? If Necromancers come, what can I possibly do?

They picked up the pace in the uncomfortable, heightened silence.

Emma didn’t have to drag Petal with her; he hunkered down by her side, like a portable,
living tank. The streets were dark; the streetlamps were high and unevenly spaced,
and there were no houses on this side of the street. There were graves just beyond
the fence that bounded the cemetery, and moonlight, although the background of city
lights caused stars to fade from view on all but the clearest of nights.