Touch (10 page)

“They can see the dead.”

“Yes—but the dead who have the most potential often don’t want to be seen.” He hesitated
again, then looked at Emma. “The Queen of the Dead can find the dead if she needs
them; she’s extraordinarily sensitive.”

“And powerful,” Michael added.

“Yes.” Eric lifted another jacket and tossed it to Allison; she’d passed the first
jacket to Michael, who had let it pool in his lap as he focused on the conversation.
“Try it on.”

Before Allison could answer, he picked up a third jacket and tossed it to Emma. “You
too. How does it feel?” Eric asked Emma.

“Heavy. Kinda ugly.”

Chase snorted and corrected her. “It’s hideously ugly, but we don’t ask Eric for fashion
advice unless we
want
to look like Goth clowns. That’s not what he’s asking.”

Emma frowned. The frown deepened.

“Can you still see Nathan?” Eric asked, correctly divining the source of her surprise.

She nodded. “He’s—he looks less solid.”

Eric said, “There’s almost nothing you could do that would make the dead invisible
to you.”

Emma recovered quickly, for Emma. “Could we get a less ugly jacket?”

“Sure,” Chase said. “But by the time we finished with it—or
you
finished with it, because you’re going to be doing some of the damn work—it’d be
almost as ugly. I never buy decent jackets anymore—hurts too much to ruin them.”

“Allison?”

She was less amused by his rationale than Emma, but she did try the jacket on. It
was
heavy
. It was heavy and about two sizes too large. But she slid her arms into loose sleeves,
and the very ugly jacket let gravity pull it more or less straight.

“Well?” she asked Emma.

“I think it looks better on you than it does on Chase.”

Chase opened his mouth, looked at Allison, and frowned. After a pause of several seconds,
he said, “Damn it, she’s right.”

Emma’s brows rose. “You agreed with something I said?”

“You’ve got a better eye than Eric. For fashion.”

“And friends. Don’t forget the friends.”

“I’ve never criticized your taste in friends—except for Eric.”

Allison cleared her throat, loudly, before he could continue. “Better on me than on
Chase isn’t really saying much. How bad does it look?”

Emma winced. “We can try a better jacket once we can figure out—”

“You need some kind of leather,” Chase said, voice flat. “Thicker is better. No kid
glove leather, no Napa—you’ll rip the coat to shreds trying to put it all together.
You might be able to get away with trench coats. We don’t use ’em.”

“Why?”

“Too cumbersome. When we need to move, we need to move; we can’t afford the hems getting
caught on any protrusions. I think they’d work for you.”

Allison removed the jacket. “Is this all?”

“Hell no. We’re just getting started.”

* * *

An hour later, they were wearing necklaces of silver, with weighted pendants that
were some combination of silver and iron. The pendants themselves were simple but
heavy, and hard to hide under anything other than a loose knit or blouse. Emma asked
if they could use a longer chain; Eric shook his head. Chase snorted and pointed out
that it was the
pendant
that was important, and if silver could be made into a comfortable choker, that was
best.

“So that stupid dog collar you were wearing wasn’t ancient, bad Goth?”

“No. Don’t look at me like that; I make sacrifices like this all the time. We’ve got
rings; the rings are easy. Wear ’em. They’re not there to protect your hands; they’re
there in case something like last night happens again.”

“If I’d been wearing these rings, I could have pulled the—the tentacle away?”

“It’s not guaranteed but you’d have had a much better chance.”

“Why do silver and iron work against Necromancy?” Michael asked. He accepted the weight
of the jacket, accepted the necklace, but cast a dubious glance at the rings. Michael
didn’t like having things on his hands. Even gloves in the winter, although he’d wear
them if it was cold enough.

Chase shrugged. “Does it matter? They work.”

“It matters to Michael,” Allison said quietly.

Chase opened his mouth and closed it before more words could fall out. “Eric,” he
said, “it’s all yours.”

Eric grimaced. “We don’t know, Michael. We weren’t given a lot of explanations. We
were told that it disrupts Necromantic magic—but not why. It made no sense to me the
first time, but it worked. It wasn’t complete negation; I’m not sure that exists unless
you’re a Necromancer yourself.

“I’d explain it if I had the answer. I don’t. Old Man?”

Ernest, who’d been silent throughout, shrugged. “It’s something to do with earth,
with the bones of the earth.”

Which made about as much sense to Michael as it did to Allison. Emma turned to Michael.
“They can’t explain it themselves. But I think we need to trust them.”

Michael
did
trust them. He didn’t understand them, and lack of understanding always made following
instructions vastly more difficult. If you could explain something to Michael, he
had no trouble following orders. It’s what made people so difficult for him. A smile
did not mean the same thing to two different people; laughter didn’t either.

He looked at the rings again. Emma looked at them as well; they were
not
subtle. They were large, thick, and on the ugly side.

“If these are mostly silver, is there any reason we can’t find silver rings of our
own to wear?”

Chase rolled his eyes. “Something is better than nothing,” he conceded. “These have
the advantage of being both free and heavy.”

“Probably their only advantages. Did you make these?”

“The old man did.”

Emma grimaced and offered Ernest an apology. Ernest was looking wintery and less than
amused. “It hasn’t escaped my attention,” he said, although he was looking at Chase,
“that some people find my work less than aesthetically pleasant.”

Michael took two rings. Allison took two. Emma sighed and took two as well; there
were dozens, after all.

“Is there anything else we can learn in an evening?”

“No. Not in a single evening. These are the most useful things we can give you at
the moment. If you’re amenable, we can begin to train you in basic self-defense. But
as Eric has pointed out, the Necromancers don’t generally resort to brawls and physical
beatings to kill people. They will—and they have in the past—but it is not their preferred
method.” Ernest rose. “In other circumstances, we wouldn’t remain here. Part of the
ability to survive Necromancers who come hunting is not being present when they arrive.
We move.”

“A lot,” Chase added.

Allison started to shrug the jacket off her shoulders, but Chase caught it before
it could fall. “Promise to wear it home,” he said, pulling it back into place by the
collar. “Wear it to school. Wear it shopping. I know it’s not what you’d normally
wear—but wear it.”

She met his gaze and let her arms fall to her sides.

“Give me your phone,” he said.

She frowned. After a moment, she handed Chase her phone.

Chase turned it on and fiddled with it for a bit. “It’s a speed dial,” he said. He
called his own phone from hers. “If something or someone looks suspicious, call. I
don’t care if nothing comes of it—
call.
Eric and I patrol most nights.” He hesitated, exhaled, and finally said, “You’re
not a Necromancer-in-waiting; they won’t have an easy way to find you if they don’t
know what they’re looking for. But we killed two, and there was either one or two
more on that plane with them.”

* * *

Ernest surprised everyone by ordering pizza. It was really strange to be in a living
room with paper plates, cups, and pizza, discussing the ways in which total strangers
would try to kill them, but their lives had been strange since October.

* * *

They agreed to meet up at Eric’s in three nights, provided no immediate emergencies
prevented it. Emma and Allison walked Michael home; he was silent, although he was
fidgeting with the rings on his fingers. Emma was almost surprised he’d chosen to
wear them.

But Michael had seen the Necromancers in action. Michael knew they’d tried to kill
Allison. He hadn’t been there when Allison had almost died, but that didn’t change
the facts. Being utterly defenseless against a known danger was a greater threat than
having things encircling his fingers.

Emma was tense; she was nervous. She couldn’t help it. But they looked so
ridiculous
in these jackets, she had to laugh. Ally, seeing the direction of her gaze, started
to chuckle as well. Michael didn’t. He knew them well enough to know they weren’t
laughing
at
him, but he honestly didn’t see anything worth laughing about.

“Does this make me look like Chase?” he asked, pointing at his own jacket.

Allison, by dint of will, didn’t laugh louder. “No. Maybe a little more like Eric.
No one else looks like Chase.”

“It’s his hair,” Emma added. She glanced at Nathan, who was smiling in Michael’s direction.

Nathan had hardly spoken a word for most of the evening. He’d stayed, as he’d promised,
but he’d looked distinctly uncomfortable—and that wasn’t Nathan. She wanted to talk
to him, but it was cold enough tonight that she didn’t want to hold his hand so Michael
and Allison could also participate.

She waited, instead, walking Michael home and dropping Allison off next. Ally wasn’t
happy about the order.

“Eric and Chase are close,” Michael told her before he entered his house.

Allison immediately swiveled to look over her shoulder; Emma, squinting into the darkness,
couldn’t see them. “They are?”

Michael nodded. “I think Chase is worried about you.”

“Chase isn’t worried about me,” Allison said, with more than her usual heat.

Michael frowned. “He isn’t?”

“He is,” Emma said. “Allison doesn’t like the
way
he’s worried, that’s all.”

“Why?”

She bit back a sigh. It was Michael. “Chase doesn’t think Allison should spend time
with me anymore, because of what happened. He doesn’t think it’s safe.”

“He doesn’t want you to be friends?”

“No, he really doesn’t. He thinks if I were a good friend, I would stop seeing Allison
until this was all over.”

“But . . . but when is it going to be over?”

That, of course, was the million-dollar question. Emma squared her shoulders. “Chase
isn’t completely wrong.” Before Allison could interrupt, she continued. “It would
be safest for Allison if she wasn’t with me. The Necromancers don’t want to kill
me
yet. My life’s not in danger. But Ally—”

“Wants to help you.”

“Yes, Michael. Yes, she does.” Emma smiled at Allison.

“Then it’s her choice.”

“Exactly,” Allison said. “If it makes you feel any better, he’s not all that thrilled
that you’re involved, either.”

“He doesn’t want Emma to have any friends.”

“No,” Allison agreed uncharitably.

E
MERY’S CAFETERIA SOUNDED LIKE a human hive. Stray syllables and the sound of sharp
laughter permeated the buzz of too many conversations, but as most of those conversations
weren’t directed Emma’s way, they could be safely ignored. Connell and Cody bracketed
an animated Michael. Allison, beside Emma, was absorbed with Chase, and given the
color of her cheeks, their conversation wasn’t one Emma wanted to join. Eric was eating—slowly
and meticulously as he usually did.

She could now look at Allison without thinking about Necromantic murderers, but it
was hard. Allison hated guilt when it wasn’t her own, and Emma’s guilt was a burden;
she tried to keep it to herself. Tried not to think about what Chase had said so often.
Tried even harder to believe he was wrong. Friendship with Emma wasn’t a death sentence.

“Lunch not edible?” Eric asked.

“It’s not likely to kill,” she replied. She turned to smile at him. He wasn’t smiling
back.

“We think we’ve got a few weeks in the clear before things get really messy.”

She wanted to quibble with his definition of not messy, because the past few days
defined fear for her. She said nothing. “Emma—”

She waited, hearing the start of a question in the way he said her name. The rest
of the question failed to emerge. It was clear why; Allison’s sudden increase in volume
would have swamped it.

“And
I
think Emma would find it useful
as well
.” Allison had been two bites into lunch, and given the set of her lips, no more food
was going to enter her mouth.

“Emma isn’t the
target
. She doesn’t need to know this shit. She’s—” He stopped and glared across the table
at Eric. Emma guessed Eric had just kicked him sharply in the shins.

“Not the
place
, idiot,” Eric said, with a friendly, casual smile. Given his tone of voice, it was
forced. It didn’t
look
forced.

“Fine,” Allison said. She stood, abandoning lunch.

Michael stood as well. He had, of course, been listening. He could listen to two streams
of conversation without losing either if both were interesting, although people who
weren’t used to him were often surprised or offended when he inserted himself into
the conversation with no warning.

Allison, however, turned to Michael before he could leave the table. “Chase and I
are going to have a fight. It will not be pleasant. I don’t mind if you come, but—it’s
going to be loud and we’re both going to be angry.”

Michael sat down.

“Smart,” Eric said, as he moved to follow Allison. He was surprised when Emma caught
his hand.

“Sit down,” she told him, smiling exactly the way he had.

“You don’t want to leave Allison alone with Chase. He has an ugly temper.”

“Are you saying he’s going to hurt her?” Emma demanded.

“He has an ugly temper.”

“Ally has a temper. He is not going to steamroll her. Eric?”

He stared at her for a minute and then turned to see Allison and Chase leaving the
cafeteria by the back doors. “I’m not sure about this.”

“You don’t have to be. She’s not your best friend. She
is
mine, though, and I
am
certain. Look, she’s embarrassed when she loses her temper. Something about your
friend makes her lose her temper. I think, overall, she’d be happier if we weren’t
there to witness it.”

Eric sat. “I don’t understand women,” he said.

“You and fifty percent of the species.”

* * *

By the time they reached a spot in the schoolyard that could be considered private,
Chase’s mouth was a compressed line that was white around the edges. He’d folded his
arms across his chest and drawn himself up to his full height. He did not look friendly.
When they stopped walking, he planted his feet half a yard apart and stared down at
her.

Allison was not nearly as still or self-contained when she was angry. Most of the
things that made her angry were things that embarrassed her. No one liked to think
of themselves as small-minded or jealous or petty; Allison was not an exception. Or
maybe she was; her sense of self-respect and consideration ran roughshod over that
temper on most days.

There was nothing to repress her anger now. She tried. She tried to tell herself that
she didn’t
know
what Chase’s life was like. She didn’t know what she’d be like if she had to live
every day knowing that random strangers with bigger weapons would be trying to kill
her. But looking at him now, the little voice that struggled for civility was swamped.

“Well?” he demanded, as she struggled to find the right words.

“I know you don’t trust Emma,” she said, keeping her voice even and quiet with difficulty.
“But
I
do.”

Chase didn’t reply.

“Chase, she risked her life to save a child who was
already dead
. She gave his mother a chance to find a little bit of peace. She had no reason to
do it—she had nothing to gain and everything to lose.”

He said nothing, but he said it loudly.

“You’re afraid she has power. Fine. She has power. What good does it do her? If she’d
understood what she’s capable of doing, saving Andrew Copis wouldn’t have been so
risky. Putting power in Emma’s hands is never going to be a bad thing!”

“You don’t understand,” he said.

“Then
make
me understand. I’m not going to take it on faith that she’s going to become something
evil and heartless. I’ll take some things on faith—but not this. Yes, you have experience
with Necromancers. But never as friends. Never as
people
. I
don’t
have your experience—but I know Emma Hall. She is never going to become someone who
kills because it’s convenient. She’s never going to be someone who undervalues life
because we all wind up dead in the end.

“And I’m always going to be her friend. I want to learn how to be—how to be less helpless.
I don’t want to walk to my
own
death.”

“If you cared about that, you’d leave her alone. Your life wouldn’t
be
in danger if she wasn’t your friend. If she cared about you more, she’d acknowledge
that.”

Allison’s hands were fists. “So you want us to abandon each other. Me because I’m
a coward and Emma because she’s afraid she’ll lose me anyway, and it’ll be her fault.”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Damn it, Chase—it
is
. It is what you’re saying.” She knew she was flushed; she always flushed when she
was emotional. She hated it more than ever today. Because the ugly truth was that
she
was
afraid. She’d had nightmares for two nights, and she found herself thinking about
Necromancers and the thin line between living and dying when she wasn’t actively thinking
about something else. She could still feel the vine tightening around her throat.
She could still feel the bruises it had left.

And she knew—she
knew
—that Emma was
this
close to retreating. To shutting herself off. To walking away from her friends for
their own
sake. She wanted Emma to walk away from Michael, but she wouldn’t—couldn’t—say it.
Michael wasn’t a child; he could make his own decisions, just as Allison could.

She held her ground as he took a step forward. Held it, getting angrier, as he took
another. She stood entirely in his shadow by the time he’d stopped moving; there was
almost no space between them. It would serve him right if she punched him in the stomach.

“I didn’t start out as a hunter. Unlike Necromancers, we’re not born that way. We
train. We train hard.” He lowered his hands to his sides. “We all have stories. Some
of them involve the deaths of entire communities. Most of us were lucky; we only lost
our families.” He swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed. She stared at it; she couldn’t
lift her gaze to meet his eyes.

“Do you know why I survived?” His voice was a whisper.

“No.”

“She wanted to send a message. She wanted to send a message to someone, and I was
it. I wasn’t a Necromancer. I wouldn’t be killed on sight. I watched, Ally.” His hands
were fists; his shoulders drew in toward his body, robbing him of inches of height.
His skin was always pale, but this was different. “I watched. I screamed. I begged.
Not for myself. For them. For my parents, my sisters, my little brother. They killed
the dogs,” he added. “Even the dogs.

“The only person they didn’t kill was me. You understand why I’m a hunter.”

She nodded. She did.

“I don’t care if I die. I spent two years caring very much. But I couldn’t kill myself.
I couldn’t do it. If I die killing them, I’ll be grateful.” He grimaced. “I have no
idea why I’m telling you this.”

“You want me to understand what Necromancers mean to you.”

“Is that why?”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t that keen on the rest of humanity, either. I don’t care for most of the
hunters, but at least I understand them. I work with Eric because I want to see him
kill her.”

“Her?”

“The Queen of the Dead.” He ran a hand through his hair; it was shaking. “I wanted
to kill her myself, but I’m not that lucky. In the end, I’ll settle for second best.
I don’t want to care about other people’s lives. I’m done with it.”

She felt awkward and self-conscious; her anger had deserted her, and she couldn’t
claw it back. In its absence, she was shaking as much as Chase, and for far less reason.

“Chase?”

“What?”

“Be done with it.” She swallowed. “Stay done with it, if you have to. Leave Emma alone.
I’m not a child. It’s my decision. I understand the risks, now.”

“You would have died if we hadn’t been there.”

“I
know
that.” She exhaled. “You hate yourself because you couldn’t do anything for the people
you loved. But you want
me
to accept that
I
can’t—without even letting me try.”

He stared at her, arrested. “I’m not—I’m not saying that.”

“How is it different?” She had to look away from his expression again.

He stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “I’ll try.”

“You’ll try?”

“I’ll try. I can’t promise anything. I don’t hate Emma. I hate what she
is
. You can’t even see it.” He turned back toward the school. “Allison—it’s been a while
since I was forced to spend this much time with other people. I’m not used to it anymore.
I can’t see them as anything other than walking victims. And no, Eric doesn’t count.”
He stopped, his back still toward her as she started to catch up.

“I will never, ever forgive you if you get yourself killed.”

* * *

Emma was waiting for Allison by the back doors. She was trying not to look worried
and mostly failing—but failure didn’t matter if no one could see it. When Chase strode
toward the door, she put on her game face. She was surprised when he yanked the door
open and headed straight for her.

“I don’t know what you did to deserve a friend like Allison,” he said.

Emma braced herself for the rest.

“She says I don’t understand what you give her. I’ll try. But Emma? I’ll kill you
myself if anything happens to her.” The last words were soft; they were all edge.
She met his expression without flinching.

“Deal,” she said.

He blinked. “What?”

“It’s a deal. If anything happens to Allison, you can kill me.” Her smile was shaky
but genuine, and it grew as his eyebrows folded together in a broken, red line. “I’ll
probably be grateful, in the end.”

For just a moment, she thought Chase would smile. He didn’t. Instead, he headed past
her and into the post-lunch school. Allison was only a few seconds behind.

“What did he say to you?” she demanded.

Emma laughed. “He made very clear that you’re important to him, and I’m not.”

“Emma, it’s not funny.”

“No, probably not. But if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry, and I can’t cry. I’m not used to
people hating my guts out, but—he’s worried about you, and I can’t fault him for that.”
She caught Allison’s arm as Allison began to stride—there was no other word for that
determined step—in the direction of Chase. “He said he’ll try, Ally. He promised he’d
try. I’m okay with that. Don’t ask him for more.”

Allison exhaled. “He doesn’t even
like
people,” she said. “I don’t understand why he cares so much.”

“About you?”

Allison didn’t answer.

Emma slid an arm through hers and dragged her gently back to reality.

* * *

Reality these days had its own problems. Amy Snitman careened around a corner, walking
in the militaristic fashion that made people of any age move out of her way as quickly
as humanly possible. Emma had already stepped to the side, but Amy came up short in
front of her, glancing once at Allison and nodding curtly.

“Have you heard the news?”

“No—who died?”

“No one, but only barely. Mr. Taylor is in the hospital, and he’s unlikely to be out
of traction in the next three months.”

“Oh, my god—what happened?”

“He was apparently driving under the influence.”

Emma frowned. “Mr. Taylor drinks?”

“I’d’ve bet against it,” was the curt response. “We’re sending flowers,” she added.
“Your share is twenty dollars.”

Emma immediately fished a wallet out of her computer bag. “Are you going to visit
him?”

“Mrs. Esslemont says he’s not taking visitors at the moment.”

Which wasn’t a no. In general, Amy expected the natural world to conform to her sense
of generosity. “What’s happening with the yearbook committee?” Mr. Taylor was the
supervising teacher; all school committees and clubs required one.

“It’s up in the air. Mr. Goldstein has offered to step in.”

Emma hoped she didn’t look as horrified as she felt. Mr. Goldstein was
this
close to retirement, and most of the students privately felt it was on the wrong
side. He was also condescending in a parental way, and it grated.