Grave

by Michelle Sagara

  Emma started. Blinked. Helmi once again looked like an eight-year-old child. Her hair was long and wavy, her dress, simple. But the blood and the bruising were gone. “You didn’t—you didn’t see her—”

  “We can see her fine,” Amy said.

  For one long moment, Emma felt the edge of an absurd gratitude: Helmi had, at least, spared her friends. They weren’t Necromancers. It wasn’t their job to see the dead. And is it mine? She wondered. She set that aside. “Thank you,” she told the dead child. “These are my friends. And this,” she added, looking at the living, “is Helmi.”

  Helmi’s frown softened, although it still hugged most of her mouth.

  “I died.”

  “I know. And now I know how. Why were you killed?”

  “Because my mother told me to hide, and I hid, but I could hear the screams and the shouting, and everything took too long,” Helmi said. “So I came out of hiding too early. They thought we were witches. Or demons. Or something.”

  “You weren’t.”

  “No. My mother was always afraid that that’s exactly how we would die. It wasn’t the first time it had happened to our people; it wasn’t the last. Can you understand what that’s like?”

  Emma was silent for one long beat. “No, not really. No one has murdered my parents. I have no siblings—but my father died when I was eight, and my mother has never remarried. I have friends. Some of them are with me. No one was hunting them, either.”

  Amy said, “My great-grandfather almost died. Because he was Jewish. But—I’m like Emma. I’ve personally had a safe life. Both of my parents are still alive. I have a stupid older brother. The only person who’s ever threatened him is me.”

  Helmi looked up, but this time, her gaze passed over Emma’s right shoulder. In theory she was looking at the upper corner of the large room; in fact, she was looking at a very closed window. Or door. Emma knew.

  “How did Nathan die?”

  • • •

  It had not been long enough that the question didn’t cut. Given everything else that had happened since his death, Emma thought it should have been. But maybe there was no long enough at the end of which Emma Hall could calmly and objectively contemplate Nathan’s death and what it meant for the rest of her life.

  “He was in a car accident. He was hit by a drunk driver.”

  Helmi waited.

  “I didn’t tell him to hide.” Helmi’s dead eyes were almost alive as they once again returned to Emma’s face. “You can’t hide from life. He was in his car. He was on his way to meet me.”

  “What did you do to the driver?”

  Emma blinked.

  “Is the driver still alive?”

  “Yes, the driver survived. He can’t walk properly.”

  “Why did you leave him alive?”

  “Kid,” Amy said, “you’re creeping the rest of us out.”

  Helmi’s eyes didn’t even flicker in Amy’s direction.

  Emma exhaled slowly. In her darkest dreams, the driver had not survived. He had groveled. He had begged for both forgiveness and mercy. His pleas had hit the wall of Emma’s endless grief and rage. She shook her head, mute, and struggled to find her voice. “The reason,” she said slowly, “that it’s called an accident is because it wasn’t deliberate. Your wounds—your death—was no accident.”

  “Do you think the men who killed me deserved to die?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if you know what waits for them at the end of their life?”

  Silence. Profound and utter silence. Emma felt as if she had run a marathon.

  Helmi turned then. She faced Longland, who was white and stiff; to Emma’s eyes, he looked almost corpselike in the stillness. “You killed people. Deliberately. Does Emma know how many?”

  Longland didn’t answer. But his fingers curled until both of his hands were fists. He was, Emma thought, afraid. He was afraid of every word that was now leaving Helmi’s little mouth.

  “I don’t need to know how many,” Emma said. “I have no doubt at all that while alive, he was a murderer.”

  “And now that he’s dead, it doesn’t matter?” she folded her arms. The look she gave Longland was withering.

  Longland waited, in silence, and the silence was cold. Did it not matter? Honestly? Toby was fighting for his life in the hospital because Longland, the substitute teacher, had had access to all of the student records—and therefore, their home addresses. If Toby died, his death could be laid in part at Longland’s feet. Had she forgotten that?

  “Does he deserve peace, Emma Hall?”

  She looked at Longland, at his hands, bunched in fists, at the expression that was taking hold of the rest of his face. He knew her answer. He knew the only answer anyone reasonable had to offer. He had threatened to kill Allison. He had threatened the life of an infant. Without the unexpected intervention of a four-year-old boy, Emma was certain that he would have killed them both.

  And Chase. Michael. Amy and her brother. Eric. Ernest would have survived, because he wasn’t stupid enough to come out of hiding unless there was some chance. Emma would have survived—possibly—because she was a Necromancer, and Necromancers were the only people the Queen acknowledged as people.

  She glanced at Allison, mute now, as the reality of Longland’s actions once again took root. It was Ally who would suffer.

  Who was already suffering.

  This wasn’t a decision that Emma could make on her own. She almost asked Ally for input or opinion. And Allison was not her best friend for nothing.

  “You’ve already answered the question,” Ally said quietly. “If you want my opinion, you already know it.”

  Emma felt her shoulders tighten.

  “But I’m not God. If my brother—if Toby—” She faltered. She couldn’t say the verb. Emma would never have demanded it. “I will hate Longland for the rest of my life.”

  “And you’ll want him to suffer,” Helmi said.

  “Yes, I’ll want him to suffer—but I’ll want him to suffer what I suffer, and he can’t. I don’t think he’s ever loved anyone. I don’t think he’s ever been responsible for anyone else. Maybe I could make him feel pain. Maybe. But not the pain I’ll feel.”

  “But he’ll feel pain forever if he can’t leave,” Helmi pointed out. “Maybe it’s not the same pain. But it’s as close as you’ll get.”

  Allison’s jaw hung slightly open for another long pause. Emma thought Eric was about to speak; Chase certainly wasn’t, although he was staring at Emma’s best friend, as if something about his own life hung on her answer. And maybe it did.

  “It’s not up to me.” Ally punted. But then, because she was Ally, she added, “And maybe that’s why it’s not up to me—or to any of us. We shouldn’t judge—and we always do. What I know is this: Longland won’t be the only person suffering. My grandfather died. He’s trapped here, just as Longland is. And my grandfather was not a murderer or worse.”

  Helmi frowned. “It doesn’t matter what you think, anyway. You’re not a Necromancer. Emma, what do you think men like Longland deserve? What do the people who murdered me deserve?”

  • • •

  Helmi waited. Emma understood that to Helmi, the response was critical, and Emma had never liked making instant, enormously important decisions—not when she knew beforehand what their weight was.

  “Sometimes,” she finally said, “We get what we don’t deserve. And that cuts both ways.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I can’t—I literally can’t—judge Merrick Longland. I didn’t live his life. I wouldn’t, from what little I know of it, want to live his life. And Helmi? He saved my best friend’s life. If he hadn’t been there, Allison would be dead.”

  This didn’t seem to mean much to the dead child. The angry dead child. “He was powerful.”

 
Emma nodded.

  “And respected.”

  “Not by me.”

  Helmi said, “So that’s your answer?”

  “It’s my answer, yes. Ask someone else in the room, and you might get a different one. I can’t answer for people. I can’t answer for—for society. I didn’t demand an—an exit interview—when I asked the dead gathered nearest the door for their help—and their power—in prying it open. I didn’t ask if they were murderers. I didn’t ask if they were monsters. I didn’t deem them worthy or unworthy. I knew—and they knew—that if I succeeded, they would finally go to the place they’ve been looking at since they became aware of their deaths.

  “I needed to open that door, and they needed to leave.” She exhaled. “Look, Helmi—if, to reach the land of peace and love and belonging, we have to be worthy, I’m not sure any of us would ever be allowed through that door.”

  Helmi said nothing. It wasn’t enough.

  Emma tried again. “What Longland deserves—no, let me try that again. What I think he deserves doesn’t matter. Maybe, if he had lived in a world where there was no hatred and no fear and no pain, he wouldn’t even be the Longland we both know. What I know is that Merrick Longland will never cause that kind of pain again—if he leaves.

  “Right now, he could, because he has a body again, thanks to his Queen. But it’s no longer what he wants. He wants what the dead want.”

  “Em,” Ally said, “I think Ernest is going to die of apoplexy any second now.”

  “If Ernest doesn’t, I will,” Amy added. “And I’m not going alone.”

  Emma apologized. Sort of. “I have one question for you, Helmi.”

  “I don’t have to answer it.”

  “No. I can’t force you. But it’s the same question. Does he deserve peace?”

  “You already said he doesn’t.”

  “I said I don’t think he does—but I also said it’s irrelevant.”

  Helmi nodded.

  “Would you keep the door closed so that he would never, ever know the peace he doesn’t deserve?”

  Helmi didn’t answer.

  But Emma, continuing in that vein, said, “Is this part of the reason the Queen won’t let any of the dead leave?”

  “THEY KILLED US,” Helmi said, after a pause in which the air in the room dropped in temperature. “They killed everyone she had ever loved.”

  “You’ve already said that.”

  Helmi’s brows rose.

  Chase, who had been rigidly silent, said, “Your sister killed everyone I loved. She killed them in front of me. She made me watch. She even killed our dog.”

  “What had you done to her?”

  “Nothing. I knew nothing—at all—about Necromancers or the Queen of the Dead until that day. Nothing. I have no idea if our ancestors somehow crossed paths with her—she didn’t say. I asked. I asked why. I asked what we’d done. Do you know what she said?” His voice was low.

  Helmi looked down at her hands. No, at her hand; at the hand that held Emma’s. The dead didn’t cry. Helmi was not, therefore, crying. But it seemed to Emma that she would. And she was eight.

  “Chase—”

  Helmi lifted her free hand and reached up to cover Emma’s mouth. She shook her head; her hair was a spill down her back, her expression ancient. “I understood why she killed the villagers. She killed Eric’s father. She killed Paul—and he was already sickened by everything the adults were doing. He didn’t want to be there. He couldn’t—” She shook her head. “I understood. I even understood why—in the moment—she slammed the door shut. She didn’t want the rest of us to desert her—and she knew we would. We were dead.

  “She was never very strong. She was just powerful.”

  Helmi looked at Chase.

  Chase didn’t blink. His knuckles were white; his eyes were narrow, his lips as pale as the rest of his skin. “She’d kill everyone Emma has ever loved, given half a chance—at this point, she’ll probably kill Emma. If Longland doesn’t deserve to pass on, your sister deserves a permanent hell of her own.”

  Helmi said, quietly, “Is that not where she’s already living?”

  And Emma understood all of the questions, then. All of them. “You love your sister.”

  “Yes. And I hate what she’s made of herself. I can judge her. But it’s not in my hands, and it never was.”

  “She’s in pain.”

  “She’s nothing but pain. She can’t let go of it because it defines her. Without it, what does she have?”

  “What do you want, Helmi?”

  “I’m dead,” Helmi replied.

  “No kidding,” Amy said. Her arms were folded tightly, her expression about as friendly as Chase’s. Then again, Amy’s father had been shot, as well.

  “Helmi, it is time to let go of Emma’s hand.”

  For the first time that evening, Helmi hesitated in the way Emma associated with the young. “It’s warm,” she said to Margaret.

  “It is not warm for Emma,” Margaret replied, radiating chilly disapproval.

  “No?” Helmi looked up at Emma.

  “It’s—it’s okay,” Emma heard herself say. And then, because Michael was there, “The dead are a bit cold to touch, so I can’t do it forever. You just said that the roads aren’t safe?” Helmi was staring at their hands. Her gaze traveled up Emma’s arm to her face and then shied away, for reasons that weren’t clear to Emma. “The roads aren’t safe. That’s probably where the gate will open.”

  • • •

  For one long moment, no one spoke. They had gathered their belongings in haste; they had every intention of piling into the two cars and gunning for a different destination.

  “Why the road?” Amy demanded. She was the first to speak, which wasn’t surprising.

  “Because people who are trying to escape will probably drive.” Helmi’s expression shifted. “I’ve never driven. I’ve seen cars. I’m not sure you’ll be able to escape by car; they’ll be waiting for you. The gate is being conjured on the road near this house.”

  “By Necromancers.”

  “By the Queen’s knights, yes.”

  “You told them where we are?” Longland demanded; his voice was both deeper and harsher than Amy’s, his fear more palpable.

  “I was sent to find Eric. They know that Eric is here.”

  “And Emma?” He said. “Did you tell them that Emma is here?”

  “I didn’t know her name.” Helmi continued to stare at Emma, at the hand that momentarily bound them. “My sister knows that Eric isn’t alone. I told her that there were hunters here.”

  Longland cursed.

  “Well, there are. I wasn’t lying. And I’m not lying about the road, either. They’ll start at the road.”

  No one liked their chances of escaping on foot, either. A ripple went through the gathering as everyone silently considered their options. In the city, escaping on foot opened a range of other options. There were subways, yards, friendly houses or buildings, shopping malls or strips. Here, there was a lot of snow. The neighbors weren’t close—and no one suggested neighbors. Well, no one but Chase, who asked.

  “The cottages here are mostly winterized,” Amy had replied. “I have no idea if people will be in them or not at this time of year. Probably not, given it’s not a weekend—but if they are . . .” she let the words trail off. Everyone heard the “people will die” anyway.

  “I’ll tell Ernest.” Margaret vanished to do just that.

  Chase leaned against the nearest wall and cursed. His attention was divided between Helmi and Longland. Longland and Helmi, however, were now regarding each other with disdain, dislike, suspicion.

  “Why are you telling them this?” he demanded.

  Helmi’s hand tightened again; Emma returned the grip while she could still feel hers, as Helmi turned her
back on Longland. This did not please the former Necromancer. “You want to see Nathan, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s in the citadel.”

  “I don’t know what—or where—that is.”

  “It’s the Queen’s home in the City of the Dead.”

  “You cannot trust—” Longland began.

  “And she can trust you?” Helmi snapped. “‘But I am the Queen’s, bound to her; I trusted she would find me.’” Her mimicry was savage and exact.

  Longland was not impressed. The demeanor of respect—of obsequiousness—vanished as he looked down a very fine nose at a much younger girl. “Emma opened the door. She opened the way. Some of the dead are free and forever beyond the Queen’s reach for the first time in their existence. She didn’t do it for power. She didn’t do it for status. I do not understand why she did it—and I don’t care.”

  “You have a body,” Helmi continued. “I have nothing.”

  “You have freedom—which is more than any of the rest of the dead have in the City. You can come and go as you please. You are the only person the Queen can command who has any choice in the matter.”

  “Yes. But you have something. If you’re telling Emma that she can trust you because of what she did, why are you telling her she can’t trust me? I’ve been dead longer than any of you.” Her hand tightened. Emma did her best not to wince.

  “Because you’re the Queen’s sister!”

  “And I’m still dead. I’m still trapped here. I might be one of her family. She might profess to love me. But in the end, I suffer the same fate as the people she hated.”

  “You don’t. You’ve never served as a source of power. You’ve never been forced to take the form or shape of furniture; you’ve never been a pillar or fuel to open a portal.”

  “She doesn’t hate most of the people who have been used that way either. You served her, Longland. You obeyed her commands. You killed when she ordered it.”

  “You—” Longland’s face flushed. “You did her bidding. You spied on us.”

  “Yes. She found you. She rescued you from the fate she suffered. And you would have happily killed her to take her place.”