“I imagine you do. And I will. I mean you no harm,” he added. “I traveled here, at some risk to myself, to save your life.”
“Who would want to kill me?” But she knew. And it seemed very important at this minute that she keep that knowledge to herself.
“No one you would know. But they know what you are, Emma. And I know what you are. Shall I show you?”
She started to say no. She wanted to say no. But she said nothing, mute, as the hair on the back of her neck began to rise. She felt as if she were at the science center again, one hand on either of two balls that produced enough static to literally make all the hair on her head stand on end.
It wasn’t as bad as that. But it felt that way.
“Come,” he said, in a commanding tone of voice. “Show yourself.”
Emma frowned, her brows drawing together. She even started to speak, but she lost the words. Beside Longland, thin tendrils of what looked like smoke began to appear in the air. He spoke a word that was so sharp and curt she didn’t catch it. Didn’t want to. Eyes wide, she watched as the smoke began to coalesce into a shape that was both strange and familiar. A woman’s shape. A young woman.
Her eyes were the same odd shade of light that Brendan Hall’s eyes had been; her hair was black, and her skin was pale, although whether that was because of the lighting, Emma couldn’t say. She wore a sundress, the print faded, the material unfamiliar—although Emma had no doubt that Amy would recognize it instantly if she could see it.
“Hello,” Emma said to the girl, speaking quietly. It was an entirely different quiet than she had offered Longland, because the girl was afraid.
The girl looked at Emma but did not speak.
“You see her, don’t you?” Longland asked.
Emma nodded. “Who was she?”
Longland frowned. “Who was she?” It was clearly not the question he expected.
“When she was alive.” Remembering that she actually had manners, Emma turned her attention to the girl. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”
The girl’s eyes widened slightly.
“My name is Emma Hall,” Emma continued, lifting her left hand, because she couldn’t actually offer the girl her right one; Longland hadn’t let it go. “What’s yours?”
Longland’s frown deepened. He glanced at the girl; it was a cold glance and a dismissive one. “Answer,” he said curtly.
The girl remained mute.
Longland’s expression shifted again. “Answer her.”
“If she doesn’t want to answer, it’s okay,” Emma said, raising her voice.
Longland said, “When you understand your gift better, you will understand why you are wrong.” Each word was clipped; he was angry. “Answer her.” When a name failed to emerge, he suddenly lifted a hand.
“Merrick, don’t—”
But he didn’t strike the girl. He yanked, and when he did, Emma could see a thin, golden chain around his fingers. It was fine, like spidersilk, and she had missed it because it was almost impossible to see. But she had seen it, and she was now aware of it and determined to remain so. The strand ran from his hand into the heart of the girl. The girl staggered, her face rippling—literally rippling—in pain.
“Emily Gates,” the girl replied, and the sound of her voice was so wrong Emma almost cried out in fear. Before she could think, she slapped Merrick, and even as his eyes were widening in shock, she reached out for that golden chain, and she pulled.
The chain snapped in her hand, and she held its end.
Merrick Longland still held her right hand, however. All smile, all friendliness, was gone. “You will give that back to me,” he said, each word distinct and sharp. “Now.”
In answer, Emma tried to yank her right hand free. Longland didn’t move. She tried harder, and reaching out with his left hand, he grabbed her by the chin. “Give it back, Emma. Don’t force me to be unpleasant. No one can hear you,” he added, lowering his voice. “And at parties of this type, bad things sometimes happen.”
His fingers tightened as he drew closer.
She tried to pull back.
And then she heard a familiar voice in the silence, and she froze.
Michael said, “Leave her alone.”
Longland’s brows twisted in a mixture of confusion, anger, and surprise, but he released Emma, shoving her back before he started to turn.
“Michael! No!”
A familiar and much-maligned book suddenly and unexpectedly connected with the side of Longland’s face. It was—Emma could see the title flash by beneath the bright lights—the 4th edition Dungeon Master’s guide. She promised that she would never ever roll her eyes at that book again.
Noise returned as Longland staggered back. Emma, hands free, began to run to Michael’s side, but Eric grabbed her around the waist and yanked her off her feet.
“Allison!” he shouted, “Grab Michael! Grab Michael now!”
Allison’s familiar form darted slightly in front of Emma. She didn’t grab Michael, but she did touch his arm and his shoulder with both of her hands; he was panting, heavily, his precious book clutched in knuckles that even Emma could see were white.
She saw Chase run past them, reflecting more light than the glass doors did.
“Michael,” Allison said, in her steady, even voice, “It’s dangerous. Come stand with Emma and me.”
“He was trying to hurt Emma,” Michael said, still staring at Longland.
“Allison!” Eric shouted.
“He was trying to hurt Emma,” Allison agreed, “but he didn’t. Emma is safe with Eric. Come back, Michael.” She drew him toward Eric and Emma. Emma could see that her hands were shaking. “Emma—what’s happening?”
“I don’t know. But it’s bad. Michael, Allison—” she stopped speaking because Chase had reached Longland. Emma suddenly knew exactly why he had refused to take off his boots; his leg snapped out, and he kicked Longland in the head. Longland staggered and then threw up his arms.
The grass around the patio burst into white and green flame. So did Chase.
“Emma!” Longland shouted. “Come!”
“Fuck,” Eric said, under his breath. Had his mouth not been so close to her ear, she wouldn’t have caught it. “Emma, stay here. Do not interfere. Do not run away.” And then he was gone, racing across the patio stones toward Chase.
For ten long seconds the flames burned in silence. Eric ran, and Emma, watching him, felt the ghost of his arm around her waist, the tickle of his words in her ear. She saw Chase moving through the fire; saw that it followed him like white shadow. She couldn’t see his expression, couldn’t hear his voice—if he said anything at all. But he moved slowly, and she thought she could see the black curl of burning hair rising from his head.
Eric would help him, somehow.
Lifting her hands to her mouth, cupping them on either side of her lips, she shouted. “Oliver, Connell! Come here!” She glanced quickly at Michael and saw that Allison was holding onto his arm.
“Emma?”
She’d forgotten Amy. Under normal circumstances she would have bet that wasn’t possible. “Oliver!” Turning, she glanced at Amy. Amy was pale, but confusion in Amy seldom gave way to raw fear.
“Tell me,” she said, “that our back lawn isn’t burning.”
Emma swallowed.
“Never mind. Skip, call emergency. Everyone else,” she added, raising her voice into the stratosphere, “get back into the house.”
Years of obeying Amy had engendered a purely Pavlovian response to her commands. They all started to head toward the door taking slow, jerky steps, looking at the fight, at the lawn.
But it was Amy who held them up at the door. “Skip?”
Emma glanced at Skip and saw that he hadn’t moved.
“Skip.”
He was standing there, teetering. Amy ran back to him, looked at him closely, and then slapped him across the face. He turned, slowly, to look at her, his brows gathering, his eyes widening in confusi
on. “Amy?” He spoke slowly.
“Give me your phone,” she said, holding out her hand.
“My what? What are you doing here?”
“I live here, remember?”
He blinked. Emma saw the color of his face, and she shouted a warning to Amy just before his eyes rolled to white, like a screen whose projector has just died. He crumpled at the knees, and Amy managed—barely—to stop his forehead from smacking into the flagstones.
“I do not believe this,” Amy said, under her breath, as Emma ran back to help her. “Tell me my brother’s friend is not fighting with Eric and Chase near the hedges.”
“Let’s just get Skip inside.”
“Rifle his pockets for his damn phone,” Amy replied, grunting as they each grabbed him under an arm. “My mother is going to murder me if they burn down the garden.”
Emma laughed. It was entirely the wrong type of laughter, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if Amy had slapped her as well. Hysteria had that effect on Amy.
Longland had retreated to the hedges. Blood trickled down his forehead, and his lip was swollen. His eyes widened as he saw Eric approaching at a run, but they narrowed quickly as he crossed his wrists over his chest.
Chase was caught in the soul-fire, slowed by it; it hadn’t yet managed to eat its way past his defenses. But it would if the Necromancer wasn’t brought down soon.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Eric hadn’t expected to find a Necromancer at Amy’s party. He hadn’t been prepared. His damn shoes were in the endless hall of shoes that was Amy’s vestibule. Chase had kept his head, Chase had stayed focused. He hated it when Chase was right.
Eric slid the one weapon he always carried out of its sheath beneath his shirt. Chase, being paranoid, was probably bristling with knives, but he could only wield two, and even in the stretched warp and weft of space around the Necromancer, Eric could see that he carried one knife in each hand.
Longland hissed a word that broke in three places, and Eric threw himself to the side as the air above the garden grass crackled. He saw night and soul-fire expand in a bubble, stretching and twisting the earth beneath it as it grew. He felt the edge of it catch his arm, and he cursed, shoving himself off the grass and into the air as it spun him around. As he landed, he twisted the dagger around, catching the bubble’s edge.
It resisted, and he threw himself back as Longland spoke again.
This time, the hedge itself grew, its branches thickening and widening as they twisted, groping in the air. He felt leaves slice his cheek, and he swore again. He wasn’t certain how many of the people at Amy’s party had been affected by the Necromancer’s first spell. But it encompassed everyone standing outside, and he had held it for some time.
They hadn’t sent just anyone to gather Emma; they’d sent someone powerful.
Chase had reached Longland. He didn’t throw his daggers, but at this speed, they wouldn’t have pierced paper if it was held out as a shield; he kept them close, cutting tendrils of fire, and shedding them as he could. But he was slow.
Eric, trying to avoid the same slowness, grunted as the hedges bit again; he cut the one branch that had secured itself tightly enough to cut shirt and tear skin. It shrank before it hit the ground. Longland, damn it, was good. Two to one, and he wasn’t panicking. But he was breaking a sweat.
Come on, Chase, Eric thought. He cut in to the right, and when Longland brought his arms up for a third time, he caught his wrist with the dagger, breaking the sweep of his arms. Narrowing his eyes, he looked. Longland was glowing faintly, but there was no other white shadow surrounding him: no nimbus of death, of the dead.
He jumped and rolled along the ground nearest the base of the hedges, came up and cut through two branches. Six feet. Five.
He swung, low and up, and his dagger clanged off metal.
Longland cursed again, and then, instead of reaching up with those arms, he reached back, grabbing the hedge with both hands. All along the row, its carefully cut and manicured lines broken everywhere by the touches of Necromancy, fire blossomed. White fire. And green.
Longland pulled all of that fire into himself, absorbing, as well, the fire along the grass and the fire that clung to Chase. Chase screamed—more in frustration than pain—as Longland pulled the entire hedge around himself and vanished.
Chase swore. He swore loudly.
Eric pushed himself to his feet. “Well,” he said, “that could have gone better.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No.”
“He’s going to recognize us if he sees us again.”
Eric nodded. “But we’re going to have other problems,” he added.
“What’s a problem compared to a prepared Necromancer?”
Eric turned toward the house.
“You’re joking, right? You don’t intend to go back there. Eric, don’t be an idiot. You’re not worried about your Peter Parker identity, are you?”
“We’re not done here,” Eric replied. “And I want to check on Emma.”
“On Emma. The other Necromancer.”
“Don’t even think it, Chase.”
Chase hadn’t sheathed his daggers.
“You gave me a week.”
“It’s not a game anymore.”
“It was never a game. She didn’t help him. She didn’t even try.”
Chase just shook his head. A moment passed, and then, glaring, he put the knives away. “Sorry about your jacket.”
“Not a problem—but we’re going to have to get those stupid studs repaired.”
Chase looked at the jacket; the studs had smeared into running, flattened blobs of silver-crusted iron. “We’re going to have to get a different jacket.”
“Maybe. And maybe this time you can buy your own.”
Eric wished, for just a moment, that he could let Chase take his ire out on the DJ. Chase on the other hand, didn’t even appear to notice the sudden increase in volume. Before entering Amy’s house, he had carefully peeled off the ruins of his jacket and had folded it in half with the lining facing out.
Not that many people had seen the fire on the lawn, and the fire was now gone. The hedges would probably look a lot worse in the morning light then they did at the moment, but Eric wouldn’t have to be there for that. Hopefully, by Monday morning’s first class, Amy would be distracted.
Or, he amended, as he entered the sunroom, distracted by something else. Michael was waiting for them as they entered the room, Allison by his side.
“Where’s Emma?” Eric asked them. If they noted the tears the leaves had made in his clothing, they stopped themselves from actually mentioning them.
“In the kitchen with Amy and her brother. They asked us to wait here in case you couldn’t find it. Chase, are you all right?”
Chase grimaced and reached up gingerly to touch his hair. “I’ve been better,” he admitted. “But I’ve been a hell of a lot worse. You two are okay?”
“Michael is not happy about hitting someone across the side of the face with a heavy book,” Allison said. “I’m fine. Confused,” she added, in a way that suggested that honesty, however hard it was to get at, was important to her. “But not injured. What happened?”
Eric lifted a hand just as Chase opened his mouth. “I’d rather not have to explain it a dozen times,” he said curtly. And loudly. “We can save it until we get to the kitchen.” The sunroom was directly adjacent to the very large living room. It was also adjacent to the hall that ran along the back of the house. People filled both of these spaces. “Why are all these people still here?”
“Why wouldn’t they be?”
He stared at her for a moment as if she’d just spoken in French. “Because we just had a—”
“Take your own advice,” Chase said, swatting him on the back. “It’s a big, loud, crowded house. Things didn’t last that long. I’d bet you even money that most people here didn’t even notice; it’s not as though they’re standing here with their faces pressed against the wind
ows.”
Great. The day not only held a powerful Necromancer and a powerful Potential—it also held a moment in which he had to listen to advice from Chase when Chase was right.
Emma looked up as Allison and Michael entered the kitchen through dark, swinging doors.
“Did you find them?”
“See for yourself,” Allison said. Chase and Eric entered the kitchen behind her.
Amy was kneeling on the floor with a cold cloth in her hands. Her brother’s head was in her lap. The last time that Emma had seen Amy with something wet in her hands near Skip, it was because he had turned the hose on her and she had chosen to retaliate. It was also the last time, Emma thought, that Skip had been home, and the Emery Mafia had, in his words, taken over the entire place. He’d then packed up and left for Dalhousie and law school.
Emma had been solidly part of the Emery Mafia then. Nathan had still been alive.
Amy looked at Eric and Chase. She was, of course, still beautiful—she always commanded attention just by existing—but she was also that peculiar shade of white that comes from anger. Amy was seldom angry. Even when her parents had, in her own words, ditched her for New York City, she’d only managed to reach annoyed. Or irritated. She was beyond that now.
But Emma understood why. Amy was frightened, and Amy Snitman did not do fear.
“What,” she said, making a stiletto of the word, “is going on here?”
Chase shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at Eric. “Your show,” he said, shrugging.
Eric looked at Amy. He glanced at Emma and Allison and hesitated when he came to Michael. Oliver and Connell, on the other hand, were not in the kitchen, and Michael’s book was no longer in his hands. It was in the backpack that was across his shoulders. Emma understood why he hesitated; she would have done the same.
But in the end, she would have surrendered to the inevitable, because in a pinch, Amy was her friend. They might disagree on some things, but when it was an emergency, Amy was a person she could trust at her back. She couldn’t make that decision for Eric, and she knew it was a decision he was trying to make for himself.
“How long has he been out?”
He’s stalling, Emma thought.
Silence: Book One of The Queen of the Dead Page 12
