Touch

by Michelle Sagara

  “Best friends.”

  “Whatever. But she’s a Necromancer. You’re not. Even if there’s something you could in theory do, you don’t have the training, you don’t have the experience. The best you can do is die painlessly. The Necromancers don’t always aim for best case. They don’t care about you. They care about Emma because they think she’ll become one of them. But they don’t spare friends or family. Trust me.”

  Emma’s throat tightened. Chase was right. She knew he was right. Forcing herself to speak lightly, she said, “If you take her home right now, her mother will see you, covered in blood, and have a coronary. If you’re very lucky, she won’t call the police. And I know you—you’re never going to be that lucky.”

  Allison winced and managed a strained laugh. “She’s right.”

  Chase swore. “Fine. Come with us to Eric’s and hope that we don’t get traced.”

  “Emma,” Allison said, in a much more subdued voice, “I’m sorry.”

  That was the worse of it. She apologized and she meant it.

  “Why?” Emma said, wanting to grab her by the shoulders and shake the words so far out of her they never came back. She was surprised by the anger, by how visceral it was.

  “Chase is right. I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t do anything.”

  “Ally—neither could I.” Emma glanced down at her hands. At the hands that both Allison and Nathan had grabbed. “I couldn’t do anything, either. I thought you—” she stopped speaking; it took effort. “It’s not you who should be apologizing. It’s me. I—I should have at least as much power as they do—and I couldn’t do anything, either. If Chase and Eric hadn’t arrived, you’d be dead, and I’d be god only knows where.

  “But I’d never, ever, forgive them.”

  NATHAN

  NATHAN’S SURPRISED AT HOW MUCH Chase seems to hate Emma, and how much Chase seems to care about Allison.

  Most of Emma’s friends at Emery are like Emma. They’re comfortable in crowds; they fit in; they find energy talking about similar things. Clothing. Boys. Music and Drama. They go shopping in packs, roving the malls with bright eyes and easy laughter; not all of that laughter is kind, but it has an energy that’s fascinating at a distance.

  None of those girls is Allison. Allison wanders into bookstores and paper stores. She sits to one side of the group, buried in words that she didn’t write and won’t have to speak out loud. She’s moved by things that are imaginary. Her head, as Nan once said, is permanently stuck in the clouds.

  What Nan doesn’t see is where Ally places her feet. Yes, her head is in the clouds, but she’s rooted, grounded; when she can be pulled out of them, what she sees is what’s there. Maybe, Nathan thinks with a grimace, that’s why she likes clouds.

  There are no clouds for Allison now. Her eyes are dark and wide. There’s a livid bruise around her throat, and her hands are shaking. She snaps at Chase, Chase snaps back. Emma flinches with each exchange, although she stays out of it.

  Allison feels guilty. Nathan recognizes it; it’s twin to his own sense of guilt. She was there. She was right there. And she couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t stop the Necromancers. She couldn’t even protect herself. She was dead weight. Worse. She was terrified.

  She was afraid she’d die. That part’s simple. But the fear itself has branches. Death is frightening to the living. Hell, it’s no walk in the park for the dead either. But it’s not just that. Ally knows what her death would do to Emma.

  Because Ally’s seen what Nathan’s death did.

  Nathan’s seen it as well. He’s spent days watching Emma at school, like some kind of crazed stalker. She’s still Emma—but she’s quieter. She still talks to Amy and the Emery mafia, and they still talk to her—but it’s different. No one mentions Nathan’s name. They’re careful not to talk too much about boys or boyfriends when she’s in the group; they wait until she’s gone.

  As if she understands this—and she probably does—she drifts away. She doesn’t want to be a wet blanket. She doesn’t want to pretend that Nathan never existed. She doesn’t want to force her friends to acknowledge him the way she did, because they didn’t love him the way she did, and she’s fine with that.

  But Allison almost never talked about boys. She talked about books, and with the same happy, riveted intensity. She talked about Michael and his friends, about schoolwork, about stray thoughts brought on by too much Google and not enough time outside. None of that has changed.

  Nathan is afraid that tonight, it has. Allison feels guilty.

  And Emma feels guilty as well. Because Emma is a Necromancer, and if it weren’t for Chase and Eric, Allison would be dead. Being a best friend has suddenly become a death sentence. She didn’t need company, tonight. She had Nathan.

  But she wanted company. She wanted to tell Allison that Nathan had returned.

  Allison was not happy about his reappearance. Emma was surprised. Hurt. Allison recognized that. So did Nathan—but Nathan weighs Allison’s unhappiness differently. She’s worried. She’s worried for Emma.

  And she should be.

  * * *

  “You can drive us home after you change. And shower. Get the blood out of your hair and your hands.”

  They’re still arguing. Chase, in the overhead light above the door, is the color of chalk; his red hair makes him look even worse.

  “Fine. Eric can drive us home. My mother will never let me out of the house again if she sees you looking like that!”

  “And that’s bad how?”

  If Chase could see Nathan, Nathan would tell him to stop. He can’t. Allison always seems meek and retiring to people who don’t actually know her. She’s uncertain in social situations. She’s afraid she’s just said the wrong thing even when she hasn’t said anything.

  But once she’s made a decision, she doesn’t bend, and she is not bending now.

  Emma, arms wrapped around her upper body, is exchanging glances with Eric, who looks as much of a mess as Chase but without the red hair to top it off.

  Eventually, they enter the house, where eventually means Chase shouts, “Fine!” and opens the door and slams it shut behind him. Allison is practically shrieking with outrage; Nathan laughs. He can; she can’t see him.

  “I always liked her,” he tells Emma.

  Emma gives him a shadow of a smile. But she’s not with him right now; she’s in Allison’s orbit. When Allison yanks the door open and marches in—a sure sign that she’s angry—Emma apologizes and follows her.

  That leaves Eric on the porch.

  * * *

  Nathan doesn’t want to talk to Eric. He avoids Eric where at all possible. But given tonight, given Allison’s reaction both before and after the Necromancers, he knows it’s time to stop.

  Eric folds his arms across his chest; Nathan lets his hang loose by his sides. There’s nothing Eric can do to harm him. Not directly.

  Eric gets straight to the point. “Why are you here?”

  “I could ask the same question.” Nathan shrugs. “Did you come here to kill Emma?”

  Eric’s a tough audience. He doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”

  “She’s not dead.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  Eric’s gaze never leaves Nathan’s face. “Your girlfriend isn’t a Necromancer.”

  “That’s not what Chase thinks.”

  “And I’m not Chase. I’ve been doing this a lot longer than he has. Long enough to know you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Allison knows I shouldn’t be here?”

  “She knows you’re here?” He exhales, loosens his arm, and runs a hand through his hair. “Never mind. Of course she knows. She’s Emma’s best friend.”

  Nathan chuckles. He can’t help it. He’s not much of a sharer; it to
ok him a while to get used to the fact that there were no secrets between Emma and Allison. Something about the chuckle loosens the rest of Eric’s expression.

  “Why are you here?” He asks again, in an entirely different tone.

  Because he does, Nathan can answer. “I don’t know.”

  Eric glances at the closed door. “Walk with me,” he says. He moves—rapidly—away from the front porch, and Nathan follows.

  * * *

  “It usually takes the dead time to recover,” Eric says, as they walk. The chill in the air is lessened by the start of snowfall, but it’s a gentle fall. Flakes cling to Eric’s jacket and begin to dust sidewalk and road. “Two years, give or take a month. Sometimes it’s longer.”

  “But never four months.”

  “No. You want to tell me why?”

  “Not really. I will, though. I—” he glances at Eric. “I don’t know how much you know.”

  “About the door?”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “It’s what Emma called it, when she saw it.”

  Nathan stops walking, frozen for a moment at the idea of Emma lost there.

  “Emma hasn’t told you this?”

  “I haven’t asked.” But the answer is no, and they both know it. He stumbles over words; it’s not like he can stumble over anything else here. “I was there. I don’t think of it as a door. It’s a window—a solid, bulletproof window. You can see through it. You know what’s waiting. But you can’t ever reach it.”

  Eric nods.

  “She came to find me there.”

  He stiffens. “Who?” he asks, but it’s clear he already knows the answer.

  Nathan gives it anyway. “The Queen of the Dead.”

  * * *

  Eric says a lot of nothing for a few blocks. “Why did she send you here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She told me to go home.”

  “That’s it?”

  Nathan hesitates. Eric catches it instantly. “No,” he finally says. “She also told me I’d be safe from her knights.”

  “Her . . . knights?”

  “That’s what she calls the Necromancers.”

  “Knights?”

  “Sorry. Now that you mention it, it’s kind of stupid. She summoned her Necromancers to her throne room.”

  Eric is quiet. It’s a controlled quiet, a veneer of stillness over something so large it might burst at any moment. “Does she spend all her time in her throne room?”

  Nathan says, more or less truthfully, “I don’t know.”

  “How much time did you spend there?”

  “I don’t know.” He exhales out of habit, Nathan’s version of a sigh. “You know where I was when she found me.”

  Eric nods. It’s a tight, leashed motion.

  “She was the only other thing I could see. She’s like a bonfire. I’m like a moth. She’s terrifying—but she’s there.” He hesitates, then doubles down. “I see Emma the same way, except for the terror. She’s luminous. When I’m near Emma, I don’t think about what I can’t have or where I can’t go. I don’t think about an exit. I just think about Emma. And that’s natural, for me.”

  “How do you see the others?”

  “The others?” For a moment, Nathan thinks he’s talking about Allison. Michael. Even his mother.

  “The rest of the Necromancers. Do you see them the same way?”

  “Only in comparison to my friends. They’re brighter, sharper. They catch the eye—but they wouldn’t have been able to catch my attention in the beginning. Not the way the Queen did.”

  “And Emma would.” It’s a question without any of the intonation.

  “Yes,” Nathan replies, voice softer. “But I can’t be objective.”

  Eric’s brow rises. “I don’t believe that.”

  “What do you see when you look at Emma?” Nathan strives for casual, now. For objective observer. Eric can touch Emma without burning.

  Eric closes his eyes. “I see a naive, bleeding heart with a collection of scrappy friends, a deaf dog, and a dead boyfriend.” He exhales, opens his eyes, and adds, “I see what you see. Tell me what the Queen of the Dead said to her . . . knights.”

  “She introduced us, more or less. She told them that if they touched me, if they mentioned me at all in any capacity, they’d be serving her in a ‘less advantageous way’ for the rest of eternity.”

  “She meant for you to come to Emma,” Eric says, voice flat.

  Nathan doesn’t argue. He wants to, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.

  “Have you spoken with the Queen since you arrived home?”

  “Yes. Once. She summoned me.” He slides hands into his pockets and regards Eric for a long moment, trying to decide whether or not to say what he’s thinking.

  Eric knows.

  “She’s waiting for you,” Nathan tells him. He’s not sure why.

  Eric slows; eventually he comes to a dead stop. Nathan’s not surprised to see that they’ve returned to the cemetery. There are no corpses in the street, no obvious signs of blood. No dead that Nathan can see.

  “Did she tell you that?” Eric asks, hands in his jacket pockets, balled in fists.

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There are two thrones in the throne room. They’re identical, at least to my eyes. I don’t know what the living see—the only living members of her Court are Necromancers, and it didn’t seem safe to ask. The Queen sits in the left-hand chair, if you’re facing her—and no one stands at her back.”

  “The chair on the right is empty?” When Nathan fails to answer, Eric turns.

  “Yes. And no.”

  “Which is it?” Eric asks, hands in pockets, eyes on the sidewalk just ahead of his feet.

  “It’s empty. But you can see an image—like a storybook ghost—seated in the chair. It’s her magic,” he adds softly.

  “You can tell that?”

  “Yes. By the light, the quality of the light.”

  “Whose image?” he asks, his voice dropping, his breath a small cloud of mist.

  “Yours.”

  Eric turns and walks away.

  * * *

  Nathan drifts to his grave. It doesn’t feel familiar, but it bears his name, and it’s where Emma was waiting for him. He touches the headstone, or tries; his hand passes through its marbled surface. Beneath his chiseled, shiny name, there are flowers.

  Eric eventually returns, as if Nathan is actually alive and can’t be deserted. “It’s not my image,” he says.

  “No. He’s not dressed the way you are.”

  “Please don’t tell me I’m wearing a dress.”

  Nathan laughs. “No. You’re not wearing armor, either. You are wearing a crown, though.”

  Eric snorts. “A crown.”

  “A big, heavy, ornate, impressive crown. There’s less blood and more gravitas.”

  “I bet. We’d better head back. Chase and Allison probably need a referee by now.” He starts to walk, stops, and says, “What have you told Emma?”

  Nathan follows, borrowing part of Eric’s silence. “Nothing,” he finally says. “When I’m with her, I can almost forget I’m dead. I don’t want the reminder. I don’t want a Queen. I don’t want to remind Emma of what the Necromancers represent.” It’s all true, but there’s more, and it’s harder. “I don’t want to think that my presence here is a plot against Emma.”

  “If you found out that it was, could you leave?”

  “Yes. But I’m not you. I don’t think there’s anywhere I can go that the Queen can’t find me.” He lays out his fear. “If I left, if she knew, she’d send me back. If I couldn’t,
or wouldn’t, stay, she might even come here in person.”

  “She won’t leave her city.”

  “Why? She left it to find me.”

  “No, Nathan, she didn’t. Her city is the only place she’s built where she feels safe.”

  “You probably understand the Queen better than anyone. Why am I here, Eric? What does she want from me?”

  Eric says nothing.

  There’s a question Nathan wants to ask, but he doesn’t, because if Eric answers, Nathan will know—and if the Queen thinks to ask, Nathan will tell her what Eric said. Maybe not immediately.

  He contents himself with thinking it as they walk back to Eric’s house.

  Could you kill her, Eric? Could you kill the Queen of the Dead? Could you kill someone who loves you so much?

  * * *

  Eric drives Emma and Allison home. Nathan hitches an uncomfortable ride in the front seat. He still doesn’t have the hang of sitting. He passes through chairs and seats. A lifetime’s gravity habit is apparently hard to kick.

  Nathan missed the beginning of the conversation, but he’s not concerned. He can read a lot in their physical closeness. Allison has obviously shared information that’s upset her—but the sharing, the spreading of that pain across two sets of shoulders, diminishes it. It’s something he’s often envied about girls: Talking actually makes a difference to them.

  “Chase didn’t mean it,” Emma says.

  “He meant some of it. The part he did mean is still—”

  “Making you angry.”

  Allison nods. Anger isn’t her natural state; most people find it hard to believe she has a temper. “I hate it when he talks about killing you—about killing anyone—so casually.”

  “Amy does it all the time.”

  “Amy’s never killed anyone.” Allison gives Emma the Look. “Chase has.”

  “Good point.” Emma concedes with grace whenever she’s in a losing position. “But I think he’s genuinely worried—about you.”

  “He’s worried about my safety.”

  “Same thing.”

  “It’s not, Emma. He doesn’t care about anything but that. Do you know how I’d feel if I just walked out on you, now? Let’s pretend you’re not you. Or you’re not involved. You’re some other, random Best Friend I’ve known since we were five years old.”