Touch

by Michelle Sagara

  “And you hated yourself for feeling that way,” Emma said softly.

  Her mother blinked.

  “I’m a Hall, remember? I know how this goes. You were fine. I was fine. There were probably days when you hated Dad for dying.”

  “Did you hate Nathan for dying?” her mother asked softly.

  “Some days, I still do. Or I hate that I fell in love with him, because if I hadn’t, life without him wouldn’t be so bad.”

  Her mother nodded. “He cared for you.”

  “And Dad loved you.”

  Her mother put her arms around Emma. They stood together for a long, silent moment. “I don’t regret a minute of the last eight years.”

  “The Candlewick project?” It had been one of Mercy’s few—but significant—failures.

  “Funny girl,” her mother’s voice was soft and fond. “But after I saw your father in the hospital, I couldn’t shake that loneliness. I don’t know if I love Jon, but when I’m with him, the world seems a little brighter and little more vibrant. He’s so good at being who he is. It doesn’t seem to matter if he’s talking to an eighty year old or a toddler. He doesn’t ask for anything, and he doesn’t want a lot from me. He knows about your father, of course. He knows how important you are. He was nervous,” she added.

  “I know. I was nervous, too.”

  “I thought you were angry.”

  “I was.” Emma tightened her arms. “I don’t know Jon. But sometimes,” she added, thinking about the conversation with her father earlier in the day, “I think I didn’t really know Dad, either. I’ll try, Mom. I will honestly try.”

  “I couldn’t replace Nathan,” her mother said. It sounded like an odd thing to say, but it mirrored what Emma couldn’t put into words herself. “But I never doubted that you loved me.”

  “And I couldn’t replace Dad.”

  “No one could. Jon isn’t trying to be Brendan. He knows he’s not your father. You only—and ever—have one.” Her mother exhaled. “I’m not trying to replace my husband, either. He was my best friend and my pillar of support, and nothing Jon says or does will change that. But nothing anyone says or does can change the past. If I can’t open up a bit, if I can’t let go, the past is the only future I have.

  “And you’re almost an adult now. You don’t need me anymore.”

  “I do, Mom.”

  “Not the way you used to. I miss it,” she added, since this was a night for unexpected truth. “But no one gets to be a child forever—and no one should want to. You’ve grown. You’ve become so much stronger. I want you to keep growing up. I want you to go out into a world that doesn’t include me. I want you to meet—” she stopped, stiffening at the words that had almost fallen out of her mouth, and the implication behind them.

  At any other time, Emma would have been angry. But the anger wouldn’t come. In a quieter voice she said, “I’m not ready to meet anyone new.”

  “No, of course not—I’m sorry, Em, I was just—”

  “You took eight years, Mom. Eight years. Give me at least that long.”

  Her mother nodded and slowly disentangled herself. “We’re going to have dinner at midnight at this rate,” she said, running her sleeve across her eyes. Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother cry.

  “Jon won’t care,” she said.

  “No, he really won’t,” her mother replied, smiling.

  * * *

  Dinner was late, even for the Hall household, but it wasn’t midnight. It wasn’t—quite—nine in the evening, although it only missed that mark by a few minutes. Allison texted before they’d even sat down, and Emma texted back a brief “I don’t hate him.” She avoided using the words “it’s fine” because they always made Ally worry.

  And the truth was, she didn’t. She wasn’t certain she liked him, but she was certain her like or dislike was irrelevant. Or it should be. But she lingered in the kitchen while her mother took the food out.

  “Is this really okay?” she asked her father, who hadn’t left the kitchen once.

  “It’s better than okay,” he replied. “Nathan’s death is too new to you. You can’t see past it. You can’t see a world that doesn’t have him in it.”

  She almost said, And I don’t have to. But she held her peace. She was in a strange state of mind; there was almost no fight in her.

  “Your mother has had eight years of a life without me,” he continued. “Sometimes she’d tell you that she missed me. But, Em—the life the two of you have now doesn’t have a place for me in it. She’s held that space empty, as if I might somehow return to fill it.

  “It’s not what I want for her. Maybe if I could come back—in the flesh, alive—I’d hate everything about this evening. But I think she’s been in pain and been alone for long enough. I don’t want you to compare Jon to me, because there’s no point. Jon isn’t me. Your mother is right—nothing will change our past. But it is past.

  “If you can do one thing for me, help her.”

  “I’ve always tried—”

  “Help her with Jon. He’s a decent guy. He does care for Mercy. Maybe he can give her what I can’t.” He turned to his daughter, hands in ghostly pockets. “You were angry that she didn’t ask about me. You were upset that she didn’t want to speak with me. For you, speaking with Nathan is so much better than the silence and the absence.

  “It’s different for your mother. What she’s seen of death is final; that door is closed. If she did speak to me, if she asked, it wouldn’t make her life any easier because I can’t be part of it.” He closed his eyes. “What will you do?”

  “I’ll try to like Jon.”

  “No, Em, what will you do about the Necromancers?”

  “I don’t want to tell Mom. I think the worry would about kill her, if the Necromancers didn’t do it first. But I don’t want to run away without telling her anything—I’m afraid she’d blame Jon. Or worse, herself. This is the first boyfriend, and if I suddenly disappear, it’ll probably be the last one. And . . . I don’t want to leave home. I know she’s not perfect, but I’m not perfect either.” Exhaling, she said, “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me she won’t blame Jon or herself.”

  “You know your mother as well as I do. You probably know her better, by this point.”

  “Great. Sometimes I think life is just a way of accumulating guilt.”

  He chuckled. “For the Halls, it probably is. You should head out. Your mother’s going to worry if she walks in and finds you talking to yourself.”

  * * *

  Halfway through dinner, the doorbell rang.

  Emma looked across the table at Jon. “Did you order pizza?”

  He laughed as Emma rose. “I would never insult the collective cooking of the Halls; I like my teeth where they are.” The smile faded slowly from his lips. “It’s a little late for door to door salesmen.”

  “And we’re not in the middle of election season. On the other hand, most people have probably finished dinner by now. Sit down, Mom. You have a guest. I’ll get it.” The last three words were said in a much louder voice, as Petal had set up barking.

  She caught her dog by the collar and pulled him away from the front door, but she resented having to do it; at this time of night, random strangers who interrupted people at dinner deserved to have a face full of loud, suspicious rottweiler.

  “Petal, sit. Sit.”

  One hand on dog and the other on doorknob, she opened the door and froze in its frame as she met the eyes of Merrick Longland.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  HIS SMILE WAS FULL-ON TEACHER. “Just the young woman I wanted to see.”

  “Emma? Who is it?” Her mother’s voice approached from the dining room. Emma swallowed and met Merrick Longland’s eyes; under the light at the side of the d
oor, they were faintly luminescent, but she couldn’t describe their color. They were, in every way, the eyes of the dead.

  But he wasn’t dead. She knew. Her mother came out of the dining room and headed straight toward him, wearing her best, distancing business smile.

  “Mrs. Hall?” he said, extending his right hand. “Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  “We’re in the middle of a late dinner,” her mother replied, thawing slightly. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m actually here to speak with Emma. My name is Merrick Longland, and I have the privilege of being her supervisor on the yearbook committee.” He held out a hand.

  For one immobile moment, Emma wanted to slam the door in his face. But it was too late for that; her mother’s expression had relaxed, and she was already shaking the hand Merrick Longland had offered.

  If being dead made any difference to the physical body, it was too subtle for her mother. “I’m Emma’s mother, Mercy Hall. We don’t usually get teachers visiting at this time of night.”

  “It’s eight o’clock,” he said.

  Her mother lifted a brow. “It’s past nine.”

  He looked surprised, checked his watch and then looked sheepish. As acts went, it was beyond excellent.

  “Mr. Longland is replacing Mr. Taylor for the rest of the year.”

  Her mother’s expression became instantly more drawn. “That was a terrible accident. Mr. Taylor was quite popular at the school,” she added.

  “So I’ve discovered,” he replied, still with the sheepish. “Look, I’m sorry. I lost track of time. I didn’t mean to come here this late.” He paused and then added, “You said I was interrupting dinner?”

  “Dinner was a touch on the late side.” She turned toward the dining room as Jon came into the hall. “Sorry,” she said. “This is Mr. Longland; he’s a new teacher at Emery.”

  “And he makes house calls at this time of night?”

  “Not deliberately,” Longland said. “I lost track of time. I’d hoped to have a word with Emma before the yearbook committee meeting next week.”

  “So you hunted her down at home?” Jon’s smile matched Longland’s, and in spite of herself, Emma was impressed.

  “I live not far from here.”

  Impressed and terrified. She put on her best Hall smile. “Why don’t the two of you go back to dinner? I’m sure this won’t take long, and I’ll join you when we’re done.” She did not want Merrick Longland in her house.

  But she didn’t want to leave her house with him, either. She accepted the obvious: Ernest had been right. Longland now knew where she lived. He probably knew where they all lived. And if she behaved in a way that worried her mother, he probably had ways of dealing with that.

  Jon held out a hand. “I’m Jon Madding,” he said. “I’m what passes for a dinner guest in these parts.”

  “Not her father, then?”

  “No, as you well know,” her father said.

  * * *

  “Mom, Jon—please go eat before the food gets cold.” Emma nudged her mother back into the dining room, which was easy. Jon seemed reluctant.

  “Not your daughter, remember?”

  “Right. Not.” He glanced at Mercy and then followed her as she left Emma, her teacher, and the ghost of the man whose seat he now occupied, in the hall.

  Emma then turned to Merrick Longland. “Living room,” she said, her voice even, her expression neutral.

  Longland kept his game face on until there was no possibility of line of sight from the dining room. He then walked over to the couch and made himself more or less at home. His expression chilled instantly, which perversely made Emma far more comfortable.

  “Yes, I do know,” Longland then said—to Emma’s father. “But she didn’t strike me as the type of person who would use her own father as a focus.”

  “Meaning she’s not you.”

  Longland darkened. “No. She’s still alive.” As he said it, he turned to face her, his eyes very like her father’s but with more anger in them. “I came here the first time to rescue you. I came because I knew the hunters would kill you. I never threatened you.

  “You’re responsible for my death.”

  Emma stiffened. Words crumbled. Merrick Longland had defined monstrous to Emma—but it was true. He’d come to save her life.

  “What, then, do you owe me, Emma Hall? Your life? The lives of your family?”

  * * *

  “Emma,” her father said. “You are not responsible for this man’s death. If he came to save your life, he didn’t intend to give you a choice about where the rest of that life was to take place. He’s responsible for the choices he made and the consequences of those choices.”

  “Thank you for the parental moralizing,” Longland replied. “I don’t believe this conversation is relevant to you. If you are truly free to go as you please, don’t let us keep you.”

  “I’m also free to remain. This is more my home than yours.” Her father folded his arms across his chest and looked down on Longland in, oh, so many ways.

  Longland stared at her father, frowning. “Are you truly not hers?”

  “I’m her father, but if you’re asking if I’m bound to her, the answer is pretty obvious.”

  “If you’re not bound to her, why are you still here?”

  “It’s his house,” Emma said, more sharply than she’d intended. “He has every right to be here.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Longland said, voice low. “And he knows it, even if you’re too ignorant to understand.”

  She turned to her father because something in Longland’s voice sounded like the truth. “Dad?”

  “You’re still here,” Longland repeated. “There’s no way you would be here if you weren’t bound.”

  Her father was silent for a long moment, and then, of all things, he smiled. It was a sad smile, and it added lines to his face. “There are many, many bindings, Longland. I don’t expect you to understand them all. Emma is my daughter, and I love her. No parent willingly turns his back—and walks away—from his child. Not when that child is in danger.”

  “My parents did,” was the bitter—and unexpected—reply.

  “And I’m not your father,” Brendan Hall replied. “Nor is Emma you. The choices you’ve made might have been the only choices you saw, but there were always others.”

  “I would have died.”

  Emma had no desire to offer support to Longland in any way, but she remembered, in the silence that followed, the reason Eric had come to Toronto and the reason Chase had followed him.

  Her father nodded. “Yes, in all likelihood.” He knew what Emma knew. “But there’s a world between dying and killing. A handful of people willing to end your life doesn’t justify killing everyone else.”

  Longland closed his eyes. Emma wondered if closed eyes had the same effect for the dead that they would for the living. “You don’t understand,” he finally said, his shoulders sagging. “Death is forever. Life is so brief.”

  “Yet you valued yours enough to make the choices you did.”

  “There are no choices.” His voice was low, intent. “One way or the other, we serve the Queen for eternity. We can do it while we live, or we can do it afterward. But if we serve her well, we don’t have to die. We don’t have to age. The only people who are spared an eternity of this,” he added, with loathing, “are the Necromancers.”

  “You don’t look particularly dead,” Emma pointed out.

  “Not even to you?”

  “The dead don’t generally teach classes and supervise yearbook committees. Trust me on this. How are you alive?”

  His answering laughter was quiet and bitter. “I’m not alive. I’m as dead as your father.”

  “But you’ve got—�
��

  “A body? Yes. I thought it was a privilege when I was alive. I thought it was something the dead might—just might—aspire to.” He shook his head. “It’s the same as being dead except that the living can see it. Food has no taste. The cold is stronger; nothing is warm. Every minute I’m here, I can see the way to the other side.” He lifted his hands to his face. “The only difference is this: I can’t be bound tightly to the Queen’s side. If I’m to play at being alive, I have to travel. I can hear her,” he added, his voice dropping, “but she can’t command me to return; I’m willing to obey, but the constructs can’t travel the way the disembodied can.”

  It took Emma a minute to realize that the construct he spoke of was his physical form.

  “You can’t be a—a power source for a Necromancer.”

  “No. I’m spared that. But that’s all I’m spared.” He rose. “People have always judged me. People have always misunderstood.” It didn’t sound like whining, but Emma had to bite back words. How did one misjudge the willingness to murder an infant? “But what I wanted, in the end, wasn’t so different from what you want.”

  Emma was speechless.

  Her father was not. “You wanted a place to belong.”

  “A safe place,” Merrick Longland agreed. “Where love, not pain, is waiting around every corner. A place where I don’t have to watch my back at all times and where power isn’t the only hope of safety I have.” He closed his eyes. “Someplace that wants me.” When he opened his eyes again, they were almost blue in the living room light, but they retained their subtle shimmering transparency. “I see it every day. I know I don’t deserve it—but whatever is waiting on the other side doesn’t care.”

  Longland glanced at her father. “You saw the place we were meant to be. Your daughter opened the door the Queen has kept locked and barred.”

  “I didn’t see her open the door,” her father replied. “But, yes, I suspected she would. I wasn’t certain that I would be as strong as I wanted to be; I left before she tried.”

  “But you know what waits—you could be there now!”