“Could you protect Michael and his family if I don’t go home? Could Michael go home?”
Michael said, “I’ll stay with Eric. I’ll stay with you, Emma.”
“But your mother—”
“She’s still on the phone,” Eric reminded her.
Michael frowned. “I think she knows that.” To Emma he said, “I don’t want to make my mother worry. I don’t want to scare her. But I don’t want her to die. If I tell her—if she knows—she’ll call the police. She’ll call the school. If she calls the school, the Necromancers will know she knows.
“I don’t think they kill people randomly.”
Thinking of Allison’s brush with death, Emma disagreed. “I don’t think they care.”
“They do, or they wouldn’t have to kill people who know about them.”
“Can I suggest,” Eric said, unlocking the door and opening it, “that this is not the time for this argument?”
Michael frowned. “We’re not arguing.”
Eric slid behind the driver’s wheel. Michael opened the back passenger door. “Can I talk to my mom?”
Eric stiffened. Emma said, “Of course,” and handed Michael the phone. She didn’t tell him what to say—or what not to say. His entire posture made it clear that he knew what was at risk. He probably saw it more clearly than Emma did; he had the ability to be both terrified and observant at the same time.
“Mom,” he said, while Eric’s jaw clenched, “I won’t be coming home tonight. Something is happening. I can’t explain it. But Emma needs me to be here. She’ll be with me. I don’t want you to worry. I’m okay. But we have to figure out what we need to do.” He fell silent, listening. Emma couldn’t hear what his mother said to him and was grateful. “I need you to trust me,” was Michael’s reply. “No, I can’t explain—it would take hours, and even then it would be hard.
“But I will explain it, when it’s over. I promise. I have to go. No, everything’s not okay—if it were, I’d be coming home now. But it would be worse if I did.” He hesitated and then handed Emma’s phone back to her, which she’d been dreading.
“Emma, what’s happening?” Mrs. Howe demanded.
“I can’t explain it. What Michael said is true. It would take hours, and even then—it would probably take more hours on top of that. I won’t let him out of my sight.” She started to say, I won’t let anything bad happen to him, but she couldn’t. Instead, she said, “The only thing Michael’s worried about right now is you. And me, a little. He needs you to be okay.”
“Where are you going? Where are you going to be?”
“We’re—” She shook her head. “If I can, I’ll call you and let you know. Everything’s up in the air.”
“Emma—”
“—I’m sorry, I have to go.” She hung up.
“She’s going to worry,” Michael said, with quiet confidence.
“Love,” Emma replied, “makes worriers of us all. Yes, she’ll worry.”
“Are you going to call your mom?” he asked.
Emma compromised. She tried to call Allison.
There was no answer.
* * *
Amy was at Eric’s when they arrived—or at least her SUV was. They walked past it; Eric hadn’t chosen to park in front of the house. Petal was antsy; it was clearly past Emma’s bedtime, which meant it was past his. She let Michael handle the leash and handed him the last of the Milk-Bones that served as dog bribery.
Eric didn’t lead them directly to the house, either. He didn’t exactly skulk—something bound to cause suspicions in anyone who happened to look out their window at the wrong time—but he walked with purpose in the wrong direction, dragging Emma and Michael in his wake.
“Em.”
She turned at the sound of her father’s voice. The world was all of night, and the single syllable he’d made of her name made it too cold, too harsh.
“Ally?” she asked. The word made almost no sound.
Eric slowed. Michael couldn’t see her father—but he could see her. He stopped. Petal wound the leash around Michael’s legs.
“Allison’s alive. She’s with Chase. Chase,” he added, looking briefly at Eric, “is also alive.”
“And the rest of the Simners? Her brother? Her parents?”
Silence.
“Dad? Dad!”
“Her brother was shot.”
“Is he—”
“Emma, I’m not a doctor. I don’t know. Emergency crews are on the way.”
“How do you—”
“The neighbors. You don’t shoot guns in that neighborhood without raising alarms.” His hands slid into his pockets; they were fists. He hesitated, then said, “you’ll have to tell Allison about her brother. She wasn’t there when they broke into the house.”
“How do you—”
“I found her. Chase got her out. Allison heard the gunshot, and she tried to go back. Chase . . . wouldn’t let her. I wouldn’t want to be that boy if her brother dies.”
“Was Chase hurt?”
Her father nodded. “Not by Allison, not yet. I think he meant to bring her here.”
“Where are they now?”
“Chase didn’t drive.”
Eric cursed. “Can you take me to them?”
Her father nodded.
Eric turned to Emma and Michael, who were so silent they might not have been breathing. “Stay here. Go inside, and do whatever the old man tells you to do. Don’t argue with him. Don’t argue with me.”
“If Necromancers are there,” Emma began.
“If?” Eric said, with a laugh that was worse than his swearing. “You don’t have the training. I do. Chase does. Go into the house, Emma. Amy’s probably waiting, and we can’t afford to have her kill the old man. I’ll bring them back.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
ALLISON COULDN’T BREATHE.
It wasn’t the running—although she wasn’t much of a runner, and her sides had been cramping on and off for the last half hour. It wasn’t the cold; she was numb enough now that the air no longer chilled her or shocked her when she drew it into her lungs.
She couldn’t hear her own breath. She couldn’t hear Chase.
She could hear the echo of the gunshots. She could hear them over and over again, shattering the quieter noises of a normal night in a neighborhood that saw violence on television, contained in a frame, made distant because it was meant to be entertaining.
She knew Chase was bleeding. She’d asked him why; he hadn’t answered. He was a redhead; his skin was normally pale. Tonight it looked ashen, his eyes too dark.
He had come to save her life.
She knew he had come to save her life. She was certain that he probably had. And she hated him for it. Right now, right in this moment, fear had turned any gratitude she might have felt to ash. Her face bore the mark of his open hand; his bore the smaller mark of hers—and a scratch that had welted.
It was silent. It was too silent. If she broke the silence, she’d scream. Or she’d cry. Or both. And even if she hated herself for her cowardice—because that’s what it was, this running, this silence, this abandonment—she wanted to live. Another thing to hate about herself.
Chase checked her coat; he checked the heavy necklace she’d been given what seemed a lifetime ago. His lips were almost white. He said nothing, but she knew what he feared: not men with guns, but Necromancers. He was certain they were here, somewhere. He was certain that they were hunting.
The snow didn’t help. Its pristine, untouched surfaces held on to footsteps like accusations; there was nowhere they could walk—or run—that didn’t leave an immediate, obvious trail. Only the sidewalks had been cleared, and Chase wanted to avoid them.
So did Allison. If the
y were seen—if their neighbors saw them, if anyone tried to help or interfere, there would be more deaths. No. No, not more. Not more. Please, god, not more.
She shook. In any other circumstance, she would have pretended she was cold; it was cold. Her hand was stiff; it was locked in Chase’s, as if he didn’t trust her to follow, as if he thought she’d turn and go home at any moment.
He had taken the lead. This was the neighborhood that had been home for all of Allison’s conscious life, but Chase knew it too. He knew it at least as well—on a night when the world had gone insane—as she did, but saw it differently. The houses were obstacles; the driveways, the backyards, the cars parked in the street or the fronts, were cover for changes in direction.
Chase carried a mirror; he used it, instead of sticking his head out or up, where possible.
And he led them, in the end, toward the cemetery and the ravine. Allison knew there was no safety in numbers, but she felt exposed. Even the sounds of passing cars—and the intermittent whiteness of passing headlights—dwindled. Here, she could hear Chase breathe.
It was labored, almost as labored as her own shallow breaths. She stumbled twice. Her feet were numb.
“I don’t care if you hate me,” Chase whispered. “You probably will. There’s nothing you could have done at your house except die.”
She wanted to argue but couldn’t—it was true. It didn’t making running feel any better or any more justified. His grip tightened briefly, and then—for the first time since he’d slapped her, or maybe since she’d slapped him—he let go of her hand. Instead of his hand, she found herself holding the hilt of a knife; he’d placed it in the palm of her gloves, and her hands were so stiff she almost dropped it.
“I know you don’t know how to use it,” he said, looking over her shoulder, his eyes constantly scanning the shadowed trees. “You’re not meant to kill here. If someone or something grabs you, stab it or cut it and run away.”
“Chase—”
“I mean it.”
“You’re—”
“No, I’m not. I’m fine.” He smiled. It was a lopsided expression; it contained a world of pain and very little warmth. “I’m not afraid of Necromancers. They’ll kill me, one day. I’ll kill them until that day. It’s been the whole purpose of my life. Of what was left of my life.
“I know how you feel. I know why you hate me. I can’t honestly tell you it’s going to stop any time soon. The only thing I wanted on the day I didn’t die—” He inhaled. Exhaled. “I shouldn’t be talking. Stay here. Keep your back to the tree, breathe into your sleeve.”
“Where—where are you going?”
“I need to put a few things on the ground. We’re going to stay here, within this area, until they find us. Or until they give up. I’m hoping for the latter. Stay here. I won’t be far.”
She nodded. She didn’t ask what she could do to help—he’d just told her. She could stay out of his way. She could be as silent and invisible as possible. She could breathe into her sleeve so her breath didn’t rise in telltale, visible mist. Invisibility was something that came naturally to Allison, at least in her normal life.
But invisibility wasn’t the same as inactivity. It wasn’t the same as huddling in silent fear. She bit her lip, held her breath. She examined the knife Chase had pushed into her hands. It was simple, its edge notched in at least two places; the hilt was rough and worn. This had been made by hand by people who didn’t have the time to prettify their work.
People like Chase. Maybe Chase himself. He probably knew how to slit a man’s throat. He certainly knew how to kill. She closed her eyes. He’d killed Merrick Longland. But Merrick Longland hadn’t stayed dead.
Allison had no doubt at all that she would.
That her parents, if killed, would. That her brother would never open his eyes and speak again. No. No. No. She took a deep breath and forced herself to exhale slowly into her sleeve; it was damp. She felt the tree at her back as if it were the hand of a friend. She could hear Chase moving across brittle snow. She could feel the ghost of a tendril wrapped around her throat; could hear the echo of an equally brittle apology for her coming death.
And she could hear Emma’s voice. The panic in it. The pleading.
She swallowed, bowed her head, and lifted her chin. If she died here tonight, it wouldn’t be because she had just given up. She couldn’t fight; it was true. It wasn’t a skill that she’d ever felt a pressing need to learn. Reading about fighting—and she’d done a lot of that—wasn’t the same. She was on the outside, looking in.
She promised she’d learn. If it came to that, if she survived, she’d learn.
A shadow cut across the snow. Chase had returned. He glanced at the knife in her hand and grimaced.
“It’ll cut through anything but the fire,” he told her softly.
His hands, she saw, were empty. She knew whose knife she carried. She tried to give it back, but he ignored it. “Do you know why I like you?” he asked. She blinked. It wasn’t the question she expected.
“No. I always wondered.”
“You remind me of home. Of the best things about home. I didn’t appreciate them enough when I had them, and when I lost them—” He shook his head. Smiled. It was the first real smile that had touched his face since it had appeared at her bedroom window, hanging upside down.
“We don’t get a chance to do things over. Things happen. They’re in the past. We can see them—over and over again—but we can’t touch them. We can’t change them. I need you to survive. I need you—just you, I don’t give a damn about anyone else—to make it out of here alive. If you do—if you can do that for me, if I can even ask it when I know what it’ll cost you—then I’ll feel like surviving myself had some purpose. Not dying won’t be the end of my life. It won’t be the worst thing about it.”
She swallowed.
“You’re solid. You won’t turn your back on your friends. You won’t lie—I honestly doubt you know how. Don’t try on my account,” he added, grinning. “It’ll just be humiliating. You’re not like Emma. You’re not like Amy. People don’t stop in the street to give you a second look.”
It was true. People seldom really gave her a first one. “I don’t need it.”
“No. You don’t. But the thing is, Ally, I don’t need it either. I don’t give a shit what people see when they look at you. I don’t care what they miss. In my life—in the life I’ve lived since I lost my family—it’s pointless. Most people would run screaming. They’d hide in a corner. They’d forget what they’d seen.
“It’s safer for them. After tonight, you’ll understand why.” He turned away, and then turned back. “I hate that you’re not one of them. But I like you because you’re not one of them. You can’t fight. You don’t understand Necromancers. You really don’t understand what we’re facing.
“But even if you did, you’d still be here.”
“And getting in the way.”
He nodded. “And getting in the way.” He reached up and brushed her cheek with his fingers; they were cold, but she felt them as if they were burning. “I’m sorry I hit you. My father would’ve killed me if he’d been alive to see it.”
“I hit you first.”
“I couldn’t let you go back. I’m sorry. I couldn’t. I never wanted you to be here. I wanted you to be safe. To be safe, to be an echo of the things home used to mean to me, where the rest of my life couldn’t touch or destroy it. I hated your best friend.”
“Do you hate her now?”
“Yes. Yes—but I understand why you don’t. And I understand, when I try to be fair—and it’s work, so don’t expect too much of it—that she sees and loves what I see—and love. You’re not superficial. You’re not trying to be something. You’re not trying to impress me or Emma or even random strangers. I can’t expect her to walk away from
you when she’s known you for most of your life; I can’t walk away, and I’ve known you for weeks.”
His face was so close to hers. It was dark, but she could see his eyes, could see his expression. “If someone comes, if I’m not here—remember what I said. There’s almost no binding magic that you can’t cut through. You cut—and you run.”
“Chase—”
“Please. Please, Allison. Promise.” He hesitated and then said, “If you die here, it will kill Emma. It will break her. If you can’t promise for my sake, promise for hers.”
“That’s—”
“Unfair?”
It was. It was so unfair.
“Maybe we haven’t been formally introduced,” he said, grinning again, his face pale. “I’m Chase Loern. Unfair is my middle name. I’ve been accused of worse when it comes to getting what I want.” The smile fell away from his face. “They’re coming.”
Allison could hear nothing but Chase, yet she didn’t doubt him. He stepped back, stopped, grinned again. Before she could speak, he kissed her. He was out of reach before she could react.
“If you want to slap me,” he whispered, “you’ll have to stay alive.”
She would have stuttered if she’d had voice for words. Before she could find that voice, she saw a pale green light illuminate the snow on either side of the tree at her back. The Necromancers had arrived.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
THE DOOR OPENED BEFORE Emma could touch it, sliding in toward an ordinary looking front hall. Ernest stood three yards back; his eyes were dark, his jaw set. “Don’t stand there like gaping tourists,” he snapped. “Get in.”
Michael obeyed instantly. Petal started to growl. Emma looked once over her shoulder and obeyed, stepping forward as if she were walking around the corner into a nightmare landscape. It wouldn’t have surprised her at this point to see Ernest sprout horns, fangs, or guns.