the street ahead, in the middle of a road that cars traveled
on shortcuts, stood two men.
* * *
Had they just been walking, she wouldn’t have noticed them. They wore normal winter
coats, hats, faded jeans; one wore boots, the other, running shoes. One of them seemed
to be about their age; the other was older.
They weren’t walking, though. They were waiting. Their hands hung by their sides,
and in the shadowed evening light, Allison saw that they wore no gloves. Emma slid
her gloved hand out of her pocket and held it out to Allison who understood what she
intended; she pulled Emma’s glove off and shoved it into her own pocket for safekeeping.
“The dead are here,” Nathan told them.
Emma knelt to let Petal off his leash and rose quickly. The rottweiler was growling
now as if growling were breath.
“Emma Hall?” One of the two men said, after a long pause.
Emma nodded.
He lifted his hands, palm out, as if in surrender. Or as if he was trying to prove
that he meant her no harm. As if. “We’ve come a long way, looking for you,” he said.
He took a step forward.
So did Petal.
“You’re in danger, here,” the younger man added. “We’ve come to bring you to safety.”
“Why am I in danger?” Emma asked, as if meeting two strange men who knew her by name
in the middle of the night near the cemetery was a daily occurrence. Allison heard
the tremor in her voice, because she knew Emma so well.
Her own throat was dry.
“You’re special, Emma.
We’re
special, and you’re like us. You’re gifted. People won’t understand what you can
do. They’ll fear it. If they can, they’ll kill you. We’re here to make sure that doesn’t
happen.”
Allison was stiff and silent. The two men said something to each other; it was quiet
enough that the feel of syllables traveled without the actual words. Emma swore. She
let go of Nathan’s hand, lifting hers as if to surrender. Nathan seemed to disappear.
But Allison knew Nathan. He wouldn’t leave Emma. Not now.
Neither would she.
“They have the dead with them,” Emma whispered to Allison, although she faced straight
ahead. Her voice dropped. “Four.”
Allison wasn’t Emma. She couldn’t see the dead. But she didn’t need to see them to
understand what Emma meant. Necromancers derived their power from captive ghosts.
Four was bad.
CHAPTER
THREE
E MMA’S HANDS WERE SHAKING; one was numb.
Allison had been right about one thing: Touching Nathan was no different from touching
any other dead person. It leeched heat out of her hands, numbing them.
There were four ghosts chained to the two men who now approached. Two of them were
women, one only slightly older than Emma or Allison and the other older than Emma’s
mother. The two boys, however, were exactly that: boys. One looked as if he could
pass for six on a good day. The other she guessed had been nine or ten at the time
of his death.
The dead, to Emma’s eyes, looked very much as if they were still alive. There was
one significant difference, though. She could never tell, looking at the dead, what
color their eyes were. It didn’t matter if she knew what the color had been before
their death, either. Her father’s eyes—and, more significant, Nathan’s—were the same
as the rest. They seemed slightly luminescent in the dark of night, but that luminescence
shed no color; it was like an echo of the essence of light. Maybe it was pure reflection.
Her father had told her that there was a place to which the dead were drawn and that,
for roughly two years, that place was all they could see.
All they wanted to see.
Eye color wasn’t the only thing the four dead people were missing. They lacked any
expression at all as they stood silent, still, unmoving. In that, they looked like
corpses. Emma knew she could scream at—or to—them, and they would hear as much as
an actual corpse, and respond the same way. She thanked
on shortcuts, stood two men.
* * *
Had they just been walking, she wouldn’t have noticed them. They wore normal winter
coats, hats, faded jeans; one wore boots, the other, running shoes. One of them seemed
to be about their age; the other was older.
They weren’t walking, though. They were waiting. Their hands hung by their sides,
and in the shadowed evening light, Allison saw that they wore no gloves. Emma slid
her gloved hand out of her pocket and held it out to Allison who understood what she
intended; she pulled Emma’s glove off and shoved it into her own pocket for safekeeping.
“The dead are here,” Nathan told them.
Emma knelt to let Petal off his leash and rose quickly. The rottweiler was growling
now as if growling were breath.
“Emma Hall?” One of the two men said, after a long pause.
Emma nodded.
He lifted his hands, palm out, as if in surrender. Or as if he was trying to prove
that he meant her no harm. As if. “We’ve come a long way, looking for you,” he said.
He took a step forward.
So did Petal.
“You’re in danger, here,” the younger man added. “We’ve come to bring you to safety.”
“Why am I in danger?” Emma asked, as if meeting two strange men who knew her by name
in the middle of the night near the cemetery was a daily occurrence. Allison heard
the tremor in her voice, because she knew Emma so well.
Her own throat was dry.
“You’re special, Emma.
We’re
special, and you’re like us. You’re gifted. People won’t understand what you can
do. They’ll fear it. If they can, they’ll kill you. We’re here to make sure that doesn’t
happen.”
Allison was stiff and silent. The two men said something to each other; it was quiet
enough that the feel of syllables traveled without the actual words. Emma swore. She
let go of Nathan’s hand, lifting hers as if to surrender. Nathan seemed to disappear.
But Allison knew Nathan. He wouldn’t leave Emma. Not now.
Neither would she.
“They have the dead with them,” Emma whispered to Allison, although she faced straight
ahead. Her voice dropped. “Four.”
Allison wasn’t Emma. She couldn’t see the dead. But she didn’t need to see them to
understand what Emma meant. Necromancers derived their power from captive ghosts.
Four was bad.
CHAPTER
THREE
E MMA’S HANDS WERE SHAKING; one was numb.
Allison had been right about one thing: Touching Nathan was no different from touching
any other dead person. It leeched heat out of her hands, numbing them.
There were four ghosts chained to the two men who now approached. Two of them were
women, one only slightly older than Emma or Allison and the other older than Emma’s
mother. The two boys, however, were exactly that: boys. One looked as if he could
pass for six on a good day. The other she guessed had been nine or ten at the time
of his death.
The dead, to Emma’s eyes, looked very much as if they were still alive. There was
one significant difference, though. She could never tell, looking at the dead, what
color their eyes were. It didn’t matter if she knew what the color had been before
their death, either. Her father’s eyes—and, more significant, Nathan’s—were the same
as the rest. They seemed slightly luminescent in the dark of night, but that luminescence
shed no color; it was like an echo of the essence of light. Maybe it was pure reflection.
Her father had told her that there was a place to which the dead were drawn and that,
for roughly two years, that place was all they could see.
All they wanted to see.
Eye color wasn’t the only thing the four dead people were missing. They lacked any
expression at all as they stood silent, still, unmoving. In that, they looked like
corpses. Emma knew she could scream at—or to—them, and they would hear as much as
an actual corpse, and respond the same way. She thanked
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