whatever god existed that
Allison couldn’t see them.
Nathan, however, could.
“Stay back,” she told him, voice low. “Stay with me.”
With the dead as escorts, the two men began to move; they walked slowly. Nathan started
whistling the theme song to an old Western his dad used to watch. Emma wanted to laugh.
She also wanted to run.
One of the two men gestured; white fire rose on either side of the road. It stretched
from a point just behind the men to a point well behind where Emma, Allison, and Petal
were. They now stood in a tunnel.
Allison’s sharp intake of breath made it clear that the fire, unlike the ghosts, was
visible.
“So,” Emma said, backing up. “This is supposed to make me trust you?”
“No,” the taller of the two men replied. “It’s supposed to keep us safe.” His eyes
were now the color of a dead man’s eyes, he’d absorbed so much power.
Emma stopped moving.
Eyes narrowed, she could see the delicate strands of golden light around the Necromancers’
hands and wrists. If she were closer—and close was
so
not where she wanted to be—she would see those strands as chains, like the chains
of a necklace or a delicate bracelet. Unlike jewelry, the chains ended in the figurative
heart of a person—a dead person. If she could grab those chains, she could break them,
depriving the Necromancers of the source of their power.
Petal was growling nonstop. Emma felt the hair on the back of her neck rise; she felt
the howl of a sudden, arctic wind and turned, leaving her dog to keep watch.
The road behind her back was gone. In its place, rising up past the boughs of the
old trees that lined the street on the wrong side of the fence, was a standing arch
composed almost entirely of the same fire that blocked escape on two sides.
“We don’t have time to explain things here,” the tall man continued. “So we’ve arranged
a little trip.” He frowned, said something to the man beside him. Emma reached out
and caught Allison’s hand, pulling her close. As she did, strands of white flame shot
out from the right side of the road and wrapped themselves around Allison. The fire
was
cold
.
“Stop it!” Emma shouted. “Let her go!”
The taller man shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, in a calm and reasonable voice.
“But she’s seen us, and she’s not one of us. In future, you’ll understand why it’s
important to leave no witnesses behind.”
Emma grabbed the white strand that was tightening its grip on Ally’s throat. It was
bloody cold; ice would have been warmer. Contact with it numbed her fingers instantly.
This is why I wanted you to run!
she thought, struggling—and failing—to get a grip on the tendril of fire. Ally was
turning purple; her knees buckled. Petal leaped at the man who’d been doing most of
the talking, and Emma couldn’t even watch; she was trying—and failing—to force the
fire to let go of her best friend’s throat.
“Em,” Nathan said. He caught her hand in his; his hands, like the hands of all the
dead, were cold. She didn’t try to pull away; she knew that Allison’s only hope lay
in Nathan. In his hands and in hers. Nathan was dead. Emma was a Necromancer. If she
could use his power, she could save Ally.
“I’ll go with you,” she told the Necromancers. “I won’t fight—but you’ve got to let
her go.”
“You’ll go with us anyway,” the younger of the two said.
The pressure of the strand didn’t let up. Emma swallowed and began to pull the only
power she had access to: Nathan’s. He offered it; he offered it willingly. As she
took it in, her hands began to tingle. No white glow gloved them; it wasn’t that kind
of binding. But it didn’t matter. Emma could now see how the strand was connected
to Allison, and she could—and did—melt it off. Allison was gasping for breath as Emma
turned. The men were closer now; the younger of the two looked both
Allison couldn’t see them.
Nathan, however, could.
“Stay back,” she told him, voice low. “Stay with me.”
With the dead as escorts, the two men began to move; they walked slowly. Nathan started
whistling the theme song to an old Western his dad used to watch. Emma wanted to laugh.
She also wanted to run.
One of the two men gestured; white fire rose on either side of the road. It stretched
from a point just behind the men to a point well behind where Emma, Allison, and Petal
were. They now stood in a tunnel.
Allison’s sharp intake of breath made it clear that the fire, unlike the ghosts, was
visible.
“So,” Emma said, backing up. “This is supposed to make me trust you?”
“No,” the taller of the two men replied. “It’s supposed to keep us safe.” His eyes
were now the color of a dead man’s eyes, he’d absorbed so much power.
Emma stopped moving.
Eyes narrowed, she could see the delicate strands of golden light around the Necromancers’
hands and wrists. If she were closer—and close was
so
not where she wanted to be—she would see those strands as chains, like the chains
of a necklace or a delicate bracelet. Unlike jewelry, the chains ended in the figurative
heart of a person—a dead person. If she could grab those chains, she could break them,
depriving the Necromancers of the source of their power.
Petal was growling nonstop. Emma felt the hair on the back of her neck rise; she felt
the howl of a sudden, arctic wind and turned, leaving her dog to keep watch.
The road behind her back was gone. In its place, rising up past the boughs of the
old trees that lined the street on the wrong side of the fence, was a standing arch
composed almost entirely of the same fire that blocked escape on two sides.
“We don’t have time to explain things here,” the tall man continued. “So we’ve arranged
a little trip.” He frowned, said something to the man beside him. Emma reached out
and caught Allison’s hand, pulling her close. As she did, strands of white flame shot
out from the right side of the road and wrapped themselves around Allison. The fire
was
cold
.
“Stop it!” Emma shouted. “Let her go!”
The taller man shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, in a calm and reasonable voice.
“But she’s seen us, and she’s not one of us. In future, you’ll understand why it’s
important to leave no witnesses behind.”
Emma grabbed the white strand that was tightening its grip on Ally’s throat. It was
bloody cold; ice would have been warmer. Contact with it numbed her fingers instantly.
This is why I wanted you to run!
she thought, struggling—and failing—to get a grip on the tendril of fire. Ally was
turning purple; her knees buckled. Petal leaped at the man who’d been doing most of
the talking, and Emma couldn’t even watch; she was trying—and failing—to force the
fire to let go of her best friend’s throat.
“Em,” Nathan said. He caught her hand in his; his hands, like the hands of all the
dead, were cold. She didn’t try to pull away; she knew that Allison’s only hope lay
in Nathan. In his hands and in hers. Nathan was dead. Emma was a Necromancer. If she
could use his power, she could save Ally.
“I’ll go with you,” she told the Necromancers. “I won’t fight—but you’ve got to let
her go.”
“You’ll go with us anyway,” the younger of the two said.
The pressure of the strand didn’t let up. Emma swallowed and began to pull the only
power she had access to: Nathan’s. He offered it; he offered it willingly. As she
took it in, her hands began to tingle. No white glow gloved them; it wasn’t that kind
of binding. But it didn’t matter. Emma could now see how the strand was connected
to Allison, and she could—and did—melt it off. Allison was gasping for breath as Emma
turned. The men were closer now; the younger of the two looked both
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