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  Amy appeared in the hall at his back. Given the expression on her face, horns, fangs, and guns would have been gratuitous.

  The door shut behind them. No one had touched it.

  “Allison’s still not answering her phone,” Amy said, first up.

  Emma nodded. “I don’t think she has it with her. I turned mine on,” she added quickly.

  “Where’s Eric?”

  “He’s gone to find Ally. And Chase.” Emma closed her eyes. “Ally’s brother was shot.”

  “So was my father,” Amy replied. “They mostly missed.”

  “Your mom?”

  “She’s terrifying the police.”

  “She knows you’re—”

  “No. I told her I was going to Nan’s. I had hysterics and told her I couldn’t deal with the police.” That was not—in any alternate universe Emma could think of—a remotely believable lie. Sometimes she wondered at the optimism of parents. “There were no Necromancers at my house. There were guns, possibly knives, and a lot of noise—but no Necromancers. If Allison’s someplace without her phone, I think the timing is a bit coincidental for a random, armed break-in.”

  Ernest said, quietly, “We warned you. This isn’t a game.”

  “Michael’s mother seems to be okay for now. But they know Michael’s not at home,” Emma said, speaking past Ernest to the most dangerous person in the hall.

  Amy nodded. “I took the liberty of packing.” She turned and headed into Ernest’s living room while Ernest shut his mouth. “I don’t have much that’ll fit Allison, though.”

  Michael opened his mouth.

  “I raided Skip’s closet,” she told him. “You’re not the same size; he’s fatter. But it’ll do.”

  “Where are we going?” Michael asked. It was the sensible question.

  “Someplace else.” Amy exhaled as she remembered who she was speaking to. “I borrowed keys and a pass card from my dad’s office. We’ve got cottages and small chalets a couple of hours outside the city in a bunch of different directions. Inside the city isn’t safe at the moment; if they want us, we’ll make them work for it. They’re not going to be able to pillage our information from the school records.”

  “And our parents?”

  “I don’t think they care whether or not our parents live or die,” Amy replied. “It’s just us they’re gunning for.” She grimaced. “At least that’s the hope.”

  “Your parents—”

  “Yes. My parents are probably safe. My father can afford to hire a small army, and has the smarts to figure out how to do it legally.”

  “My mother can’t,” Michael said quietly.

  Amy didn’t argue. “I’d tell my father,” she finally said, “who to look out for. But to tell him that, I’d have to tell him pretty much everything and make him believe it. And he won’t leave it alone if he does. He’ll go to the police. He’ll go above the police. It’ll be all over the place inside of a week.” She glared at Ernest, who had come to stand behind a suitcase the size of a small fridge. “This is the best I’ve got. I’m willing to entertain suggestions. From you guys,” she added, pointedly excluding the man in black.

  And he was in black. He had shed the old-fashioned tweed look that made him seem older than he was; to Emma’s eye, he now looked like a lived-in version of Chase. She grimaced. Chase was not the person she wanted to be thinking about now.

  But Chase had gone for Allison. He had, according to her father, saved Allison’s life. He might be keeping it safe even now—something Emma had no hope of doing on her own.

  “Earth to Emma,” Amy said.

  Emma shook herself. Amy’s implied criticism was deserved. There were decisions that she could help make, things she could do. Better to do them than to become paralyzed by the things beyond her grasp. “It’s going to look suspicious if we all disappear together.”

  “We’re not. We’re going on retreat together to an unspecified location. I’m obviously so shattered by an armed break-in into my own home that I needed the time away to put myself back together.”

  Michael frowned. Amy looked angry; she didn’t look shattered. “We’re supposed to help you . . . recover?” he asked.

  “Exactly. I’ll call my mother before we leave, and I’ll tell her that I’m heading out of town for a few days because I don’t feel safe at home.” She folded her arms. “I’ll tell her I need my friends with me. My mother can call your parents first and get their permission. Would that work?” She was mostly looking to Michael. She assumed everyone else could just make it work.

  Amy wasn’t above telling Michael what to do—she was Amy, after all. But she didn’t particularly enjoy his version of panic, and she understood she’d be facing it soon if he wasn’t handled with care. Amy’s version of care, but still.

  Michael turned to Emma. Michael, who had already called his mother.

  Emma swallowed. “My mother would buy it if your break-in hits the news. She won’t be thrilled—we’ll be skipping school—but she’ll understand it. I think Mrs. Howe would be worried—”

  “Duh. Mother,” Amy snapped.

  “—But I think, if your mother talked to her, she’d actually be relieved. Michael’s already phoned to tell her he isn’t coming home.” She exhaled and fell silent.

  “You’re not telling me something,” Amy replied, voice flat the way the side of a knife was.

  “Allison didn’t answer her phone because she didn’t have it with her. She’s not at home.”

  “And?”

  “Yours wasn’t the only home that was targeted tonight. Chase—Chase somehow got Allison out of hers, but he didn’t take down the people who were targeting her family. Her brother was shot. Unlike your father, whoever shot him didn’t mostly miss. Ally’s mother is probably out of her mind with worry—for Toby and Ally. I don’t think your mom’s going to be able to talk her down if she doesn’t know where Allison is. And if she knows that your place was hit as well . . . she’s not stupid. She might decide that the timing isn’t coincidental.”

  “How? You know the timing wasn’t coincidental. How is her mother going to know that? The two probably look entirely unrelated.” Amy frowned. “Let me think about this. We’re going to have to sell it differently.” She swore softly and added, “Ally’s not going to want to leave the city if her brother’s really hurt.”

  Emma nodded, but added, “She’ll go. If she understands that her brother was in danger because she was there, she’ll go anywhere you tell her to go. I just think her mother will have a harder time with it, because Toby will be in the hospital.” If he survives. She couldn’t bring herself to say this.

  Amy as a force of nature was a fact of life for the teachers in Emery; she was for the parents of her many acquaintances and friends too. If Amy wanted you to do something, you did it. Unless, Emma thought, you were Michael. Michael’s sense of reality often collided with Amy’s sphere of influence.

  But he wasn’t arguing now. He was nodding. He was nodding a little bit too quickly. Hall guilt asserted itself. She should never have gotten Michael involved. She should have taken Chase’s advice—his bitter, heated advice—and left town when she could, without dragging all of her friends into isolation with her.

  “You know,” Amy said, “you should have been Jewish.”

  Emma blinked.

  “You’re so good at guilt, you don’t need a mother reminding you of all the reasons you should feel guilty. If you feel guilty for dragging me into this mess, spare me. No one makes me do anything I don’t want to do. And no one stops me, either.” She glanced at Michael. Opened her mouth. Closed it. “We’ll need clothing for Allison. I think she’ll fit some of Skip’s stuff—width-wise, at least. I’ve got money. I’ve got credit. I’ve got a car—I don’t know if we want to ditch it or not.

 
“But we’re going to have to decide what we do going forward. I for one don’t intend to let some random Queen of invisible dead people dictate the course of my life. I don’t intend to let her kill me or my friends.

  “She needs to go.”

  * * *

  “You make it sound so simple,” Ernest said, his voice dry as kindling in winter.

  “It is simple,” Amy replied, folding her arms. “The logistics might be more difficult. I don’t know how many of you there are. I assume all of you aren’t here, in my city. I assume you’ve thought of all this before, and you’ve never managed to take her out. I even sort of understand why.

  “Doesn’t change the fact that she has to go.”

  “You are all schoolchildren,” Ernest replied, folding his arms in the exact same way Amy had, although Emma didn’t think the mimicry deliberate. “You can’t fight. You don’t understand Necromancy. You can’t—without Emma’s help—talk to the dead. You have nothing to contribute to the mission you so cavalierly dictate.”

  She lifted a brow and then turned back to Emma and Michael. “We’ll need to talk to Eric. And Chase, if he makes it back.”

  Ernest’s lips thinned; so did his gaze.

  “I understand that you think we’re useless,” Amy said—without bothering to look at him. “Understand that we’re not. We won’t approach things the way you do—we can’t. Doesn’t mean we can’t do anything. The first thing we’re doing is getting out of the city for a bit. You can come with us, or you can stay here. I personally prefer that you stay here. We’re going to take Eric and Chase with us.”

  Margaret said, “I like that girl.” She had materialized—at least in Emma’s view—beside the fireplace, between where Ernest and Amy stood, bristling at each other. “Her manners leave a little to be desired, but these days, it seems everyone’s do. You understand that Ernest is not wrong?”

  Emma nodded. “But neither is Amy.”

  Margaret smiled. “We forget that our world is not the world. We couldn’t predict you—yet here you are. You opened the closed door, dear. The dead see you as clearly as they see the Queen. You carry our hope with you, but I think that hope will falter if you’re forced to carry it alone—or forced, by circumstance, to carry it our way. Ernest,” she added, although Ernest had not once looked in Margaret’s direction, “we’ve tried for decades, and we’ve failed. Perhaps it’s time to consider different methods or different avenues of approach. If I understand events correctly—and I frequently do—the greatest risk we face has already been taken.”

  “It was taken without consultation,” he replied, every syllable spoken as if he disagreed with the decision.

  “Of course it was. The decision was never yours—or mine—to make. But it’s been made. We’re committed, whether we like it or not.”

  He turned to Margaret. Amy, frowning, turned to Emma. “If the other half of this conversation has anything to do with us, I’d like to hear it.”

  Emma nodded and held out a hand to Margaret. Margaret glanced at it and shook her head. “That will not be necessary, dear,” she said, smiling at the tail end of the endearment. “I don’t require your hand. I’m bound to you; you hold me. If you desire it, I can appear at any time.”

  “Do you need my permission?”

  “Yes. But permission is not a legal contract. It’s not a ritual. You don’t have to say the words if the words themselves trouble you.” She turned, once again, to Ernest—but this time she also had Amy’s attention.

  * * *

  Allison watched the pale green light grow brighter; her sleeve covered her mouth and nose, but it wasn’t doing any good—she was only barely breathing. Chase, across from her in the shadow of the nearest tree, nodded brief encouragement before his gaze went elsewhere. He drew two knives from the folds of his jacket. They were longer and slimmer than the blade he’d given her, but reflected no light at all.

  She closed her eyes.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d faced Necromancers, and at least this time there was no baby involved. She didn’t have an infant to worry about; she didn’t have responsibilities to fail. There was only Allison.

  Why was it so much easier to fail yourself?

  The light on the snow brightened, and the snow began to melt. No, she thought, watching, breath held. It wasn’t melting; it was sinking and breaking, the crystals across its hardened surface surrendering territory to familiar, burning vines. Those vines shed light, and the light cast shadows. None of those shadows bore the familiar, attenuated shapes of people.

  She lifted the dagger, remembering the way the vines had wrapped—like tentacles—around her exposed throat. She wore a necklace now that might protect her from the worst of it. She wore a jacket that would have her on the outs with Amy for six months under any other circumstance—not that she was ever “in” with Amy—that might stop the soul-fire from instantly devouring her.

  Neither of these was armor. Neither of these was skill.

  She listened. She glanced at Chase and saw an odd expression cross his face, just before she heard the first evidence of actual people. Someone screamed. Someone shouted a warning.

  Someone laughed.

  None of these voices were familiar. One woman, by the sounds of it, two men. How many Necromancers had Chase and Eric said there were? Three? Four?

  As if he could read her mind, Chase held up a hand in the darkness. Four. He lowered two fingers. She’d heard three distinct voices. At least one could use Necromantic magic. The snow broke again, as if it were glass; small crystals fanned outward in a cold spray. The vines began to move, creeping along the ground and breaking snow as they traveled. Breaking it and melting it.

  The sickly green fire did nothing to stem the chill of the winter air in any other way.

  The voices drew closer. “We can’t move at this speed. The ground’s trapped.”

  “I noticed,” the woman replied.

  Chase slid away from his tree, gesturing for Allison to stay put. He couldn’t move silently, but their enemies were making enough noise it probably didn’t matter.

  “Don’t approach the areas where the vines have withered. It’s the only safe place for our enemy to stand.”

  That, Allison thought, had to be the Necromancer, or at least one of the two. Her fingers curled around the knife Chase had given her; she could barely feel it. She hesitated, then removed her right glove, shoving it into her pocket. The air was cold.

  The vines spread as green fire encased their circular, twisting forms. But they spread in a narrow line that seemed to travel straight ahead. As they did, they began to gain height. Watching in silence as she breathed into her sleeve, Allison realized they were forming a wall. A wall, a hedge of burning fire and thorns. She’d seen this before, and understood that they meant to enclose the area.

  The area and everyone who was trapped within it.

  “Come out,” a male voice said. “Come out and I may choose to spare your lives. All we want at the moment is information.”

  She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that this might end without death—either hers or Chase’s.

  All she loses is a few years. A few years, in the existence of the dead, is nothing.

  She couldn’t. Fear was a horrible pressure against her chest and the insides of her throat—but it couldn’t make her stupid enough. And if she were, Chase wouldn’t be. Chase would walk out of here alive, or the Necromancer would—not both.

  Voices drifted closer and then veered away. She pressed her back into the tree, willing herself to be invisible. The green light the vines shed made it harder, and Allison knew, as she watched them grow, it would soon be impossible. She’d be seen.

  She checked the necklace at her throat. Think. One of the men had given instructions to avoid the areas where the vines had withered. So
mething Chase had done—something he’d planted, iron maybe—had killed the vines being powered by Necromantic magic.

  By the dead.

  She heard another curse—a woman’s voice. It was followed by two gunshots. At this range, they sounded like firecrackers, but louder, fuller. “Longland,” the woman said, as the reverberation died into silence. “You go ahead.”

  “I don’t have your vision.”

  “You won’t need it. You’re already dead. If they damage your body, it doesn’t matter; it can be fixed.”

  Longland was here.

  “Those weren’t the Queen’s orders,” Longland replied. After a longer pause, he added, “And I can’t breach the barrier.”

  “The Queen’s not here. I am. Go in. The ground’s contaminated; cross in the contaminated zone; it shouldn’t stop you. If the hunter tries to leave, he’ll be leaving through those gaps; we’re unearthing the iron we can find.” The gun fired again, and this time, Longland cursed. “Your job was to find the kids. Ours was to clean up. Find them.”

  * * *

  Eric stopped at the edge of the ravine. The snow was newly broken in several places; the air was cold, the night clear. Trees loomed like the broken pillars of ancient walls. From between those broken pillars stepped Brendan Hall, his eyes silver, like contained stars.

  “They’re here,” he said.

  Eric hadn’t asked Brendan Hall to scout ahead, but he was grateful for his presence. He could see more or less what Emma’s father could see: The ground was glowing a faint, sickly green, and the sky above the ravine was paler than it should have been at this time of night. “How many?”

  “Two Necromancers.”

  “They did this with two?” He didn’t ask Emma’s father how long it had taken; the dead did not have a concrete sense of the passage of time.

  Emma’s father nodded. “Chase is wounded.”

  “Badly?”

  “Not enough to stop him immediately.”

  Eric cursed. “Allison?”

  “Frightened. Bruised, but otherwise whole.” He hesitated.

  “You went in?” Eric’s brows rose.