Grave Page 6

  “It’s not—” me I’m worried about.

  “Ally, I’ll be fine. You’ll be fine?”

  “She will.”

  “You,” Emma said to Chase, “can barely speak without offending half the school. I’d just as soon let Ally speak for herself.”

  Chase’s brows rose, the left one over a distinctly sallow eye. He’d survived two Necromancers—but not easily and not without injury. Allison could forget this when he was snarling at her best friend. Or, to be fair to Chase, at everyone. It was harder to ignore it now.

  “I’ll be—I’ll be fine,” she said.

  “I’ll make hot chocolate.”

  Chase said nothing. Neither did Allison; Emma felt like a traitor for ignoring her expression, which spoke the volumes she wasn’t. But she knew Chase would never hurt Allison. And she knew Allison was, if not openly interested, fascinated by his interest. And intimidated by it.

  Allison was a person who struggled, always, to live up to her promises. To live up to herself. There was no context for living up to someone else’s inexplicable interest in her. Emma had seen Allison be nervous before, but not like this.

  People were shallow. Emma herself was willing to admit she spent at least half her waking life—if not more—in the social shallows of the pool, with no regrets. She liked to look at attractive guys. Or she had, before Nathan.

  That was as far as she wanted to take this thought. Allison didn’t really understand shallows; she treated all of life as if it were the deep end. She jumped in only when she was certain she could swim—and jumping in for a dive when there was only a foot or two of water could be a disaster. But if you were drowning in the deep end, Allison could swim. She could lend you the hand you needed to drag yourself out.

  “I have something on my face?”

  “Too much of a chin, given the way you’re sticking it out there,” Emma replied. “I know I’m usurping your role here, but—I’ll kill you if anything happens to her on your watch.”

  “Emma . . .”

  “Sorry,” she told her best friend, without meaning it. “Come on, Petal. I think Michael may have a Milk-Bone or two.”

  • • •

  Allison would have followed Emma, but Chase stepped into the footprints her retreat had made. “She shouldn’t be out here on her own.”

  “She’s the only one they probably won’t kill on sight, and we’re in the middle of nowhere. I wouldn’t let her go if I thought there was a real danger.” He glanced once over his shoulder. “We’re less than half a mile from the house; I think she can make it back without getting lost or freezing.”

  Since Allison was far more likely to get lost—mostly by not paying attention to the outer world—she said nothing. The nothing was painful and awkward, and she knew she should fill it. But she almost resented the fact that Chase looked so comfortable with the silence. He was grinning. At least, it looked as though he was grinning to Allison—but maybe she was seeing things in the dark; when she thought of him, it was that grin she could see.

  And she could pretty much see it these days with her eyes closed.

  “If we were in a different country,” Chase said, relenting, “I could give you a gun and teach you how to use it.” As an opener, it was almost what she’d come to expect from Chase, and she found herself relaxing.

  “You’re sure Emma will be okay?”

  “We can follow her—at a distance—if you want. I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “You didn’t much look like you wanted to talk to anyone.”

  He grinned—this one definitely wasn’t her imagination. “I decided not to start a land war in Russia.” The grin faded. “I’m trying to remember that Longland saved your life. I hate that he had to do it.”

  She looked down at her feet. Looked up again. “I’ll apologize if you want, but I’m not sorry I didn’t run.”

  “Apparently, neither am I. Angry, maybe. Sorry? No.” His hands found his pockets and bunched in them. “I didn’t give you the knife and tell you to kill someone with it.”

  She was silent.

  “I didn’t give you the knife to tell you to threaten to kill someone, either—with your training, that’s just handing the knife to someone who’ll kill you.”

  “I know.” She exhaled. “I made it to the fence. I could have made it through.”

  Chase nodded. He took a hand out of a pocket to run it through what remained of his very red hair. “Believe it or not, I didn’t come here to lecture you.”

  “No?”

  “No—that part happens automatically. It would have been worse if I hadn’t done the perimeter sweep. We’re clear,” he added. “I did salt the earth a bit here and there.”

  “Is it going to cause problems in actual cottage season?” Allison asked, cringing.

  “I’m not spending the evening worrying about Amy’s parents’ reaction.”

  “I was worrying about Amy’s reaction.”

  “Not spending the evening worrying about that either. I’ll admit it’s more practical, though.”

  “What are you spending the evening doing?”

  He exhaled a plume of mist at a speed that suggested annoyance. Chase’s temper didn’t faze her. Other things about him did. “Thanking you.” This was not what she’d expected—but Chase was never what she expected.

  “Thanking me?”

  “For the whole sticking around because you thought you could somehow save my life thing.”

  “Really?”

  “No—it was stupid. I’m trying to be gracious. It’s hard work, and I’m not seeing a lot of reward-for-effort.”

  Allison laughed.

  His smile deepened, but it shifted. “Thank you for surviving. I mean that one.”

  “Still looks like you’re having to work at it.”

  He laughed. The line of his shoulders became less rigid, and he looked—for just that moment—younger. Because he did, Allison took courage in her hands and clung to it for dear life. She stopped walking, drew clear, cold air into her lungs, and expelled it. With words.

  “Chase—I want to ask you something.”

  He nodded. He didn’t even look wary.

  “When we were—when the Necromancers were coming for us and you—when you—” Holding on to courage, on the other hand, meant she let an hour of practice—much of it in front of a mirror—evade her.

  “Yes?”

  “We were—I was—it was after—”

  He laughed again. It was louder.

  “You’re not being helpful.”

  “I have a reputation to consider. And given that I’m wearing one of Eric’s hideous jackets, I have to work harder at it.”

  “It’s too dark to see the jacket.”

  “Are you kidding? Look at this collar.”

  She did. As far as Allison was concerned, it was a thick, black jacket with studs. She didn’t know enough about current fashion in any era that wasn’t the tail end of the eighteen hundreds to have an opinion one way or the other. But it didn’t look ridiculous on Chase—certainly not as ridiculous as it had on either her or Michael.

  She slid her hands into her pockets, missing both Emma and Petal. Looking at her feet, which were mostly buried under snow, she tried again. She wasn’t always good at finding the right words until long after she needed them—usually when she was on the way home and the opportunity to say them was long past. But she wasn’t going home any time soon. “I want to know why you kissed me.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “I didn’t have enough time for anything else.”

  Eyes widening, she looked up at him.

  He laughed. “That’s not how you make fists,” he told her, reaching for her hands. “You’ll only break a finger or two if you actually connect with anything.”

  “I wasn’t trying to—”

/>   “Thumbs on the outside.” His hands, gloveless, were pocket-warm. She could feel their heat as he gently but deliberately uncurled her fingers. “And never, ever go into a fight biting your lip.” He didn’t let go of her hands.

  She was aware of the difference in their heights, of the different textures of their skin—his was callused and rough; she was aware of the difference in their clothing, their attitude, and their lives. But mostly, she was aware of just how close he was standing. She wanted to pull her hands back. And she wanted to leave them in Chase’s forever—as if she could extend the confusion of the moment, holding it for eternity.

  “Do you really have to ask?”

  She nodded. Having forced the words out of her mouth—and they were even the right words—she had none left; they were lost to a breathlessness that she would have said wasn’t in her.

  “Why? Is it really impossible to believe I’d want to kiss you?”

  She closed her eyes. “No one else does. Except Petal, and while I love that dog, I could do without the dog-breath and slobber.” It was embarrassing to admit this. “Have you actually looked at me?”

  “A lot, actually.”

  “And I have a pretty face?”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s what they tell you. ‘Such a pretty face.’ It’s like a consolation prize.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But he released her hands and raised his to her cheeks, lifting her head gently. He met her eyes; she wasn’t certain he was actually looking at anything else. Her eyes, on the other hand, were firmly behind her glasses. “Well, no. I wouldn’t say you have a pretty face. But it’s the face I want to look at. You understand that I don’t care what anyone else thinks of you, right?”

  Allison exhaled slowly. “What if I do?”

  He grinned; his smile was much closer to her, now. “You’re part of that ‘anyone else.’ I don’t care what you think of you, either.” His thumbs stroked her cheeks. “Why do you think people obsess about their looks?”

  Allison shrugged.

  “My guess?” He continued when she failed to answer. “They want to be attractive. They want to stand out.”

  Allison nodded, because that made sense. She was having difficulty, at the moment, making sense of anything.

  “So, looks exist to grab the wandering attention. But once you’ve got it, what then?”

  She really hadn’t thought that far, because the first part of the equation had always been beyond her. “Chase—”

  “Then it’s all down to you. Who you are. What you want. What you demand. What you give.”

  “But it’s not.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s not just about the mythical ‘you’—it’s about what your friends will think. It’s about what other people think of you for having an ugly girlfriend.”

  His hands froze. “What did you say?” His voice changed. It had become softer and much, much quieter. It was also more intimidating.

  “It’s about what other people think of you for having an ugly girlfriend.”

  He shook his head in exaggerated mock sorrow. “And there’s that word again.”

  She closed her eyes. “Chase—I see myself fairly clearly. I don’t lie to myself except in daydreams.”

  “We’ll talk about daydreams in a minute,” he replied. “Right now, we’re talking about me.”

  She opened her eyes.

  “I’ve been a student in your school. I hate it. I think it’s a waste of time. I feel like I’m surrounded by idiot children who think they’re almost-adults. Some of them think they’re tough. It’s not worth the time to set them straight. You expect me to care what they think of me?”

  She couldn’t shake her head, because Chase was still bracketing her face with his hands.

  “Right. No. Who else does that leave? Let me tell you: It leaves only you. Other people are allowed to be idiots. I don’t like it; Eric says I can’t school them. Fine. But you? No. You don’t get to be that stupid. Not when you’re around me. So: You never, ever get to use the world ‘ugly’ again.”

  • • •

  “She can if she’s describing you.”

  Chase cursed. He didn’t lower his hands. He did lift his head. “If she uses it at all, she’ll use it the wrong way. It’s why I didn’t make exceptions, even for you. What do you want, Eric?”

  “The old man wants a report on your portion of the perimeter sweep. He’d probably like it sometime tonight.”

  Allison could hear Eric’s voice; she couldn’t hear his footsteps. There was too much noise on the inside of her head. That and embarrassment. She pulled away from Chase, and he let her go.

  “And Emma’s probably worried about Allison, judging by her expression.”

  “If she were worried, she wouldn’t have left her.”

  “Not that kind of worry, idiot. We might have a problem.”

  Everything about Chase changed at Eric’s tone. Allison started to turn toward the cottage. Chase caught her shoulders. “We’re only finished with this for now,” he said, voice low.

  • • •

  Given Amy’s suggestion that everyone get some sleep, Allison was surprised to see the fire in the fireplace to one side of the entrance hall. Michael and Emma sat side by side in exactly the wrong type of silence. Allison’s glasses had become opaque enough that she couldn’t make out their expressions.

  Hot chocolate was, in fact, in cups on a tray on a low table beside Michael; he had a mug in his right hand and a lapful of mournful, sighing rottweiler. Petal and Emma looked up when Allison entered the room; Michael didn’t. Firelight added color to his face and his almost vacant stare.

  Allison sat beside him.

  Michael, staring into the fire, said, “Emma’s dad came.”

  Allison froze. After a long, silent moment, she rose and moved so she could stretch her hands out in front of the fire; she was cold. She was so cold.

  “Toby is alive. Mr. Hall said he hasn’t woken up yet. Your parents are at the hospital. So are the police.” He spoke the words carefully, as if from a list. It probably was. Michael was not generally the person sent to convey important emotional information. Allison wasn’t surprised when Michael started to cry. The tears were like an afterthought on his face; they didn’t change his expression.

  Emma slid an arm around his shoulder. “Thank you, Michael.”

  “I want to be able to help,” he continued, still staring at the burning logs. “But there’s nothing I can do.”

  “That more or less describes me,” Allison told him. “I don’t know how to fight. I don’t know how to defend myself against people who do. I don’t know how to stop the Queen of the Dead, and most of the people who might know are dead. Only Emma can see them.

  “Do you want to go home?”

  Michael shook his head. “I want to be at home. But I’m worried about Emma.” He paused, and then added, “I’m worried about you.”

  It was never helpful to lie to Michael. “I’m not worried about me,” she replied. “I’m terrified for Toby.” Looking up at the ceiling, she added, “If I get him back, I will never, ever threaten to strangle him again.”

  Michael said, “Yes. You will.”

  She laughed. It hurt. “Yes, you’re right. I probably will.”

  “But he knows you don’t mean it.” He paused. “Amy had an argument with her dad. On the phone.”

  “Her dad is a far braver man than I am. What about?”

  “I only heard Amy’s part. She’s angry because her father doesn’t trust her. But,” he added, frowning, his face falling into more familiar lines of confusion, “she doesn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth, either.”

  “She trusts him to be himself. But there’s no way he’s going to think that Amy is better prepar
ed, more knowledgeable, or more competent than he is. It’s just the way parents are. Except your mom,” she added quickly.

  Petal whined and looked hopeful. Allison took a deep, deep breath and held it, trying not to think about her baby brother. The last time she’d seen him—at dinner—she’d threatened to upend her plate over his head. He’d laughed. She wanted to ask where he’d been shot. She wanted to know what his injuries were. But her mouth was too dry, and she couldn’t find the words for it.

  Emma’s eyes were red.

  Allison found space on the couch between the arm and Emma and put an arm around her best friend’s shoulder. She didn’t tell her that everything was okay; it wasn’t. They both knew it. She didn’t tell her that things would be okay, because at this exact moment, she couldn’t see how that would ever happen again.

  She settled for a silence that contained them both: the arm across Emma’s shoulder a bridge, a connection that said, I’m here. Or, in this case, we’re in this together.

  Amy joined them. Amy never looked frightened or uncertain; when she was upset, she looked angry. She was clearly upset now. “I swear, I am going to disown my father.”

  “He called you again?” Emma asked, voice strained.

  Amy’s lip curled. “I called him. Don’t ask.” She exhaled. “He threatened to call the police to drag us all home.”

  “Wow, he really is worried. He’s going to being paying for that for—”

  “The rest of his natural life,” was Amy’s furious response.

  “You think he’ll do it?”

  “I wouldn’t bet against it yet. He’s—”

  “Angry?”

  “Enraged.”

  “At you?”

  Amy snorted. “No—I’m just collateral damage. He doesn’t understand the situation, and I can’t explain it. This is not improving his mood any.” She glared at the phone in her hand.

  “He knows what happened to my brother?” Allison asked.

  “I doubt it. I certainly didn’t tell him.”

  “He’s not a complete idiot. Do you think Skip talked?”

  Amy’s teeth snapped shut as the glare she was aiming at her phone sharpened. “I will kill him.”

  “If he did?”