Touch by Michelle Sagara Page A

Nathan thinks he’s talking about Allison. Michael. Even
     his mother.
    “The rest of the Necromancers. Do you see them the same way?”
    “Only in comparison to my friends. They’re brighter, sharper. They catch the eye—but
     they wouldn’t have been able to catch my attention in the beginning. Not the way the
     Queen did.”
    “And Emma would.” It’s a question without any of the intonation.
    “Yes,” Nathan replies, voice softer. “But I can’t be objective.”
    Eric’s brow rises. “I don’t believe that.”
    “What do you see when you look at Emma?” Nathan strives for casual, now. For objective
     observer. Eric can touch Emma without burning.
    Eric closes his eyes. “I see a naive, bleeding heart with a collection of scrappy
     friends, a deaf dog, and a dead boyfriend.” He exhales, opens his eyes, and adds,
     “I see what you see. Tell me what the Queen of the Dead said to her . . . knights.”
    “She introduced us, more or less. She told them that if they touched me, if they mentioned
     me at all in any capacity, they’d be serving her in a ‘less advantageous way’ for
     the rest of eternity.”
    “She meant for you to come to Emma,” Eric says, voice flat.
    Nathan doesn’t argue. He wants to, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.
    “Have you spoken with the Queen since you arrived home?”
    “Yes. Once. She summoned me.” He slides hands into his pockets and regards Eric for
     a long moment, trying to decide whether or not to say what he’s thinking.
    Eric knows.
    “She’s waiting for you,” Nathan tells him. He’s not sure why.
    Eric slows; eventually he comes to a dead stop. Nathan’s not surprised to see that
     they’ve returned to the cemetery. There are no corpses in the street, no obvious signs
     of blood. No dead that Nathan can see.
    “Did she tell you that?” Eric asks, hands in his jacket pockets, balled in fists.
    “No.”
    “How do you know?”
    “There are two thrones in the throne room. They’re identical, at least to my eyes.
     I don’t know what the living see—the only living members of her Court are Necromancers,
     and it didn’t seem safe to ask. The Queen sits in the left-hand chair, if you’re facing
     her—and no one stands at her back.”
    “The chair on the right is empty?” When Nathan fails to answer, Eric turns.
    “Yes. And no.”
    “Which is it?” Eric asks, hands in pockets, eyes on the sidewalk just ahead of his
     feet.
    “It’s empty. But you can see an image—like a storybook ghost—seated in the chair.
     It’s her magic,” he adds softly.
    “You can tell that?”
    “Yes. By the light, the quality of the light.”
    “Whose image?” he asks, his voice dropping, his breath a small cloud of mist.
    “Yours.”
    Eric turns and walks away.
    * * *
    Nathan drifts to his grave. It doesn’t feel familiar, but it bears his name, and it’s
     where Emma was waiting for him. He touches the headstone, or tries; his hand passes
     through its marbled surface. Beneath his chiseled, shiny name, there are flowers.
    Eric eventually returns, as if Nathan is actually alive and can’t be deserted. “It’s
     not my image,” he says.
    “No. He’s not dressed the way you are.”
    “Please don’t tell me I’m wearing a dress.”
    Nathan laughs. “No. You’re not wearing armor, either. You are wearing a crown, though.”
    Eric snorts. “A crown.”
    “A big, heavy, ornate, impressive crown. There’s less blood and more gravitas.”
    “I bet. We’d better head back. Chase and Allison probably need a referee by now.”
     He starts to walk, stops, and says, “What have you told Emma?”
    Nathan follows, borrowing part of Eric’s silence. “Nothing,” he finally says. “When
     I’m with her, I can almost forget I’m dead. I don’t want the reminder. I don’t want
     a Queen. I don’t want to remind Emma of what the Necromancers represent.” It’s all
     true, but there’s more, and it’s harder. “I don’t want