Hold Me Closer, Necromancer (Necromancer Series, 1) - Hardcover

McBride, Lish

3.9

17,488 ratings by Goodreads

9780805090987: Hold Me Closer, Necromancer (Necromancer Series, 1)

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0805090983 ISBN 13: 9780805090987

Publisher: Henry Holt and Co. (BYR), 2010

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Sam leads a pretty normal life. He may not have the most exciting job in the world, but he's doing all right―until a fast food prank brings him to the attention of Douglas, a creepy guy with an intense violent streak.

Turns out Douglas is a necromancer who raises the dead for cash and sees potential in Sam. Then Sam discovers he's a necromancer too, but with strangely latent powers. And his worst nightmare wants to join forces . . . or else.

With only a week to figure things out, Sam needs all the help he can get. Luckily he lives in Seattle, which has nearly as many paranormal types as it does coffee places. But even with newfound friends, will Sam be able to save his skin?

Hold Me Closer, Necromancer is a 2011 Bank Street - Best Children's Book of the Year.

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About the Author:

Lish McBride grew up in the Pacific Northwest. It rains a lot there, but she likes it anyway. She spent three years away while she got her MFA in fiction from the University of New Orleans, where she managed to survive the hurricane. She enjoys reading, having geek-laden conversations about movies, comics, and zombies with her friends, and of course trying to wear pajamas as much as humanly possible. She lives happily in Seattle with her family, two cats, and one very put-upon Chihuahua. Hold Me Closer, Necromancer was her debut novel and was named an American Library Association Best Book for Young Adults and was a finalist for the YALSA William C. Morris Award.

Hold Me Closer, NecromancerChapter 1 Dead Man’s Party

I stood in front of today’s schedule still holding my skateboard, still drenched from the ride over, and still desperately wishing that I hadn’t dropped out of college. But wishing wouldn’t erase Sam from the counter slot and rewrite it under the grill slot. No matter what, my job kind of sucks, but on the grill it sucks less. On the grill, you don’t have to handle customers. Something about the fast food uniform makes people think it’s okay to treat you like crap. Personally, I’m always polite to anyone who handles my food. There are lots of horrible things that can be done to your meal before it gets to your plate.

Maybe I could switch? No, the schedule told me Ramon worked grill today. Nothing short of fifty bucks and a twelve-pack would have made him switch, and I didn’t have either of those. I groaned and leaned my head against the wall.

Someone walked in after me and slapped me on the shoulder. “Should’ve stayed in school,” he said.

I recognized Ramon’s voice without opening my eyes. Not surprising, since I’d known Ramon since sixth grade. I wasn’t shocked by his lack of sympathy, either.

“You didn’t drop out, and yet you’re still here,” I said, rolling my head to the side to look at him.

“What, and leave my man Sammy all alone? What kind of friend would that make me?”

“A smart one.”

He laughed and tossed his black hoodie on the coat hooks, trading the sweatshirt for an apron. I did the same, but with much less enthusiasm.

Ramon was the only person who called me Sammy. Everyone else called me Sam, even my mom, except when she was pissed and did the full-name thing.

I signed on to my register slowly, glad that nobody stood at the counter waiting to be helped. While the manager, Kevin, counted and checked my till, I stared at the pictogram of a burger nestled between similar representations of shakes, sodas, and fries on the front of my register. I wondered why humankind seemed so dead set on destroying all of its accomplishments. We draw on cave walls, spend thousands of years developing complex language systems, the printing press, computers, and what do we do with it? Create a cash register with the picture of a burger on it, just in case the cashier didn’t finish the second grade. One step forward, two steps back—like an evolutionary cha-cha. Working here just proved that the only things separating me from a monkey was pants. And no prehensile tail, which I wish I had. Oh, the applications.

My name is Samhain Corvus LaCroix, and I am a fry cook. I tried to take some pride where I could. If I was going to be a dropout loser, then I was going to be the best dropout loser. That pride came with some complications because it always depressed me to spot anyone, short of a manager, working fast food over the age of eighteen. I didn’t look in any mirrors until I got home and out of my uniform. It was better that way.

“There you go, Sam.” Kevin shut my till and wandered off. We had a bet going to try and guess what it was he did in his office. Frank was pretty sure he was into some sort of online role-playing game, Ramon thought he was planning to take over the yakuza, and Brooke was convinced that he had a crippling addiction to romance novels. These all sounded plausible, except for Ramon’s, though he insisted he had proof, but I didn’t think Kevin could be that interesting. He probably just slept. Kevin also had the misfortune of sharing his name with my biological dad, so Ramon referred to our manager as the Lesser of Two Kevins. I slapped on my name tag and settled in.

I had my mom to thank for my name. My dad took his sweet time showing up to my birth, and in an uncharacteristic moment of spite, she named me Samhain just to tick him off. Apparently my dad wanted to name me Richard or Steve or something. But Mom got there first, and since I happened to be born on the happy pagan holiday of Samhain, well, there you go. I’m just lucky I wasn’t born on Presidents’ Day. She might have named me Abraham Lincoln, and there is no way I could pull off a stovepipe hat.

To retaliate, my dad started calling me Sam, since he said Sowin—which is how Samhain is pronounced—sounded funny.

Their divorce surprised no one.

The Plumpy’s crowd was in a lull, so I watched Frank, the other counter jockey, triple-check his condiments, napkins, and the rest of his fast food accoutrements. Frank was younger than me, and so he still had a little enthusiasm for his work. Brooke, Ramon, and I had all started a pool on how long it would take for this place to suck the life out of him. If he cracked next week, I got ten bucks. Brooke had this week, and she was doing her best to get Frank to break early.

Brooke left her station at the drive-thru window and sauntered over to the milkshake machine. I wasn’t much older than Brooke, but she was young enough and tiny enough that Ramon and I both spent more time protecting her than ogling her. Not that we couldn’t do both, really. I just felt a little dirty after. But I couldn’t help my programming, and Brooke looked like a cheerleader in a dairy commercial: bouncy blond ponytail, clear blue eyes, and a wholesome smile that could turn any guy into man-putty. Frank didn’t stand a chance because, although she tended to be a sweet girl, she could be devious when she wanted something. I probably wouldn’t get my ten dollars.

Brooke finished pouring a large strawberry shake, snapped the lid on, and turned to look at Frank while she took a long sip from the straw. He ogled. I watched as she slid her hand over and flipped the machine’s off switch. Frank manned register one and was responsible for the milkshake machine. He missed the tiny movement, his eyes intent on her lips as they wrapped around the straw. She sauntered back to her station, and I wondered how long it would be until Frank noticed the machine was no longer chugging behind him. If she kept on the offensive, Brooke would have him in tears before the weekend.

After about two hours, a dozen surly customers, and a minor shake machine malfunction, I decided to take a quick break. Frank could mop up shake mix and man the counter. Sure, the mess might make him crack early, but if I helped him, he’d never learn. And really, wasn’t learning more important? I saluted him and hopped over the mess, stepping out back with Ramon. On the way, I grabbed my broom and the doorstop so we could leave the back door open in case someone needed to shout for us.

Ramon had quit smoking a year ago, but he never let that get in the way of a good smoke break. I had never smoked in the first place, but that didn’t keep me from taking one, either. And since the rain had finally vamoosed, nothing stood between us and a decent game of potato hockey.

It is a relatively straightforward game. You get a medium-sized potato and two brooms, designate the goal areas, and you’re ready to go. Today Ramon defended the garbage bin by Plumpy’s back door, and I defended a shiny silver Mercedes because, according to Ramon, it represented the privileged white aristocracy of America trying to keep the Latino man down.

“Our duel,” Ramon said, spinning his broom like a bo staff, “will represent the struggle our nation’s currently engaged in.”

“Please, we both know you’re just going for home team advantage.”

“You wound me, Sam. I can’t help it if your crackerlike oppression gives me the better playing field.” He did a quick hamstring stretch. “Suck it up.”

“Fine,” I said, “then I get the handicap.”

“Sam, you’re Texas. Texas always gets the handicap.”

“I’m Team Texas again?”

He grinned, rolled his shoulders, and wiggled his arms, loosening them.

I gave up and nodded at the Mercedes. It looked old and expensive, especially in our parking lot. “Shiny.”

Ramon snorted. “Classic. Check out the gullwing doors.”

“Fine. Classic Shiny.”

Ramon tossed an empty Plumpy’s cup into the Dumpster. “Sometimes, Sammy, I question your manhood.”

“A car is to get you from place to place. That’s it.”

Ramon shook his head at my ignorance.

“Whatever. Just try not to dent the car, Team Mexico.”

“It’s Team South America,” he said.

“You do know that Mexico is in North America, right?”

“Yeah, but I have the whole continent behind me.” He held up his fist dramatically. “They support their cousin to the north.” I laughed and he dropped his hand back down. “And it’s that guy’s own fault for parking in our lot so he could sneak over to Eddie Bauer or Starbucks or whatever.”

UVillage was an open-air shopping orgy that sat behind Plumpy’s restaurant. Between the Gap, Abercrombie, and not one but two freestanding Starbucks, the place attracted a certain clientele that rubbed Ramon the wrong way. Mostly because UVillage had its own parking structure but their customers still parked over here because it was slightly closer. I didn’t know why that pissed him off. He didn’t like Plumpy’s either. Maybe it was the principle of the thing. I was more disgusted than annoyed by the effort put forth by people just so they didn’t have to walk ten extra feet.

I leaned down to tie my shoe, the leather pouch around my neck sliding out from under my shirt. I slid it back in without really thinking about it. A habit born from years of repetition. Personally, I didn’t think UVillage was totally awful. Some of the food was good, and I found it hard to hate the bookstore. Of course, the bookstor...

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