Savannah barked a laugh. "You think you're in any position to bargain?"
"I'll offer the same deal," I said. "If you help me, I'll contact Mike."
Molly scowled.
"In that case, how about this deal: you answer my questions in return for me forgetting who killed him."
I TOLD her the story again.
"First piece of advice?" she said. "Go back and take a hard look at whoever is giving you this cock-and-bull."
"Cock-and-bull?"
"Someone's having you on. Feeding you bullshit."
"I've tried contacting these spirits myself and--"
A brittle smile my way. "Step one, then, would be to find a better necromancer. Either there are no spirits or they're in on the game. Whoever came up with this story doesn't know jack shit about magic. They trolled the Internet or maybe checked out a few reference books at the library. What they researched isn't our magic. It's human magic."
"Human magic?"
"In human folk magic, you kill someone to drain his energy, his power, and take it for yourself."
Savannah made a rude noise, summing up her opinion of humans.
"But human magic doesn't work," I said.
Molly pinned me with a withering look. "No kidding, which is why I said someone's pulling your leg."
I looked at Savannah.
"She's right about this not sounding like a sacrificial ritual. Same as Paige and Lucas said. But if you've tried contacting them yourself, then it's not a problem of power."
Molly rolled her eyes.
"Could the ghosts be playing a trick?" Savannah said. "That does happen, doesn't it?"
"A trained necromancer can tell if she's being played."
A sniff from Molly.
"You say it sounds like a human's version of magic," I said. "Could that be what it is? The results of humans sacrificing people in some kind of fake black-magic ritual?"
Molly and Savannah looked at each other. In that exchanged look, all grudges seemed forgotten--sister witches considering an academic question.
"What does happen when humans play at ritual sacrifice?" Savannah said, half asking, half musing. "They can't get any powers from it, but does anything happen to the soul of the person they kill?"
Molly said, "If it did, necromancers would have seen this kind of thing before."
"So maybe it doesn't happen every time. But under certain circumstances..."
"Who can tell with humans--the lengths they'll go to in pursuit of magical powers. Sacrificing babies? Children? Torture? We have nothing on them."
So said the woman who, less than an hour ago, had been ready to put out my eyes with a red-hot stick. But I knew even Savannah would agree it wasn't the same thing. I'd been a threat. I'd knowingly walked into the house of a dark witch, so one could argue that I'd taken my chances. It wasn't the same as killing a baby in hopes of receiving some magical boon.
Savannah and Molly discussed this further but came to no conclusions. Investigating human magic would be a wise next step, but not something either of them could help with.
When we finished, the sun was setting.
Savannah said to Molly, "Your kids are at a friend's place, right?"
She nodded.
"So they'll be fine if you're later than you expected. Here's what I'm going to do. First, I'm not untying your hands. That's your job. Second, I'm leaving you in a binding spell. When I'm far enough away, it'll snap and you can walk to the parking lot, find your phone, make that tow-truck call. But if you come after us--now or later--you're launching a council investigation into Mike's death."
AS WE drove to Molly's neighborhood to find Jeremy, Savannah explained how she'd followed me, but stayed back until it was obvious I needed help.
"What gave it away?" I said. "When she loaded me bound and gagged into the back of her truck? Or when she actually said 'I am now ready to kill you and throw your body in the swamp'?"
"Hey, for a while there, it looked like you were going to talk your way out of it. I didn't want to interfere."
In other words, she'd been giving me a chance to escape on my own.
"Don't feel bad," she continued. "It's not your fault you don't get the cool superpowers."
"Thanks."
She threw a grin my way.
I picked twigs from my hair, then checked my reflection in the visor mirror. "I do appreciate you coming after me, Savannah. When I tell the story to the council, I'll leave your name out of it."
She hesitated, then shook her head. "No. I'd better come clean now or it'll bite me in the ass later, and I'll get in more shit for making you cover for me. I'll take my licks. But if you could..." A glance my way. "You know, tone it down a bit? Maybe leave out the koyut spell?"
"So long as you tone down the 'I had to rescue Jaime again' part."
A grateful grin. "Agreed."
AS SAVANNAH circled Molly's block, I saw a flash of someone through the slats of Molly's fence.
"There's Jeremy," I said. "In her backyard."
"Where?" she squinted into the near dark. "Ah. There. Good eyes."
She didn't add a sly remark about my uncanny Jeremy radar. I flatter myself that Savannah doesn't know how I feel about him, but if she doesn't, she's the only one.
She pulled over as Jeremy leapt the fence, taking it as easily as a two-foot hurdle.
"I'd better let you out here and hightail it back home before Paige calls out the National Guard."
"Running off before I can tell him what happened?"
"Running as fast as I can, but tell him I said hi and I'll see him at Thanksgiving." She paused. "On second thought, don't mention that part or they're all liable to decide that keeping me from going to Stonehaven is a suitable punishment."
WHEN I crossed the road, Jeremy was gone. Standing in front of Molly's house, I had a strong sense of deja vu...and an even stronger sense that standing here really wasn't a bright idea. I pictured Molly arriving home to find the necromancer who'd escaped her clutches hanging out on her front lawn.
I was looking for a safer place to stand when a voice behind me said, "Hello, Jaime."
I wheeled so fast I tripped over my own feet. Fingers clasped my forearm, steadying me. I looked up into a face with high cheekbones and slightly slanted black eyes. Dark hair fell over his forehead as he leaned forward. I resisted the urge to reach up and push it back...then lift onto my tiptoes, press my lips against his, my body against--
Damn it, was I ever going to see Jeremy and not start blushing like a schoolgirl? It was ridiculous. I'd had erotic fantasies about men right in front of their noses and never batted an eye. With Jeremy, even the thought had me in vapors.
"Jeremy," I managed.
"I'm sorry," he said, still holding my arm. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"We need to bell you, like a cat."
A twitch of his lips. Not much of a smile, but I knew it was one.
"So," I continued, "you could follow my trail from the coffee shop."
"Not easy in the daylight, when I can't crouch to sniff the sidewalk. Fortunately, your perfume is distinctive."
"It's worth the price, then."
He released my arm and gave me a once-over, and while I'd love to think he was checking out my hot new outfit, I knew the truth--he was trying to figure out what had happened. He plucked a leaf from my hair.
"I ran into some trouble," I said.
"So I see."
His voice and expression were impassive, but he was worried. With Jeremy, the emotional signs were never obvious.
His gaze flitted toward Molly's house.
"She's...tied up for a while. But you're right, talking here probably isn't a wise idea."
"I didn't say that."
"No, but you were thinking it. Come on, then. Let's get someplace safer and I'll explain."
As we walked down the street, I snuck another look at him. Just over six feet, he was lean and athletic, though that side of him rarely showed...unless he wa
s leaping over six-foot fences. Not the kind of maneuver you'd expect from a fifty-eight-year-old, but it was easy to forget how old Jeremy was. Werewolves age slowly and--with silver just starting to thread through his dark hair, and shallow lines around his mouth--I'd peg him at my age, if that.
Paige swore Jeremy had Asian blood, presumably from his mother, but there was no use asking him; he knew nothing about the woman. She'd disappeared from his life shortly after his birth. That was the world of werewolves, where mothers and sisters played no role, wives were unheard of and even lovers came and went quickly. Elena was the exception--the only living female werewolf.
It was a world of men. The Pack and its bonds were everything, and everyone else was an outsider. And this was the man I'd fallen in love with--the leader of a world in which I would always be "the other." My heart, it seemed, could be as feckless as my brain.
"Here," he said, guiding me into a darkened playground.
His fingers rested on my arm as he steered me, and I found myself trying not to read too much into the casual contact that tingled up my arm. Yet it did mean something. Werewolves, while very physical with one another, don't extend that attitude toward others. Clay, the most wolflike of the Pack, avoids even handshakes. Elena's politer about it, but I figured out early on that she wasn't someone I should greet with a hug.
Jeremy doesn't avoid contact, but doesn't initiate it either. In the last year or so, though, that's changed.
I found myself evaluating his touch. Gripping me tighter than usual? Lingering longer? I searched for a sign that something had changed--that something was about to change, proof that he'd come here to take that next step. A lot to read into a touch, and, of course, I couldn't.
The park was barely half the size of the small surrounding lots, just enough room for the developers to plop down swings, a slide and a bench and say, "Look, we gave you a playground." It was dark now, the equipment deserted.
Jeremy motioned me to the bench. "I'd like to check that blow to your head."
"How--? Oh, you smell the blood."
I pointed to the spot. He brushed my hair aside, then examined it, his touch so light I barely felt it. Then he checked my pupils and asked whether I was feeling nauseous or experiencing any pain other than at the point of impact. I wasn't.
"I'll need to keep an eye on you, to ensure it isn't a concussion, but it seems fine. Now..." He sat beside me on the bench. "What happened?"
I told him.
AS WE waited for a taxi, I pulled the jacket tighter against the bitter wind. Jeremy's jacket. He'd offered, and I'd hated taking it, but as the sun dropped so had the temperature.
I looked up at him. "Ghosts do play pranks. I've had it happen. But these ones are breaching the physical barrier. That is different."
"I know. But about this human folk magic business, I'm not sure what to make of it. I don't know enough about magic to give an educated opinion."
"Well, I'm not the best-informed supernatural around, but even I know that human magic doesn't work. Robert would be our best source on that."
Jeremy stared down the street, his expression unreadable. "I don't suppose there's any need to follow up with Molly Crane, something we might discover by breaking into her house later or interrogating her further."
I shook my head.
"Did she give you any other contacts? Let a name slip? Another dark-magic practitioner or black-market contact we should investigate?"
"Nothing."
He looked almost disappointed. Then he said, with a soft sigh, "I suppose it's on to Robert, then. I'll call the airport and see when we can get a flight to San Francisco or San Jose."
"One there for you and one to L.A. for me, I'm afraid. I need to be back on the set first thing in the morning."
"Ah. Of course." His gaze dipped away and I was certain he did look disappointed. Then he cleared his throat. "I'll see Robert alone, then, and come to L.A. tomorrow. I'll help him with the preliminary research, to be polite, but I'll get away as soon as I can."
II
This was always the hardest part. Not only was it delicate work, but the smell was enough to unsettle even the strongest stomach. It didn't bother her as much as it did the others, and it wasn't so much the smell itself as the thought of what was burning.
They'd been careful not to use too much gasoline on the boy, but the flames had still licked the artifacts high above the concrete floor. An interesting experiment, but not one they were likely to repeat...not unless this material proved significantly better than the rest.
She adjusted her mask and checked the temperature on their tiny version of a cremation oven, designed to incinerate the organs, which was all they needed.
This oven burned at a lower temperature than ones used by funeral homes, so only the soft tissue turned to ash. Even then an auxiliary power supply was necessary. In Brentwood, a power spike would likely be attributed to marijuana growing and ignored--there were better uses for the police budget than stopping movie stars and pop singers growing a little weed--but it was always safest to provide no excuse for investigation.
After they'd taken the organs from the body, they'd needed to dispose of the remainder. Burning an entire corpse wasn't feasible. The boy's body--larger than that of their previous cases--would have been difficult to transport whole. So Don had recruited Murray's help, and they'd cut the body in two so they could carry it out in reinforced garbage bags.
It was then that Murray had snapped. Odd, she mused as she unraveled the bolt of cheesecloth. After all they'd been through together, it had been helping Don bisect the corpse that had done it.
Tina had calmed him down. She was good at that, one advantage to having a psychologist in the group. To reap the magic, they had to do things that were bound to affect the weaker among them, but Tina could always get the shaky back on track...and assess how likely they were to stay there.
The door opened, and Don walked in, nose wrinkling. She pointed at the stack of surgical masks, but he waved them away.
"How's Murray?" she asked.
"Better. Embarrassed about the whole thing now. Work's been stressful this past week."
She nodded. "It happens."
The timer sounded and she opened the oven, stepping back as heat poured out.
"He should take a vacation," she said as she examined the tray of gray and white ash.
"I'll suggest--"
"No. Insist."
Their eyes met. Don nodded.
"How was the new disposal site?" she asked.
"It's not as convenient as the garden, but it'll do."
She nodded. The terraced gardens had been convenient. Too convenient, and they'd used them more than they should have, with each disposal increasing the chance of being caught. Unacceptable.
She donned heavy gloves and shook the tray of ash, helping it cool faster.
"Looks like more this time," Don said, peering at it.
She smiled. "That's the advantage to using an older one."
PENALTY BOX
HAD MY TRIP TO PORTLAND and near-death experience put me any closer to banishing the spirits in the garden? I'd like to think so, but I was convinced I'd only made things worse. First, in the midst of problems on the set, I'd taken off, which wouldn't help. Second, Jeremy had finally joined me...only to leave again.
I needed to stop worrying about how to contact these ghosts and simply get rid of them.
My Nan raised me to regard ghosts the same way the average person sees door-to-door salespeople and telemarketers: an unavoidable nuisance of life, one that should be dealt with firmly and swiftly and, ultimately, ignored. As cruel as that sounds, it was rooted in self-preservation. Like salespeople, if you say yes to one, you'll suddenly be on the contact list for hundreds more. Rather than weed through the requests, taking only those you can manage, it's better to slam that door to all of them and walk away.
If I could speak to my Nan again, I'd ask her this: did it hurt you to say no and does it ever
stop hurting? She always acted as if it didn't bother her, so I feel that it shouldn't bother me, and when it does, I feel weak. As much as I long for the day when it will stop hurting, part of me dreads it too, because I'm not sure I ever want to be that hard, that cold.
But now I needed to be cold. I had to banish these spirits. So when I finally got back to the house, as the first light of dawn broke, I went to my room only long enough to retrieve my kit. Then I headed into the garden.
The moment I stepped out there something whizzed past me. Then the whispering started. Fingers brushed my hand. I kept walking until I reached the far rear corner, where I knelt in the shadows between the fence and a towering tiered garden bed, and tried to contact them one last time.
I performed each ritual methodically, completely focused on each step. As before, as long as I appeared to be trying to help them, they behaved, stroking my cheek or patting my hair as if telling me I was doing a good job. Though I still couldn't find any words in their whispers, I had a feeling that if I could, they'd be telling me to keep going, to keep trying.
I had to smile, reminded of when I'd first started doing this, under my Nan's guidance. I could see myself, kneeling in the basement of her old house, trying to summon a spirit. If I closed my eyes, I could feel her in those pats and caresses, hear her encouragement in those whispers.
When I tried to persuade the spirits--again--to find another way to communicate with me, they went silent at first, as if trying to do as I asked, but soon returned to the whispering, their caresses becoming pokes and prods. Like easily distracted children.
A chill raced through me.
When I did as they wanted, they caressed and patted me. Treating me as if I were a child? Or rewarding me in the only way they knew how.
I stood. A hand pulling at my top fell away, as did the one touching my hair. The whispering continued, but lower now. Fingers pulled at the edge of my skirt, like a child trying to get someone's attention. Pulling, poking, prodding...and when that failed, hitting and pinching.
Not possible. Necromancers rarely encountered child ghosts. There were stories of young-adult ghosts who'd made contact, and were later discovered to have died as children, then allowed to grow to physical maturity rather than spend their afterlife trapped in a child's body.
How would a child ghost remain a child? Only if it was caught between dimensions, unable to step into ours and get help, unable to pass over and grow up.