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The frat boy slid off my dressing table. "Okay, show's over. You done good, Red. Now it's time to get to work. Be a real necromancer."
I uncapped my water and chugged.
"Cut the crap," he said. "I know you can—"
"—hear you. Yes, I can." I mopped my sweaty face with a towel. "But a dressing-room ambush really isn't a good way to get my attention."
His full lips twisted. "Oh, please. You think I'm going to peep at you undressing? You're, like, forty."
"I meant it's rude." I tossed the towel aside and grabbed my hairbrush. "If you'd like to talk, meet me at the rear doors in twenty minutes."
"Urn, no. I'm going to talk to you now, and I'm not leaving until I do."
Rule one of "how to win favors and influence necros"? Never threaten. I'd say if you're lucky enough to get one to listen, you should fall on your knees with gratitude. But that might be pushing it. A simple "okay, thanks" will do.
I'm not heartless. In fact, in the last few years, I've made a real effort to listen to ghosts, and I'd had every intention of hearing this one out. But he was fast blowing his chance.
I turned to the mirror and brushed out my hair, pins clinking to the floor.
"Don't turn your back on me," the ghost said.
"I'm not. I said I'll be ready in twenty minutes."
He walked through the dressing table, planting himself between the mirror and me. "Fine. How about this?"
He shimmered, then shot back, clothing drenched with blood, stomach ripped open, safety glass shards studding his intestines. A brain-splattered metal rod protruded from his ear. One eye bounced on his cheek.
I fell back. "Oh my God! No, please. Not the death body. I'll do whatever you want!"
I recovered and reached through his intestines for my cold cream. "Do you really think you're the first spook who's tried that? I've seen decapitations, burnings, drownings, bear maulings, electrocution ..." I leaned to see my reflection past the rod sticking from his head. "A couple of years ago, there was this one ghost who'd been cut almost in half. Industrial accident, I guess. That one did give me a start. But car accidents? Pfft."
I met his eyes—or the one still in its socket. "Did you see that segment on E! last month? About celebrities addicted to plastic surgery? They talk and it's like watching a ventriloquist dummy. Only their mouths move. That scares me." I went into the bathroom to wash my face. The ghost followed. He changed back to his regular body, but stood behind me, arms crossed. Now, I've played this game before, and I could usually hold out longer than any ghost. But then my cell phone rang.
Even without the special ring tone, I'd have known it was my boyfriend Jeremy. He always called me after a show to see how it went and he always timed it perfectly, giving me a chance to wind down but catching me before I headed out for a postshow talk with my staff.
The call also reminded me that he was coming to Seattle after my Friday show. Our schedules only allow weekend visits every couple of months, and there was no way in hell I was spending this one with a ghost in residence.
So I told Jeremy I'd call back, then said to the ghost, "What do you want?"
"My cousin died in the same accident as me. I want you to open his coffin."
"I'm not a grave digger."
"He isn't in the ground. Our family has a mausoleum."
"And why would I want to open his coffin?" He looked down his nose at me, not easy when he was no more than my five foot six. "Because I said so. You're a necromancer. You serve the dead. I'm dead. So serve."
Of course, I said no, in increasingly descriptive ways. Of course, he didn't let it go at that.
The problem with refusing a ghost's request is that you can't just walk away. Wherever you can go, they can go. At my staff meeting, Frat Boy stood between me and my staff and shouted the Pledge of Allegiance. When I called Jeremy back, he mocked and mimicked my conversation. In the rented limo, he sat on my lap and switched in and out of his death body.
Being unable to touch anything in the living world squashes a ghost's threat potential. But they can be damned a
When it came time for my shower, I declared war. I've had enough ghostly Peeping Toms to get over any modesty, but Frat Boy would do more insulting than ogling, and as healthy as my ego was, I didn't need a twenty-year-old studying me for signs of sagging and cellulite.
So I filled a censer with vervain, set it alight and banished him. A temporary measure that worked until 4:10 a.m., when the herbs burned up and I woke to him screaming the Pledge in my ear. I added more vervain and went back to sleep.
When I woke, there was no sign of Chuck. I had no idea what the ghost's name was, but he looked like a Charles Willingham the Third or something equally pretentious— he reeked of money and privilege, too much of both, the smell as strong as BO and just as offensive. If he was a Charles, I'm sure he'd be Chas. I'd call him Chuck.
Not seeing him that morning, I hoped that meant he was gone and naming him was premature. The last bit of vervain still smoldered, though. When it disappeared, he'd come back.
I added another pinch, then noticed I was getting low. That happens when I'm on tour. There's a limit to how much dried plant material you can take on a plane. Even if I explain I'm a spiritualist and produce documentation, a satchel of dehydrated herbs begs for a trip to the little white room and a visit from Mr. Hand.
Half of my remaining vervain gave me time to dress and escape. But as I walked into the TV station that afternoon, Chuck found me, and I spent the next half hour with a ghost prancing naked between the interviewer and me. Though I kept my cool, I knew my distraction would show—eyes a little too round, gaze darting a little too often, laugh a little too shrill. That wouldn't do. Part of my appeal is that, yes, I can be spacey, but in a ditzy C-list celebrity way, not one that screams "I just got my day pass."
Afterward, sitting in the cab, listening to Chuck do a standup routine of sexist jokes, I envisioned him harassing me through my Friday show and into my weekend.
I can take abuse, but there are two things no one interferes with: work and Jeremy. The warning shots hadn't scared this guy away. Time to haul out the howitzer.
Normally, my "big gun" comes in the form of a sword-wielding, ass-kicking spirit bodyguard. Eve is a half-demon and a part-time angel, proving even the afterlife has moved to nondiscriminatory hiring practices. But when Eve is on a celestial stint, she's incommunicado. So I had to do this myself. That meant the heavy-duty banishing ritual, one that required a lot of time, effort and ingredients. The last was the sticking point. Vervain wasn't the only herb I was low on. So I placed a call to my West Coast supplier.
Paige is a witch who lives in Portland and has everything a spellcaster or necromancer could need. She doesn't sell the stuff. She's just better organized than me ... or anyone else I know.
It was still late afternoon, and Paige never went home early, so I called the office.
"Cortez-Winterbourne Demon Hunters," a voice sang. "Get 'em slayed before you get flayed."
"That's new."
"Yeah, needs work, though. The rhythm's off." A pause and a double thump, and I imagined Sava
Sava
"Lucas is off in Chicago defending a client," she said. "Paige and Adam are in San Fran with Cass, checking out a vamp problem. Guess who's stuck behind answering the phone? I told Paige that's why God invented voicemail. But now I have a feeling my week is looking up. So what kind of trouble are you in? Kidnapped again?"