Haunted
Page 11
"Can you see him?" the host whispered.
"Her. It's a woman. "Jaime paused for effect. "A witch."
A murmured gasp from the audience.
"Not a real witch, of course," Jaime said, her voice taking the soft singsong tone of a storyteller. "Though she thought she was. Thought she was all-powerful, but she wasn't."
" Excuse me?"
"She lived by violence, and died by it. And now she's a tormented, lonely spirit, caught between the worlds, looking for redemption."
I snorted.
"And if she's not,"—Jaime aimed another glare my way—"she should be, because she has a lot to atone for."
I rolled my eyes and walked off the stage.
In the wings, I prepared a second plan of attack. When Jaime stepped off the stage ten minutes later, I fell into step beside her.
"Okay, now that you have that off your chest, let's talk. Obviously you know who I am."
She kept walking.
"You want a formal introduction?" I said. "Fine. I'm Eve Levine, ghost. You're Jaime Vegas, necromancer. Now, what I need is—"
She had veered around a corner before I noticed. I had to backtrack and jog to catch up.
"I know you can hear me," I said. "And see me. So let's cut the crap and—"
She turned into an open dressing room and slammed the door.
I followed. "Maybe I can walk through doors, but that doesn't give you any right to slam them on me. It's still rude."
"Rude?" she said, spinning on me so fast I took an involuntary step back. "Rude? You just—the most important spot of my career, the chance of a lifetime and you—"
Her hand flew to her mouth. She dove into the bathroom and leaned over the toilet, gagging.
"If it makes you feel any better, she has the same effect on me."
Jaime wheeled, eyes flashing. She pulled herself to her full height… at least five inches below my six feet.
Very intimidating.
"Find yourself another necro, Eve. One who's stupid enough to let you speak to Savannah. And my advice? When you find one, at least make some effort to follow proper protocol. That shit you pulled out there may have worked in life, but it doesn't work now."
There was a proper protocol? Damn.
Jaime stalked past me into the dressing room. When I followed, I found her rooting through an oversize makeup bag. She took out a bowl and a few pouches of herbs.
"A banishing mixture?" I said. "Look, Jaime, I know you don't do a lot of real necromancy, so I'll let you in on a little secret. That mixture only works on human ghosts. For it to work on a supernatural, you have to be a damned good necromancer and, no offense, but—"
Someone jostled me from behind. A physical jostle that, considering I was in the living world, should have been impossible… which meant that whoever hit me had to be another ghost.
"Watch where you're going there, sweetheart."
I looked over my shoulder to see a guy about a half foot shorter than me, dressed in spats and a straw hat, with a machine gun slung over one shoulder. He grinned, tipped his hat, and slid past.
I was on a sidewalk, across from a soot-crusted brick building with boarded-up windows and a sheet of paper plastered on the door. I sharpened my vision to read the paper on the door across the road. A notice of closure, in accordance with the Prohibition Act of 1920.
Ghost-world Chicago. Like most major cities in the afterlife, the landscape of Chicago was frozen in its heyday, and many of the residents, like the portly gangster, played along with the period. But if I was here, that meant Jaime really had banished me. Damn.
There were ways to avoid banishing. A few months before, Kristof had needed a necro's help, and went to one who owed him major favors. Guy made the mistake of thinking Kristof's death canceled out those IOUs, then made the even bigger mistake of trying to banish Kristof when he came to collect. Kris had done something that rendered the necro's banishing powers impotent for the next few months, a reminder that you didn't screw with a Nast—even a dead one.
So all I had to do was track down Kristof and ask for his help. Sounds easy enough… except for the part about asking Kristof for help. Oh, he'd give it to me—without a moment's hesitation and with no expectation of anything in return. That was the problem. When I took something, I always gave something back—no favors owed, no debt remaining. While I counted Kris as a friend—the best I had in the ghost world—I hated asking him for anything. I'd taken enough from him already. Better to try again on my own.
Jaime's dressing room was empty.
"Damn," I muttered.
There were ways to track a necro, but I hadn't bothered to learn them. We were in Chicago, in late March. If she'd left the building, she'd have taken her coat, which was gone, as was her purse. But the suitcase with her outfit for the show was still here. I remembered her bout of dry heaves earlier, and guessed she'd gone onstage with an empty stomach. Now she'd likely slipped out for chow.
I considered dropping in on Savannah, giving Jaime time to eat and return. ltd only been a few hours since my last check-in, but a lot can happen to a teenage girl in a few hours. And yet… well, I had Jaime in my sights, and I hated to veer off track, even for Savannah. I'd almost certainly have time for a check-in after dealing with Jaime, as I waited for the Fates to prepare Janah. Better to stay on the trail for now.
I found Jaime a few doors down, sitting at a cafe window, pushing salad around her plate.
"Doesn't look very appetizing to me, either," I said.
This time she didn't jump, just turned and glared.
"You know what I don't get?" I said, taking the seat across from her. "How they can serve weeds like dandelion greens and expect people to pay triple what they would for regular lettuce."
"Leave me alone," she said, without moving her lips.
"I just want to talk to you."
"And this seems like a good place to do it?" she whispered. "Do you know what I'm doing right now? I'm talking to myself."
Her gaze cut to the table beside her, where an elderly woman stared, brow furrowed, at the poor woman carrying on a conversation with an empty chair.
"Damn. That is a problem."
"Her. It's a woman. "Jaime paused for effect. "A witch."
A murmured gasp from the audience.
"Not a real witch, of course," Jaime said, her voice taking the soft singsong tone of a storyteller. "Though she thought she was. Thought she was all-powerful, but she wasn't."
" Excuse me?"
"She lived by violence, and died by it. And now she's a tormented, lonely spirit, caught between the worlds, looking for redemption."
I snorted.
"And if she's not,"—Jaime aimed another glare my way—"she should be, because she has a lot to atone for."
I rolled my eyes and walked off the stage.
In the wings, I prepared a second plan of attack. When Jaime stepped off the stage ten minutes later, I fell into step beside her.
"Okay, now that you have that off your chest, let's talk. Obviously you know who I am."
She kept walking.
"You want a formal introduction?" I said. "Fine. I'm Eve Levine, ghost. You're Jaime Vegas, necromancer. Now, what I need is—"
She had veered around a corner before I noticed. I had to backtrack and jog to catch up.
"I know you can hear me," I said. "And see me. So let's cut the crap and—"
She turned into an open dressing room and slammed the door.
I followed. "Maybe I can walk through doors, but that doesn't give you any right to slam them on me. It's still rude."
"Rude?" she said, spinning on me so fast I took an involuntary step back. "Rude? You just—the most important spot of my career, the chance of a lifetime and you—"
Her hand flew to her mouth. She dove into the bathroom and leaned over the toilet, gagging.
"If it makes you feel any better, she has the same effect on me."
Jaime wheeled, eyes flashing. She pulled herself to her full height… at least five inches below my six feet.
Very intimidating.
"Find yourself another necro, Eve. One who's stupid enough to let you speak to Savannah. And my advice? When you find one, at least make some effort to follow proper protocol. That shit you pulled out there may have worked in life, but it doesn't work now."
There was a proper protocol? Damn.
Jaime stalked past me into the dressing room. When I followed, I found her rooting through an oversize makeup bag. She took out a bowl and a few pouches of herbs.
"A banishing mixture?" I said. "Look, Jaime, I know you don't do a lot of real necromancy, so I'll let you in on a little secret. That mixture only works on human ghosts. For it to work on a supernatural, you have to be a damned good necromancer and, no offense, but—"
Someone jostled me from behind. A physical jostle that, considering I was in the living world, should have been impossible… which meant that whoever hit me had to be another ghost.
"Watch where you're going there, sweetheart."
I looked over my shoulder to see a guy about a half foot shorter than me, dressed in spats and a straw hat, with a machine gun slung over one shoulder. He grinned, tipped his hat, and slid past.
I was on a sidewalk, across from a soot-crusted brick building with boarded-up windows and a sheet of paper plastered on the door. I sharpened my vision to read the paper on the door across the road. A notice of closure, in accordance with the Prohibition Act of 1920.
Ghost-world Chicago. Like most major cities in the afterlife, the landscape of Chicago was frozen in its heyday, and many of the residents, like the portly gangster, played along with the period. But if I was here, that meant Jaime really had banished me. Damn.
There were ways to avoid banishing. A few months before, Kristof had needed a necro's help, and went to one who owed him major favors. Guy made the mistake of thinking Kristof's death canceled out those IOUs, then made the even bigger mistake of trying to banish Kristof when he came to collect. Kris had done something that rendered the necro's banishing powers impotent for the next few months, a reminder that you didn't screw with a Nast—even a dead one.
So all I had to do was track down Kristof and ask for his help. Sounds easy enough… except for the part about asking Kristof for help. Oh, he'd give it to me—without a moment's hesitation and with no expectation of anything in return. That was the problem. When I took something, I always gave something back—no favors owed, no debt remaining. While I counted Kris as a friend—the best I had in the ghost world—I hated asking him for anything. I'd taken enough from him already. Better to try again on my own.
Jaime's dressing room was empty.
"Damn," I muttered.
There were ways to track a necro, but I hadn't bothered to learn them. We were in Chicago, in late March. If she'd left the building, she'd have taken her coat, which was gone, as was her purse. But the suitcase with her outfit for the show was still here. I remembered her bout of dry heaves earlier, and guessed she'd gone onstage with an empty stomach. Now she'd likely slipped out for chow.
I considered dropping in on Savannah, giving Jaime time to eat and return. ltd only been a few hours since my last check-in, but a lot can happen to a teenage girl in a few hours. And yet… well, I had Jaime in my sights, and I hated to veer off track, even for Savannah. I'd almost certainly have time for a check-in after dealing with Jaime, as I waited for the Fates to prepare Janah. Better to stay on the trail for now.
I found Jaime a few doors down, sitting at a cafe window, pushing salad around her plate.
"Doesn't look very appetizing to me, either," I said.
This time she didn't jump, just turned and glared.
"You know what I don't get?" I said, taking the seat across from her. "How they can serve weeds like dandelion greens and expect people to pay triple what they would for regular lettuce."
"Leave me alone," she said, without moving her lips.
"I just want to talk to you."
"And this seems like a good place to do it?" she whispered. "Do you know what I'm doing right now? I'm talking to myself."
Her gaze cut to the table beside her, where an elderly woman stared, brow furrowed, at the poor woman carrying on a conversation with an empty chair.
"Damn. That is a problem."
