The woman turned. Late thirties. Gorgeous. Bright red hair pinned up, with tendrils tumbling down around her neck. A shimmery emerald green silk dress, modestly cut, but tight enough not to leave any curve to the imagination. Dowdy wire-rimmed glasses completed the faux-professional ensemble. The old Hollywood "sex-goddess disguised as Miss Prim-and-Proper" routine. As the thought pinged through my brain, it triggered a wave of déjà vu. I'd seen this woman before, and thought exactly the same thing. Where…?
A sonorous male voice filled the room.
"The Meridian Theater proudly presents, for one night only, Jaime Vegas."
Jaime Vegas. Savannah's favorite television spiritualist.
Well, I'd found my necromancer.
Diva of the Dead
"I'm sensing a male presence," Jaime murmured, somehow managing to walk and talk with her eyes closed. She headed toward the back of the theater. "A man in his fifties, maybe early sixties, late forties. His name starts with an M. He's related to someone in this corner."
She swept her arm, encompassing the rear left third of the room, and at least a hundred people. I bit my tongue to keep from groaning. In the last hour, I'd bitten it so often I probably wouldn't be able to taste food for a week. Over a dozen people in the "corner" Jaime had indicated started waving their arms, and five leapt to their feet, spot-dancing with excitement. Hell, I was sure if anyone in this audience searched their memories hard enough they could find a Mark or a Mike or a Miguel in their family who'd died in middle age.
Jaime turned to the section with the highest concentration of hand-wavers. "His name is Michael, but he says no one ever called him that. He was always Mike, except when he was a little boy, and some people called him Mikey."
An elderly woman suddenly wailed, and bowed forward, sucker punched by grief. "Mikey. That's my Mikey. My little boy. I always called him that."
I tore my gaze away, my own eyes filling with angry tears as Jaime bore down on her like a shark scenting blood.
"Is it my Mikey?" the old woman said, barely intelligible through her tears.
"I think it is," Jaime said softly. "Wait… yes. He says he's your son. He's asking you to stop crying. He's in a good place and he's happy. He wants you to know that."
The woman mopped her streaming tears and tried to smile.
"There," Jaime said. "Now he wants me to mention the picture. He says you have a photograph of him on display. Is that right?"
"I-I have a few," she said.
"Ah, but he's talking about a certain one. He says it's the one he always hated. Do you know which one he means?"
The old woman smiled and nodded.
"He's laughing," Jaime said. "He wants me to give you heck for putting up that photo. He wants you to take that down and put up the one of him at the wedding. Does that make sense?"
"He probably means his niece's wedding," the woman said. "She got married right before he died."
Jaime looked off into space, eyes unfocused, head slightly tilted, as if hearing something no one else could. Then she shook her head. "No, it's another wedding picture. An older one. He says to look through the album and you'll find it. Now, speaking of weddings…"
And on it went, from person to person, as Jaime worked the crowd, throwing out "personal" information that could apply to almost any life-What parent doesn't display pictures of their kids? What person doesn't have photos they hate? Who doesn't have wedding photos in their albums?
Even when she misjudged, she was perceptive enough to read confusion on the recipient's face before they could say anything, backtrack, and "correct" herself. On the very few occasions that she completely struck out, she'd tell the person to "go home and think about it, and it'll come to you," as if their memory was to blame, not her.
This Jaime might really be a necromancer, but she wasn't using her skills here. As I'd told Savannah, no one-not even a necro-could "dial up the dead" like this. What Jaime Vegas did was a psychological con job, not far removed from psychics who tell young girls "I see wedding bells in your future." Having lost my mother the year before, I understood why these people were here, the void they ached to fill. For a necromancer to profit from that grief with false tidings from the other side… well, it didn't make Jaime Vegas someone I wanted to work with.
The dressing room smelled like a funeral parlor. Appropriate, I suppose. I looked for chairs, and found one under a bouquet of two dozen black roses. I didn't know roses came in black.
J.D. had escorted me here before being dragged off by his assistant, who'd been muttering something about a man refusing to leave his seat until Jaime summoned his dead mother.
After clearing the chair of roses, I tried calling Lucas again. Still no answer. Avoiding my calls, I suspected. Damn call display. I was phoning home for messages when the door opened and Jaime wheeled in.
"Paige, right?" she said, gulping air. The glasses were gone, and the loosened tendrils of hair that had looked so artfully arranged on stage now clung, sweat-sodden, to her neck and face. "Please tell me it's Paige."
"Uh, yes. I-"
"Oh, thank God. I was running back here and suddenly thought, what if that wasn't her? and I was winking at some strange girl and inviting her to join me backstage, which is exactly what I do not need. My place in the tabloids is ensured without that. So, Paige-"
She stopped and looked around, then opened the door and shouted. "Hello! Did I ask-?"
A tray appeared from behind the door, floating in midair. Presumably there was some flunky behind the door holding it. Or so I hoped. With necromancers, one can never be sure.
She grabbed the tray, then lifted the bottle of single-malt Scotch. "What are you people trying to do to me? I said no booze tonight. I have an engagement. No booze, no caffeine. Like I'm not bouncing off the walls enough as it is." She eyed the bottle longingly, then shut her eyes and thrust it out. "Take it, please."
The bottle vanished behind the door.
"And bring more Gatorade. The blue stuff. None of that orange shit." She closed the door, grabbed a towel, and mopped her face. "Okay, so where were we?"
"I-"
"Oh, right. So I was thinking, what if that's not her? I was expecting the witch. Well, maybe not expecting, but hoping, you know? Lucas called and told me he was sending someone-a female someone-and I thought, oh, my God, maybe it's the witch."
"The-?"
"Have you heard that story?" Jaime continued, her voice muffled as she tugged her dress off over her head. "About Lucas and the witch? Personally, I can't see it."
"You mean, Lucas dating a witch? Well-"
"No, Lucas dating. Period." Jaime shrugged off her bra. "No offense to the guy, really. He's great. But he's one of those people you just can't imagine having a social life. Like your teachers. You see them outside the classroom and it freaks you out."
Now stripped to her panties, Jaime proceeded to slather cold cream on her face, still talking.
"I heard she's a computer geek. Probably some skinny kid with big glasses and an overbite, scared of her own shadow. Typical witch. I can see Lucas hooking up with a girl like-"
"I'm the witch," I said.
Jaime stopped cleaning her face and looked at me. "Wha-?"
"The witch. Lucas's girlfriend. That'd be me."
She winced. "Oh, shit."
The door cracked open and J.D.'s voice floated through. "Got a fire to put out, Jaime. Needs your special touch."
"Just hold on, okay?" she said to me, throwing on a robe. "I'll be right back."
"Hey, it's me," I said, shifting the cell phone to my other ear. "Is your dad there?"
"Paige, nice to hear from you," Adam said. "I'm fine. Midterms went well. Thanks for asking."
"Sorry," I said. "But I'm kind of in a hur-"
A drill screeched outside the dressing room.