"No, since you're so eager to perform, Miss Vegas, let's see you give it a try."
Becky nodded, her eyes pleading with me to take over. I stepped up.
"Now, this will be cool," Tansy said. "Show her how it's really done."
"Tansy?" I peered into the darkness. "Are you still here?"
"Oh, come on. Don't play that. This is the closest I've come to a camera in thirty years!"
"What's wrong?" Angelique sneered. "Let me guess. She's fading. I overworked her."
"Could be. But I can probably…" I peered into the dark garden. "I can just make her out. She's tiny. Maybe your size. Pale skin but long black hair and almost… copper eyes."
"That's what got me the part in Lily White," Tansy said. "They thought I looked exotic, like a fairy changeling should. Mom always said it was because my dad was Italian, but really, he was black. I mean, African American. He died in Vietnam, and her parents made her spread that story about him being Italian."
It must have been obvious I was listening to something, because Becky prodded me to relay the message. After some encouragement from Tansy, I did.
The crowd pressed closer, giving me its full attention. I could say it was the love of gossip, but I've always thought that puts too harsh a spin on it. People like stories, and what is gossip if not stories?
"African American?" Angelique said. "You can't prove it."
"Check my birth certificate," Tansy said.
I relayed the message. Becky motioned for her assistant to write it down, though he was already scribbling furiously.
So we continued. A natural comedic performer, Tansy regaled the crowd with quips and anecdotes until there wasn't a distracted face in the crowd.
"This is a waste of time," Angelique finally cut in. "Ask her what we really want to know. What we called her here for. How did she die?"
"I'm sure that's no big secret. Tell her to ask me something good." Tansy grinned. "Like what color underwear I was wearing."
"This is ridiculous," Angelique snapped when I didn't relay her question. "Doesn't she want closure? The guilty party brought to justice?"
Tansy frowned. "Guilty party?"
The last minutes of a ghost's violent end are wiped clean once she passes over. Tansy might not even know she'd been murdered-and enlightening her now was a cruelty I'd never inflict. Instead, I reached out, as if pulling her back.
"Tansy! Wait! She didn't mean-" When Tansy cocked a brow, I mouthed "Gotta go," then called, "Tansy! Please. We won't bring that up again. Come back."
"Fine," she sighed. "I'll leave. But can I talk to you later?"
I hesitated. When a ghost says, "I'd like to talk to you," what she means is, "I want you to do something for me." But Tansy had helped me. Though I probably couldn't return the favor, at least I could hear her out. So I nodded, and she disappeared.
"I don't know how I'll top that," Grady laughed as I walked off camera.
"I'm afraid you won't get the chance tonight," Becky said.
Grady's hearty smile stiffened.
"We've racked up overtime for the crew already, and that's definitely not something I care to tell Mr. Simon on the first day." She motioned Angelique forward. "Next time, hon, if you're struggling, don't push it. Let the others take their turn. It's only fair."
Angelique's cheeks reddened. I fussed with my evening bag, as if I hadn't overheard. However gentle Becky's reprimand, it should have been made in private. Performers have to stomach public criticism with every review or snarky blog, and no one likes taking any more than necessary.
Had Becky been more seasoned, she'd also have known there was no reason to rob Grady of his segment. He was savvy enough to know his performance would pale after mine and had she suggested it was getting late, he'd have offered to step aside.
Instead, Angelique was humiliated, Grady was insulted, Claudia was outraged on his behalf, and all three stormed off as Becky gushed over my "amazing" performance. I'd alienated both my costars, discovered the garden was haunted by a malicious spirit and falsely raised the hopes of a murdered ghost. All in my first day on the show I hoped would take my career to the next level. Off to a rousing start.
ONCE I was in my room, my resolve to sneak out and conduct a full summoning wavered. I told myself I couldn't face disappointing Tansy, should she be out there waiting. What if she did know she'd been murdered and wanted me to find her killer? My gut twisted at the thought.
Turning down ghosts who wanted messages delivered was hard enough. As much as I wanted to say, "Hey, do I look like a courier service?" I could be, to a ghost, a once-in-an-afterlife opportunity to get that message delivered, and even if it was something as mundane as, "Tell my wife I love her," it meant the world to them, and it hurt to refuse.
Sometimes, if it was easy enough, I'd do it. But finding or punishing a killer? Not possible. Saying no to message delivery was nothing compared to telling a murdered girl that even if she handed me a name and address, there was no way I could bring her killer to justice.
Still, I'd have to deal with Tansy sooner or later, and deep down, I knew that what was really keeping me out of that garden tonight was fear. Not of the spirit who'd slapped me, but the possibility that no spirit had slapped me. That I was finally losing it.
Madness is the legacy of this "gift"-one that gives me more nightmares with each passing year. Jeremy was helping me to deal with this. He has some experience with psychic phenomena himself, and there's no one better for laying out logical arguments. Not every necromancer goes mad, he pointed out. I'd never denied or overused my power, as was often the cause of the madness. I was otherwise healthy and I had a good support network.
But every time I'm convinced I'm overreacting, that I'm going to drive myself crazy by worrying about going crazy, I see my strong, stubborn grandmother who died strapped to a bed, being fed like an infant, ranting about ghosts even I couldn't see. Then after helping Jeremy in Toronto last fall, I had another image to add-that of a necromancer driven so insane she could barely pass for human.
As hard as I clung to Jeremy's reasonable words, I felt my confidence slipping… and imagined my sanity slipping with it. So, while part of me said, "You're not going crazy, so make contact with this ghost and prove it," another, quieter but more persuasive part said, "Isn't it better just to tell yourself you could make contact, if you tried hard enough?"
No. I wouldn't give in to the fear.
I took my necromancy bag from its hiding place and snuck downstairs.
SICK PUPPIES
I FOUND A GOOD PLACE in the garden-on the other side of a wooden bridge where I'd hear the footsteps of any night walkers coming my way. No one should be surprised to see a spiritualist conducting a ritual, even at 2 a.m., but people like their summonings neat and tidy, with flowery words, herbs and incense. A true necromancer crosses the boundary between this world and the next and for that, I need the remnants of death.
There's no preset list of items every necromancer uses. It's like a recipe for stew-we take a few common ingredients, test out the variations our families pass along, then add and subtract through trial and error until we have what seems to work best for us.
First, I removed an old piece of grave cloth-a relic handed down from Nan, who claimed it came from a Roman emperor. Walk into a necromancy shop and everything comes from a Roman emperor or Egyptian queen or African prince. It doesn't matter. The power the individual held in life has no bearing on an object's power. It just makes a better story.
Next vervain, an herb burned to help contact traumatized spirits. Then dogwood bark and dried mate to ward off unwanted spirits and prevent summoning demonic entities. Considering how this spirit was acting, I added an extra helping of the banishing mixture.