“So the extras will be actors?”
“Mmm, not exactly. They’re supposed to be just regular folks who dare to spend a night in a haunted house. It’s an old routine. I’ll send you links to some YouTube clips. They’re good for a laugh. Basically, a bunch of people running around in the dark, hearing pipes creak and mice skitter, and scaring themselves silly.”
“I see.”
I lowered my feet. “It’s too cheesy, isn’t it.” I swore under my breath. “I should have—”
“You should have done exactly what you wanted to do. Or, in this case, felt compelled to do. I was assimilating, not judging.”
“Sorry. Just …” I inhaled. “I know it’s not exactly a brilliant career move. For respectability, it’s two steps down from the Marilyn show, and that wasn’t exactly the highlight of my career.”
“It didn’t damage it. In fact, it raised your profile, didn’t it? Boosted attendance at your shows?”
As he spoke, a shadow flickered off to the side.
“Jaime?” he said when I went silent.
“Just a sec. I may have a visitor.”
Most people who know I’m a necromancer would ask questions. Has a ghost been bothering you? Is Eve being a pain in the ass? Jeremy knew that the best response was silence while I puzzled it out.
The natural thing would be to call, “Who’s there?” but with ghosts, that’s like rolling out the welcome mat. It’s better to wait and let the ghosts make contact … then send them packing as quickly as possible.
That sounds cruel. It is cruel. It’s also self-preservation. I help when I can, but if I opened myself up to every spirit who asked, I’d be plagued by ghosts every moment of the day. Luckily, I have a very effective watchdog—my ghostly bodyguard, Eve Levine. Dark witch, half-demon, and ascended angel. Yes, angel, which might be the scariest of the three. She has only to show up, Sword of Judgment in hand, and most spirits decide they really don’t want to talk to me after all.
Unfortunately, being an angel means there are long stretches when Eve isn’t available. Like now. She’s out of contact, and I’m on my own, relying on her reputation to protect me.
When I looked around now, though, I saw no sign of a ghost. A trick of the light. That happens, even with necromancers.
“False alarm.” I lay down on the bed and propped my feet up again. “You’re right about the show. I’m just … I feel like I was railroaded into this, and now I’m scrambling to convince myself it’s not as bad as it seems.”
“It won’t be as bad as it seems. Because you’re in it.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
“When does it film?”
“In two months.”
“Would you like company on set?”
My smile widened. “I would.”
Promo work on the show began a few weeks before the cameras rolled. Jeremy wasn’t joining me for that part. Promotion is hell, and if he’s around, I do silly things like arrive at interviews at the last possible moment, almost hoping they’ll cancel so I can hang out with Jeremy instead. I know that’s unprofessional, but when it comes to Jeremy, I really do revert to a sixteen-year-old girl, ignoring her assignments and bouncing around shrieking, “He’s here! He’s here!”
Most of the promo was done in New York City—there aren’t many major media outlets in Amityville. I did morning shows. I did talk shows. I summoned spirit after spirit. A few of them were even real.
Then, two days before filming started, it was time to go to Amityville to meet my fellow ghost hunters. And time to meet the house where we’d be ghost-hunting.
The show had hired a sedan service to take me to Amityville. That sounds fancy, until you realize the town is only an hour east of New York City. A taxi probably would have cost more.
The main crew was supposed to meet at the house for a big “getting to know you” party. Then, at the last minute, we were texted directions to a local inn with a curt “change of plans” note.
“Change of plans, my ass,” I muttered on my cell to Jeremy as the car entered Amityville. “They never planned for us to meet at the house.”
“They want to film your first look at it. For part of the special.”
“Exactly. They did that in Brentwood, but it was such a mess they cut it. No one wants to see jet-lagged spiritualists stumbling in, muttering about their crappy flight. They want a big reveal this time. And the party isn’t for the real people anyway.”
“Just the fake ones?”
I laughed. “Close. Pros only. They’ll hold off on introducing us to the regular folks who ‘won’ slots. They’ll want to film that, too. Get my reaction when I realize I’m about to spend the night with people who’ll probably make me look like Mensa material.”
His silence worked better than any verbal rebuke.
“Sorry,” I said. “Hey, I’ve almost stopped doing that.”
“Around me.”
He meant that I still mocked myself around others. Getting the jokes and insults in before they could. Which he hated.
He changed the subject with, “So it’s just the parapsychologists today. Did Mike provide you with a list of names yet?”
“He doesn’t dare. I’m sure he looked back through my career and hired everyone I’ve ever had friction with, to make for better TV. I’ll handle it. I just … I wish, for once, I could tell myself it’ll all work out fine.”
“It will,” he said. “You’ll make sure of it.”
THREE
The driver dropped me off at the inn’s front gate. Apparently, his fee didn’t cover actually pulling into the lane. I could have bitched—normally I would have, oh so politely, as I’ve learned from Jeremy—but the traffic in New York meant I’d spent two hours in the car and I was happy for the excuse to walk, if only up the drive.
The inn was on the outskirts of Amityville. It was your typical New England inn, a big white Colonial with rose gardens just coming into bloom. I meandered up the drive, stopping to smell the roses, literally.
As I was straightening, I felt a ghost behind me. It’s not an icy draft running down my spine or anything so dramatic. It’s like sensing a person there, because that’s what ghosts look like to a necromancer. Regular people. It’s only when you see them walk through objects that you realize otherwise.
When I turned, I caught the flicker of a spirit and I sighed. A disappointing reaction for anyone who’d be watching the upcoming show. I should shriek. Turn pale. At least tremble in my boots. But given that I was wearing designer boots with five-inch spike heels, trembling really wasn’t wise.
The truth, as much as it would dismay every horror fan, is that your average spook isn’t all that spooky. In fact, they’d be kind of offended if I ran screaming.
So I sighed. Then I waited. But my phantom was a shy one. Finally, I said, grudgingly, “If you want to talk to me, wait until I’m in my hotel room.” As much as I hate to invite ghostly encounters, it was better than having one show up on camera. Nothing ruins a fake séance like an actual spirit.
“If you contact me before I’m alone, I’m not listening—”
“Jaime? You’re early.”
I looked up as Mike bounced down the front steps.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
He flashed a thousand-dollar smile. “Helping bring my baby to life, of course.”