Did I feel guilty for what happened to my colleagues? Yes. Especially Angelique. People had noticed, too, and bloggers and tabloids still talked about the “Death of Innocence curse.” There were also plenty of tasteless jokes accusing me of some “satanic” sacrifices of my own, offering up one coworker’s life and another’s career to advance my own.
So, I had good reason for making sure that clause went into my contract. I continued chatting with Gregor—it wasn’t his fault—but didn’t delay long before suggesting we shouldn’t hold him captive. Mike wanted to show Gregor around, but I gave him a “talk to me or I walk” look that he couldn’t ignore. We returned to the small room.
“There is a clause in my contract—” I began.
“We haven’t violated it,” he said as he closed the door.
“What?”
“The clause specifies an American or internationally known spiritualist. Gregor is neither.”
I stared at him. “You set me up.”
“It wasn’t me. The studio insisted—”
“Why the hell am I surprised? You’ve done nothing except set me up since—”
“Hold on. That’s not fair, Jaime.”
“You didn’t set that fake reporter on me after my show?”
“Er, yes. But the rest—”
“One thing. I only insisted on one thing.”
“And I couldn’t give it. You know how it is. I have a helluva lot of clout, but I still answer to the studio. They hold the purse strings. Without them, there is no show. If they want another spiritualist, I can argue, but ultimately all I can do is make this as easy on you as possible. Find someone American viewers have never heard of, meaning he won’t compete with you on the marquee but might boost international sales. And I can make sure I don’t hire an asshole, which I think you can agree Gregor is not.”
“I reserve judgment.”
“I tried to cushion the blow. I built you a dream team to minimize conflict. Focus on real entertainment. I even gave in on the Cotard victims.”
“Because you couldn’t find any.”
He sighed. “I know you’re not happy, but … this is what we have to work with.”
I left the party as soon as I could exit gracefully.
“Seven o’clock pickup,” Mike called as I was leaving. “Is Jeremy coming?”
I nodded and continued toward the door.
“I’ll see you at the house, then,” Mike called. “When all will be revealed … on camera.”
Normally, I’d have found a joke in that. Something about not being paid enough to reveal all. That’s why he said it, and my lack of response said he was still in the doghouse.
“Have you met Jaime’s boyfriend?” he was saying, loudly, as I left. “Jeremy Danvers. He’s an artist. I bought one of his older works at auction last year. Let’s just say it was an investment. Of course, it’s worth it. Gorgeous work. We’ll be lucky to have him here. He’s very reclusive, as all the best artists are …”
I picked up my pace so I didn’t need to listen to him brag, as if getting Jeremy here was a personal triumph. Jeremy wouldn’t appreciate everyone knowing who he was. He’s not quite so reclusive these days—I give him a reason to leave the Pack and Stonehaven. But he does value his privacy more than anyone I know.
He’d texted me before the party to say he’d begun the trip. Another text an hour ago told me he’d stopped at Antonio’s for a coffee break. I’d insisted on that. It was a six-hour drive, and I knew it was hard to pass within ten miles of his best friend’s place without stopping. Another text thirty minutes later said he was back on the road. So, allowing for New York traffic, he should be here—I checked my watch—in about half an hour.
I stopped at the front desk to get my room number. I had the top-floor corner room. The best in the house, the innkeeper informed me. Mike had insisted on it.
I should have ignored the clerk’s advice to take the far stairs. There were too many directions involved in getting there—down this corridor, make a left, take a right, another left, you can’t miss it.
I missed it.
I ended up in the service hall, by the kitchens. The inn didn’t serve lunch, and it was only mid-afternoon, so there was no one around to ask for directions. I’d feel a little foolish doing that, anyway. That Vegas woman? She got lost looking for the stairs. We were all worried that, once she found her room, she’d be trapped inside, searching for the door out.
I was backtracking when I caught a flicker down a side hall. I turned to see a woman standing there. Unless the inn was hosting a Roaring Twenties event, I’d just spotted my first spook. I pretended not to see her, as if I was just a regular person.
“Help me. Please help me.”
Damn. The “regular person” shtick would work so much better if I could douse the spirit-world glow that marks me as a necromancer.
The woman—about twenty, with a blond bob and beaded dress—stood partway down the hall. As I moved closer, I saw tears streaming down her face and blood on her dress, more spattered on her bare arms.
“You aren’t real, are you?” I murmured. “You’re a residual.”
“Please, help me.”
Her gaze seemed to be fixed on mine. A trick of perspective. She was just the psychic replay of a traumatic past event. A ghostly holograph, the real victim long since passed over to the other side, living a happy afterlife.
Still, I took another step.
“I need help,” she said. “He’s coming. Please—”
She let out a shriek, her eyes going huge as she stared at something over my shoulder. Then she ran through a door.
I looked behind me. There was nothing there.
It’s a residual. You know it’s a residual.
But she’d looked straight at me.
A trick of the light. Real ghosts don’t run down halls in blood-spattered clothes fleeing invisible killers.
Still …
I looked each way, took a deep breath, and went after her.
FIVE
That door the girl had run through? Clearly marked Do Not Enter. Of course, I did. Of course, it opened to reveal stairs leading down into a pitch-black basement.
I tugged off my heels and flipped on the lights. Before I closed the door behind me, I made sure it would reopen. I’ve had ghosts prank me before.
I started down. Given the amount of dust, I was sure no one had been down there in years. It certainly smelled that way.
The stairs ended in a small room. Four doorways branched off it. Two were closed, two open. The girl stood just inside one of the open ones.
“Quick!” she said. “Follow me! He’s coming!”
“Are you talking to me?” I said. “Can you see me?”
Too late. She’d taken off. I looked back at the stairs and then at the dark room the girl had run into. She had to be a residual, but I was down here now. The worst thing that could happen was that I’d witness the replay of a crime I’d really rather not witness.
I raced after her.
“If you’re really a ghost, this isn’t happening,” I called after her as she ran through a second doorway. “It can’t be happening. No one can hurt you now.”
“He’s coming! Please! Save me!”
Was she responding to my words? Or was the timing coincidental? Damn it. Everything in my experience insisted this had to be a residual. Chasing it was an amateur move, the kind of thing necromancers joke about—Hey, remember the time you called 911 when you saw a residual jump off a bridge?