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"Molly Crane?"
A bright smile, the welcome mitigated by a wary look in her eyes. I searched those eyes for some sign of recognition. With an average American, my chances of being recognized are on a par with any C-list movie celebrity. To those who follow spiritualists or certain talk shows, my face is unmistakable.
In the supernatural community, though, my face recognition goes up...usually accompanied by either disapproval or contempt. Spellcasters like Molly Crane can use their talents to make a living, but God forbid I should do the same.
I saw that "I know her from somewhere" spark in Molly's eyes, and cursed. I would have been safer using a false name, but she'd realize who I was the moment I mentioned ghosts.
I climbed the steps and extended my hand. "Jaime Vegas."
Her eyes lit up in recognition. "My daughter and her friends tape you on Keni Bales every month. Please come in."
COMEDY OF ERRORS
THERE WAS NO WAY TO REFUSE without making Molly suspicious, so I stepped inside.
"Did I hear something about you serving on the council now?" Molly said as she led me into her living room. "I suppose that's what you're here about? Council business?"
Damn. Another detail I'd been hoping to keep to myself. If Molly didn't want to deal with Paige and Lucas, she might not be so keen to speak to another council member.
I took the chair nearest the hall doorway. "Not so much council business as delegate business. Helping a fellow necromancer with a minor problem--one too small to warrant the council's attention. More of a research issue, actually. A puzzle I'm trying to solve so we can document it."
"Oh?" Intrigued, but not suspicious. "So what brings you to me?"
Another smile, this one wry. "Well, I'd say you came recommended as the top witch of the dark arts and I couldn't even imagine asking anyone else, but blatant flattery doesn't work so well on people outside of Hollywood."
She laughed, relaxing now. "We have our egos, but they don't impede brain function."
"Truth is that, yes, you came highly recommended, but when I took a close look at the possibilities, you seemed the most--" a mock throat clearing, "--approachable."
She laughed hard at that. "Now, that I believe. Between the weirdos and the recluses, it can be hard finding a viable contact among our bunch."
"I was also told that there might be something I can offer you in return. Which is what I want to do. I'm not asking for favors."
"Oh? Now I am intrigued. Can I get you something to drink before you satisfy my curiosity? Coffee? Tea? Soda? Bottled water?"
I opted for the water. There are too many things a witch can do with a brewed beverage.
When she came back, I gave her a version of the story, with this fellow necromancer being bothered by spirits who couldn't make contact. So far, I said, my investigation suggested a magical explanation.
When I finished, Molly nodded, thoughtful, then said, "I'm sure you've been told that doesn't sound like the results of normal ritual sacrifice."
"I have."
"Perhaps I can help but--" She met my gaze, eyes deceptively mild. "You offered an exchange?"
"I've heard you lost someone this year," I said. "Your common-law partner, I believe. A half-demon."
She hesitated, gaze down, then nodded slowly. "Mike. Yes."
I switched to my "dealing with the grief-stricken" voice. "If you'd like to make contact with him, I could try. With articles belonging to him plus access to his grave site, there's a good chance I can do it. Not perfect. But maybe a...ninety percent chance."
Molly said nothing, just stared down into the glass cupped in her hands. Still grieving, as Savannah had said. Or maybe wondering if I was trying to con her.
I hurried on. "If I don't make contact, I'll owe you. I will contact someone for you. Guaranteed."
Still she stared into her glass, her thumbs now caressing the sides.
Unlike humans, supernaturals know there's an afterlife. There must be, or there couldn't be necromancers. Through us, they also know that most ghosts are happy enough. If you know this, then perhaps contacting a loved one isn't such a wise idea. What if he's stopped grieving for his lost life, and you only rip open those wounds? What if you rip the scabs off your own grief?
