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"I didn't help them," I said as I looked out across the shop. "Didn't even try."
"You were breaking and entering, for God's sake. You can't stop to take requests."
She went on, trying to convince me that I hadn't been wrong to ignore the ghosts. But I knew I hadn't handled it well. I should have told them I was busy, but would speak to them later,
outside. They still might have turned on me, but at least I could say I'd done my duty.
Duty? I balked at the thought. I wasn't their servant. I didn't owe them anything.
Or did I?
I thought of the analogy I'd made earlier. Necromancers as the Elvises of the ghost world. They all want to catch a glimpse of us, to talk to us. Just a little of our time. And, yes, it can be overwhelming, as I'm sure it was--or is--for Elvis. But if someone walks up to him and just wants to say, "Loved your stuff," does he have the right to ignore them?
I've spent enough time in Hollywood to know this is a contentious issue--the artist's obligation to the public versus his right to privacy. While I don't think you owe it to your fans to provide tabloids with your vacation itinerary or details of your sex life, I don't think an autograph or thirty seconds of your time is too much to ask, not when these are the people who fund your dream--buying your movies, albums, books, whatever.
I told myself the analogy wasn't a fair one. I'm quick with a signature or a smile for my fans. What obligation do I have to ghosts? They don't pay for seats at my shows. Yet, without them, without my ability to speak to them, I'd have no career. Sure, I could fake it--I usually did--but it was my real contacts, like my seance with Tansy Lane, that kept me in business.
But ghosts ask for more than an autograph or a handshake. Am I obligated to provide it more often than I already do? Am I obligated to at least listen more often than I do?
Jeremy arrived and I started to get up, but he waved me down again and told me Hope had taken a cab and I should finish my coffee. He got one for himself, then started to sit on the sofa.
"Uh, not there," I said.
He looked over his shoulder at the seemingly empty seat. "Hello, Eve."
"Tell him I said hi...and bye," she said. "I need to check a few things, then I'll come by the gardens."
AFTER WE left the coffee shop, Jeremy told me the results of their break-and-enter. He had hoped to uncover the name of the lover Botnick had shared with a member of the magic group, and he had found a book with dozens of women's names, all classified by codes. Find the key to the code and he might find the right lover--but he suspected that key had existed only in Botnick's head. Eve was trying to gain access to Botnick, but those first few postdeath days were difficult.
Hope hadn't fared any better. As she'd feared, the vibes she'd picked up were old. She'd finally tapped into the chaos enough to see what she'd been sensing--a vision of a man killing his wife with an axe, back in the twenties. A gruesome reward for all her effort, and one with no bearing on our case.
I hesitated for a minute, then told Jeremy about the women in the coffee shop and how they'd reminded me of my mother.
"I guess I was feeling sorry for myself, thinking of how other parents handle supernatural things so much better. But you didn't have it easy yourself."
A half-shrug. Did that mean he didn't want to talk about it? Or just didn't want to complain? After a moment, though, he said, "I just wasn't what Malcolm hoped for in a son." He often referred to his father by his first name, which said a lot about their relationship.
"You weren't a fighter, you mean." I flushed. "Not that you aren't--"
"I'm not. I can be, but it's not who I am. A wolf instinctively wants to pass on what he knows to his son. I just wasn't that son. He tried transferring his attentions to Clay, but--" a shrug, "--that didn't work out so well."
"Your father and Clay?"
"At first, Malcolm wanted nothing to do with Clay. But as he grew, my father interpreted his strong wolf side as..." He paused, as if searching for a word.
"A violent streak?"
"Sadistic even, which I'm sure any psychiatrist would say was projection. Malcolm liked to kill. There's no other way to put it. He wanted to train Clay to fight. I knew that as long as I supervised, it was what Clay needed. Clay hated Malcolm, but he was astute enough, even at that age, to take what he could from the lessons. As for a father-son bond, it never happened."
"Is that all your father wanted?"
"I'm sure he hoped to turn Clay against me. Malcolm vacillated between ignoring me and planning petty revenges. He hated being beholden to me."
"Beholden?"
"His father left Stonehaven and all its assets to me. While my grandfather intended to protect me, the result was that I was then responsible for Malcolm. I had to dole out an allowance and hide his killings, because if the Pack found out, he'd be banished, and become an even greater threat."
I was silent for a moment, then said, "That's the real problem, isn't it? You're tired of being responsible for others."
