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Ivan shrugged. “Makes no difference. You’re dead. A corpse is a corpse. What you want is what’s important.”
The man sighed. “So much for polite small talk. I was looking forward to having a conversation. It’s been years, you know, one hundred and fifty-six, to be exact.”
“You didn’t find me because you’re bored and needed a chit-chat.”
The man tilted his head. “Call me Boris, and no, I didn’t look you up for a chat.”
“Who sent you?”
“A man called Godfrey.”
“I meant who channeled you.”
He folded his hands on the table while a lazy smile transformed his face. With that smile the dead bastard actually looked handsome. “Now who’s asking all the wrong questions? Does it matter who brought me back from my grave?”
“What does this Godfrey want?” Ivan asked under his breath.
Boris leaned forward, the gleam in his eyes flat, as if light was absorbed but not reflected. “Why, a necromancist like you, of course. Why else would he send someone from the other side to find you?”
“I know that, you dead idiot. What I’m asking is why he wants a necromancist.”
“He’s got a job for you.”
“I don’t do jobs in that field.”
“He pays rather well.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, money’s not an issue for me.”
Boris scrutinized him. “Neither is fame. Maybe power?”
“Go to hell.”
“No, thanks. I’ve been trapped between here and there for too long to want to jump into the flames, now.”
“What did Godfrey promise you?”
Boris tapped his fingers on the table. “Nothing you’ll understand anything of. This is your answer?”
“No.” Ivan leaned forward. “This is—tell him to go fuck himself.”
Boris dived across the table. Before Ivan could blink, Boris’s fingers closed around his arm in a cold, painful grip. The minute the entity made contact with his skin, visions of mutilated, naked women popped into his mind. Mangled bodies toppled over one another, eyes and tongues missing from their faces. At the gruesome sight, Ivan jerked away. He stared at the homely features of the man opposite him in shock. No spirit had ever done what Boris had just managed. With one touch, he’d given Ivan a summary of his life, captured like picture frames in a horror film reel.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Boris asked.
Serial killer son of a bitch. The realization came as soon as he’d recovered from the worst of his aversion. “That was supposed to scare me? You don’t frighten me, dead man.”
“Godfrey isn’t expecting you to raise the dead,” Boris said with a sardonic smile. “All he asks, is that you control one person’s spirit. Easy money, right?”
“I can’t do that,” Ivan said with clenched teeth.
“Of course, you can. That’s what necromancists do.”
“Let me rephrase that for you.” He raised his voice an octave. “I won’t do it.”
Boris stood and straightened his jacket. “I’ll tell him.”
Just like that? No fight? It was too easy.
A hand on Ivan’s shoulder made him jump. He spun around in his chair. The barman stood next to him with an uncertain expression.
“I think you’ve had enough, sir,” the man said. “Time to go home.”
He looked around the bar. The room had gone quiet. He shook off the bartender’s grip and got to his feet. The spot where Boris had been standing was empty.
Chapter 2
The three people around the production meeting table gave Alice skeptical looks. Johnny rubbed his temples in a way that meant he was developing a headache.
“The man’s known to be loony,” Verlene, the orchestra conductor said. “It’s not too late to cancel the show.”
Alice poured Johnny another cup of tea and placed an aspirin from her bag on the saucer. “It won’t be good for our public image to cancel. I’ll handle him.”
“I’ve never been in favor of this concert.” Verlene uttered a labored sigh. “We’re a symphony orchestra, not a symphonic pop band.”
“It’s like Pavarotti and friends.” Mandy shrugged. “It’ll be popular.”
“That’s so dated,” Verlene said with a roll of her eyes.
“What’s the difference between working with a rock star or a diva?” Alice asked. “They’re all eccentric. Sopranos and tenors are no less difficult.”
Verlene jumped to her feet. “He missed a rehearsal! In all my working life I’ve never had a singer not show up for practice. This is a disaster waiting to happen, and we’re going to be the ones with egg on our faces, not Mr. Crazy-as-a-Hatter Kray.”
“We have a contract.” Johnny pressed his thumbs on his eyes. “I can’t get out of it because of one missed rehearsal.”
“If it happens again, I quit,” Verlene stated, crossing her arms.
Johnny hid his expression behind his hand while swallowing the pill down with the tea.
“He’s a looker,” Mandy said with a sultry smile. “Just his face on the poster will sell the show. I doubt people are going to hear a note of what the orchestra is playing. They’re just coming to see him.”
“This is a goddamn theater.” Verlene stamped her foot. “The New Royal Theater. We play for audiences who are serious about their music, not teenagers swooning over an arrogant, pain in the ass … horrible…” She searched for words in the air. “Ass!”
