No Humans Involved

This was always the hardest part. Not only was it delicate work, but the smell was enough to unsettle even the strongest stomach. It didn't bother her as much as it did the others, and it wasn't so much the smell itself as the thought of what was burning.

They'd been careful not to use too much gasoline on the boy, but the flames had still licked the artifacts high above the concrete floor An interesting experiment, but not one they were likely to repeat… not unless this material proved significantly better than the rest.

She adjusted her mask and checked the temperature on their tiny version of a cremation oven, designed to incinerate the organs, which was all they needed.

This oven burned at a lower temperature than ones used by funeral homes, so the soft tissue turned to ash. Even then an auxiliary power supply was necessary. In Brentwood, a power spike would likely be attributed to marijuana growing and ignored-there were better uses for the police budget than stopping movie stars and pop singers growing a little weed-but it was always safest to provide no excuse for investigation.

After they'd taken the organs from the body, they'd needed to dispose of the remainder. Burning an entire corpse wasn't feasible. The boy's body-larger than that of their previous cases-would have been difficult to transport whole. So Don had recruited Murray 's help, and they'd cut the body in two so they could carry it out in reinforced garbage bags.

It was then that Murray had snapped. Odd, she mused as she unraveled the bolt of cheesecloth. After all they'd been through together, it had been helping Don bisect the corpse that had done it.

Tina had calmed him down. She was good at that, one advantage to having a psychologist in the group. To reap the magic, they had to do things that were bound to affect the weaker among them, but Tina could always get the shaky back on track… and assess how likely they were to stay there.

The door opened, and Don walked in, nose wrinkling. She pointed at the stack of surgical masks, but he waved them away.

"How's Murray?" she asked.

"Better. Embarrassed about the whole thing now. Work's been stressful this past week."

She nodded. "It happens."

The timer sounded and she opened the oven, stepping back as heat poured out.

"He should take a vacation," she said as she examined the tray of gray and white ash.

"I'll suggest-"

"No. Insist."

Their eyes met. Don nodded.

"How was the new disposal site?" she asked.

"It's not as convenient as the garden, but it'll do."

She nodded. The terraced gardens had been convenient. Too convenient, and they'd used them more than they should have, with each disposal increasing the chance of being caught. Unacceptable.

She donned heavy gloves and shook the tray of ash, helping it cool faster.

"Looks like more this time," Don said, peering at it.

She smiled. "That's the advantage to using an older one."

PENALTY BOX

HAD MY TRIP TO PORTLAND and near-death experience put me any closer to banishing the spirits in the garden? I'd like to think so, but I was convinced I'd only made things worse. First, in the midst of problems on the set, I'd taken off, which wouldn't help. Second, Jeremy had finally joined me… only to leave again.

I needed to stop worrying about how to contact these ghosts and get simply rid of them.

My Nan raised me to regard ghosts the same way the average person sees door-to-door salespeople and telemarketers: an unavoidable nuisance of life, one that should be dealt with firmly and swiftly and, ultimately, ignored. As cruel as that sounds, it was rooted in self-preservation. Like salespeople, if you say yes to one, you'll suddenly be on the contact list for hundreds more. Rather than weed through the requests, taking only those you can manage, it's better to slam that door to all of them and walk away.

If I could speak to my Nan again, I'd ask her this: did it hurt you to say no and does it ever stop hurting? She always acted as if it didn't bother her, so I feel that it shouldn't bother me, and when it does, I feel weak. As much as I long for the day when it will stop hurting, part of me dreads it too, because I'm not sure I ever want to be that hard, that cold.

But now I needed to be cold. I had to banish these spirits. So when

I finally got back to the house, as the first light of dawn broke, I went to my room only long enough to retrieve my kit. Then I headed into the garden.

The moment I stepped out there something whizzed past me. Then the whispering started. Fingers brushed my hand. I kept walking until I reached the far rear corner, where I knelt in the shadows between the fence and a towering tiered garden bed, and tried to contact them one last time.

I performed each ritual methodically, completely focused on each step. As before, as long as I appeared to be trying to help them, they behaved, stroking my cheek or patting my hair as if telling me I was doing a good job. Though I still couldn't find any words in their whispers, I had a feeling that if I could, they'd be telling me to keep going, to keep trying.

I had to smile, reminded of when I'd first started doing this, under my Nan 's guidance. I could see myself, kneeling in the basement of her old house, trying to summon a spirit. If I closed my eyes, I could feel her in those pats and caresses, hear her encouragement in those whispers.

When I tried to persuade the spirits-again-to find another way to communicate with me, they went silent at first, as if trying to do as I asked, but soon returned to the whispering, their caresses becoming pokes and prods. Like easily distracted children.

A chill raced through me.

When I did as they wanted, they caressed and patted me. Treating me as if I were a child? Or rewarding me in the only way they knew how.

I stood. A hand pulling at my top fell away, as did the one touching my hair. The whispering continued, but lower now. Fingers pulled at the edge of my skirt, like a child trying to get someone's attention. Pulling, poking, prodding… and when that failed, hitting and pinching.

Not possible. Necromancers rarely encountered child ghosts. There were stories of young adult ghosts who'd made contact, and were later discovered to have died as children, then allowed to grow to physical maturity rather than spend their afterlife trapped in a child's body.

How would a child ghost remain a child? Only if it was caught between dimensions, unable to step into ours and get help, unable to pass over and grow up.

That's what I had-not adult ghosts but children, trapped between the worlds. I couldn't just banish children. I had to help.

When these spirits first contacted me, I'd thought it was a random event. Happens all the time. I'll go someplace new and I attract some ghosts. But was that really all there was to it? Coincidence? I just happen to be billeted at a house with trapped child ghosts, a puzzle best solved by a necromancer with connections to the rest of the supernatural world?

Where others see coincidence, I see fate. And where I see fate, I see the hand of a higher power. I'm not sure if I see "God" as others would recognize him, but I see someone-a benevolent entity, maybe not as all-powerful as we'd like, but a concerned being with the ability to watch and the power to do something about it.

Maybe that higher power couldn't free these ghosts alone. Or maybe that's not her place-we must solve our problems ourselves and the best she could do was put someone here, in this house, who might be able to help. And maybe I've got too high of an opinion of myself if I think I'd be that person, but I still felt like I'd been given a mission, and damned if I wasn't going to do my best to fulfill it.

I PACED along the cobblestone path, Eve's ring clutched in my hand.

"Goddamn it," I muttered. "You said I could call you. Well, I'm calling and you'd damned well better not be ignoring me, you arrogant Cabal son-"

A sound behind me. I turned. Kristof stood there wearing… skates. And holding what I was pretty sure was a hockey stick.

" 'Son-of-a-bitch' is the phrase you wanted," he said. "I suppose it could have been simply 'Cabal son,' which, while accurate, isn't much of an insult." He leaned on the stick, musing. "Or, perhaps."

"I didn't mean-"

"Of course you did. I wasn't ignoring you, Jaime. If you've been calling me for a while, I'm afraid I didn't hear it. But now I'm here."

"If you're busy…"

"I was only in the penalty box. Again. Might as well serve my time here." A murmured incantation. The stick vanished and the skates changed to shoes. "What can I do for you?"

"I need Eve. And now it's urgent."

I told Kristof the story. He insisted on every detail, then tried to make contact with the spirits himself.

"There's something here," he said, frowning. "I can make out… flashes. And I heard the whispers, on both this side and the other."

"As if they're caught between the two."

"I don't like jumping to conclusions, but yes, I suppose so. And they may be children-your deduction is sound enough, but one has to be careful presenting a case to the Fates. Unlike human jurors, they aren't swayed by supposition, sympathy and theatrics. They deal in facts. The fact in this case is that these spirits exist, and they appear to be unable to cross either way. I'll ask them to send Eve back."

"Will it be enough?"

"It better be."

THE CATERER hadn't finished setting up for breakfast, so I went into the kitchen and helped myself to a coffee.

"Another early riser, I see," Becky said, walking in as I added cream.

I told her I'd been outside meditating. If I was going to be spending more time in the garden, it was good to establish an alibi up front, and this was one I always used in any situation where I might be seen sitting on the ground, talking to myself.

"Sounds like you found a little peace in this insanity. Now I really hope that I'm not about to undo that." She looked troubled. "It's about Grady. He still upset about the other night. I don't think I handled that as well as I could have. Now he's demanding- through Claudia of course-that he get a private performance to compensate."

I could feel her gaze on me, studying my reaction.

"Sounds fair to me," I said.

"Thank God," she breathed. "You're such a trouper, Jaime. I swear I won't let him steamroll over you after this."

"He's not steam-"

"He may be a huge name overseas. But you're a huge name here. I won't let him forget that. There'll be no more costar bashing on this show."

"Costar bashing?"

"I won't stand for it. Now, about this private seance. Do you mind watching, just to show support?"

BEFORE WE headed into breakfast, Becky's assistant, Will, came to tell her he'd conveyed the same invitation to the private seance to Angelique, but she'd refused, claiming she had a manicure appointment. Becky fumed, and I offered to talk to Angelique, but she didn't want me getting involved.

Over breakfast, we discussed the seance.

"First, where to conduct it?" Becky said. "Mr. Simon has checked all records for this house, and the only reference to a death he could find was some has-been producer who hanged himself. For excitement, that rates about a two. Must-snore TV."

I glanced at the hanging residual and sent up a silent apology to his ghost, wherever it was.

Grady leaned forward, tapping his knife on the table. "Perhaps, but it's the ones whose deaths weren't reported that are the most entertaining. "

"Accidental deaths, you mean?"

A smile creased his tanned face. "No, purposeful. Very purposeful. I have felt a dark presence in this house, a force of great evil, death so vile, so despicable that the heart freezes at the very thought-"

Claudia motioned for him to take it down a notch.

He cleared his throat, then sliced into his egg. "I have, you see, some experience with these things."

"And you sense… evil in this house?"

"Not surprisingly. It is in the seats of power that the demonic reigns. Those who crave the trappings of power-wealth, fame, beauty-are often driven into the service of Satan to achieve their goals." He turned to Claudia. "Have we ever visited a castle or an ancestral home where I haven't found evidence of satanic rites or devil worship?"

Claudia gave a soft sigh. "Never."

Grady smiled.

DOWSING ROD FOR EVIL

"I FELT A STRONG PRESENCE down here the other night," Grady said as he led us into the basement. "I know, Becky, that you were simply using the best available space for the party, but you should be careful about bringing spiritualists to subterranean realms. They're simply rife with evil spirits."

"Jaime?" Becky said. "Are you picking up anything?"

"I don't have Mr. Grady's nose for evil, I'm afraid."

"Of course she doesn't," he said. "What evil would dare show its hideousness in the face of such beauty?"

Claudia looked like she couldn't decide whether to gag or scratch my eyes out.

Grady took a compact from his pocket, did a makeup check and hair fluffing, then drew himself up straight.

"Camera, please." He lifted his hands, like a pianist preparing to play. "Robert, are you there?" Pause. "Yes. Yes, he is. Thank you, Bob."

Grady opened his eyes. "I have made contact with my spirit guide."

Huh. That was easy. Eve? Are you taking notes?

"For this session, I have selected Black Robert McGee as my guide," Grady continued. "He was a notorious pirate who terrorized the Caribbean. In the afterlife, he is trying to make amends, seeking redemption by helping my quest against the dark forces. Having lived on that dark side, he is the perfect guide for this segment of my journey."

A pirate spirit guide. Cool. Eve had been known to hang out with pirates, but I don't think that counted. She was, however, well acquainted with dark forces. As for seeking redemption, though… questionable. Very questionable.

Grady and "Bob" proceeded to wander the basement, Grady with his hands out, dowsing rods for evil.

"I see a dark room. Very dark. I-" His head jerked up, eyes closed, and he let out a whimper, then said in a high-pitched voice. "It's dark, Mommy, so dark…"

His head twitched and bobbed like a bird, then his eyes flew open.

"Bob? Yes? Thank you, Bob."

He pivoted and stopped facing a half-door that led into a crawl space under the stairs. He gave an exaggerated shudder, then looked into the camera.

"Bob tells me we will find the source of this great evil under those stairs. Inside there is a room. A room whose walls once ran red with blood. A family slaughtered. The satanic altar is beneath those steps."

"Amityville?" I mouthed to Becky.

"Yes!" Grady's face was feverish now as he spit the word. "Thank you, Bob. Bob has reminded me of another case similar to this. An American case in Maine, I believe."

" Long Island," I mouthed for him.

He nodded his thanks. " Long Island, thank you, Bob. The infamous Amityville horror. I have long believed that the rituals conducted within those walls were part of a wider ring of satanic activity."

"Faked!" I mouthed, gesturing to get his attention.

"Yes, Bob? Bob is trying to tell me about something but- Bob? Are you still there?"

Grady signaled for the camera to stop filming. "He's gone, I fear. This happens from time to time, particularly in places with such intense negative energy." He rolled his shoulders and rubbed his neck, then looked at me. "Jaime, I believe you were saying something?"

"Amityville was a hoax," I said.

I explained. The house had been the site of infamous killings-a young man who'd murdered his parents and four siblings. A year later, a family bought the house, claimed they saw blood dripping down the walls, demonic pigs, what-have-you, but stayed there- with their terrified kids-until they had enough details for a book. A best-selling book. And the guy who killed his family? His lawyer had been trying for a "devil made me do it" defense, and had been in contact with the haunted homeowners. The lawyer later claimed he and the couple had dreamed the whole scheme up over a bottle of wine. The family had since admitted, in court, that at least some of the things they claimed had never happened.

When I finished, Grady glanced at Claudia, who eyed me as if suspecting I was making it up.

"All true," Becky said. "A couple of years ago the Catholic Church revealed it had submitted a list of inaccuracies to the book publisher… which ignored them. Big hoax. Paid well, though," she added with admiration.

"I'm not surprised," Claudia muttered. "It's America. Land of 'anything for a buck.' "

Grady waved her to silence and went still, head cocked as if listening. "Bob has returned. We may begin again."

The camera started rolling.

"Thank you, Bob. Bob tells me the events of Amityville were, I fear, a false case predicated on greed and the lust for fame." A slow, sad shake of his head. "Unfortunately, such counterfeits do exist and we must be vigilant for them. However, as Bob also says, we must be careful not to let one falsehood blind us to the overwhelming truth of evil. It seems those responsible for Amityville used real events elsewhere as the basis for their fabrication, and here, in this house, we see one such example-"

His head jerked back, eyes closing. Her started shaking so violently that Becky tensed as if fearing a convulsion, but Claudia waved her down.

Grady's arms shot around his body, hugging himself, his teeth chattering, and I realized that his "convulsions" were supposed to be shivering.

"Momma?" he said in that high-pitched voice. "It's cold, so cold and so dark. I'm's-s-scared." A whine, more like a car engine than a child. "The bad man is coming. The bad man is-"

Grady roared, his head whipping back, teeth bared. His eyes flew open, rolling. Anyone who'd watched enough of his shows would have seen this coming, but Becky jumped and dropped her clipboard. As she scrambled for it, Grady allowed himself a tiny smile of satisfaction that morphed into a snarl, his head jerking back and forth, hands clawing the air.

"He's fighting possession by an evil spirit," Claudia explained in a monotone.

"I see," Becky said. "Is there any chance this spirit will win?"

"About ninety-five percent."

Becky smiled.

Grady jolted up onto his tiptoes, then went still. A moment's pause before he collapsed against the wall, panting and trembling.

"Damn," Becky muttered.

"Wait," Claudia whispered.

"Outside," Grady said between gasps. "Bob has shown me a room, a small, dark room. We mistakenly believed it was this one, but now he has realized his error and says we must go outside, to a shed."

He motioned for the camera to stop filming.

As Grady marched for the stairs, Becky hurried up beside him.

"The shed idea is great," she said. "It avoids, you know, connotations of Amityville, but there's a small problem. There isn't one."

"One what?"

"Shed."

He threw a smug smile over his shoulder as he started up the steps. "My dear, I never said there is a shed. I said there was one. It has, of course, long since been torn down… to hide the evidence."

OUTSIDE WE went. On the way, Grady thanked me for the information about Amityville. While unwarranted, he appreciated the thought. It was a step back into his good graces.

He stopped beside a koi pond. As our shadows passed over the water, the fish zoomed from under the lilies, their mouths breaking the surface. Was someone feeding them in their owner's absence? Probably. They looked expensive.

"Here, Bob?"

Grady lifted a hand for silence, although no one had spoken. Then he checked to make sure the camera was rolling before continuing.

"The shed was here? You're quite certain?" He paused. "No, no, I understand."

Grady turned to the camera. "Bob says he can't be certain this is exactly the right spot. The sense of darkness in this entire yard is overwhelming. This, however, appears to be reasonably close to the original location."

And so, Grady picked up where he'd left off, channeling the "spirit" of the dead girl. I tried to relax, but startled at every noise and movement, waiting for the children to come and make their presence known.

"What the hell is that?"

I jumped and glanced over to see Kristof staring at Grady, who was waving his arms, rolling his eyes, shaking and moaning.

"I think he's possessed," I said.

"By what? Epilepsy?"

"He's a famous TV medium from the U.K.," I said, as if that explained everything.

Kristof sniffed. "Not so famous that he can afford a decent tailor, evidently. Or acting lessons."

"They aren't letting Eve come back, are they?"

"No." He spat the word. After a moment, he went on. "I have, in the past two years, on occasion, tried to find reasons for them to let Eve return, if only temporarily."

"And they think you're tricking them again."

A humorless laugh. "Not 'again.' I haven't tricked them yet, damnable spirits. Eve's tried too. No luck. You can't blame us, but they get…" A dismissive wave. "Offended, as if we're insulting them, when the fact is that we are the ones who should be offended. We play by their rules. We assist in their enterprises. We are-" a twist of his lips, "-their humble servants, and yet when we ask for the briefest respite from our bargain, you'd think we were the most unrepentant convicts asking for a day pass."

I had no idea what he was talking about, but knew he couldn't explain.

"So they said no."

"They'll 'look into it.' And, perhaps, should I prove to be telling the truth, they'll find someone to help you."

"But not Eve."

He looked away, but not before loneliness and disappointment pushed the bitterness from his eyes. "No. Not Eve."

He pushed to his feet. "This is ridiculous. They cannot expect us to wait on their forbearance and trust that they will find someone suitable. Eve isn't the only person who can help us. The Fates won't like my choice, but that is their problem."

It seems to me that forbearance and trust are things a higher power can reasonably expect from mere mortals. But men like Kristof Nast are not accustomed to being refused, and being dead didn't change that. If his insolent determination helped my case, I wouldn't argue.

"Who are you-?" I began.

A dismissive wave. "You'll see."

NATURE AND SCIENCE

I HAD ANOTHER INTERVIEW after the seance, then nothing. Jeremy would be here in a few hours. Robert hadn't found anything useful. Kristof hadn't returned. So I was stuck cooling my heels. I decided to call Paige, check what she knew about rituals involving children. This wasn't a call to make in a public place, so I headed outside.

As I sat down on the front porch, Will hailed me. I greeted the portly young man and he handed me an icy bottle of water.

"I saw you heading outside and thought you might need this. The sun's a killer today."

"That's so sweet. Thank you."

"Oh, and I also wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your segment the other day, with Tansy Lane. Incredible. The whole crew's still talking about it. I think you've made some believers, Ms. Vegas."

I laughed. "Jaime, please. And I hope they're still believers when all this is done because that definitely wasn't a typical summoning for me. I got lucky, which I can only hope is a good omen for the show."

My gaze strayed toward the cell phone in my hand-a subtle hint that there was something I'd come out here to do.

He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "I also wanted to commend you on how well you handled Angelique."

My mouth opened in protest, ready to say I hadn't "handled" her at all, but he continued before I could.

"I can't believe they brought her on the show after the things…" He coughed. "Well, you know what I mean. Anyway, as far as most of us are concerned, you're still at the top of your game, and we're looking forward to seeing you put her in her place."

I could tell by his expression that he was willing, even eager, to go on, but would it help me to know what she'd said? No. If I heard her insults or insinuations, I would indeed want to "put her in her place" and I couldn't afford to do that. Not on this shoot.

"I appreciate the support. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"Absolutely. And thank you for helping with Mr. Grady this morning. Becky really appreciates it. She was really afraid this was going to be difficult, knowing you're lining up a show of your own, and Grady's hoping to relocate here."

"Relocate-?"

I snapped my mouth shut. This one was tougher to ignore. A lot tougher. But I promised myself I'd investigate later, Right now, I had to concentrate on the ghosts.

As he headed into the house, I stepped off the porch and caught a flash from the shrubs, like the sun reflecting off a mirror-or a camera lens. A slower, more careful look around, listening for the rustle of a quick retreat. Silence.

It could have been nothing. Or it could have been a crew member sneaking around with a camera, hoping for a shot he could sell to the tabloids. Photos of C-list celebs aren't worth much, but if you can get ones that are embarrassing enough, you can make a few bucks. One last survey, then I headed toward the road, making sure I wasn't slouching or squinting unbecomingly, just in case.

AFTER CALLING Paige, I went to the kitchen to grab a sandwich. I hadn't been in the mood for a communal lunch, and it was almost two now. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grady stride in. His gait was fluid, almost gliding.

"Hello," I said without turning.

"I need to speak to you."

My fingers tightened around my coffee cup, but I kept my tone even. "Good. I need to talk to you too."

"A private word, then. In the garden, please."

Hmm… That sounded suspicious, but there was nothing in his bearing or his manner to suggest he had seduction on his mind. Quite the opposite. Cool and professional.

"I'm right behind you," I said.

I followed him through the house to the back doors.

He still walked with that odd gait-graceful and relaxed yet purposeful. Some affectation he was practicing for an upcoming segment?

When we reached the garden, I tried to catch up, but he only moved faster. Afraid Claudia was peering from a window? Seeing me "following" him into the garden wouldn't make her any happier.

Finally he stopped, his back still to me. Then, as he turned, he inclined his head in an oddly formal nod, coupled with a tiny smile.

"Jaime O'Casey. A pleasure."

A dart of panic raced through me. No one in the business knew my real name. But if Grady thought this gave him some leverage over me, he was wrong. Vegas was just a stage name; I wasn't hiding anything.

I looked at him. His gray-blue eyes now shone a blue brighter than the sky. Impossibly and unnaturally bright. I backpedaled. He grabbed my arm. His fingers were so hot I could feel them through my sleeve.

That dart of panic found its target and exploded. I yanked back. His grip didn't tighten, but didn't give either. Firm as an iron shackle. This wasn't Grady but someone-something-using his body, and I had a good idea what that something was.

"Kristof Nast sent me."

Damn Kristof! This was why he hadn't told me who he was calling: I'd never have agreed.

"I'm sorry," I said. "There's been a misunderstanding. I don't talk to-"

"Strangers? A wise choice, but I'm hoping this time you'll make an exception."

Amusement sparkled in those beautiful eyes. Entrancing eyes.

"I've come to help you, Jaime."

"I've had my share of help from your kind."

He tipped his head, his gaze searching mine. "Ah, I see. A youthful indiscretion. The price seemed fair, didn't it? That's the way it is.

A demon's price always seems fair when you're blinded by the boon. Then you always end up paying more than you expect. But that's long past. You've received your boon. You've paid the price. An unpleasant learning experience, but it certainly could have been worse."

"Whatever bargain you're offering-"

"My dear child, I do not barter like a common merchant. Do you know who I am?"

I shook my head. He released my arm.

"I am Aratron."

Seeing my blank look, he gave a rich, warm laugh. "Does no one educate their children in demonology these days? For centuries, I had only to speak my name and even your kind would prostrate themselves before me, promise me their gold, their wives, their firstborn child in return for but a speck of my knowledge. Today? Bewilderment dulled by apathy. Not nearly as gratifying."

"Sorry."

He laughed again. "Eve knew who I was. Properly respectful, even."

He walked to a bench and waved for me to sit beside him. When I resisted, his eyes sparkled. "I'm not going to gobble you up or incinerate you in a ball of white-hot flame. The last, while quite spectacular, doesn't promote good relations with mortals."

I perched at the far end of the bench.

"May I hope you at least know what a eudemon is?" he asked.

"Oh, yes." I said, a little too enthusiastically. "There are two kinds of demons. Cacodemons are the ones we can summon and make deals with. The chaos demons. The same kind that father half-demons like Eve. But eudemons…"

I drummed my fingers against my thigh, as if I was back in school again, proudly volunteering the answer only to get halfway through and realize that's all I had. "Can't say I know much about eudemons. Other than they aren't cacodemons. We can't usually summon them. They don't father children…"

"To most supernatural mortals, that's all that's important. It's almost impossible to summon us. We can't create you. We are, you might say, neutral. Indifferent even. To both your joys and your suffering. You do not interest us… except in the most academic way."

"And that's what you are. A eudemon."

"That's what Aratron is, a fact you can easily confirm with a call to Robert Vasic. And I claim to be Aratron. But whether I truly am is not so easily established. In fact, I daresay, it cannot be established all. You know, from my voice, from my touch, from my eyes, that I am no low-ranking demon. These things I cannot fake and even one unschooled in demonology knows the marks of a demon of power. But could I not be a cacodemon such as Baal or Balam or Lucifer? Were I one of them, would it not be wise to come in the guise of a eudemon like Aratron?"

"I guess so…"

"You look at me as if I'm mad. Why raise such possibilities? Because, child, if I do not, you will-now or after you've given the matter due consideration. I cannot prove that I am who I claim to be. You can call on Kristof, but you do not trust him. You trust Eve but she is, conveniently, unavailable. What you can do, though, is consider whether Kristof would do such a thing, not to you, but to her. Eve is very protective of her friends. Given their relationship, would he introduce one to a cacodemon?"

"No."

"Then, in the absence of absolute proof, that will have to do. Eve knows me. She has established a working relationship with me and I'm fond of her… as fond as I can be of a shade. I wouldn't want to damage my relationship with her by hurting you."

"Okay. So you're here to help me and you want… nothing fork?"

"Oh, of course I want something, but I cannot imagine you'll begrudge me what I wish."

"And that is…"

"Knowledge. I have little except that, but more of it than you could ever fathom. I collect knowledge and sometimes I share it. In exchange for new knowledge, of course. What you are investigating fits nothing you know, correct?"

I nodded.

"And nothing your scholars know, correct?"

Another nod.

"And, I must admit, nothing I know. Therefore it is new. That is what intrigues me and why I would guide your feet onto the right path."

"Which is…?"

"You already know." He smiled. "I'm simply here to tell you that you're right."

I shifted on the bench. "I'm no good with puzzles."

"Then don't make this into one. Your scholars and your experts tell you this is not any known form of magic. They also tell you that it most closely resembles something else."

"Human magic. Which is impossible."

"Why impossible?"

Aratron leaned back, that tiny smile on his lips, not mocking but encouraging, like a patient teacher who wanted me to succeed at this lesson. I always preferred the sarcastic teachers, the bored teachers- the ones who expected little from me. Impossible to disappoint.

"This is not a graded assignment, Jaime."

I started, as if he'd read my mind.

And what made me think he hadn't?

"If you'd like me to give you the answers, I will," he said, the rich timbre of his voice muted, "but I think you'd prefer to work it out yourself. They aren't riddles or trick questions. You haven't missed any clue. You've simply overlooked a possibility that I don't blame you for overlooking. The possibility of the impossible."

"I don't understand."

"Why is human magic impossible?"

"Because it doesn't work."

"Ah."

I looked sharply at him. "Does it?"

"It's never been known to, aside from the occasional minor spell mastered by a nonspellcaster. But even then, the caster almost always had some diluted magical or demonic blood. And the spells were only the simplest. Certainly nothing that would drain or fragment a soul."

"Then it is impossible."

"Fifty years ago, man had never set foot on the moon. Does that mean such a thing was impossible?"

"Of course not. Science just hadn't evolved…"

I stopped.

"Evolution…" Aratron mused. "Funny thing."

He twisted and snapped a rose from the bush, severing the stem with his thumbnail. He caught his thumb on a thorn and a drop of blood slid down his wrist. He followed the path of the blood, then examined the bloodied thorn with the cool scrutiny of a scientist examining cause and effect.

He turned his hand over and touched his index finger to the puncture on his thumb. "Hurts, I suppose."

"You don't feel it?"

"I do, but it doesn't mean anything to me. Were you to have done that, you'd have learned to handle the rose more carefully."

He wrapped his hand around the rose and I shivered, imagining the thorns driving in. When he opened his fist, his palm was smeared with blood.

"To me?" He lifted his palm. "Merely interesting. Now, I am sure that the man who owns this body will not appreciate me having done that, but if what you call pain doesn't bother me, how am I to take pity on him? Yet, although I cannot feel the pain, I understand that it exists, and that explains to me the purpose of these thorns."

"To defend the flower. To increase its chances of survival."

"Evolution. As men might evolve so that they may turn into wolves, to better hunt, find food, defend themselves. An aberration, to be sure, but is that not the point of aberrations? The root of evolution? A man who is part wolf, with superior strength, superior sensory abilities. An advanced predator. It works and yet-" He lifted his bloodied finger. "There are drawbacks, flaws, imperfections in the design. A world of werewolves alone would destroy itself. As an aberration, though, it works… for now."

"That's what we are, then? Temporary aberrations? I've heard the theory. So it's true?"

"True?" He turned the flower over in his hands. "No, it remains a theory and ever shall be. That is the conflict of science and faith. I can say that supernaturals are random mutations that, from an evolutionary perspective, succeeded in some way. The facts support that. But if some higher power was to say, 'No, I did that-it was part of the plan,' how can I argue the point? What I can tell you is that these mutations come more often than you would imagine. Most last only a generation or two." A slight smile. "Evolution or a grand creator busily experimenting? It doesn't matter, does it?"

"I guess not."

"Some of these mutations persist for centuries only to die out when what makes them unique is no longer necessary… or no longer unique. Imagine if those scientists in there-" he waved toward the house, "-discover a way for any human to communicate with the dead. What would happen to your kind?"

"We'd… die out?"

"Nothing so drastic. You'd simply merge with the gene pool. Necromancers as a unique race would cease to exist. It's happened before. Dryads, elves, nymphs, all the woodland races-there was no place for them in the modern world. Their time had passed. It matters not. Others come."

"Genetic flukes evolving into races. But that must take generations."

"True, but sometimes it's more than a random genetic 'fluke' that causes change."

He lifted the rose to his nose, then offered it to me.

"Smell anything?" he asked.

I sniffed. "It's very faint."

"A mutation. Not by nature, but by man. Create a hardier rose, a more disease-resistant rose, a longer lasting rose. A decided improvement over wild roses and yet…" He sniffed and sighed. "There are drawbacks."

He looked at me. "You say man-made magic is impossible because it has never existed. But what if…" he dropped the rose onto my lap, "… something clicked? The collision of nature and science?"

LEARNING CURVE

TWO HOURS LATER, I was sitting across from Jeremy, in the corner of a half-empty restaurant. We were keeping our voices down as I told him about my visit from Aratron. I don't know why we bothered- anyone hearing us talking about the evolutionary theory of supernatural races and the potential emergence of a new power would only mistake us for screenwriters trying to cash in on a paranormal trend. As for my garden visit from a demon? It was Hollywood. Deals with the devil were a way of life.

We were in a tiny restaurant with better food than atmosphere. When my seafood linguine had arrived, I'd slipped some of it onto his plate. He didn't protest, just accepted it with a murmur of thanks, as he always did. A werewolf's high metabolism made dining out less than satisfying, and it wasn't like I needed the food. My stylist was already complaining about the three pounds I'd gained in the last year. I was trying to ignore him, but after a lifetime of panicking if the scale needle so much as quivered, it wasn't easy.

"So," I said as I picked at my plate, "the gist is that Aratron thinks someone-some group-has broken the barrier, by either in-depth scientific experimentation or plain old dumb luck."

"You mean they've hit on a form of human magic that works."

I nodded. He set down his wineglass and stared at the blank wall behind me, his dark eyes equally blank, shutters pulled as he thought.

After a few moments, he said, "I'm not the best person to investigate this. Man-killing werewolves I understand. Humans killing with magic? I barely know where to begin."

A chill settled in the pit of my stomach. "You'd rather not help, then."

"Of course I want to help." His knee brushed my leg. "What I'm saying is that I'm in over my head." A twist of a smile. "And it's not a place I'm accustomed to being. I'm the Alpha. I lead in full confidence." The smile sparked in his eyes. "Usually. But with this, I should do what any good leader does-take it to an expert. But to whom? It's a matter that might concern all the races. Where should that go?"

"To the interracial council. Which, unfortunately, is us."

"Sad, isn't it? There should be some…" He waved his hand.

"Body of elders? Wise old men and women who do nothing but send out troops of highly trained investigators to protect the interests of the supernatural world?"

"Instead they get us. Part-time volunteers, untrained, unbudgeted and usually flying by the seat of our pants."

"It's nice to know I'm not the only one on the council who doesn't always feel up to the job."

"Did you think the rest of us do? In werewolf matters, yes, I am an expert. In necromancy, you are an expert-"

"I wouldn't say-"

"You've never let us down. If you don't know the answers, you find them. That's all we ask. Paige? Magic is her specialty and, between her and Lucas, they do just fine-remarkably fine, given their youth. So if this is magic, does it go to them? They know little or nothing of human magic. So who is the expert?"

"I guess it's about to be us. Self-taught. With a huge learning curve looming in front of us."

AFTER DINNER we walked for a couple of city blocks, then Jeremy headed into a park. Trust a werewolf to find green space anywhere.

A park probably isn't the safest place to be after dark in L.A. but Jeremy didn't hesitate. For him, safety was rarely a concern. I envied him that-and Elena-able to go anywhere after dark, walk into deserted parking lots, cut through alleys, knowing that any rapist or mugger who thought that pretty blond looked like an easy mark was in for a shock… maybe his last.

We passed a couple of street thugs, not yet old enough to be out of high school, hidden in the shadows of a willow. Jeremy put his arm around my waist. I couldn't help noticing how he drew me a little closer, so his hip brushed mine, or how his hand gripped my waist, pulling me into his circle of protection.

He didn't speed up or slow down, but met the leader's gaze full on, dipped his chin and murmured a greeting. They let us pass.

We'd gone a few more yards when another figure appeared on the path. A man, shoulders hunched, dressed in black, face hidden in the shadow of his hood. I glanced at Jeremy, but his gaze was fixed on a point past the man, his face as relaxed as the arm around my waist. A single unarmed assailant doesn't pose much risk for a werewolf. But as confident as Jeremy is, he's never cocky, which meant he couldn't see him.

Sure enough, as we drew closer, the man lifted his head, his face pale under the dark hood, and stared at me, confused. He knew the glow he saw around me meant something, and was racking his brain to remember what it was.

Not slowing, I looked up at Jeremy. "Did I tell you I talked to Paige? About the children?"

"No, what did she say?"

The man stopped. "Hey, aren't you-?"

"She's going to look into it and ask around. We should run it by Robert too, see whether he knows anything."

The man had gone quiet, staring after me. I kept walking and talking. After a moment, he mumbled something under his breath and continued on his way, convinced that either he was mistaken, or I wasn't strong enough to hear or see him. I sighed-part relief, part regret, as always.

WE STOPPED on a slope down to a small, manmade lake. Downwind, as always, so Jeremy could smell anyone approaching from behind. We sat on the grass. I hadn't done that in… well, probably not since I was old enough to worry about walking around with grass stains on my rear. Jeremy offered to put down his jacket for me, but I refused, insisting my pants were old and the night was cool. Neither was true, but I wanted to just kick off my shoes, settle in the grass beside him and, if I got dirty, laugh about it.

I started talking, as usual. It takes awhile to draw Jeremy out if the topic is anything but business. That used to discourage me, but Elena says he's like that with everyone-so good at getting people to talk about themselves that they rarely realize he never offers anything in return.

Even when he does share, none of his stories are about himself, but when he talks of his family or his Pack, he's always there, in the background. So I get my insights that way. Sometimes, in talking of Clay as a child or the twins, he'll make a brief segue into his own childhood, enough for me to know it hadn't been a pleasant one. That glimpse behind the shutters meant more to me than he could imagine.

I asked him about the twins' birthday and he told me about Elena's misadventures with the baking, how she'd tried to sneak the failed cake outside for the birds, but Clay, smelling food, had rescued it and shared it with the twins, reasoning that they needed to get accustomed to bad food in case Jeremy ever cooked them dinner. I watched him tell the story, his face animated, relating even the jibe at his cooking with a wry smile.

We sat there for over an hour, just talking. A cool wind blew off the water, bringing a fine mist as it slid over us and into the trees, rustling the leaves, then departed with a sigh. Beneath my fingers, the grass was growing damp. Jeremy's legs were outstretched, mine bent, our shoulders brushing when we moved.

"Thanks for tonight," I said. "For taking me out. You have no idea how nice it is to eat without a dead man hanging over the table."

His brows shot up and I explained. "But on the upside, I'm pretty much guaranteed to lose those few pounds my stylist keeps nagging about."

He shook his head. "I don't know how you do it, Jaime."

"Don't have much choice."

"Yes, you do. You could hide from it. Take your meals elsewhere and make some excuse to the others. But you never do. You'll sit there, smile and chat-with a ghost hanging a foot from your nose- and no one will ever be the wiser."

"It's a residual, not a ghost. And it's more like two feet."

He smiled and shifted, moving the arm stretched behind me to my back. His hand went to my waist, his face turning, lips a scant inch from mine, the look in his dark eyes sending a shiver through me.

I waited through five long heartbeats, but he didn't move, neither coming toward me nor pulling back. It was up to me.

The kiss started firm yet gentle, sweet yet strong, everything I'd expected from Jeremy. Then, as I pressed against him, an edge crept into it, an urgency and a passion that maybe… wasn't quite what I'd expected. Like being hit with a blast of hot air when I was anticipating a gentle breeze. I threw myself into it like someone who's been plucked from an icy river, lapping up the heat.

After a several intense minutes, he pulled back.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That wasn't-"

"You don't need to apologize. I started it."

"Ah, yes, right."

He sat there for a moment, hair hanging forward, then gave it an impatient brush back. I resisted the urge to put my arms around his neck and bury myself in another kiss. His expression told me he wouldn't argue, but that this wasn't a step he was entirely ready to take.

I settled for resting my hand on his thigh. He laid his hand on mine, fingers sliding under my palm and squeezing.

"I love it when you're indecisive," I said.

A pause, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard right, then a laugh so abrupt it was almost a bark. "Oh?"

I eased closer, leg against his. His hand slid from my waist to my hip, bringing me closer still.

I said, "When I first met you in Miami, you were so sure of yourself, so… in charge. You spoke; everyone listened. Even Benicio Cortez. Hell, even Cassandra lets you tell her what to do."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"She just likes to pretend it's her idea. A vampire can't seem to be obeying a werewolf-it's just not done."

He laughed, rubbing my hip.

"It's a bit daunting, you know, being around someone that self-assured. So it's nice, now and then, to get a hint that the armor isn't as impenetrable as it looks."

"The armor is full of chinks, I'm afraid. The trick is to keep it polished to such a brilliant shine that everyone is blind to the holes."

"Is that it?"

He looked down at me, his crooked grin almost boyish. "Yes, that's it."

He stayed there, head angled, lips slightly parted. My heart started thumping. But he turned away.

"That's one problem of being Alpha. You have to act with complete confidence. It's the wolf in us. Uncertainty makes us nervous. Smacks of weakness. An Alpha must be resolute in all things. He should have no misgivings, no second thoughts, no doubts."

"But sometimes you do," I said softly.

He met my gaze. "Most times I do." He turned to look out at the lake. "I've always been happy being Alpha. It's a lot of responsibility, but I love that-not the power, but the ability to affect change. Sometimes though… lately…" He took his hand off mine and brushed back his hair. "Under certain circumstances, the restrictions can be… not what I'd choose, if I had the choice. Like coming here. For most people, a simple matter. Make travel arrangements and go."

"But you have responsibilities."

"Not just that. To come here alone, without backup, without a bodyguard…" He shook his head. "To explain to you how much work it took would make the whole thing sound ridiculous. But I am the Alpha. I cannot do as I like, go where I like. Even an outside werewolf who has no particular grudge against me would consider attacking me if I crossed his path. To kill the Pack Alpha would solidify his status in our world. For the rest of his life, every werewolf he met would clear out of his way. The Alpha before me-Antonio's father- was inarguably the best fighter of his time, but he never left Pack territory without a guard. To do otherwise is to threaten the stability of the Pack for something as petty as privacy."

My cheeks got hot. "I'm sorry. I never thought-"

He squeezed my leg. "No one expected you to. I didn't come to L.A. to be polite, Jaime. I came because I wanted to spend time with you. Alone."

His gaze met mine and held, making sure the words sunk in. "The area is as safe as we could make it. I even managed to convince them that I didn't need Antonio lurking in San Diego, awaiting an emergency call, though I suspect Karl isn't in Arizona this week by accident. Elena probably sent him there, hoping-being Karl-it wouldn't seem suspicious."

I nodded.

"I won't be Alpha forever," he said. "But I will be for longer than I planned."

"Because of the babies."

He nodded.

I said, "Elena needs to concentrate on them, on being a mom, not an Alpha."

"Which doesn't mean I can't continue to train her. Antonio and I will keep nudging her into leadership, getting her accustomed to the idea, but we can't push."

"And you shouldn't." I paused. "Does she know yet?"

He shook his head. "I don't plan to tell her for some time. If I did, she'd suspect I want out, and she'd do everything she could to help me achieve that. And, as you said, her priority should be her family, not her Pack. At least for a few more years."

I wanted to say, "That's okay. I'll wait," but I knew that wasn't what he was asking.

"That's best," I said. "It'll give Clay more time to recover too. How's his arm?"

"As good as it will get. He knows that. Whatever that zombie did to him, it's beyond what medicine can fix. The trick now is to learn to compensate. And to regain his confidence, get him back to a place where he feels he can defend his family, his Pack, his Alpha. If that Alpha is Elena, he's going to need to be in top fighting condition."

"Because other werewolves, outside the Pack, will see a female Alpha as a sign of weakness."

"Or, at least, of change and, as I said, we don't respond well to change. Elena's used to being in danger. It comes with being Clay's mate. His enemies might not dare take on Clay himself, but there are other ways to hurt him."

"Through Elena."

"Most werewolves will not believe that a woman, even a were-wolf, poses a threat, and therefore Elena is seen as an easy target." He smiled at me. "Fortunately, she isn't." His smile faded. "But she's always been in danger, just by being his lover."

Another message for me.

"Having a female Alpha will be an adjustment for all. It took a long time for me to accept Elena as a werewolf. Logically, I was fine with it, but deep down?" He shook his head. "It wasn't easy. To Clay, having a mate was the most natural thing. The wolf in him is so strong it rules out everything else. But for me? Being raised as a werewolf means being raised to keep your distance from romantic entanglements. Pack werewolves weren't allowed to form long-term relationships, let alone marry. Open yourself up to someone and you might be tempted to tell her everything. Now that the werewolves are back in the supernatural fold, there are women who can safely know my secret. I still have trouble accepting that."

We sat there for a while, staring at the water.

I knew now that Jeremy hadn't come to L.A. to declare himself- or to let me down easy-but to give us both a chance to explore the possibilities and weigh them against the consequences. We could spend time together, away from being "werewolf Alpha and necromancer delegate." Time to decide whether it was better to stay friends or risk becoming lovers.

Becoming lovers would come with risks. He was letting me know what I'd be in for. A lover who couldn't fly to meet me for romantic getaways. A lover whose priority would always be his family and his Pack. A lover who would put my life in danger just by being with me, making me a target for anyone who wanted to get at the Alpha. Even if I was fine with all this, after a lifetime of one-night stands, avoiding emotional attachments, Jeremy might never be comfortable in a relationship.

My impulse was to say: "Put my life at risk for a difficult, longdistance relationship that might never work? It's Jeremy. Sign me up." But I had to approach this with my head, not my heart. It wasn't something I could just leap into.

"We should get you back to the house," Jeremy said finally. "I presume you have a segment to film tomorrow?"

"In the afternoon, plus an interview midmorning."

He helped me to my feet. "When things settle down with your costars, I'd like to watch a segment or two. I'm looking forward to that."

"It's not nearly as much fun as you'd think. It's a lot of standing around doing nothing."

"I'm not here to be entertained, Jaime."

He put his hand on my back and led me from the park.

SPIRITUALIST BIG BROTHER

BACK AT THE HOUSE, I grabbed a cold drink from the kitchen before heading to bed. I was backing away from the fridge when something moved along the far wall. I turned and braced myself, waiting for a ghost to materialize. Another flicker-just a flashlight beam from a guard doing a walk-around outside. As I'd stared at the wall, though, something else caught my eye. Resting above the chair rail was a dark dot, smaller than a dime. I walked over. The dot became a hole, and recessed within the hole was the lens of a camera.

There could be a logical explanation for this. Maybe the family that lived here suspected the cook of spitting in their food. Or they had a dieter with a midnight fridge-raiding habit. But tiny wood shavings still clung to the hole, meaning it'd been drilled recently.

Time to take a tour of the house.

I FOUND four pinhole cameras in the shared rooms where we spiritualists were most likely to congregate. The crew-only areas were surveillance-free.

So we were being taped. By whom? My first thought was the crew. But if someone hoped for an ugly photo he could sell to a tabloid or a compromising video to post on the Internet, he'd be filming in the private areas.

I thought of Todd Simon. Beer-commercial director turned reality-show producer.

Becky said we were all in this house for budget reasons. Entirely plausible, and I was sure she believed that. But someone was hoping for Big Brother-style footage. Was it legal? That depended on our contract.

I went upstairs, pulled out my contract and gave it a good read. I never sign without studying the contract and consulting with my lawyer. I don't care if it looks just like the boilerplate I've signed a hundred times-I don't take chances. But Hollywood contracts are notorious for their legalese and for their sheer size, and this one had covered every eventuality from Raising Marilyn Monroe: The Musical to Jaime Vegas action figures.

I found the clause about agreeing to be filmed at the Brentwood house. Seemed obvious-I was going to the house to tape segments, so naturally I'd agreed to be filmed. When I reread that clause after finding pinhole cameras, it took on a whole new meaning.

I'd run this past my lawyer, but even if I had grounds for raising a fuss, I'd be labeled difficult, and my hopes for my own show would fly out the window. Better to tuck the knowledge into my back pocket and use it to my advantage. If I knew I was being taped, I could put on a good performance. And I could make damned sure I didn't pick my nose, scratch my ass or badmouth anyone in the common rooms. As long as they weren't taping me in my bedroom…

I put down the contract and searched. No cameras. Whew.

AS I headed to breakfast the next morning, Becky called to me from the living room. When I caught up with her, she was already vanishing into the study that now served as a communal office.

"I wanted to thank you for helping us out with Grady yesterday," she said as she shut the door. "I really appreciate it, and I want you to be the first to hear Mr. Simon's amazing new idea for the show. I just know you're going to love this."

I braced myself. In Hollywood, the words "you're going to love this" are more plea than assurance.

"Rather than pepper our show with random seances, why not make it a theme?" She lifted her hands, punctuating her words with a jab as if pointing to them on a marquee. "One final curtain call for the tragic dead of Brentwood."

"You want us to contact more dead movie stars?" I said finally.

"Not just movie stars. Brentwood stars. Those killed under mysterious circumstances, like Tansy Lane. A theme, leading to the grand finale with Marilyn Monroe."

"It's an… interesting concept," I said carefully. "Certainly ambitious-"

"We don't expect you to do as well with every ghost as you did with Tansy. You can ask how they died, but we won't expect any real revelations. We'll intercut with some talking heads giving their theories, some old detectives reminiscing about the cases, and by the end of the segment, no one will even notice that we didn't actually find out anything new."

"It sounds… interesting."

Becky crumpled, bracing herself against the desk. "It's horrible. I'm so sorry. We're still having issues with Grady, and this is Mr. Simon's solution, knowing how much Grady loves working with mysterious deaths."

"I'm not comfortable with changing the format at this point. It's been changed once, when they set it in this house, and I was very understanding about that."

Terror filled Becky's eyes. Part of me wanted to stand my ground and tell her that if she wanted to make the show she envisioned, then she'd better grow a backbone and stand up to men like Bradford Grady. But another part of me remembered being young, ambitious and overwhelmed, and I wanted to be the one person not making this shoot a living hell for her.

"I'll consider a change of format, but on several conditions."

"Name them."

"I want a written guarantee of equal screen time in the final production and equal preshow promotion. Is the Tansy Lane segment in danger of being cut?"

"Definitely not. I'll get Mr. Simon to put that in writing. No matter how much weight Grady throws around, your success with Tansy stays."

Her cell phone rang. A few quick words, then she hung up. "I need to run. The next seance will be after lunch. We're keeping the locations and subjects a secret. Yes, I know-Grady is an expert and by tonight his team will be faxing him dossiers on every semifamous person who died in this neighborhood. But I have a plan."

She headed for the door, then stopped. "Oh, and before you leave, there's a release form on the desk. Just an addendum to your contract. It's in the blue folder. Take it with you to read over. No rush."

I OPENED the blue folder she'd left on the desk. Inside was a single printed sheet. On first glance, it looked more like a memo than a release form.

Subject: Gabrielle Langdon.

The name sounded familiar, but I had to read a few lines before I realized what I was looking at: a detailed summary of the life and death of arguably Brentwood 's most famous murder victim.

I slapped the folder shut and scanned the desk, but there were no more blue folders. No folders of any color.

Becky said she had a plan, and now I knew what it was.

I HAD lunch and the early afternoon off, so Jeremy picked me up. He'd already checked in with Robert and a second potential source: Clay. Like Jeremy and Elena, Clay worked part-time and primarily from home-the advantage to having a healthy communal bank account and little desire for material goods. From Jeremy and Elena, I knew Clay was passionate about his work, but he rarely talked about it with anyone outside the Pack.

While Robert Vasic looked like the stereotypical professor, no one looked-or acted-less like one than Clay. Yet that's what he was: an anthropologist. His specialty was religions with animal deities. There's a name for it, which I can never remember, and it's not like he's about to discuss it with me anytime soon.

"Any luck?" I said, shutting the car door.

"Very little," he said as he pulled from the curb. "According to Clay, we're barking up the wrong tree. Of course, he said it in far more colorful language, but the point he made was that the link between pagan religions, like Wicca and Druidjsm, and sacrifice is significantly overemphasized in popular culture."

"You mean they aren't out there slaughtering babies every full moon? Bradford Grady would be mightily disappointed. And probably out of a job."

"Wiccans and satanists don't practice human sacrifice, whatever the tabloids might say. But even the more mysterious religions are far more benign than I assumed. Animal sacrifice, yes. But not human. Those that did practice it did so only in the very distant past and have since found substitutes more acceptable to contemporary mores. One sect Clay did mention was tantraism."

"That's related to Buddhism, isn't it?"

Jeremy shook his head. "This is different. It's a religion based in India that practices sacrifice. Usually animal sacrifice, but reports of human sacrifice do arise, sometimes child sacrifice. Then there are 'muti' murders, primarily in southern Africa. Not necessarily human sacrifice per se, but the killing of people, often children, for medicine."

"Does that kind of stuff make its way over here?"

"I don't know, but if I haven't heard of it, it's likely very rare."

"Good."

"They suggested we concentrate on the occult underworld in Los Angeles, which won't be easy." He turned a corner. "Speaking of tabloids, though, Elena suggested someone else who might be able to cut through the research for us. Hope Adams is here for six months, on a work-exchange."

"Hope? Oh, right the True News reporter."

I'd never met her. Her contact with the council was Elena, a fellow journalist. A half-demon with a sixth sense for chaos, Hope covered paranormal events for a supermarket tabloid. Through a werewolf in Jeremy's Pack-Karl Marsten-she'd hooked up with the council and alerted them to any potentially real supernatural activity that crossed her desk. Strictly a volunteer job, but to kids like Hope, money never seemed to matter. Working for a good cause was payment enough.

DEMONS AND DEBTS

WE PARKED IN A LOT so expensive that in Chicago, I'd have expected valet service and a car wash. It was still a few blocks to where Hope worked, so Jeremy offered to drop me off, but I refused.

As we walked down the street, the smell of falafels and fresh-cut fries reminded me I'd skipped breakfast. It was a business district, respectable enough, but with little else to recommend it. A hodgepodge of small office buildings and take-out restaurants, interspersed with nail parlors, boutiques and gourmet coffee bars, as if the neighborhood was taking one last stab at trendiness.

I updated him on the show situation: the hidden cameras, the newly scheduled seances and Becky's blue file folder.

"And when I made some calls about Grady, I found out that he is looking to move his show to America, but apparently only for one season, and his show wouldn't be anything like mine. Yet Becky's assistant seemed to think I should be concerned, and maybe I should. Hollywood executives are notorious for things like this: they'll see two spiritualism shows on the slate and won't notice any differences between them."

"Have you talked to Grady?"

"And say what, 'Get off my turf?" I sighed. "I know, you mean just talk to him and get the details. I intended to, but now with him making more demands, I'm nervous. I'm already flustered enough over that memo leak about Gabrielle Langdon. I know Becky meant well, but if I win, I want to win without cheating."

I shook my head. "Listen to me. One minute I'm telling you I want to stop all this competition, the next I'm saying I want to win. I'm so tired of the backbiting, the posturing, the lying. Especially now. I have child ghosts trapped God knows where, and instead of helping them, I'm trying to thwart a twenty-eight-year-old beer commercial producer who wants to turn this into Spiritualist Big Brother."

"You've been tired of show biz for a while."

"I know. I can't wait to get out. Not the stage shows, just…"

"The television work."

We turned a corner. "I know what you're thinking. I say I want out, but my sole reason for putting up with the crap on this set is so I can do more TV. But I only want a television slot for a few years. Once I've built up more name recognition, I can do live shows exclusively and be more available for the council. Last month, Paige invited me to join her on an investigation-after months of me practically begging-and I had to back out because it interfered with my talk show spots. If I could schedule a half-dozen sold-out live shows a year, I'd be set."

"Your shows almost sell to capacity now, don't they?"

"Yes, but-" Jeremy tugged me back as I'd nearly stepped off a curb on a Don't Walk signal. "I really need a TV show, just for a while, so I can say I had one. It's always been part of the plan."

"Your mother's plan."

He said it mildly, with no emphasis, not making a point, but I felt it all the same.

"No, her plan was for her to get me a TV show. Without her, I didn't stand a chance. Or so she thought."

Actually, she'd thought I'd never get anywhere without her. And in a way, she'd been right. At eighteen, I'd left home, still too young and inexperienced to make it on my own. I needed a mentor. And a world-renowned spiritualist had needed a student. But I'd only been doing spiritualism for a few years, and my rival for the position had been on the circuit since he was ten. So I made my deal with the devil.

It was my boyfriend's idea. He was a sorcerer I'd met through a friend of Nan 's. He'd been older and smart enough to know that, as tempting as bargains with demons seemed, it was the kind of thing you really wanted someone else to test first… like a naive and ambitious young girlfriend.

The demon made me a deal: he'd get me the job, if I'd help him contact a soul in a hell dimension… and he'd even tell me how to do it. My only stipulation was that my rival wasn't killed. A week later, I'd been told my competition had left the business. I never found out why-never dared try. I had the job and he was still alive and that was all that mattered.

I contacted that ghost-the spirit of a serial killer. The demon questioned him about his crimes, getting graphic details that still haunt my nightmares. But what haunts me more is knowing that the demon couldn't have wanted those details for mere curiosity's sake. He must have had a supplicant that he wanted to reenact the crimes. Somewhere in the world, people had died horrific deaths, and it was my fault. That was the price I'd paid for fame.

After that, I climbed the ladder by myself-asking for no favors, indebted to no one, relying on no one. If my mother was surprised by how far I'd come, she never showed it. Almost the first thing she said to me every time we met was, "So, Jaime, have you gotten that TV show yet?" I didn't want it so I could say, "So there." I just wanted to prove to myself that I could do it.

"THAT'S THE building over there," Jeremy said. "I hope she hasn't left for lunch yet. Her voice mail said she's in the office, but when I tried leaving a message, it didn't seem to work." A faint smile. "Or, as is more likely, I was doing it wrong. Probably not much point in leaving a message, as I couldn't give a number for her to call back."

"That's right. We need to get you a cell phone. We'll do that this afternoon."

Jeremy led me around the corner and stopped in the alcove of a three-story building. He pulled on the door. A buzzer sounded and his gaze dropped to the Please Use Intercom sign. Below the intercom was a directory of offices. He scanned the list, frown growing.

"Perhaps 'just popping by the office' isn't going to be as easy as it seemed."

He pulled a notepad from his pocket and checked the address, then read the directory again. There was no listing for True News or anything resembling a newspaper.

"I'm not that surprised," I said. "Considering what they write, maintaining a low profile might be wise or they'd have a steady stream of UFO and Elvis reportings, and probably not from the sort of people you want walking into your office unannounced."

"True. So…"

"What's her number?"

"Ah. Right."

He gave it to me. I punched it into my cell, then handed the phone to him. He spoke for a minute, his voice too low to overhear.

"She'll be right down," he said as he handed the phone back.

We stepped out of the doorway. No more than a minute passed before the smoked-glass door flew open and a young woman stepped out. Dressed in sneakers, a T-shirt and blue jeans, Hope Adams looked like a Bollywood princess trying to pass through L.A. incognito. Fine-boned and tiny, with delicate features and golden brown eyes, she had the kind of face that would be as lovely at eighty as it was at twenty. Yet she wore that beauty awkwardly, like a farm girl handed a Vera Wang gown, not quite sure how to put it on or whether she even wanted to. Her long black curls had been yanked back in a careless ponytail. Ink smeared one cheek like war paint.

Her gaze lighted on Jeremy and she smiled, striding over to clasp his hand. Her handshake was firm and vigorous, and a little too much of both, like a junior employee called in for a meeting with the boss, pretty sure it wasn't bad news, but unable to shake that glimmer of fear.

"Mr. Danvers, good to see you again."

"Jeremy, please. And this is-"

"Jaime Vegas." She took my hand in a firm grip. "It's a pleasure. So you two wanted to talk to me about a council problem? My place is just down the block, if you'd like privacy."

I FOLLOWED Hope up the rear stairs to her walkup apartment. On the way we'd found a store with prepaid cell phones. I showed Jeremy what he was looking for, then he insisted on handling the purchase himself while I went on ahead, so we didn't take up too much of Hope's time.

She opened to the door to a dark cave haunted by the ghosts of mildew and pungent food. Someone had tried to banish them with lemon-scented cleaner and fresh flowers, but the odors lingered. Hope strode in and started opening windows.

"Can't get rid of the smell," she said. "I swear it's embedded in the walls."

She flicked on lights, but they did little to brighten the place. Two of the three windows gave lovely views of a wall so close it defied building codes. I walked into the kitchen. Five steps later, I was in the living room.

"Tiny, huh? The place is a hole, but it fit my budget, came furnished and it's close to work."

"It's nicer than my first few apartments."

"I had to fight with the landlord to let me paint it-doing the work myself and buying my own supplies." She ran her fingers over the wall. "Though, in the end, I probably didn't do him any favors. Apparently, you're supposed to wash the walls before you paint. I think that's why I can't get rid of the smell."

I looked over at an arrangement of fresh flowers on the coffee table. There was another, smaller one on the bookshelf. "The flowers brighten the place up."

"Courtesy of my mom's most recent visit. As are the curtains, throw rug, pillows… I probably have the only place in town where the accessories are worth more than the furniture. Every day I'd go to work, come back and find something new, then she'd explain how she chose the fabric or the color. Still trying to teach me how to accessorize. I keep telling her it's a lost cause-a gene I failed to inherit, among many." She grinned. "Moms, huh? They drive you nuts, but you know they're only doing it because they love you."

I nodded as if I knew what that felt like. She fluffed a pillow, a wistful look passing behind her eyes.

"You and your mother are close?" I said.

An almost embarrassed smile. "Yeah. I'm the baby. This is my first time living more than a few miles from home." She walked to the fridge. "Can I get you something cold? Or tea? Coffee?"

"Water would be fine."

She handed me a Perrier. "Also courtesy of Mom. When she saw my cheap bottled water, she had to take me aside for a little heart-to-heart on the state of my finances."

She got a Dr. Pepper for herself. "Have a seat-Oh, I'd better clear my mail off the table."

She sorted as she cleared it, fixing bills to the fridge and tossing junk mail in the trash. An expensive vellum envelope formally addressed to "Miss Hope Adams" went into a basket with a small stack of others.

"Invitations?" I said as I pulled out a chair. "I wasn't that popular even after living in L.A. for a decade."

"My mom, again. When she was down, she had to make the society rounds. Not really her thing, but it's expected, if only to make connections for her chairty and philanthropy work."

I nodded, as if I knew all about high society.

"So…" Hope waved at the basket. "Now they all know that Nita Adams's youngest daughter is in town, and they're inviting me to garden parties and luncheons, to check out my suitability."

"Suitability?"

She grinned. "As a wife, of course. Never been married. College graduate. Getting a little long in the tooth at twenty-eight, but if I'm half as pretty, witty, charming and well bred as my mother, then they'll overlook that and find me a match among their eligibles."

"That sounds very…"

"Arranged?" Her grin broadened. "Society here can be worse than in Bombay. In some families, background is still more important than making a love match. My father's family came over on the Mayflower and my mother has Indian royal blood in her veins, adding the dash of exoticism to a perfectly respectable American name. Of course, if they knew who my real father is, those invitations would dry up pretty quickly."

"You never know. You're a rare form of half-demon, which means your dad is probably pretty high up the ladder. Royal blood on both sides."

JEREMY ARRIVED and together we told her what we were investigating. "So, this group, the ones you think have broken the magic barrier, presumably they'd be local, right?" she said. "Or at least have a local branch. That's why the ghosts would be here."

"Most likely," Jeremy said.

"Then I know the perfect people for you to talk to. Some paranormal scam-busters. They know every person and rumor connected to the supernatural. They hooked up with me shortly after I came to town and we've been trading tips ever since."

"Scam-busters?" I said.

"You know what paranormal investigators are?"

"The bane of supernaturals everywhere."

"Think of these guys as the opposite. Instead of trying to prove that the paranormal exists, they try to uncover the scams and the frauds."

"Like unmasking TV spiritualists?"

"Oh…" She paused. "I hadn't thought of that. But it shouldn't be a problem. I can't imagine these guys taking an interest in you. If you were bilking windows of their life savings for passing messages to their husbands, you'd be on their radar. But that's not what you do. If you're uncomfortable, though, Mr. Dan-Jeremy and I could meet with them…"

"No, I'll be fine. I might not be their favorite sort of person, but we'll come up with a good cover story."

HELPLESS

WE LEFT HOPE TO THE ARRANGEMENTS. In the meantime, Jeremy would make the telephone check-in rounds again, seeing whether Robert, Paige or Clay had anything new for us. As for me, as much as I hated being distracted from the investigation, I had a job to do. Time for the Gabrielle Langdon seance.

We wound up not at Langdon's house-where she'd been murdered-but at a place down the street, where she'd gone for a few community barbecues. As for why her ghost would linger there, the intro would give some heart-tugging speech about the good times she'd had in that place, and how those memories would attract her far more than the nightmares she experienced at her house. I'd bet my retirement savings, though, that this was at the end of a long list of potential sites, all of which had refused access.

Only after we arrived did Becky announce the subject of the seance. While we waited for Dr. Robson to set up his "electronic voice phenomena" equipment, Angelique sidled over to me.

"Isn't this exciting?" she said. "Lord knows, I was barely more than a tot when poor Gabrielle died, but I remember Daddy talking about it in church. He was certain the husband did it. A soccer player, wasn't he?"

"Baseball."

She nodded, processing.

"San Diego Padres," I added. "Star pitcher."

Her eyes narrowed as if suspecting me of feeding her false information. Then she lowered herself onto the bench beside a statue of a nymph that, apparently in keeping with Hollywood standards, had undergone a boob job. I glanced at the statue. Angelique followed my gaze, let out a squeak and vacated the bench, lest she be photographed under it. Not inconceivable-the cameraman was prowling the garden, getting his setup shots.

"Maybe you can give me some advice, Jaime. I know- Well, I get the impression you don't like me very much-"

"Then you're getting the wrong one, hon. I'm always thrilled to see a new star in the making. Plenty of room for all of us."

She lifted limpid eyes to mine. "Really? Lord, you don't know what that means to me. I've idolized you my whole life, waiting for this moment, hoping you'd still be around-"

"So you wanted to ask…?"

A quick glance toward the others. "Your advice. I just don't think it's fair, picking seances with these people that I've barely even heard of. It's… what's the word? Ageist."

"Ageist?" I tried not to laugh. Tried even harder not to remind her she was supposed to be getting her stories from the dead, not from memories of past events. "I suppose it is."

"I think Becky has me scheduled to go first, and I was wondering whether there was any way you might…"

"Switch spots with you? Be happy to."

"Really? Oh, gosh, that's so sweet of you. So you'll go first and I'll take the last place, which is hard, but I think I can manage-"

Becky approached, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Angelique, but the positions are set. Jaime goes last."

"I thought Mr. Grady had the last spot." Claudia hurried over. "What's this? Another change?"

I raised my hands. "I don't know what order we're supposed to go in, but I'll take whatever works for you two. First, second, last, your choice."

"No, Jaime, I'm afraid it isn't," Becky said. "You're scheduled last. I can't change that."

As she spoke, she shot nervous glances at me. Had I been the other two, I'd have interpreted those glances to mean Becky was indeed fol-lowing orders: my orders. Protest, and I'd sound like a two-faced poseur. Take Becky aside and I'd confirm suspicions of collusion.

Damn it, I didn't need this. It was hard enough doing this silly seance, when all I could think about was those child ghosts. It took all I had not to say "screw it" and walk away from the whole thing. Screw the show. Screw my future in television. I had more important things to do-things I'd rather be doing.

I forced my attention back on task. As Claudia harassed Becky, and Angelique made pointed comments about special treatment, I noticed the cameraman, ten feet away, filming the spat.

"Becky," I murmured.

"I'm sorry, Claudia, but the positioning has been set-"

I coughed, and nudged Becky toward the cameraman.

She glanced his way, then continued. "If Mr. Grady has a problem with this shoot, then I'd suggest he go ahead and contact Mr. Simon because…"

I excused myself and walked away.

THE SEANCE did not go well. Suspecting that my information was false, Angelique called Gabrielle's husband a soccer player, then started talking about bullet holes, when the woman had been stabbed. Seeing her failure on Becky's face, she tried to salvage the seance with boring personal details-Gabrielle remembered her mother brushing her hair, Gabrielle liked to walk in bare feet, Gabrielle liked puppies-the sorts of things impossible to confirm or deny.

On to Grady, who probably vaguely remembered the case, but not -well enough to chance it, so he found a Spanish conquistador who'd stumbled on an evil pagan cult and claimed this ghost was so strong he blocked Gabrielle.

Then it was my turn. Becky could scarcely control her excitement. By placing me last, she'd given me the prime spot for using the details she'd provided.

I pulled my nonprescription glasses from my purse, and adjusted my hair from semipinned to a neater do-less sexy, more scholarly. Then I had them film me sitting under the double-D nymph, as I gravely explained the "challenges" of this seance.

The geographic connection was tenuous at best, which likely explained why no one could contact Gabrielle. Even had we been on the very site of her murder, I doubted our results would have been much better, given the trauma of her passing. While we'd hoped to help lessen her burden by sharing her story with the world, we had to accept that she wasn't yet ready to do that for herself. Perhaps someday, the world would know the truth behind her tragic passing. Cut.

"WHAT THE hell was that?" Becky said as I checked my cell phone for messages from Jeremy.

I closed the phone. "What's wrong?"

"You didn't contact Gabrielle Langdon, that's what's wrong." I sighed. "It's the location. I could have worked it harder, but after Tansy Lane, I thought it best if I didn't try to show up the others." I returned my phone to my purse, took out a pen, then stopped, staring at it. "Oh, my god. I'm such a ditz. That release you wanted me to sign. I forgot all about it. I'm so sorry. After you left, I got a call and walked out without grabbing that folder. I'll do that as soon as I get back to the house."

"No," she said, words clipped. "That won't be necessary." I asked if she minded if I walked back to the house while she finished up. She waved what I took for a 'yes' and strode back to the set.

THE STREET was empty. The houses, pushed back from the road, peeked out from curtains of trees and evergreens. The rumble of the distant highway was only white noise. Even the lawn crew I passed worked in silence as they clipped bushes into submission. Across the road, a pool-cleaning truck idled in a drive, the fumes harsh against the smell of fresh-cut grass.

There was nothing to see, nothing to listen to, nothing to distract me from burrowing deep in my thoughts and staying there. I wanted to say "to hell with this shoot" and walk off before it got worse, but I'd earned my own TV show and I was damned well going to get it.

A throat cleared behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a blond woman.

"Nice to see someone walking," she said as she fell into step beside me. "Around here, people drive to the corner store."

I nodded, torn between wanting to be polite and wanting to be left alone. We continued on, the woman staying beside me in silence.

"I hope I'm going the right way," I said finally.

"You are. Just another block and a half."

"Oh?" I glanced at her. "How-? Ah, there's not likely to be more than one TV special filming in Brentwood right now, is there? We're probably the subject of much discussion."

A small laugh. "Probably. But that's not why… I mean, that's not how I know…"

The sentence trailed off. I took a better look at her. Any other time, I'd have pegged her as a stereotypical Hollywood housewife, but considering where I'd just been and what I'd been doing, I recognized her.

I stopped walking. "Gabrielle, I didn't- Yes, they were calling you, but I didn't-"

"I know. Better keep walking. Bad enough you're talking to yourself. You don't want to be caught doing it in the middle of the road."

I resumed walking, my heart thumping. I pulled out my cell phone-an invention that made "talking to myself" much more socially acceptable. "I'm sorry. I'm so-"

"-sorry. But you shouldn't be. Like you said, you didn't call me. Some of us have been… catching your show, so to speak."

I glanced around, imagining ghosts, hidden on the other side of the veil, watching me, waiting for an excuse to make contact and ask for help I couldn't give.

"We don't get many of your kind around here, so it was big news. We're the ones who told Tansy you were calling her and, well, seeing you talking to her, being so nice, it gave us hope."

"Hope." The word echoed down the empty street, as hollow and empty as its promise. And it reminded me of an obligation I'd been trying to avoid-my promise to speak to Tansy. A double shot of guilt. I took a deep breath. "I don't blame you for wanting revenge against whoever killed you, but telling me who it was isn't going to help."

"Revenge?" She met my gaze. "I dont' want revenge. I just want answers."

"Answers?"

"I don't know who killed me. I don't remember."

"That's normal-"

"Normal?" A bitter laugh. "I don't think 'normal' has anything to do with my case. Everyone knows how I died. Everyone has an opinion about who did it. Everyone thinks they know the truth. Everyone except me."

I didn't know what to say.

"All I know is who was accused. The man I married, the father of my children. A criminal court finds him innocent. A civil court finds him guilty. And I don't know. I still don't know." Her voice rose, then she steadied herself and rubbed her face on her sleeve. "How am I supposed to spend eternity not knowing?"

If I opened my mouth, I was going to throw up. It's happened before. Just last spring, I almost lost my dinner on the scuffed shoes of a very straightlaced old man who'd cried as he begged me to contact his dead granddaughter and find out who'd raped and murdered her.

That's the price I pay-for every hundred people I console with fake reassurances, there's one whose heart I break by saying no. I used to think the balance was in my favor, that I helped more than I harmed. But lately, I've come to question that.

"I-I don't know what to tell you," I said finally. "I can't solve your murder."

"I know, but isn't there someone you can ask? Some… higher power who can tell me the truth?"

"If there is, I have no way to make that contact. "With the afterlife, I'm restricted to talking to ghosts like you."

She reached to take my arm, frustration and despair filling her eyes as her fingers passed through me. She met my gaze. "Then just tell me what you think. Did he kill me?"

As tempting as it was to tell Gabrielle what she wanted to hear, I didn't have that right.

"What if I tell you no, and you wait for him, only to learn I was wrong? What if I say yes, and you find out later I was wrong?"

"You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. Do you… do you want me to leave now?"

I shook my head. "Walk with me, if you don't mind. I could use the company."

AS WE neared the house, my gut started twisting again. How should I handle our parting? If I said nothing, I'd lead the other ghosts to believe that while I might not have been able to help Gabrielle, that didn't mean I wasn't willing to hear their stories. I'd spend the rest of this job with ghosts hovering about, waiting for the excuse to pop in, only to be disappointed

But what was the alternative? Tell Gabrielle to bring them all by, like serfs granted an audience with the queen, telling me their stories, begging for help I couldn't give? I couldn't find a killer. I couldn't help a still-grieving spouse find love again. I couldn't take an inheritance away from an ungrateful child. I couldn't stop an unscrupulous partner from destroying the business they'd built together. Most time's, I couldn't even deliver a simple message-at best I'd have a door slammed in my face, at worst I'd be reported for trying to scam the bereaved.

I couldn't handle listening to their pleas, knowing I'd disappoint them. Selfish maybe, but every no hurt too much.

So what should I say? "Please tell all those other ghosts not to bother me"? How callous was that?

I tell myself that I do help-not ghosts, but the grief-stricken, with my show. But does it matter how many people I reassure if I raise the false hopes of one? By splashing myself on screen and stage, proclaiming my desire to help the grief-stricken make contact, aren't I lying to the spirits themselves? Misleading them into thinking that of all necromancers, I'm willing to help?

As we reached the drive, I turned to Gabrielle, to tell her… I didn't even know what. But when I looked, I saw only the empty sidewalk.