To summon the dead you needed artifacts of death. In that kit, there'd be everything from grave dirt to scraps of moldy grave clothes to, well, dead things . . . or, at least, travel-size pieces of them. The tools-in-trade of a necromancer. Made me really happy to be a witch, casting spells surrounded by sweet-smelling herbs, pretty gemstones, and antique filigreed chalices.
About ten minutes later, Jaime called me in. When I entered, she was sitting beside the bed, holding Dana's hand. Most necromancers leave their tools out during a summoning, but Jaime's makeup bag had vanished, along with its contents. Only the censer remained, burning vervain, which necromancers used when contacting either traumatized souls, such as murder victims, or the souls of those who didn't realize they were spirits.
"It didn't work?" I asked.
"It worked." Jamie's voice had faded to a strained whisper and her face was pale. "She's here. I haven't—" Her voice strengthened. "I haven't made contact yet. I think it'd be easiest on her if I used channeling. Do you know how that works?"
I nodded. "You let Dana speak through you."
"Right."
"So I'll ask her the questions and—"
"No, no," Jamie said. "Well, yes, you'll ask the questions, but I'll relay them to her, and let her speak through me. She doesn't take over my body. That's full channeling, and if a necro ever suggests that, find someone else. No necro in her right mind ever gives herself completely over to a spirit."
"Got it."
"Now, for the first part, making contact, I'll do that on my own. It's easier that way. I'll establish contact and . . . explain things." She swallowed. "I'll tell her what happened, where she is. She may know, but . . . with kids . . . there can be some resistance to the truth."
Damn it, I hadn't thought of this. We weren't just asking Jaime to contact Dana. We were asking her to tell the girl that she was lying in a hospital bed, comatose.
"I'm sorry," I said. "If you don't want to do this, I totally understand—"
"I'm fine. She'll figure it out sooner or later, right? Now, she's almost certainly not going to remember a play-by-play."
"Trauma amnesia," I said. "Lucas told me about it."
"Good. I'll make contact now. This may take a while."
Twenty minutes ticked by. During that time, Jaime sat ramrod straight, eyes closed, hand clutching Dana's, the occasional twitch of her cheek the only sign that something was happening.
"Okay," Jaime said finally, in a cheerful chirp. "Now there's someone here who's going to help us catch the guy who did this to you, okay, kiddo?"
"Good." The response was pitched an octave higher than Jaime's voice.
"Her name is Paige, and she's a witch, just like you. Do you know what the Coven is?"
"I . . . I've heard of it . . . I think."
"It's a group for witches. Paige used to be in the Coven, helping witches there, but now she works outside the Coven, so she can help all witches." That was a nice way of putting it. I mentally thanked Jaime for the positive spin. "What I want you to do is tell her everything you remember, then she'll ask you some questions, and we'll catch this guy before you wake up."
So Dana was okay. Thank God. I relaxed for the first time since walking into the room.
Dana asked when she'd be waking up.
"Any day now," Jaime said. "Your dad is supposed to be here soon—"
"My dad? I knew he'd come. Is my mom there?"
"She's been in and out," Jaime said. "Taking care of you."
"And they'll be there? When I wake up?"
"Sure will. Now, can you tell Paige what you saw?"
"Sure. Hi, Paige."
I opened my mouth, but Jaime answered for me. "You won't be able to hear Paige, hon. I'll have to relay her messages. But you'll get to see her when you wake up. She's been pretty worried about you."
Dana smiled through Jaime, the smile of a kid who wasn't used to people giving a damn. I'd make sure her dad knew about Dana's situation with her mother and, if he was the kind of father Benicio said he was, Dana would never have to spend another night on the streets. If he didn't, well, then I'd see to it myself.
"I'll try," Dana said. "But . . . I don't remember it so well. It's all jumbled up, like something I saw on television a long time ago and can't really remember."
"That's okay, Dana," Jaime said. "We know you won't remember much, so if you don't, we understand, but if you do remember something, anything at all, that'll be great."
"Well, it was Sunday night. I was coming home from a party. I wasn't loaded or anything. I'd had a joint, but that's it, just one joint I shared with this guy I knew. So I was walking home through the park—I know that sounds dumb, but around there, the park seemed safer than the roads, you know? I was being careful, staying on the path, looking, listening. And then . . ."
Her voice trailed off.
"Then what, Dana?" Jaime prompted.
"Then . . . I think I must forget what happens next because all I remember is this guy was suddenly standing right behind me. I must have heard him coming, maybe I tried to run, but I don't remember."
"Ask her—" I began.
Dana continued. "I know you're going to want to know what the guy looked like, but I didn't really see him. I know I should have . . ."
"Hey, if it was me," Jaime said, "I'd have been freaking so bad, I wouldn't remember a damn thing. You're doing fine, kiddo. Just take it slow and give us what you can."
"He grabbed me, and next thing I know, I'm on the ground, way off the path, in this forest. I was kind of awake, but not really, and I was so tired. I just wanted to sleep."
"Drugged?" I asked.
Jaime relayed the question.
"I—I guess so. Only, it didn't feel . . . I just remember being tired. I don't even think he had me tied up, but I didn't move. I didn't want to move. I just wanted to sleep. Then he put this rope around my neck, and I blacked out, then I was here."
"I want to talk about the phone call you made," I said.
"I made a phone call?"
"To the emergency line," I said. "The Cabal—the place where your dad works."
"I know what you mean, but I don't remember. Dad made my sister and me memorize it, and I know I'm supposed to call them first, so I must have."
I prompted her with a few questions about her attacker's voice, regional accent, word usage, anything that might have stuck in her mind more than a physical description, but she could tell me little more than that he didn't sound like he came from "around here."
"Oh, there was one thing he did say that seemed weird. When he started choking me. It seemed like he was talking to someone, but there wasn't anyone there. Like he was talking to himself, only he used a name."
I perked up. "Do you remember it?"
"
I
think it was Nasha," Dana said. "That's what it sounded like."
"Ask her what exactly he said," I said, and Jaime did.
"He said he was doing this for this person, this Nasha," Dana said.
"Ritual sacrifice," I said.
Jaime nodded. We continued to prod Dana's memory, but she'd obviously been only partially conscious when she'd heard her attacker speak. Next we moved back to her attacker. He was likely supernatural, and may have done something to indicate his race, but Dana couldn't recall anything. As the daughter of a witch and a half-demon, she was familiar with both spell-casting and demonic shows of power, but her attacker had demonstrated neither.
"That's great, hon," Jaime said when I indicated that I'd run out of questions. "You've been a big help. Thank you very much."
Dana smiled through Jaime. "I should be thanking you. And I will, when I wake up. I'll take you guys out for lunch. On me. Well, on me and my dad."
"Su—sure, kiddo," Jaime said, gaze flicking away. "We'll do that." She glanced at me. "Can I send her back now?"
I nodded, and capped my pen. "Tell her I'll see her when she wakes up."
A few minutes later, Jaime stood and rubbed her shoulders.
"You okay?" I asked.
She made a noncommittal noise and reached for her handbag. I stifled a yawn, then stepped into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.
"So, do you have any idea when she'll regain consciousness?" I said as I came out.
"She won't."
I stopped and turned slowly. Jaime was fussing with something in her purse.
"What?" I said.
Jaime didn't look up. "She's crossed over. She's gone."
"But you—you said—"
"I know what I said."
"You told her she was fine. How could you—?"
Jaime's gaze snapped to mine. "And what was I supposed to say? Sorry, kid, you're dead, you just don't know it yet?"
"Oh, my god." I sunk into the nearest chair. "I'm sorry. We didn't mean—I didn't mean—putting you through that—"
"Comes with the territory. If not me, then someone else, right? You need to catch this bastard, and this was the best way to get information, so . . ." She rubbed her hand over her face. "I could really use a drink. And some company. If you don't mind."
I scrambled from the chair. "Sure."
Two-for-One Special
Though I was still in shock over Dana's fate, my feelings had to take a backseat to Jaime's. She was the one who needed support, and I was happy to provide it.
I'd seen a jazz bar down the road, the kind of place with big plush booths you could get lost in and a live band that never played loud enough to challenge conversation. We could go there, have a few drinks, and talk through our difficult evening, maybe come to a better understanding of one another.
***
"No, I am so serious!" Jaime shrieked, waving her Cosmopolitan and sending a tidal wave over the glass. "This guy was sitting in his seat, with his pants undone, dick sticking out, hoping that'd get my attention."
The blond guy on Jaime's left leaned into her. "And did it?"
"Hell, no. A four-inch dick? I don't even slow down for that. Zipped right past him . . . and hoped he zipped up before the old lady beside him had a stroke."
"Would eight inches do it?" asked the dark-haired guy on her right. .
"Depends on the face that goes with it. Now ten . . . ten and we'd be talking. Twelve, and I'd summon his fucking dog if he asked me."
A roar of laughter. I stared into my Mojito and wished I'd made it a double Scotch, neat. I didn't drink Scotch, but suddenly, it seemed like a really good idea.
Around us, music pulsed so loud it rippled Jaime's Cosmo puddle. I thought of wiping it up, but decided to wait until another stoned dancer stumbled off the floor and fell onto our table. It'd happened twice so far and was bound to happen again. I only hoped he or she would be wearing enough to soak up Jaime's spilled drink.
We'd been here nearly two hours, having never come within half a block of the jazz club. Jaime had heard the thumping music from outside and dragged me in for "just one drink." I'd had two. She was on number six. For the first two, she'd ignored all attention from the bar's male patrons. By the third, she'd begun sizing up the interested parties. When number five arrived, she'd made her selection from a quintet of stockbroker types who'd been watching us from the bar, and had waved over the two cutest and offered them seats on either side of her, squashing three into a bench made for two.
Though I'd kept my gaze on my drink, sending clear "I am so not interested" vibes, one of the remaining trio had decided the leftovers didn't look too unappetizing and slid in beside me. I wanted nothing more than to return to my quiet hotel room and mourn for Dana by planning my next step in finding her killer. Yet here I was, trapped against the booth wall, listening to Jaime's war stories, nursing my second Mojito, and fending off the wandering hands of my unwanted companion. And I was starting to get a little pissed.
The guy beside me, Dale—or was it Chip?—wriggled closer, though we were already closer than I liked getting to anyone I wasn't sleeping with.
"You have really nice eyes," he said.
"Those aren't my eyes," I said. "Look up. Way up."
He chuckled and lifted his gaze to my face. "No, I'm serious. You have beautiful eyes."
"What color are they?"
"Uh . . ." He squinted in the darkness. "Blue?"
They were green, but I wasn't helping him out. I'd already repeated the "I'm seeing someone" line until it sounded like a challenge. Nearly as often I'd told Jaime that I really should be going, but she pretended not to hear me. When I tried again, she launched into another ribald story.