No Humans Involved

Hawthorne. Suburbia: a place where they cut down trees and name streets in their memory.

The house at 52 Hawthorne was a tidy bungalow on a street of tidy bungalows. The small house wasn't anything fancy, but in the drive stood a gleaming Mercedes SUV, as if Molly couldn't resist indulging herself a little. The basketball hoop over the garage suggested kids, but there were no toys to be seen. Maybe they were too old for pedal cars. Maybe they preferred spell practice to hoop practice. Or maybe she had no kids, and the net just came with the house-a standard feature like a paved driveway.

I started with a very slow walk past. Noted that the backyard was enclosed by a privacy fence. Noted a calico cat, but no sign of a guard dog… though anything could be behind that fence. Noted a light shining from a window overlooking the drive, a window with kitchenlike curtains.

It seemed safe enough-I was just a nicely dressed forty-something walking down a suburban street. And yet, when the door to Molly's house opened and a woman's figure darkened the doorway, I realized I had a problem.

If I came back later with Jeremy, she'd recognize me and know I'd been checking out her house, which would start the interview off badly. Yet I wasn't ready to question her. So I made a split-second plan. I'd look her way and if she wasn't watching me I'd take a chance and keep walking.

I looked. Our eyes met.

I As I headed up her sidewalk, I got my first good look at the woman, She was probably in her late thirties. Short blond hair worn in an easy-maintenance but stylish tousle. An elfin face with bright green eyes. Small and compact, she was dressed in a designer sweat suit, maybe heading to the gym, maybe just wanting to look as if she was.

'Molly Crane?'

A bright smile, the welcome mitigated by a wary look in her eyes. I searched those eyes for some sign of recognition. With an average American, my chances of being recognized are on a par with any C-list movie celebrity. To those who follow spiritualists or certain talk shows, my face is unmistakable.

In the supernatural community, though, my face-recognition goes up… usually accompanied by either disapproval or contempt. Spellcasters like Molly Crane can use their talents to make a living, but God forbid I should do the same.

I saw that 'I know her from somewhere' spark in Molly's eyes, and cursed. I would have been safer using a false name, but she'd realize who I was the moment I mentioned ghosts.

I climbed the steps and extended my hand. 'Jaime Vegas.'

Her eyes lit up in recognition. 'My daughter and her friends tape you on Keni Bales every month. Please come in.'

COMEDY OF ERRORS

THERE WAS NO WAY TO REFUSE without making Molly suspicious, so I stepped inside.

'Did I hear something about you serving on the council now?' Molly said as she led me into her living room. 'I suppose that's what you're here about? Council business?'

Damn. Another detail I'd been hoping to keep to myself. If Molly didn't want to deal with Paige and Lucas, she might not be so keen to speak to another council member.

I took the chair nearest the hall doorway. 'Not so much council business as delegate business. Helping a fellow necromancer with a minor problem-one too small to warrant the council's attention. More of a research issue, actually. A puzzle I'm trying to solve so we can document it.'

'Oh?' Intrigued, but not suspicious. 'So what brings you to me?'

Another smile, this one wry. 'Well, I'd say you came recommended as the top witch of the dark arts and I couldn't even imagine asking anyone else, but blatant flattery doesn't work so well on people outside of Hollywood.'

She laughed, relaxing now. 'We have our egos, but they don't impede brain function.'

'Truth is that, yes, you came highly recommended, but when I took a close look at the possibilities, you seemed the most-' a mock throat clearing, '-approachable.'

She laughed hard at that. 'Now, that I believe. Between the weirdos and the recluses, it can be hard finding a viable contact among our bunch.'

'I was also told that there might be something I can offer you in return. Which is what I want to do. I'm not asking for favors.'

'Oh? Now I am intrigued. Can I get you something to drink before you satisfy my curiosity? Coffee? Tea? Soda? Bottled water?'

I opted for the water. There are too many things a witch can do with a brewed beverage.

When she came back, I gave her a version of the story, with this fellow necromancer being bothered by spirits who couldn't make contact. So far, I said, my investigation suggested a magical explanation.

When I finished, Molly nodded, thoughtful, then said, 'I'm sure you've been told that doesn't sound like the results of normal ritual sacrifice.'

'I have.'

'Perhaps I can help but-' She met my gaze, eyes deceptively mild. 'You offered an exchange?'

'I've heard you lost someone this year,' I said. 'Your common-law partner, I believe. A half-demon.'

She hesitated, gaze down, then nodded slowly. 'Mike. Yes.'

I switched to my 'dealing with the grief-stricken' voice. 'If you'd like to make contact with him, I could try. With articles belonging to him plus access to his grave site, there's a good chance I can do it. Not perfect. But maybe a… ninety percent chance.'

Molly said nothing, just stared down into the glass cupped in her hands. Still grieving, as Savannah had said. Or maybe wondering if I was trying to con her.

I hurried on. 'If I don't make contact, I'll owe you. I will contact someone for you. Guaranteed.'

Still she stared into her glass, her thumbs now caressing the sides.

Unlike humans, supernaturals know there's an afterlife. There must be, or there couldn't be necromancers. Through us, they also know that most ghosts are happy enough. If you know this, then perhaps contacting a loved one isn't such a wise idea. What if he's stopped grieving for his lost life, and you only rip open those wounds? What if you rip the scabs off your own grief?

'If you'd rather not contact him, maybe there's something else-' Her head snapped up. 'Why wouldn't I want to contact him?'

'I just meant- I'm not trying to renege on the offer. I certainly will try, if that's what you want. But if this isn't what you want, then I'd completely understand-'

'Would you?'

Molly's voice had gone cold. She set her drink aside, deliberately. My gaze swung to the door. She followed it and gave a brittle smile. 'Thinking of leaving already, Jaime? And why might that be?' I laughed. 'Leaving? No. I was just wondering-' I leapt from the chair. Her hand flew up, lips moving in a sorcerer's knockback spell. I tried to duck, as Lucas taught me, but wasn't fast enough. Instead of hitting me in the torso, it slammed into my shoulder, whipping me around. My feet flew out. I saw the edge of the coffee table sailing up to meet me. Tried to twist. Too late. Impact. Pain. Darkness.

I AWOKE to the blast of a car horn. Something held me down, tightening around my wrists and ankles when I moved. I opened my mouth to call out, but tasted plastic and glue.

Everything was as dark as when I'd fallen. Blindfolded? I move my head, testing for that pulling sensation against my temples. Sadly, I know what a blindfold feels like. Know what being kidnapped feels like too. For a second, that's all I could think: Goddamn it, not again.

But when I moved, instead of a blindfold, I felt something scratchy against my bare hands and face. Like an old blanket. Bound, gagged and covered.

The floor vibrated beneath me. The steady hum of moving tires. I remembered the horn blast that woke me. I