Spellbound (4 page)

“This makes me feel special. Right now, I really need to feel special.”

“You'll feel really special when you're fighting a lynch mob without your spells.”

“No, I'll leave that to you. One spark, and with all that polyester, the whole mob will go up in flames.”

I walked to the glass doors and peered through. Inside I could see a few security guards.

Adam swung open the door and held it for me.

“Hey, Steve,” he said to a burly bald guy.

I didn't recognize the guard, let alone know his name. Adam would say that's why I needed to pay more attention. I'd point out that the guard didn't recognize Adam either. His gaze had gone right to me, and he smiled.

“Savannah, right?” he said.

I nodded.

“I didn't see you guys on the list,” Steve said, reaching for a clipboard on the podium.

“We aren't,” I said. “It's a surprise visit.”

“Sure. I'll buzz Kat and have her take you to Jaime.”

I could have said that Jaime's assistant really didn't need to be playing guide an hour before curtain time. But this was a polite way of saying he needed confirmation before letting us in.

A few minutes later, a young woman with a clipboard, earpiece, and cotton-candy pink hair zoomed through the auditorium door.

“Hey, guys,” she said. “Good to see you. Come on through.”

We picked our way through a hive of buzzing workers. Kat alternated between barking orders and chatting with us. She knew Jaime had popped down to Portland to visit us, so she wasn't surprised to see us here.

Actually, Jaime had come to check on me in the hospital, and relay her side of the events that had played out in Columbus. My mother had been hunting Leah from the afterlife, with Jaime helping out on this side. Leah had been clever, though, alternating between bodies and keeping Mom and Jaime chasing the other one, while she cozied up to me through Jesse.

When we arrived outside Jaime's dressing room, I could faintly hear her voice through the door. A one-sided conversation. That's not surprising for someone who can speak to the dead. Also not surprising that Jaime opened the door with her cell phone to her ear, pretending to be carrying on a conversation with an actual person. The surprising part was that she was fully dressed. And, as it turned out, she was talking to an actual person.

“It's Hope,” she said to me. Then, “Can I put you on speaker?”

Jaime set the phone down on the table and disappeared behind a screen to dress. If Adam wasn't there, she wouldn't have bothered hiding. Jaime definitely hadn't been one of those high school girls who'd ducked into a bathroom stall to change for gym. I guard my privacy a little more closely, but if I have Jaime's figure at forty-seven, I might not hide it either.

I said hi to Hope Adams. Hope was a friend of ours and an Expisco half-demon. Her dad? Lucifer. The Lord Demon of Chaos.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

Hope was seven months along with her first child, and the pregnancy hadn't been easy. When she said she was fine, her voice was so weak I could barely make it out over the speaker.

“You sound exhausted,” I said. “Are you getting enough rest?”

“Yes, I just—”

A clatter and a weak yelp of “Karl!”

A male voice growled in the background. “If you're telling them you're fine, then clearly you're not the one who should be making this call.”

Hope's husband. Karl Marsten. Of all the werewolves in the American Pack, Karl's the only one who spooks me. But Hope can handle him, and the fact that she only sighed at his growling told me she was in rough shape.

“She's still having the visions,” Karl said after he'd confiscated the phone.

“What visions?” I asked.

He ignored the question. “I know Elena thinks it's just a difficult pregnancy, but this is more than hormones. Hope isn't sleeping. At all. These aren't the nightmares of a stressed pregnant woman. They're visions, and until she figures out what they mean, she's going to keep having them.”

As an Expisco, Hope did see visions—usually replays of past chaos.

“What's she seeing?” I asked.

He hesitated, and I expected him to snap at Jaime to take him off the speaker. Clearly Jaime already knew what was going on here, and Karl didn't have time for me right now. He never does. When he did continue, it told me just how worried he was.

“Flashes of images. The same ones over and over. Wolves. A baby. Jasper Haig.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Nightmares about wolves and babies when she's pregnant with a werewolf's child?”

“Yes, yes. It does sound like pregnancy jitters but—”

“And dreaming of the psycho who's hell-bent on coming for her if he ever gets out of Cortez Cabal custody? If I was pregnant, I'd worry about everything that could threaten my child. Jaz is a threat.”

“Of which I am well aware.” Karl's tone made me shut my mouth so fast my teeth clicked. “She's seeing other images, too. A little boy. A laboratory. A meeting room filled with young people. Images with no obvious chaotic connection. Yet they're scaring her and she doesn't know why. She's seeing you, too.”

“Me?”

“Yes. And a sword. She sees Savannah and a glowing sword.”

“Um, that might not be . . .” Jaime's voice came over the rustle of her dressing. She paused, then cleared her throat. “Could she be seeing Eve?”

“With a sword?” I said.

“Not specifically.” Jaime hurried on. “Heaven and hell, angels and demons, swords and brimstone. Generic afterlife imagery. Anyway it does seem that Hope's really having visions. Karl? I'm guessing you want me to run this past Eve and—”

A rap at the door told Jaime it was time for her hair and makeup. She came out from behind the screen, resplendent in a golden brown dress, and told Karl she'd call him later to discuss it. I said good-bye to Hope, wishing her better dreams, and promised to send some of Paige's sleeping tea.

S
ome theaters have box seats that Jaime reserves for friends and investors. This one didn't, which meant mingling with masses. There are always a few extra seats in a “sold-out” show, and she managed to find us a pair together. The single beside Adam stayed empty until five minutes before the curtain, when a woman barreled down the aisle, and into our row, not giving anyone a chance to stand and make more room.

People come to Jaime's show for two reasons: entertainment and reassurance. In the latter case, they've lost a loved one, and they're hoping for proof that their dearly departed still lives, in some form, somewhere. So 95 percent of the audience is happy to be there. The laughter and excited whispers that night were so contagious, they even made me feel better.

But part of the audience has been dragged in by a friend or spouse. Glance around and you can see them, slouching in their seats, like sullen children in church, determined not to enjoy themselves, no matter how entertaining the show might be.

The woman coming down the aisle had that same look on her face. But she was alone, meaning no companion had forced her here. That could mean only one thing. She
had
been forced. By an assignment.

Local media? Member of the theater board? Consumer watchdog?

Any of the above fit. She was in her late twenties. Chanel jacket. Gucci shoes. Prada bag. None of it matched and none of it suited her, the choices of someone who knows labels but not fashion.

When the woman finally reached her seat, she double-checked the number. Then she noticed Adam sitting in the next seat beside hers, and her scowl evaporated in a smile.

“Is this D-22?” she asked him, though it was clearly engraved on the arm.

“Looks like it,” he said.

She smiled wider. Then she turned and shrugged off her jacket, shaking her booty just a little too close to Adam's face.

“It's going to be late when we get out of here,” I said. “We should probably grab a hotel room for the night.”

The woman looked at me, like she was really hoping I was some stranger making conversation with her cute seatmate. Her gaze barely touched me before returning to Adam.

“Have you been to one of these before?” she asked him, smiling. “Or, I should say, have you been dragged to one before?” She leaned over to look at me. “Little sister, I'm guessing?”

Adam bit back a laugh as I glowered. Physically there was no way we could be mistaken for siblings.

“No, she isn't. And I'm the one doing the dragging.” He whispered conspiratorially, “I love this stuff.”

Her expression fluttered between dismay and denial. Finally, she gave him one last regretful look, and fished a notepad and pen from her Prada bag.

I took out my cell to text Jaime and warn her there was a reporter in the audience—one who definitely didn't seem inclined to give a fair assessment. Then the lights dimmed and I swore. If the lights were out, she was backstage and cell-phone free.

Adam leaned over and whispered, “She can handle it.”

True. But that didn't mean I liked seeing it happen. Jaime didn't deserve that.

Jaime Vegas was a con artist, like every spiritualist I'd ever met. Unlike the others, though, she actually could talk to the dead. Yet even if an audience member's father was right at Jaime's shoulder, telling her what to say, she'd usually make up the message.

Why? Because that audience member doesn't want to hear Daddy give her shit for marrying that louse, Bobby, and letting him bulldoze Mommy's rose garden. She wants to hear that Daddy loves her very much, and he misses her, but he's happy. So that's what Jaime tells her. On some level, it's true—he almost certainly does love her and is happy in the afterlife—but ghosts are still people, wrapped up in petty grievances and concerns.

The theater went pitch black. Then tiny lights flicked on, earning the inevitable “ooh” from the audience as Jaime's recorded whisper talked about crossing the veil and reaching out to the other side. It reminded me of when I was fourteen and Elena took me to
Phantom of the Opera
. Even as I rolled my eyes at the corny dialogue and over-the-top special effects, I had to admit it worked.

The lights went up and another collective “ooh” snaked down the aisles as Jaime appeared on the center-aisle catwalk. Her goldenbrown dress shimmered as she walked in heels so high they'd even make me nervous. Her red hair was piled on her head, tendrils curling down. She had on her nonprescription glasses. If they were supposed to make her look less glamorous, they didn't work. Every guy who'd been dragged along by his wife now perked up, and started thinking maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

The reporter beside Adam snorted. “Notice they don't bring the lights up full? At her age, she needs all the shadows she can get.”

“I think she's hot,” Adam said.

“Anyone can be hot if they can afford to get work done.”

I leaned over and dropped my gaze to her overinflated breasts. “And anyone who can't afford to get the work done right, shouldn't.”

She scowled at me, then looked at Jaime—who I should point out, has never had plastic surgery—but owes it all to good genes and hard work.

Jaime launched into her show. It's typical spiritualism shtick.
There's a ghost who is trying to break through
. His name is . . . It starts with an R. Ronald. Roger. No, Robert. I have a Robert. Is someone looking for a Robert? Going once, going twice . . .

She always had a taker. Let's face it, what's the chance that among five hundred people, no one knows a dead guy named Robert? Once Jaime has her mark, she spits out rapid-fire, open-ended guesses and reads her target's body language until she can say, with certainty, that this is her target's nephew, Robert, who died in a car accident three years ago.

After that, Jaime moved onto a couple of specific audience members . . . ones her trusted staff had reported overhearing in the lobby, hoping to contact Aunt Frieda or Cousin Al. Those were easy and satisfied most naysayers. Then she moved back to the guesswork.

“It's a woman this time,” Jaime said. “I'm not getting a name. She's having trouble communicating. I think it might be Joan or Jan or Jane. I can see her, though. She's average height, dark hair, a few extra pounds”—she stopped, then hurried on—“in all the right places.” The audience tittered.

The reporter beside me raised her hand, pumping the air, trying to get Jaime's attention. Plenty of others were waving madly, but Jaime knew where Adam and I were sitting. Seeing our seatmate jumping up and down, she started our way. I caught her gaze and shook my head.

Jaime acted as if she hadn't noticed, but when she reached the end of the aisle she stopped suddenly. She glanced over, as if at the ghost, then nodded at the reporter. “She's says she's not for you. I'm sorry.”

Jaime started to turn away, then stopped again. Frowning, she slowly turned. “Are you here hoping to contact someone?”

“I am,” the reporter shot to her feet. “My friend, Jan. She died last year. Cancer.”

Jaime's frown grew. “Are you sure? I'm not sensing a Jan.”

“Who are you sensing?”

“No one. There isn't anyone who wants to speak to—” She cut herself off. “I mean, no one wants to speak to you right now. I'm sure you have loved ones who do, though.” A sympathetic smile. “Somewhere.”

The reporter sank into her seat, defeated.

“My visitor is still here,” Jaime said to the room. “And I thank her for her patience. I will find the person she came for. Perhaps she can help me locate—”