No Humans Involved

by Kelley Armstrong

  Becky glanced at me, but I didn't have any such stipulations in my contract. I could hit the ground running anytime, anywhere, so I saved my contract demands for important things like billing position and wardrobe allowance.

  "It's all yours, Bradford." I smiled, then slipped in, "I'll take the final spot next time."

  "Excellent," Becky said. "It's settled, then. Angelique will go first, Jaime second--"

  "Oh, no," Angelique breathed, her face filling with genuine horror. "I couldn't go before Ms. Vegas. She's the star; I should follow her."

  I shook my head. "It's your first big seance and I insist you take the premier position."

  She opened her mouth, but there was little she could say to that. I accepted Grady's proffered arm and we headed upstairs.

  WHEN I realized they planned to hold this seance in the garden, I thought of the presence I'd felt there earlier and a chill ran through me. As bizarre as it might seem, I avoid mixing necromancy and spiritualism whenever possible. I use my powers to give me an edge, but under controlled circumstances. When I'm booking a show in a new city, I always visit the venues myself first, to make sure there aren't any resident ghosts. Nothing buggers up a fake seance more than having a real ghost screaming in your ear.

  So I stepped into that garden, steeled against the first sign that my reluctant spirit had returned. But, to my relief, the presence of others seemed to scare it off. Or, if I was really lucky, it had given up and moved on.

  We stole into the garden like schoolkids cutting out on a class trip, snickering and whispering, hoping the neighbors didn't overhear.

  It was midnight. The witching hour, which I'm sure the writers would make a big deal of when they wrote the introduction to this segment. The full moon and the wind rustling through the bushes didn't hurt.

  "Too bad we can't do it next door," someone said. "Right at the site of the murder. That's where she was found, wasn't it?"

  "Near the pool house." Becky turned to the cameraman. "Can we get it in the backdrop?"

  "Perhaps we could get some dirt from the site," Grady said.

  Becky looked at the security crew. "Any volunteers?"

  "I will," I said.

  All heads turned my way.

  "Oh, come on," I said. "What will film better? A security guard jumping that fence? Or me?" I turned to Angelique. "Unless you want to."

  She backed away as if I'd suggested she desecrate a grave. "Oh, no. I couldn't. My dress--"

  "Then it'll have to be me." I pulled off my sling-backs and handed them to the nearest guard. "Now, which of you boys is going to boost me over that fence?"

  SO I snuck into the neighbor's yard and swiped dirt from behind their pool house. By the time I got back, my feet were filthy, my hair had twigs caught in it and I was sure there was a dirt smear or two on my face. But I got my round of cheers--and my laughs--and some footage of a cute young guard washing my feet in the fountain.

  "Okay," I said, putting my heels back on as I leaned against the obliging guard. "Time for the seance. Angelique? You're up."

  TANSY LANE

  THE MEDIUM HAS TWO PRIMARY TOOLS at her disposal, and neither has anything to do with summoning spirits. The tools are knowledge and statistical probability. Or, as they're often called, warm reading and cold reading.

  Cold reading uses statistical probability to make random guesses about a person or an audience. For example, if I say I see the spirit of a man, someone you've lost, it's a given that you've lost a male friend or relative in your lifetime. If I say his name started with J--first name, but maybe a middle or nickname--there's a good chance you can find a dead male relative with that common initial. Then I'll throw out "details" supplied by your dead relative, talking fast, shaping my responses by reading your reaction, and soon you'll be convinced I am indeed speaking to your dearly departed second cousin Joey...who, by the way, misses you, but is happy and in a good place.

  Then there's warm reading, which uses prior knowledge. Maybe you chatted to one of my staff on the way into the show--they're so helpful and friendly. Maybe they overheard you telling your companion about the person you wanted me to contact. Or maybe you wrote it on that questionnaire you sent in, the one that was supposed to be anonymous. However it happened, I know that you, in seat D45, are praying that your second cousin Joey comes by with a message. Well, he has, and he misses you, but he's happy and in a good place.

  When summoning a specific spirit, though, like Tansy Lane, you can't use statistical probability, so the tool Angelique needed was knowledge--memories of what she'd heard about the case. Which posed a problem, considering she'd been born after Tansy died. If she'd gotten the spot after me, she could have built on my "revelations." Without that, she was in trouble.

  "Tansy? Is that you?" Angelique squinted as if straining to see in the dark. "She's having difficulty passing over. That's common with traumatized ghosts."

  After two minutes of this, Becky told the cameraman to stop filming. I took a seat on a stone bench and waited my turn. At this rate, it wouldn't be long.

  "I think I see her," Angelique was saying. "Her hair...it's light. No, maybe dark..."

  A whisper rushed past my ear and I spun, nearly falling off the bench. I fought the urge to look around and kept my gaze straight ahead. The whisper seemed to circle me, a pss-pss-pss that made the hairs on my neck rise.

  Fingers brushed my arm. I narrowed my eyes, withdrawing into that most primitive response--mentally stopping up my ears, squeezing my eyes shut and repeating, "I can't hear you. I can't hear you." As silly and immature as it felt, there was nothing else I could do with people all around me. Just ignore it and hope it went away.

  Someone slapped me. A smack across my cheek so hard I reeled, gasping. Fury followed surprise as I pictured my mother's face above mine, heard her voice: "Don't look at me that way, Jaime. I was only getting your attention"--even as her slap still burned.

  My hand went to my cheek.

  As I looked up, I saw all eyes on me and realized I'd gasped aloud. Even Angelique had stopped and was glaring daggers at me.

  "Sorry. I thought I..." I shook my head. "Never mind. Sorry."

  "Oh, my God, your cheek!" Becky said. "There's a mark. Brian, get the camera over here."

  Damn it. There was nothing more unprofessional than derailing a colleague's seance. Angelique's glares turned lethal. Worse yet was Grady's frown, one that said he hadn't expected such dirty tricks from me, and would need to be wary from now on.

  "It's not--" I rubbed my cheek. "Something stung me. I'm so sorry. Please, Angelique, continue, with my apologies."

  "Actually, I was just going to ask Angel to take a rest," Becky said. "But maybe you can give her a hand instead. Help her pull Tansy out of limbo."

  "I'm not sure I should interfere..."

  Angelique wheeled, frustration blazing in her eyes. Her first big shot and she was blowing it. Damned if she was going down alone.

  "Oh, Jaime," she said, gripping my hands. "I would be honored if you'd help. Unless you think you can't. I'd heard you've been having some trouble lately..."

  I laughed. "I'd love to know who told you that. Let's see what I can do."

  After a few minutes of intense concentration, I wiped sweat from my forehead. Unlike Angelique, I'd been at this long enough to make it look like I was working hard. When I "finished," my hands were trembling, and the cameramen zoomed in on them and my glistening brow. Even Grady looked impressed--though maybe that's because his gaze was glued to my heaving bosom.

  "Oh, I think--" I said finally. "Yes, here she...Can you hear me, Tansy?" I paused. "Good. I was just checking. We had some trouble making contact there."

  Another pause. Then a grave nod. "I completely understand."

  Around me, all had gone silent. Even the most jaded leaned forward, hoping. That's the appeal of ghosts. Hope. That prayer for proof that we exist--in some conscious form--after death. With ghosts, even the staunchest paranormal skeptics wouldn't mind
being proven wrong.

  I played into that with the conviction only a necromancer can have--the knowledge that the spirit of Tansy Lane really was out there somewhere. Just not here. Not now. A minor hurdle easily overcome with decent acting skills.

  "I have someone here who'd like to speak to you, Tansy." I moved aside.

  Angelique glanced around, then took a slow step back. "You brought her through. You should talk to her first."

  Becky motioned the cameraman forward. "No, Jaime's right. She helped. It's your turn."

  After a few protests, Angelique gave in and started fumbling almost immediately, now unable to hide behind the pretense that Tansy was out of reach.

  I took my spot on the bench and braced myself against the ghost. It was the only thing I could do, short of claiming illness and forfeiting my segment. Even if this was only going on the DVD, it would be seen by people who mattered, and knowing something about Tansy's background gave me the edge I'd need to outperform an amateur and an Englishman who, I hoped, knew little of the case. So I was staying put.

  The spirit left me alone for a few blessed minutes, then started up again. No slaps this time, just the whispers and gentle strokes on my hand that seemed oddly apologetic.

  I'd have to deal with this. Not now, but tonight, when everyone had retired. Get out my kit and do a full-scale summoning. As much as I longed to ignore it, I couldn't risk this ghost interfering with the shoot.

  When a young woman slid up beside me, close enough to get on camera should it pivot my way, I gave a distracted smile and stepped aside to give her room. I'm used to that--people sidling into camera range.

  The girl edged toward me again. "You wanted to talk to me?"

  I motioned that I couldn't speak right now. Bad enough I'd already interrupted Angelique. I couldn't be seen chatting with guests during her segment.

  "Who is she talking to?" the young woman asked.

  I leaned over. "She's contacted the ghost of--"

  I stopped as a nearby guard turned to stare at me. I recognized that look all too well. It starts with a frown of confusion, followed by a sweeping glance around me, then the cautious look one bestows on people who carry on conversations with thin air.

  By now you'd think I'd be able to recognize a ghost. But here was a seemingly corporeal young woman in a party gown appropriate for tonight's event. The only sign that she was a ghost was that no one else was paying attention to her, despite the fact that she was young and beautiful.

  "Who--?" I stopped as her first words came back. "Tansy?"

  She grinned. "Who else? You're lucky I got your message. You must have done something wrong, because it didn't come straight through to me. Someone watching the show came to tell me. Too cool. I've never been summoned by a...What do they call you guys again?"

  "Necromancer," I said, trying to speak without moving my lips.

  "Freaky." She waved at Angelique. "Speaking of freaky, what's up with that chick?"

  "Wait!" Angelique said. "Tansy's trying to tell me some--"

  Tansy let out a peal of laughter. "She thinks she's talking to me? But she's not one of you. She doesn't have that weird glow."

  "She thinks she does."

  "Really?" A mischievous grin. "Maybe it's just running low tonight. Let's find out."

  Tansy skipped over and planted herself in front of Angelique, then started making faces and gesturing wildly.

  "Tansy?" Angelique was saying. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

  "Besides 'stop raiding your granny's closet'?" Tansy said. "Where'd you get that dress? Little Shop o' Virgins?"

  I snorted a laugh, and tried covering it with a coughing fit. Angelique turned on me, her teeth bared like an enraged lapdog.

  "Sorry. I--" I put my hand over my mouth as if stifling another cough. "I'll get some water. Please, go on."

  "No, since you're so eager to perform, Miss Vegas, let's see you give it a try."

  Becky nodded, her eyes pleading with me to take over. I stepped up.

  "Now, this will be cool," Tansy said. "Show her how it's really done."

  "Tansy?" I peered into the darkness. "Are you still here?"

  "Oh, come on. Don't play that. This is the closest I've come to a camera in thirty years!"

  "What's wrong?" Angelique sneered. "Let me guess. She's fading. I overworked her."

  "Could be. But I can probably..." I peered into the dark garden. "I can just make her out. She's tiny. Maybe your size. Pale skin but long black hair and almost...copper eyes."

  "That's what got me the part in Lily White," Tansy said. "They thought I looked exotic, like a fairy changeling should. Mom always said it was because my dad was Italian, but really, he was black. I mean, African American. He died in Vietnam, and her parents made her spread that story about him being Italian."

  It must have been obvious I was listening to something, because Becky prodded me to relay the message. After some encouragement from Tansy, I did.

  The crowd pressed closer, giving me its full attention. I could say it was the love of gossip, but I've always thought that puts too harsh a spin on it. People like stories, and what is gossip if not stories?

  "African American?" Angelique said. "You can't prove it."

  "Check my birth certificate," Tansy said.

  I relayed the message. Becky motioned for her assistant to write it down, though he was already scribbling furiously.

  So we continued. A natural comedic performer, Tansy regaled the crowd with quips and anecdotes until there wasn't a distracted face in the crowd.

  "This is a waste of time," Angelique finally cut in. "Ask her what we really want to know. What we called her here for. How did she die?"

  "I'm sure that's no big secret. Tell her to ask me something good." Tansy grinned. "Like what color underwear I was wearing."

  "This is ridiculous," Angelique snapped when I didn't relay her question. "Doesn't she want closure? The guilty party brought to justice?"

  Tansy frowned. "Guilty party?"

  The last minutes of a ghost's violent end are wiped clean once she passes over. Tansy might not even know she'd been murdered--and enlightening her now was a cruelty I'd never inflict. Instead, I reached out, as if pulling her back.

  "Tansy! Wait! She didn't mean--" When Tansy cocked a brow, I mouthed "Gotta go," then called, "Tansy! Please. We won't bring that up again. Come back."

  "Fine," she sighed. "I'll leave. But can I talk to you later?"

  I hesitated. When a ghost says, "I'd like to talk to you," what she means is, "I want you to do something for me." But Tansy had helped me. Though I probably couldn't return the favor, at least I could hear her out. So I nodded, and she disappeared.

  "I DON'T know how I'll top that," Grady laughed as I walked off camera.

  "I'm afraid you won't get the chance tonight," Becky said.

  Grady's hearty smile stiffened.

  "We've racked up overtime for the crew already, and that's definitely not something I care to tell Mr. Simon on the first day." She motioned Angelique forward. "Next time, hon, if you're struggling, don't push it. Let the others take their turn. It's only fair."

  Angelique's cheeks reddened. I fussed with my evening bag, as if I hadn't overheard. However gentle Becky's reprimand, it should have been made in private. Performers have to stomach public criticism with every review or snarky blog, and no one likes taking any more than necessary.

  Had Becky been more seasoned, she'd also have known there was no reason to rob Grady of his segment. He was savvy enough to know his performance would pale after mine and had she suggested it was getting late, he'd have offered to step aside.

  Instead, Angelique was humiliated, Grady was insulted, Claudia was outraged on his behalf, and all three stormed off as Becky gushed over my "amazing" performance. I'd alienated both my costars, discovered the garden was haunted by a malicious spirit and falsely raised the hopes of a murdered ghost. All in my first day on the show I hoped would take my career to the ne
xt level. Off to a rousing start.

  ONCE I was in my room, my resolve to sneak out and conduct a full summoning wavered. I told myself I couldn't face disappointing Tansy, should she be out there waiting. What if she did know she'd been murdered and wanted me to find her killer? My gut twisted at the thought.

  Turning down ghosts who wanted messages delivered was hard enough. As much as I wanted to say, "Hey, do I look like a courier service?" I could be, to a ghost, a once-in-an-afterlife opportunity to get that message delivered, and even if it was something as mundane as, "Tell my wife I love her," it meant the world to them, and it hurt to refuse.

  Sometimes, if it was easy enough, I'd do it. But finding or punishing a killer? Not possible. Saying no to message delivery was nothing compared to telling a murdered girl that even if she handed me a name and address, there was no way I could bring her killer to justice.

  Still, I'd have to deal with Tansy sooner or later, and deep down, I knew that what was really keeping me out of that garden tonight was fear. Not of the spirit who'd slapped me, but the possibility that no spirit had slapped me. That I was finally losing it.

  Madness is the legacy of this "gift"--one that gives me more nightmares with each passing year. Jeremy was helping me to deal with this. He has some experience with psychic phenomena himself, and there's no one better for laying out logical arguments. Not every necromancer goes mad, he pointed out. I'd never denied or overused my power, as was often the cause of the madness. I was otherwise healthy and I had a good support network.

  But every time I'm convinced I'm overreacting, that I'm going to drive myself crazy by worrying about going crazy, I see my strong, stubborn grandmother who died strapped to a bed, being fed like an infant, ranting about ghosts even I couldn't see. Then after helping Jeremy in Toronto last fall, I had another image to add--that of a necromancer driven so insane she could barely pass for human.

  As hard as I clung to Jeremy's reasonable words, I felt my confidence slipping...and imagined my sanity slipping with it. So, while part of me said, "You're not going crazy, so make contact with this ghost and prove it," another, quieter but more persuasive part said, "Isn't it better just to tell yourself you could make contact, if you tried hard enough?"

  No. I wouldn't give in to the fear.