“Not in a good way.”

“More power to you, then. I’d be tempted. Hell, I’ve been tempted. Ever met Carlos?”

“Carlos Cortez? No.”

“He’s the youngest. Well, you know, the youngest of the legit—uh, of Delores’s kids. Carlos is the hunk of the litter. Takes after his mother, who’s gorgeous…and as vicious as a rabid dog. Carlos got the vicious genes too, but seems to have missed out on Benicio’s brains, so he’s not very dangerous. Anyway, I met Carlos at a club a couple years back, and he showed some definite interest. There were a few moments there when I was tempted. I mean, here’s a guy with money and power, wrapped in a damn near perfect gift box. What more could a girl want? Okay, maybe someone who doesn’t have a reputation for nasty bedroom games, but everyone’s got their hang-ups, right? Honest to God, that’s what I thought. I’m standing there, looking at this guy and thinking, hmmm, maybe I could change him.”

“Probably not.”

“No shit, huh? I don’t learn my lessons well, but that’s one I’ve committed to heart. Take it or leave it, ’cause you ain’t gonna change it. But that still didn’t keep me from thinking about Carlos. Power and money—if Calvin Klein could bottle the scent, he’d make a fortune.” She tossed a grin my way. “Just think, we could’ve been sisters-in-law. We’d certainly have livened up family reunions.”

I pushed open a door marked with a small 3. “They’re probably lively enough as it is.”

Jaime laughed. “I bet. Can you imagine—”

She stopped as we stepped into the room. It was twice the size of my apartment bedroom. A leather couch and two matching recliners were grouped around a coffee table just inside the door. Past that was a king-size bed. A girl with long blond hair lay in the middle of it, a sunflower-patterned quilt pulled up across her chest. Her eyes were closed. Bandages encircled her neck. To one side, machines bleeped discreetly, as if trying not to wake her.

My breath hitched. How could anyone—? How could her mother—? Goddamn it! Why, why, why? I closed my eyes, swallowed, walked to Dana’s bedside, and took her hand.

“Holy shit,” Jaime whispered. “She’s a kid.”

“Fif—” My throat dried up. I tried again. “She’s fifteen. But she looks small for her age.”

“Fifteen? Jesus Christ. When Lucas said ‘girl,’ I thought, you know, he meant a woman. I should have known better. He says girl, he means girl.”

“Is that a problem?”

Jaime inhaled, gaze glued to Dana. “Tougher, yes. Not to communicate. I mean”—she tapped a manicured nail against her forehead—“up here. What do the doctors say?”

“She’s stable. As to whether she’ll regain consciousness, they don’t know.”

“Well, we might find that out tonight. If she’s crossed over, I’ll know it.”

Jaime rolled her shoulders, approached the bed, and gripped the side rail. She stared down at Dana, then shook her head, opened her oversize purse, and pulled out what looked like a jumbo makeup bag.

“I’ll call you in when I’m ready,” she said, not looking up.

“I’m an old hand at this,” I said. “Well, not exactly an old hand, but I’ve helped out at a few summonings. Here, pass me the censer and herbs and I’ll set them up while you—”

“No.”

The word came out sharp enough to make me jump. Jaime clutched her tool bag closed, as if I might pry it from her hands.

“I’d rather you waited in the hall,” she said.

“Uh, sure. Okay. Call me then.”

I walked to the door, then glanced back to see her still holding the bag closed, waiting. I pushed open the door and stepped into the hall.

Well, I said necromancers were queer beasts. Jaime might look a far cry from your typical spacey-eyed necro, but you have to wonder about a woman who’ll strip in front of a stranger, yet draws the line at letting the same person watch her perform a summoning ceremony. Not that I minded being relegated to the sidelines. I knew what was in that Gucci makeup bag, and it wasn’t designer lip-liner.

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 gem-stones, 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—”