Now for an excuse...I decided to use my mother, claiming she was ill and needed me. Most people would feel guilty using a parent like that, but the way I see it, it's a fair exchange. She used me for years. Still does. Her spot in the retirement village costs more than my condo in Chicago, and she isn't the one paying for it.
Last time I heard from my mother had been when she'd decided she wanted to upgrade her monthly spa package. When I argued, she'd used her usual threat: to tell the tabloids about my abortion at sixteen, conveniently leaving out the fact that she'd arranged it and I'd thought I was going to the doctor for a prenatal checkup. I'd paid for the upgrade, as I always did, not so much because her threat worried me but because it was easier to throw money at her than to deal with her. A coward's ploy, maybe, but with some wounds, slapping on a bandage and pretending it isn't there is easier than dealing with the pain.
ZOMBIE SLAVES
IT WAS DURING TAKEOFF that I began to repent my haste. Was flying to Portland really necessary? When I'd called Jeremy and told him, I'd heard the hesitation in his voice, though he'd taken the change in stride and switched his plane ticket to Portland, where he'd meet me for dinner and help me slog through Paige's files.
Exactly how much faster would this route be, when I wouldn't get back on the set before tomorrow? How annoyed would Grady and Angelique be when they realized I'd swanned off--even if it was on a family emergency?
Yet as foolish as I felt, I knew why I'd done it. To prove to myself that I could handle this.
I'd gotten my job as necromancer delegate because, frankly, no one else wanted it. I had zero experience at resolving supernatural problems and, as I quickly realized, no one cared. They expected me to do what the last guy did--answer necromancy questions when called, but otherwise sit back and let the others work.
I wanted to be a full-fledged delegate, doing everything the others did, including the investigative work. So far, they'd included me, but with lots of supervision and safety nets, until I felt like the overeager rookie everyone fears will just mess things up.
Last year, I'd done something just like this--flown to help Jeremy and Elena when a phone call would have sufficed. And even then I'd had to fight for every step I took off the sidelines.
But this was my case. And I couldn't bear to call up Paige or Robert and push the research--and maybe the entire investigation--onto their laps. It probably would have made more sense to swallow my pride and call, but now it was too late, and part of me was glad of that.
I STOOD on the sidewalk and tried not to shiver. I'd been so wrapped up in getting here that I was still dressed for Southern California. So I'd go to Paige and Lucas looking like a ditz who couldn't even remember to wear a warm coat to Portland in November. It would be nice to make a different impression now and then, just for variety's sake.
I looked up at the building. Double-checked the office address Paige had given me when I'd called from the airport. I wondered whether I'd misheard. The taxi idled behind me, the driver apparently as uncertain as I was.
The building seemed to have been a warehouse or other industrial sort, deep in a neighborhood of industrial sorts. It had no nameplate or other sign, but when your clientele is supernaturals, you don't advertise with flashing billboards.
I waved the driver on. Then I decided to check the street name before knocking on the door. As I approached the corner, a young woman in jeans and a shearling coat hurried across the empty road.
"Excuse me!" I called.
She didn't slow. In this neighborhood, that was probably wise. I trotted another few steps.
"Excuse me! Is this North Breton Road?"
She turned and lifted her sunglasses, features drawn in confusion. I'd seen that "you talkin' to me?" look often enough and my gut sank as my gaze dipped to take a closer look at her outfit--bell-bottom jeans, tie-dyed shirt, fringed purse...
"Uh, sorry," I said. "I thought you were...Sorry."
I turned and marched back toward the building, my heels clacking along the empty road.
"In a hurry, necromancer?" she called from behind me.
I cursed under my breath, plastered on a vacant grin and turned to see the young woman bearing down on me.
"No, of course not," I said. "I was looking for directions and--"
"You didn't think I could provide them? Being dead and all?"
"I didn't want to presume. So is this North Breton Road?"
She kept walking until she was well into my personal space, something ghosts can do much better than people. Her hands passed through my shoulders as she gestured.
"You aren't worried about asking something I can't
answer. You're running as fast as you can before I ask you something."
"I wasn't--"
"Cut the crap. I've met your kind before. Two years after I die, I'm lucky enough to bump into a necromancer at a KISS concert, and I beg the guy to pass along a message to my kid sister. Just a phone call, no big deal. He gives me this lecture on the proper way to approach a necromancer."