More sounds of activity, this time coming from the aisle beside me. The music ebbed. A few lights appeared, tiny, twinkling lights on the walls and ceiling, followed by more, then more, until the room was lit with thousands, all casting the soft glow of starlight against the inky velvet.

A choral murmur of oohs and ahhs surged, and fell to silence. Absolute silence. No music. No chatter. Not so much as a throat-clearing cough.

Then, a woman’s voice, in a microphone-amplified whisper.

“This is their world. A world of peace, and beauty, and joy. A world we all wish to enter.”

The rosary-widow beside me murmured an “Amen,” her voice joining a quiet wave of others. In the near-dark, I noticed a dim figure appear on stage. It glided out to the edge, and kept going, as if levitating down the center aisle. When I squinted, I could detect the dark form of a catwalk that had been quickly erected in the aisle while the lights were out. The woman’s voice continued, barely above a whisper, as soothing as a lullaby.

“Between our world and theirs is a heavy veil. A veil most cannot lift. But I can. Come with me now and let me take you into their world. The world of the spirits.”

The lights flickered and went bright. Standing midway down the raised catwalk was a red-haired woman, her back to those of us in the front rows.

The woman turned. Late thirties. Gorgeous. Bright red hair pinned up, with tendrils tumbling down around her neck. A shimmery emerald green silk dress, modestly cut, but tight enough not to leave any curve to the imagination. Dowdy wire-rimmed glasses completed the faux-professional ensemble. The old Hollywood “sex-goddess disguised as Miss Prim-and-Proper” routine. As the thought pinged through my brain, it triggered a wave of déjà vu. I’d seen this woman before, and thought exactly the same thing. Where…?

A sonorous male voice filled the room.

“The Meridian Theater proudly presents, for one night only, Jaime Vegas.”

Jaime Vegas. Savannah’s favorite television spiritualist.

Well, I’d found my necromancer.

Diva of the Dead

“I’M SENSING A MALE PRESENCE,” JAIME MURMURED, somehow managing to walk and talk with her eyes closed. She headed toward the back of the theater. “A man in his fifties, maybe early sixties, late forties. His name starts with an M. He’s related to someone in this corner.”

She swept her arm, encompassing the rear left third of the room, and at least a hundred people. I bit my tongue to keep from groaning. In the last hour, I’d bitten it so often I probably wouldn’t be able to taste food for a week. Over a dozen people in the “corner” Jaime had indicated started waving their arms, and five leapt to their feet, spot-dancing with excitement. Hell, I was sure if anyone in this audience searched their memories hard enough they could find a Mark or a Mike or a Miguel in their family who’d died in middle age.

Jaime turned to the section with the highest concentration of hand-wavers. “His name is Michael, but he says noone ever called him that. He was always Mike, except when he was a little boy, and some people called him Mikey.”

An elderly woman suddenly wailed, and bowed forward, sucker punched by grief. “Mikey. That’s my Mikey. My little boy. I always called him that.”

I tore my gaze away, my own eyes filling with angry tears as Jaime bore down on her like a shark scenting blood.

“Is it my Mikey?” the old woman said, barely intelligible through her tears.

“I think it is,” Jaime said softly. “Wait…yes. He says he’s your son. He’s asking you to stop crying. He’s in a good place and he’s happy. He wants you to know that.”

The woman mopped her streaming tears and tried to smile.

“There,” Jaime said. “Now he wants me to mention the picture. He says you have a photograph of him on display. Is that right?”

“I—I have a few,” she said.

“Ah, but he’s talking about a certain one. He says it’s the one he always hated. Do you know which one he means?”

The old woman smiled and nodded.

“He’s laughing,” Jaime said. “He wants me to give you heck for putting up that photo. He wants you to take that down and put up the one of him at the wedding. Does that make sense?”

“He probably means his niece’s wedding,” the woman said. “She got married right before he died.”

Jaime looked off into space, eyes unfocused, head slightly tilted, as if hearing something no one else could. Then she shook her head. “No, it’s another wedding picture. An older one. He says to look through the album and you’ll find it. Now, speaking of weddings…”

And on it went, from person to person, as Jaime worked the crowd, throwing out “personal” information that could apply to almost any life—What parent doesn’t display pictures of their kids? What person doesn’t have photos they hate? Who doesn’t have wedding photos in their albums?

Even when she misjudged, she was perceptive enough to read confusion on the recipient’s face before they could say anything, backtrack, and “correct” herself. On the very few occasions that she completely struck out, she’d tell the person to “go home and think about it, and it’ll come to you,” as if their memory was to blame, not her.

This Jaime might really be a necromancer, but she wasn’t using her skills here. As I’d told Savannah, no one—not even a necro—could “dial up the dead” like this. What Jaime Vegas did was a psychological con job, not far removed from psychics who tell young girls “I see wedding bells in your future.” Having lost my mother the year before, I understood why these people were here, the void they ached to fill. For a necromancer to profit from that grief with false tidings from the other side…well, it didn’t make Jaime Vegas someone I wanted to work with.