Free Otherworld 11 - Waking the Witch by Kelley Armstrong Page B

bad about that, but when I went to the funeral, I remembered why. There wasn’t much to Brandi Degas. Nothing memorable. She was Ginny Thompson’s shadow. I don’t mean in regards to their friendship—Brandi was clearly the leader there. But Ginny was the one you noticed. The prettier one. The louder one.”
    “They’d been friends a long time, I heard.”
    “Since they were babies. Both had single moms and I think Paula and Carol went to the same support group.”
    “Were they friends? Paula and Carol?”
    “Close acquaintances more like. Carol was an alcoholic even back then, and Paula didn’t take with that. She helped out, though, looking after Brandi when she could.”
    “Is Carol Degas still in town?”
    “She is. And you can try talking to her, but don’t expect much. A lifetime of boozing has taken its toll. When Brandi died, Carol couldn’t even sober up for the funeral. She’s doing better, but her memory’s shot.”
    “And Brandi’s father?”
    “A kid who died in a drunk-driving accident a year after Brandi was born.”
    “No dad in the picture for either. Those girls
did
have a lot in common.”
    “Pretty much everything. Never finished school. Were into drugs and booze. Couldn’t hold a job. No kids for Brandi, though.”
    “What about boyfriends? Did she have anyone like Cody Radu?”
    He shook his head. “Brandi didn’t date. She hooked up with men at parties. Or so I hear. She ... wasn’t an attractive girl. She had a certain kind of smarts, though. Feral cunning, I’d call it. She kept a tight hold on Ginny, wouldn’t let her make other friends.”
    “Was she jealous of Cody? Maybe tried to break them up?”
    “No. Like I said, she had a certain kind of smarts, and she knew a good thing when she saw it. To her, Cody was a good thing. He had money and, from what I hear, kept Ginny well supplied with alcohol and drugs, which she shared with Brandi.”
    “So Brandi relied on Ginny.”
    “And vice versa. You never saw the two of them apart.”
    Not even in death.
     
    I FINISHED UP with Mulligan and left with a business card, as he jokingly promised to set me up with a “real bike” if I ever got tired of the Triumph. I had about an hour before my dinner with Michael Kennedy, so I retreated to the motel to do some research. I started with a call to Jaime, my necromancer contact, to see whether this ritual sounded like anything she knew.
    Jaime Vegas was a celebrity spiritualist. She mainly did live shows these days, where she contacted the dead to reassure the living. Great gig for a necromancer ... except most times, Jaime faked it. She had to. The messages that the living need aren’t necessarily the ones the dead want to impart.
    There’s one ghost whose messages Jaime does occasionally pass on. My mother’s. Some necromancers have spirit guides, and my mother is Jaime’s. She’s not supposed to convey messages to Mom’s loved ones—it’s considered disruptive to both the living and the dead—but we bend the rules ... just not often enough to get Mom reassigned.
    I consider Jaime a friend, even if she’s over twice my age and I’ve known her since I was a kid. That’s how it is with most of my really good friends. I grew up with these people. I sat backstage at Jaime’s shows. I went to art galleries with Cassandra DuCharme, a four-hundred-year-old vampire. I spent summers with the werewolf Pack—Elena and Clay and Jeremy. It’s a strange way to grow up, but I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
    Jaime answered on the fourth ring. She sounded out of breath. I waited, not too worried that she was fleeing mortal danger or anything. If Jaime’s out of breath, it’s from overdoing it on the treadmill.
    “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Paige,” she said. “Has she already left for Hawaii?”
    “Yep. Anything I can help with?”
    “No, just council business. Hold on.” I heard her muffled voice talking to someone. She came back with, “Sorry