Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,123
was backsliding.
“If I’m working for Irving Nast, why was I at his office a few hours ago?”
Her disapproval slid into disgust. Obviously if he was working for Irving Nast, he’d have reason to meet with him.
“I went to question him on this case,” he said. “Instead I met Sean Nast. Does that ring a bell?”
“Should it?”
“Ask Hope. She met him an hour ago—right after I left the Nast offices. You think that’s a coincidence?”
She uncrossed her arms.
“Hope did meet with someone, right?” he prodded.
“Yes, a contact.”
“Who was Sean Nast, the guy I met, who stonewalled me, shooed me out of his office, then raced off to meet your friend. So I would suggest I’m not the one working for the Nasts.”
Robyn shook her head, her arms falling to her sides now. “Not Hope. Sean Nast is her contact in that organization. You talked to him, so he called her . . .”
“And I followed her from that meeting to this motel. All of which should mean I don’t work for Irving Nast.”
It wasn’t a bulletproof argument and her look told him so, but she did ease back, thinking.
“You do have some supernatural power, though, right?”
“If you call it that.”
“Hope said you’re a necromancer.”
That was the second time this week he’d heard that word. He didn’t like the way it made him feel—uneasy and unbalanced. Like being the star in every school play, coming to L.A. and finding yourself one of a thousand actors who’d starred in every school play.
“I have no idea what a necromancer is . . .” Robyn continued.
It took a moment to notice her watching him expectantly.
“It means . . . ghosts,” he said. “I see ghosts, communicate with them.”
He braced himself for her eyes to light up, for her to say, “You can talk to the dead? My husband passed away six months ago. Can you . . . ?” He’d promised Damon he wouldn’t tell her, not yet. But if she gave him that look, if those green eyes lit with hope, if she asked . . .
But it didn’t register. Maybe because he’d said “ghosts” not “the dead.” Maybe because, right now, Damon was miles from her mind.
“You talk to ghosts,” she said, nodding as if assimilating. “Okay, that I can live with. It’s a lot easier to believe than some of the others.”
“Others?”
“The—” She stopped, studying him. “You really don’t work for the Nasts, do you?”
He shook his head.
“You know nothing about the Nasts, do you?”
He shook his head.
“But you do know you’re a necromancer.”
“If that’s what it’s called, I guess so. I just know that seeing ghosts runs in my family.”
“But the rest of it . . . ? Clairvoyants? Demons? Werewolves?”
“Uh, no.”
“Oh, boy.”
As silence settled over them, a figure flickered to Finn’s right, by the side fence. An arm appeared. Then a leg in midstride. Finally a faint figure shimmered, heading his way. A few paces later, Damon popped into full view.
“Oh, so now you can see me. About time. I’ve been—” Damon turned the corner and saw Robyn, and his face—
Finn looked away, feeling like he had when he’d come home from college early one weekend to walk in on Rick proposing to his girlfriend, his face raw with longing and hope. Finn had known she’d turn him down, and that had made it all the more painful to see, knowing the moment couldn’t end in anything except disappointment, as this one would for Damon.
As Finn pretended to look for the ambulance, he scratched the back of his neck, not because it itched, but just to have something to do. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Damon approach Robyn, slowly, warily, as if expecting her to disappear.
Whatever powers had kept Damon from being near his wife had evidently lifted that ban. Maybe because Finn still needed Damon’s help to solve this case, and now he needed Robyn’s, too. Or maybe just because it was time to let him see her again.
“Uh, Finn? Why is my wife holding a gun?”
Finn turned. Robyn looked confused, as if she was trying to figure out why he’d turned away.
Damon stood beside her, so close his arm was through her. His brows arched as he gestured to the weapon.
“Bobby . . . pulled a gun on you?”
Finn searched for an excuse. Then Damon smiled, like a man seeing his wife pull a martial-arts move he never realized she knew, proud of her ability to defend herself . . . and touched with