Jaime sat about ten feet away from Suzanne Simmons's grave, with her back to it. Meditating in a cemetery was strange enough—doing it right at the foot of the grave of a notorious serial killer would be asking for trouble. Because Jaime's back was to Simmons's headstone, I had to stand watch, to let her know when Simmons popped up. It took nearly two hours. More than once Jaime snuck a look my way, as if maybe she'd raised Simmons and I'd somehow failed to notice.

Unlike Robin MacKenzie, Suzanne Simmons didn't just drop into our plane. It took at least ten minutes for her to fully materialize. When she did, there was no question of asking for ID. I'd seen her full-on in the vision the Fates gave me, and I'd never forget that face. She was still wearing prison hospital garb.

The beehive hairdo from the vision was gone, and her dirty-blond hair hung about her shoulders, lanky and unwashed, as if no one bothered with that nicety while she'd lingered on her deathbed. Her feet were bare. That was the first thing she noticed—her feet. She stared down at them, lifting one, then the other, toes scrunching as if gripping the grass. Then she smiled. Eyes closed, she lifted her head and took a long, deep breath.

Jaime turned, mouth opening to speak, but I cut her short and motioned for her to wait. Wait and watch.

Simmons opened her eyes and looked around. Her gaze crossed the tombstone. A blink. She tilted her head to read the text. A tiny nod, as if the confirmation of her death was neither unexpected nor terribly alarming.

As she turned, I sidestepped, staying out of her field of vision. Her gaze passed right over Jaime, and she surveyed the cemetery grounds, gaze flickering from person to person, a slight frown as she looked out on a world that was familiar… and yet not familiar.

Two teens whooshed along the path on Rollerblades, lips and brows a patchwork of metal studs that glinted in the sunlight. The girl yapped into a cell phone while the young man skated beside her, eyes half-closed, immersed in the thumps from his headphones. As they approached, Simmons reached out.

The girl on the cell phone passed right through her fingers. Simmons nodded, as if this, too, was not unexpected.

"Welcome home, Suzanne," I said.

She turned, hands going up as if to ward off a blow. I leaned back against a neighboring tombstone, my hands shoved in my pockets.

"Are you a ghost?" she asked.

I reached down into the bouquet of flowers at the grave's base and plucked the one I'd conjured there earlier. I held it up.

"Does it look like it?" I asked.

"Then how—?"

"Necromancy," I said. "Ever heard of it?"

A pause, then a slow shake of her head. "No."

"Well, necromancers can contact the dead."

"And that's what you are?"

"Nah." I waved at Jaime. "That's what she is. I'm just the client."

Simmons looked Jaime up and down, then stepped toward her. Jaime struggled to hide her distaste, but it seeped out. Simmons cocked her head, gaze boring into Jaime's, then took another slow step toward her, and watched the necromancer inch back.

Simmons smiled, a tiny little Mona Lisa smile. "Your friend doesn't like me."

"Employee, not friend. Like I said, I'm the client. I hired her to set you free."

"Free?" Simmons's head jerked up.

I smiled. "You like that word, don't you?"

She shuttered her excitement and shrugged. "It's not… unpleasant. But I suspect this act of generosity comes with a price tag."

"That it does. No sense pretending otherwise. I brought you back to ask your advice on something. I—"

Simmons's attention was riveted to a young boy strolling past. Her eyes gleamed like a hawk spotting a mouse.

Jaime's lips twisted. Simmons turned on her. Jaime stood her ground, arms crossed, and glared back.

Simmons turned to me. "Make her leave."

I looked from Jaime to Simmons. It was obvious Jaime wasn't going to be able to control her contempt

—and probably wouldn't even try. Not the most conducive atmosphere for a friendly girl-to-girl chitchat.

"Just a sec," I murmured to Simmons, then led Jaime aside, pretending to grip her arm and tug her away.

"I'm not leaving you alone with her," Jaime said. "So don't ask."

"Because you're afraid she'll do something to me? She cant—"

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"Oh. I see. So you think this is all part of my master plan to release a league of murderers back into the world?"

"No, but I set her free. She's my responsibility."

"She's not going anywhere unless I let her. She runs, I can take her down. You know I can. I'm not asking you to leave. Just back off a bit. Better yet, let us back off. We'll take a walk, but stay within sight."

Jaime agreed, and I returned to Simmons and led her onto the path, being careful to avoid body contact with her, and to avoid walking through anything that should be solid.

"It's about the Nix," I said.

Another Mona Lisa smile. "I thought it might be."

"She's approached me with an offer. Sounds good, but so does 'prime real estate in the heart of sunny Florida' until you realize you've bought a hundred acres of swamp."

"'Caveat emptor."

"Exactly, so I'm doing my homework. She gave me your name as a reference."

The corners of her mouth twitched. "Ah, yes. She does like to do that. Praised me to the heavens with that other one."

"Cheri MacKenzie."

A small roll of the eyes. "Whatever her name was. Quite desperate of the Nix, really. Like a man who picks up a piece of street meat because she reminds him of his dead wife."

"She did kind of look like you."

"You noticed it, too."

I circled a large oak, skirting the picnickers beneath, and headed back in Jaime's direction.

"Is that a 'no' for the recommendation?" I said.

"Not at all. As a partner, the Nix was splendid. I would have traded Eric for her, if I could have."

"So she's straight-up, then. I can trust her not to betray me."

Simmons laughed, a tinkling, girlish laugh. "Oh, of course she'll betray you. Or she'll try to. She betrays us all."