"Will do. Now, can you find Kat? Let's see if we can't get that sound system fixed before Friday."
I slipped into my dressing room, closed the door and leaned against it. A slow clapping started across the room.
The frat boy slid off my dressing table. "Okay, show's over. You done good, Red. Now it's time to get to work. Be a real necromancer."
I uncapped my water and chugged.
"Cut the crap," he said. "I know you can—"
"—hear you. Yes, I can." I mopped my sweaty face with a towel. "But a dressing-room ambush really isn't a good way to get my attention."
His full lips twisted. "Oh, please. You think I'm going to peep at you undressing? You're, like, forty."
"I meant it's rude." I tossed the towel aside and grabbed my hairbrush. "If you'd like to talk, meet me at the rear doors in twenty minutes."
"Urn, no. I'm going to talk to you now, and I'm not leaving until I do."
Rule one of "how to win favors and influence necros"? Never threaten. I'd say if you're lucky enough to get one to listen, you should fall on your knees with gratitude. But that might be pushing it. A simple "okay, thanks" will do.
I'm not heartless. In fact, in the last few years, I've made a real effort to listen to ghosts, and I'd had every intention of hearing this one out. But he was fast blowing his chance.
I turned to the mirror and brushed out my hair, pins clinking to the floor.
"Don't turn your back on me," the ghost said.
"I'm not. I said I'll be ready in twenty minutes."
He walked through the dressing table, planting himself between the mirror and me. "Fine. How about this?"
He shimmered, then shot back, clothing drenched with blood, stomach ripped open, safety glass shards studding his intestines. A brain-splattered metal rod protruded from his ear. One eye bounced on his cheek.