No Humans Involved by Kelley Armstrong Read Free Book Online Page A

time to brush my teeth after breakfast. The interview part went smoothly. Then they wanted to take pictures… in the garden. Of course they'd want the garden—the house was half furnished and partially under construction.
    All I could think about was photos of me, wide-eyed and jumpy as those damnable spirits tormented me. I panicked. I started babbling excuses about bad lighting and allergies. The harried photographer, who probably had a full schedule ahead of him, decided he didn't need to start his day this way and suggested the article could run without my photo. That wouldn't be good. Hit a certain age, and if your picture is missing in an article, people start to suspect there's a reason, especially when your costars' photos are there.
    So I gave in… and it was every bit as hellish as I'd imagined. The spirits poked. They prodded. They whispered in my ear. And I had to ignore them and look like I was having the time of my life, which only made them poke and prod all the harder. By the time the session was over, my nerves were shot.
    This had to end. I needed to figure out what these ghosts were and banish them before they ruined the shoot.

    I LEFT the house by the front door and walked to clear my head. Normally, after a block in heels, my feet would have been screaming for me to stop, but if they were, I was too preoccupied to hear them.
    Why couldn't I communicate with these ghosts? Spooks do play pranks on necromancers, but if that was the case, the dogwood bark and dried mate should have warded them off.
    Souls can also get trapped in dimensional portals, but I'd encountered those and knew that wasn't the explanation here. Nor were they demons or demidemons or demideities. Again, been there, done that. Robert Vasic, the council research expert, always tells me I should keep a journal of my experiences for his records, to help others necromancers with odd cases, since I seem to have encountered them all. I think he's kidding, but I'm never sure. Just as I'm not sure whether my breadth of experience has more to do with untapped power or a talent for stumbling into trouble.
    My gut told me these were normal ghosts in an abnormal situation. But how did they get there—in a place where they could touch me, but couldn't materialize or communicate?
    One answer: black magic.
    When it came to black magic, I had an excellent source of information. A former leading teacher of the art—and one who did not fulfill that "those who can't, teach" cliche. My absent spirit guide, Eve Levine.
    Also known as "dark" or "chaotic" magic, black magic isn't necessarily evil. It's a blanket term for all magic with a potentially negative outcome. Like a spell to kill someone. You could use it for evil, but you're more likely to use it in self-defense. But the only type of magic likely to affect ghosts was the darkest of the dark arts: ritual sacrifice.
    Human sacrifice is rare. Some dark-arts practitioners never conduct such rituals. Had Eve? It's not something you ask a friend about, but I'd guess that she had, though only when she'd needed to kill an enemy and decided his death might as well serve another purpose. That was Eve—never cruel, but coldly practical in a way I couldn't fathom, just as I couldn't fathom living a life where you had enemies you needed to kill.
    When I reached the Brentwood Market, I headed around back, out of sight of passing traffic, took out Eve's ring and tried contacting her again, putting all my concentration into it, hoping that somehow, wherever she was, I could break through. After a couple of minutes, the air shimmered—the first sign of a ghost coming through.
    "Oh, thank God! Eve, I need you-"
    A man materialized. A big man—tall and solidly built, in his late forties with thinning blond hair and bright blue eyes.
    "Kristof," I said. "I didn't call you. I called—"
    "Eve, I know." He cast a look around the lot, nose wrinkling slightly, then brushed off the front of his suit jacket, as if it