“Well, that’s what happens when you deal with the dead,” said a woman’s voice. “Some of them just aren’t too bright.”

I turned a glare on the speaker, but saw only the back of a redhead sitting at center stage. As she continued talking, I realized I was on a television set. The redhead and another woman sat in a pair of comfy armchairs in a set designed to look like someone’s living room.

I walked onto the stage, but every gaze stayed riveted to the two women. Wherever I was, I was still a ghost. I peered over for a closer look at the host, and mentally groaned. I’d seen her show once, when I’d been bedridden with morning sickness, too queasy to change the channel. I forgot the exact topic, but it had been the kind of “every life has meaning” psycho-crap gobbled up by people whose existence proved the credo wrong. The uplifting message did make me feel better, though. Uplifted my stomach right into the toilet, and after that, I’d felt much better.

I circled closer to the stage. I had a good idea who the redhead was, and another step confirmed it. She was a few years older than me, but didn’t look it. Long legs, bee-stung lips, and green eyes made Jaime Vegas the kind of woman for whom the phrase “sultry redhead” was invented. She packaged that sex appeal with her mediocre necromancy talents, and sold it to the grief-stricken. Some might call it a reprehensible way to make a living. I called it survival.

“But seriously,” Jaime said, as the latest round of laughter died down. “What I do can be lots of fun, and I love that side of it, but what I love more is what it brings to other people’s lives: the closure, the peace.”

The talk show host nodded. “And that’s really what spiritualism is all about, isn’t it? Healing the spirit. Not the spirits of the dead, but those of the living.”

Oh, God, someone pass the barf bag. The audience only beamed and echoed a chorus of yeses and Amens, like an army of zombies before a Vodoun priestess.

“Is it just me?” I said. “Or is that seriously creepy?”

Jaime jumped like a scalded cat. As she twisted, she saw me and her face went white. I’d say she looked as if she’d seen a ghost, but for a necromancer, that’s pretty much a daily occurrence. You’d think she’d have grown used to it by now.

“Nice gig,” I said. “Is it almost over? I need to talk to you.”

“Jaime?” the host said, leaning forward. “What is it? Do you see something?”

“Seems you have a resident ghost,” Jaime said. “Normally I need to open myself up to see them, but sometimes they shove their way right through. Impatient as children.” A razor-sharp glare my way. “Rude children.”