I OPENED MY EYES AND FOUND MYSELF STARING INTO the über-bright glare of the sun. Blinded, I stumbled, and landed on my ass. A roar of laughter boomed from all sides, and I jumped up so fast my vision jolted back into focus. In front of me was a packed auditorium.

"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."

"Rude? You're a necro. I sure as hell don't expect you to jump every time a ghost-"

"Can you see him?" the host whispered.

"Her. It's a woman. "Jaime paused for effect. "A witch."

A murmured gasp from the audience.

"Not a real witch, of course," Jaime said, her voice taking the soft singsong tone of a storyteller. "Though she thought she was. Thought she was all-powerful, but she wasn't."

"Excuse me?"

"She lived by violence, and died by it. And now she's a tormented, lonely spirit, caught between the worlds, looking for redemption."

I snorted.

"And if she's not,"-Jaime aimed another glare my way-"she should be, because she has a lot to atone for."

I rolled my eyes and walked off the stage.

In the wings, I prepared a second plan of attack. When Jaime stepped off the stage ten minutes later, I fell into step beside her.

"Okay, now that you have that off your chest, let's talk. Obviously you know who I am."

She kept walking.

"You want a formal introduction?" I said. "Fine. I'm Eve Levine, ghost. You're Jaime Vegas, necromancer. Now, what I need is-"

She had veered around a corner before I noticed. I had to backtrack and jog to catch up.

"I know you can hear me," I said. "And see me. So let's cut the crap and-"

She turned into an open dressing room and slammed the door.

I followed. "Maybe I can walk through doors, but that doesn't give you any right to slam them on me. It's still rude."

"Rude?" she said, spinning on me so fast I took an involuntary step back. "Rude? You just-the most important spot of my career, the chance of a lifetime and you-"

Her hand flew to her mouth. She dove into the bathroom and leaned over the toilet, gagging.

"If it makes you feel any better, she has the same effect on me."

Jaime wheeled, eyes flashing. She pulled herself to her full height… at least five inches below my six feet. Very intimidating.

"Find yourself another necro, Eve. One who's stupid enough to let you speak to Savannah. And my advice? When you find one, at least make some effort to follow proper protocol. That shit you pulled out there may have worked in life, but it doesn't work now."

There was a proper protocol? Damn.

Jaime stalked past me into the dressing room. When I followed, I found her rooting through an oversize makeup bag. She took out a bowl and a few pouches of herbs.

"A banishing mixture?" I said. "Look, Jaime, I know you don't do a lot of real necromancy, so I'll let you in on a little secret. That mixture only works on human ghosts. For it to work on a supernatural, you have to be a damned good necromancer and, no offense, but-"

Someone jostled me from behind. A physical jostle that, considering I was in the living world, should have been impossible… which meant that whoever hit me had to be another ghost.

"Watch where you're going there, sweetheart."

I looked over my shoulder to see a guy about a half foot shorter than me, dressed in spats and a straw hat, with a machine gun slung over one shoulder. He grinned, tipped his hat, and slid past.

I was on a sidewalk, across from a soot-crusted brick building with boarded-up windows and a sheet of paper plastered on the door. I sharpened my vision to read the paper on the door across the road. A notice of closure, in accordance with the Prohibition Act of 1920.

Ghost-world Chicago. Like most major cities in the afterlife, the landscape of Chicago was frozen in its heyday, and many of the residents, like the portly gangster, played along with the period. But if I was here, that meant Jaime really had banished me. Damn.

There were ways to avoid banishing. A few months before, Kristof had needed a necro's help, and went to one who owed him major favors. Guy made the mistake of thinking Kristof's death canceled out those IOUs, then made the even bigger mistake of trying to banish Kristof when he came to collect. Kris had done something that rendered the necro's banishing powers impotent for the next few months, a reminder that you didn't screw with a Nast-even a dead one.

So all I had to do was track down Kristof and ask for his help. Sounds easy enough… except for the part about asking Kristof for help. Oh, he'd give it to me-without a moment's hesitation and with no expectation of anything in return. That was the problem. When I took something, I always gave something back-no favors owed, no debt remaining. While I counted Kris as a friend-the best I had in the ghost world-I hated asking him for anything. I'd taken enough from him already. Better to try again on my own.