I double-checked to make sure Amanda was right about the lone table of savages, and she was. Just a group of women dressed in corporate-gray suits, probably trying out the “wacky” tiki bar down the street from their office. “They’ll leave. Shouldn’t be an issue.” And apart from them, Amanda and I were the only nonsavage humans in the bar. I tossed four extra-long straws into the Scorpion Bowl, and she whisked it away on her tray.

Now, when I say demons, I don’t mean big, bad evil creatures with horns and tails and rows of bloodstained teeth. Don’t get me wrong, those kinds of demons exist, safely tucked away on another plane; Æthyric demons can be summoned by talented magicians, such as myself, with the proper rituals and seals. Nevertheless, the Earthbounds that patronized my bar were much lower down on the supernatural food chain.

Apart from their minor demonic abilities, which vary from demon to demon, the only distinguishing feature of an Earthbound demon is a glowing arc of light around the head: a halo.

Yep, that’s right. Demons have halos. Everything preternatural does. Not a static, detached ring like you see in religious paintings, but more of a diffused, colorful cloud. Surprised? I might have been, the first time I saw an Earth-bound, back in Florida, when I was a kid … that is, if I hadn’t already seen my own halo in the mirror. I’m not demon. Just different. My conception was kinda weird. Okay, it was really weird, but the point is that my parents weren’t all that surprised to discover I had a halo; they were just surprised that I could actually see it. They couldn’t, but that’s because humans can’t see halos. They are basically color-blind when it comes to detecting preternatural visual markers. But just because you can’t see ultraviolet light doesn’t mean it’s not there.

My small, silver halo didn’t quite look like the nebulous green and blue halos on the demons who frequented our bar, but it still came in handy; most demons wouldn’t normally come near a practicing magician with a ten-foot pole, much less frequent a bar owned by one, but my strange halo granted me a wary trust.

I checked the clock. Almost time for our weekly TV addiction.

After I made a couple of Fog Cutters for another order, I wound my hair into a twist on top of my head and pinned it in place with a plastic swizzle stick. Then I turned off the tropical exotica bar music—classic Martin Denny—stood on a stool at the end of the bar, and tugged down my snug 1982 Iron Maiden concert T-shirt, a triumphant two-dollar score from the Goodwill down the block.

“Listen up,” I yelled across the room as eighty-plus pairs of eyes turned toward me. “It’s eleven o’clock. Most of you know what that means here on Thursdays at Tambuku.”

“PATROL TIME!” The group reply echoed around the bar, followed by a series of cheers and whoops.

“That’s right,” I said with a grin after they’d calmed down. “It’s Paranormal Patrol time. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Tambuku’s weekly TV ritual, you might want to get out while the gettin’s good. Because it’s about to be really loud in here—” Two whistles and a couple of indistinct shouts interrupted me. “Yeah, like that, only worse, and with lots more profanity. If you want a quiet drink, go across the street to the Sunset Bar. You have now been officially warned.”

A respectable round of applause ended my speech. The lone table of savages began gathering their purses and left a tip on their table. Worked every time. As they headed out the door, I climbed down from the bar stool, readied the DVR, and started the show.

When the Paranormal Patrol logo moved across the screen, Tambuku’s regulars began singing along with the theme music, substituting an alternate, rude set of lyrics. I spotted Amanda and the table busser gleefully joining in and smiled as I cleared away a couple of empty tiki mugs and wiped down the bar. Amanda’s laughing couple at the hightop were getting a bit rowdy. Maybe she was right after all; I kept my eye on them.

This week’s episode of Patrol took place in Charleston, where the intrepid crew of professional hunters—all savages— were investigating the hundred-year-old ghost of a nun. After they set up their equipment, the so-called expert began his introductions to the so-called ghost: “Hello? I’m trying to speak to the ghost of Mary—can you hear me? Give me a sign if you can. I come in peace.”

So funny that humans waste money on ion counters, night vision cameras, and all the rest of the junk that purports to “detect” the paranormal. Because halos and other supernatural markers show up plain as day on most modern cameras if you have the right eyes … and Tambuku’s patrons did. So when a small glowing head poked up over the shoulder of the ghost hunter, our customers began their call-and-response game and all yelled in unison, “Look behind you, asshole!” Around the bar, everyone downed a drink in tribute to the first on-screen imp appearance.

Rocky Horror fans had nothing on us.

The ghost seeker’s eyes watered as he sat down on an old bed where the ghostly nun was murdered years ago. “Oh, God … I think I feel something,” he whimpered into the camera. He felt something all right; it was the same imp they filmed the week before in Chicago. Looks like they had themselves a hitchhiker.

Even savages who dismiss most paranormal phenomenon love to entertain the possibility that ghosts exist; too bad they don’t. Sorry to burst your bubble, but if you think your house is haunted, it’s most likely just everyday, run-of-the-mill imps: small transparent demons that humans can’t see. Imps are pretty much harmless, but they’re fond of creating minor havoc. Moaning, turning the lights on and off, lowering the temperature of a room, and this was exactly why imps had made the Earthbounds who produced Paranormal Patrol very, very rich. Sending a group of unsuspecting and gullible humans down in buildings known to be infested with imps? Damn fine TV.