Slimy Underbelly

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Robin had picked up programs for each of us, and I turned to what had caught the weather wizard’s attention. I saw that “Maurice” was listed in fine print among the supporting cats.

  The show turned out to be what I had thought (and feared): an incomprehensible storyline performed by full-grown vampires, werewolves, and even some human cast members prancing about in feline costumes.

  Thunder Dick whistled and applauded at an entirely inappropriate time as a black tuxedo cat strolled across the stage. The cat arched his back, pretended not to notice the attention, and strolled more slowly.

  When Stentor appeared, he stole the show. The big ogre was dressed in an enormous but tight-fitting cat costume. When the spotlight fell on him, he opened his cavernous mouth and with his newly restored voice belted out his song with all the gusto he could manage.

  He brought down the house, almost literally. The operatic ogre was so loud that first one window shattered outward from the upper stories, then other windows smashed, but he kept up the chorus, singing louder and louder, until windows broke throughout the Quarter.

  Stentor was extraordinarily pleased with himself. The audience roared—and growled and cheered and applauded. Robin, Sheyenne, and I rose to our feet, happy for our client. I gripped Sheyenne’s gloved hand, and she gave me that look that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

  In a small, separate chair all by himself, C.H. was propped up on his stump waving madly, but all I could hear was the sound of one hand clapping.

  Regardless of how the Wuwufo election had turned out, Thunder Dick needed his life back to normal—preferably better than his previous normal. “You should have a healthy relationship for a change,” I told him. After a cat familiar who despised him and his never-ever-a-good-idea affair with a tentacled female Senior Citizen god, he deserved something better.

  Sheyenne was beside me for moral support. “Don’t underestimate the power of love.”

  “I don’t underestimate it,” he said. “It’s the availability I have trouble with.”

  “Then come with us,” I said. “I think we can help.”

  He was embarrassed. “I don’t really need . . . I mean, um, I’ve already got coupons for the Full Moon Brothel.”

  “Not what I was suggesting,” I said.

  Sheyenne smiled. “We were thinking of something a little . . . furrier.”

  Now Thunder Dick looked disturbed. “The Full Moon offered furry options, too.”

  Instead, we took him to the Unnatural Quarter’s animal shelter. FIND A FRIEND FOR LIFE . . . AND BEYOND, said the sign.

  The weathermancer quailed when he saw where we were headed. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”

  “Just take a look,” Sheyenne said. “Scratch a few ears, wag a few tails. That’s all.”

  The barks, growls, purrs, and squeals created an indescribable cacophony. The species were divided into various wings—cats and dogs forming the bulk of the population, with a special room for the Hounds of Hell (by appointment only). There were cages of cute reptiles, slithering and multicolored scaly things that reared up, spread their hoods, and flashed fangs in their best and most adorable attempts to say “please adopt me.” There were even some small alligators whose owners had chosen not to flush them down the toilet.

  The arachnid section had tarantulas, black widows, brown recluses, and scorpions of various sizes. Some of them were scuffed and abused by various owners, and just needed a loving home.

  The Exotic and Mythical Creatures section had blacked-out windows and a locked door.

  A hunchbacked lab assistant stood at the front counter, and for a moment I thought it was Jody Caligari in his iGor disguise, but then I realized he was a real hunchbacked lab assistant. He was being scolded by one of the shelter workers. “You’ve adopted thirty white lab rats in the past week. Are you certain you’re keeping them as cherished and adored pets?”

  “Absolutely,” said the lab assistant. “My master loves rats.”

  “And I see here that you also adopted a giant python six months ago. Are you certain there’s no connection?”

  The hunchback swung his head from side to side in denial. His eyes were the size of ping-pong balls as they widened in feigned astonishment. “Just a coincidence. The python was a traveling companion.”

  After a long moment, the animal shelter employee sighed and handed over a set of adoption papers and a cage that contained six squeaking white lab rats.

  “Maybe I could have a look at the kittens,” said Thunder Dick with great hesitation. “Just for a few minutes.”

  Inside the feline wing, an old dull-tusked saber-tooth hunched in a cage that was too small for him, though it was the largest pen in the cat section. Rows and rows of cages held domestic cats of all sizes and colors.

  Thunder Dick’s eyes were as wide as his grin. “Look at the kitties!” He went from cage to cage, but winced whenever he spotted a black-and-white tuxedo cat. He shook his head. “No . . . I really don’t think I’m ready yet.”

  “How about this one?” Sheyenne said, pointing to a cage that held a fluffy tortoise-shell kitten.

  The attendant arrived and stood next to us. “Would you like to hold him?”

  Thunder Dick was shy. “No, I don’t think . . .”

  When the kitten came to the edge of the cage and rubbed his head against the mesh, the weathermancer couldn’t help but waggle his fingers and scratch the kitten under the chin; the kitten responded with a very loud purr.

  “Maybe just for a minute,” he said.

  The attendant took the kitten out of the cage, and Thunder Dick cradled it, petted it. The kitten was all tiny sharp claws as it climbed the rainbow-colored wizard robes to perch on his shoulders. Thunder Dick smiled and giggled, then said, “Sorry, not today,” but with less conviction than before. He plucked the kitten from his shoulder and tried to hand it back to the obviously disappointed attendant.

  Just then a rambunctious group of tusked and leathery demon children boiled into the feline room, chattering, grunting, and jostling each other while the exhausted-looking parent demons let the monstrous kids burn off energy. The young demons saw the tortoise-shell kitten in Thunder Dick’s hands and started yelling, “We want that one! We want that one!”

  They held out clawed hands, trying to grab the kitten, which looked up at Thunder Dick with its huge bright green eyes. The wizard protectively drew the shivering furball back to him. The kitten climbed up his robes and crouched for shelter on his shoulders, hiding against his neck.

  The demon children hopped up and down.

  The attendant asked Thunder Dick, “Would you like to put the kitten back, sir?”

  The weather wizard regarded the demon children with alarm. They were supposedly here to shop for a pet, but to me they looked rather hungry. Thunder Dick saw it, too. “No, I don’t think so,” he told the attendant, then turned to the demon children. “This one’s already adopted.”

  The little cat began to purr. Very loudly.

  The weather networks all agreed that temperatures would be stable for the next few days, but unfortunately they could not agree on what the current weather actually was. At Robin’s suggestion, we played quiet music in the background and left the news off. We were tired of being under the weather and under the gun.

  Some people enjoy a little downtime, and—in theory, at least—I was glad to have the luxury to catch up on paperwork and close the files on all the recent cases we had wrapped up. That lasted about five minutes before I was itching for another mystery to solve. Forget about brains, this zombie detective wanted a case to sink his teeth into.

  I was about to start wandering aimlessly around the Quarter, and I much preferred to wander around with a real purpose.

  Fortunately, before I could get too restless, a new client came through the door. Literally, through the door. At Chambeaux & Deyer, we’ve had plenty of ghost clients before, and we serve undead clientele along with any other kind of unnatural. But this spirit was
special.

  Sheyenne recognized him right away, and she leaped up from her desk with such poltergeist excitement that her papers scattered in a whirlwind. “Fletcher!”

  I had to admit, Fletcher Knowles looked much better as a ghost than the last time I had seen him, crushed and covered with slime from one of Ah’Chulhu’s roving freelance tentacles. He manifested himself with his bleached goatee, John Lennon glasses, professional clothes. Since murder victims have a higher chance of returning as unnaturals, I should have guessed Fletcher might reappear sooner or later.

  “That was very strange,” he said, sounding distant. “Being killed was extremely unpleasant, but being a ghost is just . . . confusing. It takes some getting used to, just figuring out how to walk without sinking too far or floating too high.”

  “Doorknobs are really hard to use,” Sheyenne commiserated.

  “I haven’t even tried that yet,” Fletcher said, “but I’ll have plenty of time to practice.”

  I automatically extended my hand to greet him, even though I knew he couldn’t touch it. Fletcher tried, though, and his grip passed right through. “Sorry, I keep forgetting.”

  “In case you were wondering, we did solve your murder,” I said. “Ah’Chulhu is off in the Nether regions, where I doubt we’ll ever see him again.”

  Sheyenne was excited and relieved to see him. “We’re so sorry about what happened.”

  “Don’t worry about it, and you did warn me that cigarettes weren’t good for my health. If I hadn’t gone out for a smoke . . .” He looked at Sheyenne. “Besides, you were poisoned at my club, so I can’t really be all indignant about it.” When Robin came out to greet him as well, Fletcher smiled at all of us. “I’m here for a reason, not just to visit. I need to engage the services of Chambeaux and Deyer.”

  I liked the sound of that.

  Robin already had her yellow legal pad ready, and the magic pencil poised itself to take notes.

  “I may be dead, but I’m still legally co-owner of the Talbot and Knowles Blood Bars chain, a very lucrative franchise. I intend to remain in place and help manage the business, with fully as much power and influence as my partner. I need some legal advice, and maybe a little detective work. Something is off. I suspect there’s been some embezzling, maybe supplies tainted. I don’t know the extent, but I’d like you to find out for me.”

  Robin and I exchanged a glance, but we both knew what the answer would be. Sheyenne was already opening a case file.

  “Fletcher,” I said, “this makes my day. The cases don’t solve themselves—you need a professional.”

  I realized that, yes, I did exist to help people solve their problems. I love a good mystery. I was ready to get to work.

  Special bonus!

  Keep reading to enjoy another delightful

  Dan Shamble adventure....

  STAKEOUT AT THE VAMPIRE CIRCUS

  First time in print!

  CHAPTER 1

  The circus is supposed to be fun, even a monster circus, but the experience turned sour when somebody tried to murder the vampire trapeze artist.

  As a private detective, albeit a zombie, I investigate cases of all sorts in the Unnatural Quarter, applying my deductive skills and persistent determination (yes, the undead can be very persistent indeed). Some of my cases are admittedly strange; most are even stranger than that.

  I’d been hired by a transvestite fortune-teller to find a stolen deck of magic cards, and he had sent me two free tickets to the circus. Gotta love the perks of the job. Not one to let an opportunity go to waste, I invited my girlfriend to accompany me; in many ways her detective skills are as good as my own.

  Sheyenne is beautiful, blond, and intangible. I had started to fall in love with her when both of us were alive, and I still like having her around, despite the difficulties of an unnatural relationship—as a ghost, she can’t physically touch me, and as a zombie I have my own limitations.

  We showed our passes at the circus entrance gate and entered a whirlwind of colors, sounds, smells. Big tents, wild rides, popcorn and cotton candy for the humans, more exotic treats for the unnaturals. One booth sold deep-fried artichoke hearts, while another sold deep-fried human hearts. Seeing me shamble by, a persistent vendor offered me a free sample of brains on a stick, but I politely declined.

  I’m a well-preserved zombie and have never acquired a taste for brains. I’ve got my standards of behavior, not to mention personal hygiene. Given a little bit of care and effort, a zombie doesn’t have to rot and fall apart, and I take pride in looking mostly human. Some people have even called me handsome—Sheyenne certainly does, but she’s biased.

  As Sheyenne flitted past the line of food stalls, her eyes were bright, her smile dazzling; I could imagine what she must have looked like as a little girl. I hadn’t seen her this happy since she’d been poisoned to death.

  Nearby, a muscular clay golem lifted a wooden mallet at the Test Your Strength game and slammed it down with such force that he not only rang the bell at the top of the pole, he split the mallet in half. A troll barker at the game muttered and handed the golem a pink plush bunny as a prize. The golem set the stuffed animal next to a pile of fuzzy prizes, paid another few coins, and took a fresh mallet to play the game again.

  Many of the attendees were humans, attracted by the low prices of the human matinee; the nocturnal monsters would come out for the evening show. More than a decade had passed since the Big Uneasy, when all the legendary monsters came back to the world, and human society was finally realizing that unnaturals were people just like everyone else. Yes, some were ferocious and bloodthirsty—but so were some humans. Most monsters just wanted to live and let live (even though the definition of “living” had blurred).

  Sheyenne saw crowds streaming toward the Big Top. “The lion tamer should be finishing, but the vampire trapeze artist is due to start. Do you think we could . . .”

  I gave her my best smile. With stiff facial muscles, my “best smile” was only average, but even so, I saved it for Sheyenne. “Sure, Spooky. We’ve got an hour before we’re supposed to meet Zelda. Let’s call it ‘gathering background information.’”

  “Or we could just call it part of the date,” Sheyenne teased.

  “That, too.”

  We followed other humans through the tent flaps. A pudgy twelve-year-old boy was harassing his sister, poking her arm incessantly, until he glanced at me and Sheyenne. I had pulled the fedora low, but it didn’t entirely conceal the bullet hole in my forehead. When the pudgy kid gawked at the sight, his sister took advantage of the distraction and began poking him until their mother hurried them into the Big Top.

  Inside, Sheyenne pointed to empty bleachers not far from the entrance. The thick canvas kept out direct sunlight, protecting the vampire performers and shrouding the interior in a pleasant nighttime gloom. My eyes adjusted quickly, because gloom is a natural state for me. Always on the case, I remained alert. If I’d been more alert while I was still alive, I would be . . . well, still alive.

  When I was a human private detective in the Quarter, Sheyenne’s ghost had asked me to investigate her murder, which got me in trouble; I didn’t even see the creep come up behind me in a dark alley, put a gun to the back of my head, and pull the trigger.

  Under most circumstances, that would have put an end to my career, but you can’t keep a good detective down. Thanks to the changed world, I came back from the dead, back on the case. Soon enough, I fell into my old routine, investigating mysteries wherever they might take me . . . even to the circus.

  Sheyenne drifted to the nearest bleacher, and I climbed stiffly beside her. The spotlight shone down on a side ring, where a brown-furred werewolf in a scarlet vest—Calvin—cracked his bullwhip, snarling right back at a pair of snarling lions who failed to follow his commands. The thick-maned male cat growled, while the big female opened her mouth wide to show a yawn full of fangs. The lion tamer roared a response, cracked the whip again, and urged the big cats to do
tricks, but they absolutely refused.

  The lions flexed their claws, and the werewolf flexed his own in a show of dominance, but the lions weren’t buying it. Just when it looked as if the fur was about to fly, a loud drumroll came from the center ring.

  The spotlight swiveled away from the lion tamer to fall upon the ringmaster, a tall vampire with steel-gray hair. “Ladies and gentlemen, naturals and unnaturals of all ages—in the center ring, our main event!” He pointed upward, and the spotlight swung to the cavernous tent’s rigging strung with high wires and a trapeze platform. A Baryshnikov look-alike stood on the platform, a gymnastic vampire in a silver lamé full-body leotard. He wore a medallion around his neck, a bright red ribbon with some kind of amulet, and a professional sneer.

  “Bela, our vampire trapeze artist, master of the ropes—graceful, talented . . . a real swinger!” The ringmaster paused until the audience realized they were supposed to respond with polite laughter. Up on the platform, Bela lifted his chin, as if their applause was beneath him (and, technically speaking, it was, since the bleachers were far below).

  “For his death-defying feat, Bela will perform without a safety net above one hundred sharpened wooden stakes!” The spotlight swung down to the floor of the ring, which was covered with a forest of pointy sticks, just waiting to perform impalement duties.

  The suitably impressed audience gasped.

  On the trapeze platform, Bela’s haughty sneer was wide enough to show his fangs; I could see them even from my seat in the bleachers. The gold medallion at his neck glinted in the spotlight. Rolling his shoulders to loosen up, the vampire grasped the trapeze handle and lunged out into the open air. He seemed not to care a whit about the sharp wooden stakes as he swung across to the other side. At the apex of his arc, he swung back again, gaining speed. On the backswing, Bela spun around the trapeze bar, doing a loop. As he reached the apex once again, he released, did a quick somersault high in the air, and caught the bar as he dropped down.