Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  With a loud gasp of achievement, Tiffany ended her program, dropped the treadmill speed to cool-down rate, and caught her breath. Now she was ready for conversation. She turned and flashed her fangs at me. “You know, Chambeaux, Bill is definitely bad for me.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Too much, far too much—and I don’t dare ask him to stop.” She patted her butt. “I’ve gained five pounds already. I’m not used to eating like that—I usually just grab a preserved blood pack from the fridge, but Bill plans some extravagant dinner every single day. My house is spotless, every dish is cleaned and put away within five minutes of when it hits the sink. He does the laundry daily, and he even irons my work shirts. Irons them, Shamble! I feel like a princess. He says it’s only right to help me out, for everything I’ve done for him.”

  I nudged up the speed of the treadmill. “Sounds like criminal activity for sure. Should I have McGoo arrest him?”

  “Not complaining, Chambeaux, and not ungrateful either, although maybe I should send him to work as an intern in your offices for a week, just to get even.”

  I chuckled, hoping she wasn’t serious. “Golems are created to serve. They do whatever work they’re told to do, and they take instruction well. If you don’t want Bill to be such a busybody, then just tell him so.” I looked down at the treadmill; I had gone an eighth of a mile already. Tiffany had just done five miles—at a full run. “In fact, give him some lite recipes, or have him watch healthy cooking shows. He can prepare meals that won’t make you gain weight.”

  With a frown, Tiffany wiped sweat from her face. “Then they wouldn’t taste so good. You should try some of the meals, Chambeaux. That golem’s a gourmet cook—blood sausage, blood sauces with fresh-killed meat and fowl dishes . . . even blood oranges, though I told him that’s just a variety name. I’ll have you over for dinner sometime.”

  “The good food would be wasted on me. You could just tell Bill not to cook for you at all.”

  “No, I’m willing to put in a few extra hours at the gym to burn off the calories. It’s worth it. Seriously, I’m more concerned because I think Bill’s bored. He’s used to working all the time, but I don’t have enough for a full-time assistant, butler, and chef to do. He’s not my slave.”

  “Maybe you should have let him take that security guard job,” I suggested.

  “I’ve got him applying for other positions as a night watchman. I gave him a glowing letter of recommendation, so let’s hope he gets hired. Those other hundred golems flooded the job market.”

  She grabbed a towel, wiped her forehead, rubbed her armpits, and draped the towel around her neck before she headed toward the weight stations. I looked down: The treadmill said I had gone a quarter of a mile now. Making progress.

  On the television, a news broadcast caught my attention—and my heart turned into a deader weight in my chest. Senator Rupert Balfour had summoned the media for a press conference. At the podium, as he lifted his long chin and began his important (to him at least) announcement, the other unnaturals in the fitness center stopped working out. Many booed or howled at the hated man.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, humans all—I bring before you a tragic example of the evil to be found in the Unnatural Quarter, a clear indication of the danger these supernatural creatures pose to fine, normal people. You’ll see why my Unnatural Acts Act is desperately needed to stop the depraved activities that tempt our good citizens.”

  I wondered what the senator was talking about now. Maybe too much caffeine in Transfusion’s espresso? He had already done his best to shut down the adult novelty shop.

  “Listen to the heartbreaking story of a poor injured man who has suffered abominably from the vile acts of these unnaturals. He nearly died from what they did to him, and he’s here to tell you about his pain and suffering.”

  So, Balfour had found another patsy after McGoo had refused to cooperate with the senator in digging up dirt on the Unnatural Quarter. I stared at the screen in disbelief as Sheyenne’s brother Travis stepped up to the podium. He appeared weak and forlorn, his eyes shadowed (it looked like makeup to me), and he spoke in a quavering voice. “An evil succubus nearly killed me. I survived only through the purest luck, and I’ve just now recovered enough to tell you the truth about what goes on there.”

  “Luck?” I yelled at the unresponsive TV. “We got you out of there! And it was a restorative spell that snapped you out of your coma.”

  Travis told a grossly embellished tale of the chamber of horrors that was the Full Moon brothel. He described vampire women luring naïve and innocent victims, like himself, into their sexual web, then he painted a ludicrous picture of the ferocious and demonic succubus who had nearly stolen his life force.

  Sweet, waifish Ruth?

  “I just stopped at the place to ask directions, and I barely got out alive,” Travis lied. “Please, join me in calling for action to help Senator Balfour bring safety and justice back to society. We want the world restored to what it was—it’s the only way humanity can survive. We can’t mainstream the monsters. I urge you to support the senator in passing the Unnatural Acts Act. Thank you.”

  He wiped his eye to indicate tears, though I didn’t see any on the screen. I wondered how much Balfour had paid him, and I feared that this “token innocent victim” might be the nudge those last fence-sitting senators needed to vote for his bill.

  I canceled the treadmill program and got ready to go back to the office. I knew Sheyenne was going to be furious.

  CHAPTER 34

  Immediately after the news conference at which Travis told his shocking, and entirely fictional, story about being abused by a succubus at the Full Moon—which only increased the chill that normal people felt at the very thought of unnaturals having sex—Senator Balfour called a late-night vote behind closed doors and finally coerced enough senators to pass the Unnatural Acts Act.

  Sheyenne was livid to learn of Travis’s betrayal, and I had to calm her down before she plunged into a poltergeist fury. She hadn’t seen her brother since storming out of his hospital room, and we all hoped not to see him again.

  Without delay, Robin requested the complete text of the Unnatural Acts Act in order to study the new law, line by line. When the delivery service arrived at our office, a man in a dusty brown uniform wheeled in a handcart laden with a stack of paper four feet high, bound in a single yawning comb-clip.

  “As ordered, ma’am.” The delivery man wiped sweat from his face, turned his cap around, and handed Sheyenne a clipboard to sign. “One copy of the Unnatural Acts Act. Lots of reporters have requested them. You’re lucky you got yours first.”

  I stared at the gigantic document. It would have taken me the better part of a year to read an adventure novel that long, and this was a piece of exceedingly dull legislation written in governmentese.

  “I’m sure my brother studied every word before he supported the Act,” Sheyenne said in an acid voice. Knowing Travis’s role in Balfour’s shady victory, she was fuming; I could almost hear all the foul names she was silently calling him.

  Robin stared at the mountainous document in dismay. “There’ll be job security for lawyers like me for some time to come.”

  Sale tables filled the alley in front of the Timeworn Treasures pawnshop, piled high with a random assortment of odds and ends. Estate Auction: Everything Must Go! Alice the gremlin had meticulously checked the price tags, marked some items down for a quick sale, then left the larger pieces for the auctioneer.

  While Robin remained buried alive in the new legislation, I took spending money from the Chambeaux & Deyer accounts and went to the auction, dead set on purchasing Snazz’s ledger book. McGoo had found no heart-and-soul listings at all, but I was convinced he’d missed something. I wanted to study every entry, looking for some sort of code the pawnbroker might have developed. I figured that others besides Jerry might want their bundles back.

  I realized that the ledger would be advantageous in other cases as well,
specifically because it would list who had pawned the theatrical company’s props before burning down the stage. I had left messages to tell Shakespeare that the pieces had been found, but I hadn’t been able to reach him—ghosts were often hard to track down, and he was busy rebuilding the stage for a comeback performance. Once the items were released from evidence, though, and available for reclaiming, I made sure the troupe knew about it. Several of the ghost actors had promised to come to the estate auction, where I suggested they could buy back their props for a song.

  After the fire, Shakespeare in the Dark had received numerous donations, and a construction crew comprising both humans and ghosts had begun to rebuild the stage for a new production of The Tempest. The acting company promised to come back with a vengeance—not necessarily a good choice of words. I had seen numerous Tempest broadsides tacked up around the Quarter, most of them strategically placed over the top of Balfour’s You Are Damned! flyers. I still hoped to prove his minions had been behind the arson.

  Alice the gremlin had set up a cash box and metal folding chair at the front table. As customers paid cash for smaller items, she plucked off the price tags and took their money. Several wide-eyed human sightseers perused the titillating objects, picking up baubles or leafing through battered paperback copies of out-of-print spell books. The gullible tourists always paid full price without complaint; more seasoned residents of the Quarter tried to haggle, even though Alice rarely negotiated.

  A troll expressed interest in the slightly used monkey’s paw and argued price for five minutes. Alice wouldn’t budge. “It’s a hard-to-find item and very powerful.”

  “It’s been used—there’s not much left! One wish?” the troll said with a disparaging tone. “And these things are notorious for going wrong. It’s not worth half of what you’re asking.”

  Alice held the paw in her paws. “Look at the workmanship. It’s an antiquity. You don’t find these on a discount store shelf.”

  The troll took out a coin purse and opened it without letting Alice see how much money he had. “I just don’t think it’s worth that much. I really wish you’d bring your price down.”

  Both of them froze at what the troll had inadvertently said, staring at the monkey’s paw as they waited for something terrible to happen. Alice quickly said, “Oh, all right. I’ll take two dollars off, but that’s my final offer.”

  “Two dollars?” the troll said. “Why would I want the thing now? You just used up the last wish.”

  “That wasn’t the last wish. I was holding the paw, not you, and I’d already made up my mind to drop the price.”

  The troll did not look convinced, but he couldn’t resist the reduction in price. He plucked out the appropriate number of ancient gold coins from his purse. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll be back wanting a refund.”

  She made a tsking sound through her pointed teeth and indicated a hand-lettered index card by the cash box: All Sales Final. Grumbling, the troll took the monkey’s paw and went away.

  One precocious young human boy picked up the pieces of a shattered amulet and studiously tried to line up the runes and put the amulet back together. In alarm, Alice scuttled over and swatted the pieces out of the boy’s hands. “There, now—It’s not a toy!” She found the boy’s mother and scolded, “Please, control your obstreperous child.” The alarmed parents whisked the kid away.

  I spotted Sheyenne’s pawned jewelry locked in a case for high-end items, but priced for immediate sale, not to go to auction. That was another important purchase I intended to make today, but first I had to get the ledger book.

  Though harried, Alice looked pleased with the number of customers. Many of the items had already vanished from the quick-sale table. I waited while she finished a transaction, and she greeted me. “I want you to thank Ms. Deyer for moving so promptly on the paperwork. She’s made this possible. I don’t know how to express my gratitude . . . except by paying your bill, of course.”

  “You could thank me by letting me have a look at the ledger book,” I said.

  “It’ll be the third item up once the auction starts. I think there’ll be a lot of interest in that particular item,” Alice said.

  “Really? In a sales ledger?” I had already found the book on the auction table; its covers were held shut with a plastic security band.

  “I sincerely hope you win it, Mr. Chambeaux. I’ll be rooting for you.”

  “I just need to look at one entry. And you can still sell it afterward.”

  Alice was having none of it, though. “Moving on.”

  Two ghosts from the acting troupe, dressed in full Elizabethan costume, purchased the theater masks, props, and costumes. They seemed quite happy to have the items back.

  “Oh, Mr. Chambeaux!” I turned to see Mavis Wannovich in her full black gown and pointed cap walking alongside her sister. “Alma and I came to see what bargains we could find, but I never pictured you as the sort to frequent yard sales.”

  “It’s an estate sale,” Alice corrected, closing the metal cash box.

  “What’s the difference?” I asked.

  “Higher-quality debris.”

  Mavis sidled closer to me while Alma went over to snuffle at items on the various tables. “Next month we’ll have a very nice restorative spell for you, but I’m glad we could help your friend in the hospital.”

  “He wasn’t my friend,” I said. Especially not after his latest stunt. “But thanks for helping him all the same. I knew I could count on you both.”

  The witch said, “We still need to chat about your work as a private eye, provide the gritty details for our ghostwriter, tell us about some interesting cases that you’ve wrapped up. I left a message with your receptionist yesterday—perhaps you didn’t get it?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to call back,” I said. “And Sheyenne had a particularly rough time last night. Family troubles. I’ve got a crazy caseload . . . but I will talk with you, I promise.”

  “A detective’s life must be so exciting—shall we set up a time now?”

  Before I could make an excuse, Alma snorted with excitement to get her sister’s attention. The sow had put her trotters up on a table that held the large crystal ball in its birdbath-sized holder. “Ooh, what a wonderful crystal ball!” Mavis found the signature of the magician artisan at the bottom of the ornate holder. She turned to the gremlin. “What’s the price?”

  Alice hurried over to the table, sensing a sale. She talked at great length about the antique and magical quality of the item, while Mavis insisted that she was quite familiar with various models of crystal balls. They dickered, but closed the sale, and the witches went home, happy with their acquisition.

  After a glance at an antique windup clock on one of the quick-sale tables, Alice declared it was time to start the auction.

  She had hired a long-bearded wizard to conduct the process. He was well practiced in rattling off a dizzying stream of staccato syllables—a talent he had gained from years of mumbling incomprehensible spells and reading incantations backward—which made him a skilled auctioneer.

  The higher-end patrons had already scoped out the large items, jotted notes, made phone calls, checked online listings, and subtly tried to guess which other customers might be their competitors for individual pieces.

  The first item up for bid was a rusted iron maiden with a solid oak case; the sharpened tips supposedly still contained blood from victims of the Marquis de Sade, who was something of a folk hero in certain parts of the Quarter. The iron maiden came with a certificate of authenticity, although one of the bidders disputed the provenance (probably to diminish the bids), insisting that the style of the iron maiden firmly placed it in the period of the Spanish Inquisition, not the Marquis de Sade. A tall blond vampire, who looked more like a surfer than a bloodsucker, won the auction.

  The second item was a plain-looking willow wand, said to contain great magical powers. Purportedly, the wand had been used by Merlin himself, although to me it looked li
ke a switch that an old-fashioned schoolteacher would use for rapping the knuckles of unruly students.

  The wizard auctioneer expected high opening bids, but did not get them, so he waxed poetic about the magic wand, describing in detail the numerous household uses a lucky bidder could find for it. When there were still no bids, his descriptions became more gushing, purple prose extending far into the ultraviolet. Still, no bids. In disappointment, he scratched his long gray beard and set the magic wand aside. “Very well, we shall come back to that one later.”

  When he pulled out the pawnbroker’s ledger book, I shuffled closer to the front of the crowd.

  “And here, we have a book . . . no spells inside, as far as I can tell. Just a list of items and numbers.” He peered through his round spectacles at the words, then straightened. “Ah, it’s the business records of the pawnshop! Hours of fascinating reading, I’m sure. A primary-source historical record for anyone who wishes to do research. Or . . .” He gave a goofy grin. “Do we have any tax auditors out there? This ledger could contain very interesting information.”

  The unnaturals hissed and grumbled, and the wizard auctioneer noticed that no one had laughed at his joke. The threat of a tax audit just wasn’t funny.

  “All right, then shall we start the bidding? Who’s interested in this lovely ledger book?”

  I raised my hand, offered a bid serious enough to scare away casual interest. “Fifty dollars. I’ll take it.” When I got my hands on that book, I could solve two cases in less than an hour.

  “Ah, we have fifty dollars,” the wizard said.

  “I’ll take it for a hundred,” said another voice in the back.