Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Are you done with your job at the storage complex?” I asked.

  “No, got the night off. I wouldn’t miss this!”

  The emcee welcomed us all; it was the same wizard who had acted as auctioneer for the Timeworn Treasures liquidation sale. The cocktail waitress brought our drinks, and we all sat back, ready to laugh as Tiffany stepped onto the stage. She was a solid woman, dressed in a too-tight pantsuit, possibly for humorous effect, or possibly because that was what she had in her closet. Tiffany wore very little makeup, didn’t smile, and seemed all business—the last sort of person you would expect behind a microphone in a comedy club. We gave her a round of supportive applause.

  On a stool near the microphone stand, she had a plastic bottle of water and a curved cocktail glass filled with what looked like a Bloody Mary but wasn’t. Tiffany began rattling off her jokes and, oddly enough, she was hilarious.

  “So, I just came back from dinner. Went to an all-you-can-eat restaurant.” She smiled enough to show her fangs. “I had two waiters and a busboy.”

  McGoo laughed out loud, deep rumbling chuckles from his belly. “I’ll have to remember that one. That sounds like a joke I would tell.”

  “I went into a bar with two of my vampire friends,” Tiffany continued. “The bartender asked what we wanted to drink. My friends both ordered glasses of blood, but I just ordered a shot of plasma. So the bartender said, Let me get this straight . . . that’s two bloods and a blood lite?”

  She was on a roll, and the crowd was already loosened up. “Somebody asked me, How do you fit forty vampires into a Volkswagen Beetle?” Tiffany looked around the audience, saw us, and continued, “Easy, I said. Gather forty vampires out in the parking lot, wait until the sun comes up, and then put them all in the ashtray.”

  Tiffany finished her set with most of the audience in stitches—or in unraveled stitches. Bill shot to his feet, slamming his clay hands together with loud thunderclaps. She bowed to another round of applause.

  Although McGoo had laughed throughout, now he looked perplexed. “I don’t get it, Shamble. What am I doing wrong? When I tell the same kind of jokes, you never laugh. Well, sometimes, but only because we made a deal. What’s the difference?”

  “You know how it is, McGoo,” I said. “She’s a vampire. She’s allowed to tell jokes like that.”

  I finally made an appointment to see the Wannovich sisters and their vampire ghostwriter at the Transfusion coffee shop to tell them everything they needed to know. I was no stranger to interviews: As a private detective, I knew how to pry information from suspects or witnesses. I wasn’t accustomed to being on the other side of the questions, though.

  I didn’t know what I could say to make my work sound exciting. A detective’s job is just a job, like a grocery store manager, or a cop, or an accountant—not necessarily interesting. (All right, maybe it is more interesting, or at least more hazardous, than an accountant’s job.)

  It remained a mystery to me, all detective work aside, why anyone would want to read the adventures of a zombie private investigator, but I’m not the arbiter of literary tastes. Chatting with Mavis and Alma Wannovich over a cup of coffee was the least I could do. Besides, thanks to Sheyenne’s negotiating, I was even getting a regular restoration spell out of it. Mavis was so excited by the prospects that she had given me a bonus touch-up after my rough treatment in the past week, just so I felt fresh for the interview.

  We met at Transfusion in the middle of the afternoon. The black-glass windows kept the hazardous sunlight out. Soft jazz played over the speakers—the annoying tuneless kind that no one except the barista seems to like. Only a few other customers sat at the tables: two sleepless vampires working on their laptops, a group of young wizards gathered around two pushed-together tables discussing well-highlighted copies of a thick book—a Necronomicon study group.

  The large witch and the large sow were waiting for me, sitting next to a plump female vampire who wore cat’s-eye glasses, and I recognized the Welcome Back Wagon volunteer. Mavis introduced us. “Mr. Chambeaux, thank you so much for coming! We’d like you to meet our friend and colleague, Linda Bullwer. She’ll be writing the zombie detective series for Howard Phillips Publishing.”

  “Under the pen name of Penny Dreadful.” The vampire woman pushed her cat’s-eye glasses up on her nose before she shook my hand. “Primarily, I’m a poet, but so far I haven’t been successful in getting published. This is a great opportunity for me.”

  “Happy to help out, Miss Bullwer. You’ll have to do some embellishing to make sense out of my cases.”

  “Not a problem at all. I have my artistic license, fully paid for. It’s valid for the next year.” She took out her notepad, ready to get to work. She had already doodled in the margins.

  I ordered my coffee, got another round for the three ladies; Alma’s was chai tea served in a bowl. I sat down, cautioning the vampire ghostwriter, “Remember, you’re not going to use my real name. These will be fictional exploits, right?”

  “Everything will be dramatized, the names changed to protect the innocent and the unnatural,” Linda Bullwer assured me. “But inspired by real events.”

  “Howard Phillips hopes to make this series a great success,” Mavis said, accompanied by a succession of grunts from Alma.

  “The cases don’t solve themselves,” I said. “And real cases don’t always turn out as neat and tidy as in a novel.”

  “Novels don’t write themselves either, Mr. Chambeaux,” said the vampire, scribbling notes. “Don’t you worry—a good writer improves on real life.”

  CHAPTER 54

  “Another round, Francine.” McGoo held up his empty beer mug. “Shamble’s buying.”

  “I didn’t agree to that.”

  “I didn’t ask,” McGoo said. “What are friends for?”

  “Then give me another one, too, Francine,” I said.

  Two nights later, we met at the Goblin Tavern, glad the Quarter was finally getting back to normal—whatever that meant. Francine was back behind the bar, full of energy, chatting with the customers. Her black cobwebby dress had a lower neckline and a higher hemline than most customers would have preferred, but Francine seemed comfortable in it. In fact, she said it helped her fit in. Who were we to judge?

  Stu was in his office, working on the accounts, punching keys on a calculator, making phone calls. Ever since the Smile Syndicate had been placed under investigation, all of the company’s records and assets were frozen. I was worried that the Tavern might be shut down pending liquidation, but since the place was generating income with a renewed customer base, the tax authorities allowed it to stay open.

  Every ten minutes or so, Stu came out to say hello to the customers, smiling to assure them that he appreciated their business. “Francine’s taking care of you all?” he asked no one in particular. “Isn’t she the best?”

  “I agree,” I said. “You should give her a raise.”

  Stu scuttled back into his office, pretending he hadn’t heard the comment. I knew he had been working with the Trove National Bank on a business loan and was trying to find investors so he could buy the Goblin Tavern himself. I thought he just might pull it off. McGoo and I were doing our best to help by contributing to the nightly take in the cash register.

  On the bar television, we watched a news report that showed harried-looking Senator Rupert Balfour, head down and covered with a newspaper, being hurried into his car as reporters and angry former minions shouted after him. The Tavern regulars let out a chorus of boos and catcalls.

  McGoo planted his elbows on the bar. “Everyone in the Quarter can rest easy now.”

  “The senator won’t,” I said.

  Despite his disgrace, Balfour had been defiant throughout the scandal. He had refused to resign as senator and vowed to fight on . . . but his colleagues removed him from office by unanimous vote. The senate rules stated explicitly that a senator was to be replaced upon his death. Even though no one had immediately noticed,
Senator Rupert Balfour was indeed dead, and therefore could no longer serve in office.

  The increasingly unpopular Unnatural Acts Act was repealed, not because of any deafening outcry among the citizens, but because of a minor legal loophole: Since Balfour had been dead when he proposed the Act, it should never have been brought to a vote.

  Robin would have enjoyed fighting her challenges and striking repeated blows in the name of Justice, but Chambeaux & Deyer had other work to do. I convinced her to be satisfied with what we had accomplished.

  That afternoon, I had gone to visit Hope Saldana and Jerry at the mission. She had baked a chocolate cake, and everyone from the mission had signed a homemade thank-you card for me. They gave me a round of embarrassing applause as Jerry presented the card himself, before going to the piano and playing a lively rendition of “Heart and Soul”—this time with the exuberance of a ragtime professional.

  Yes, we had plenty to celebrate.

  After McGoo and I had another beer, I made my way back to the office. Robin’s door was closed, the lights off, and I was glad to see that she’d taken the night off; maybe she would catch up on her sleep for a change. Balfour’s attorneys had quietly dropped the defamation and libel lawsuits against her, knowing they would never get a sympathetic jury. Besides, most of her contentions had been proved true.

  I stood alone in our quiet, minimally decorated offices, just thinking, but at a loss. I looked at the potted ficus plant, Sheyenne’s reception desk, the file cabinets, my office, Robin’s office, the conference room, the kitchenette. Yes, this place felt like home, even though my actual one-room apartment was upstairs, rarely used.

  Most of the cases were wrapped up for now; nothing seemed urgent. Having no desperate cases or clients in peril was a new situation for me. I didn’t know what to do with myself: back from the dead with no place to go.

  Sheyenne appeared, looking beautiful as always. “Working late again, Beaux?”

  “Just being here late. Want to hang out?”

  She rummaged in the top drawer of her desk and held out an envelope with a blurred postmark. “This came for you.”

  I looked at the return address and saw that Ruth had sent it. I felt a lump in my throat. Before I opened the envelope, I stepped closer to my girlfriend. “Read it with me,” I said.

  It was a short note, the succubus letting us know that she was all right. I was happy to hear that she had found a job working in a shop that specialized in dried floral arrangements. I knew how much Ruth liked flowers, and the company considered her to be a miracle worker. Any plants and flowers dried up immediately upon her touch, and, with a succubus working there, the shop could process five times as many floral arrangements, wreaths, and bouquets as before.

  “Sounds like she’s found her niche,” Sheyenne said. “I’m happy for her.”

  The second part of the letter was even more surprising. Ruth told us that the ghost of Alphonse Wheeler had tracked her down after escaping prison. He had changed his identity, put on a spectral disguise, and pretended to live as an outlaw, although after the media uproar involving the Senator Balfour scandal, no one was really looking for him anymore.

  “Why don’t you take some time off,” Sheyenne said to me. “Why don’t we take some time off, together?”

  “Sounds perfect, Spooky. How about a Mediterranean cruise? Alice could give us a recommendation.”

  “Let’s just start with tonight,” she said, with that tone in her voice, the one I could never resist . . . not when she’d been alive, not now that she was a ghost.

  “Where would you like to go?”

  She practically shimmered, and her blue eyes were intense. “How about upstairs? I got something for us, if you’re ready for a little adventure. Did you know the adult novelty shop is open again? They have some very interesting merchandise.”

  I had no idea what a ghost and a zombie might actually do, since we could have no physical contact, but Sheyenne had my attention. All of it.

  Upstairs, the door creaked open from long disuse. My room was dim and musty, with a distinct hint of mold. Some unnaturals preferred that for the ambience; in my case, it was strictly due to neglect. The dirty dishes in the sink had now become archaeological artifacts. The bed looked lonely and abandoned, and I realized that I should try to get rest more often. Even a zombie can’t keep going and going without a little shut-eye.

  “Let me slip into something more comfortable,” Sheyenne said. “I want to make this a special night for us.”

  She flitted out of the small bedroom and passed directly through the door of my closet. I could hear her rustling around inside.

  I went to sit down on the bed and noticed a plastic wrapper that had been wadded up and stuffed behind the nightstand—a bright label, a small zippered bag. So Sheyenne must have been planning this.

  I heard her bumping and moving among the clothes in my closet, and I picked up the package she had been trying to hide, something she’d bought from the Unnatural Acts novelty store: Inflatable Female Companion for the Lonely Gentleman. The description insisted it was 100% Vinyl, and So Lifelike!

  “Spooky, I don’t—” I said, but then the closet door opened, and she emerged in flesh-colored plastic. Sheyenne’s ghostly image was superimposed upon it, and if I concentrated properly, I could see her and nothing else.

  She moved forward jerkily and sat down beside me.

  “I’m still getting used to this,” she said. “It’s like the glove I wore at Macbeth. This is just a doll, an inanimate object, a suit—I can move in it, live in it, but it takes a great deal of concentration. I don’t know how long I can manage this.” She lifted a hand and touched the side of my face. I saw her fuzzy spectral features. “It’s fully functional, I think.”

  “I don’t need that, Spooky. I just—” But it was good to feel her touch. The fingers were fake, the hands and arms just plastic, but the pressure and the presence behind it, those were real. “We don’t need to see how functional it is,” I said. I wrapped my arms around her, pulled her down onto the sheets.

  It felt so good to relax, to be comfortable, to be beside her. The spectral image was smiling, and I saw translucent tears in her eyes. She was soft, squishy, rubbery . . . but it was Sheyenne. And it felt wonderful to hold her.

  “This is nice,” I said.

  “Yes,” Sheyenne said. “Yes, it is.”

  Don’t miss Kevin J. Anderson’s next

  hilarious novel starring

  Dan Shamble, Zombie PI

  HAIR RAISING

  Coming from Kensington Publishing Corp. in May 2013!

  Turn the page to read an irresistible preview excerpt....

  CHAPTER 1

  I’ve always been baffled by the things people do to amuse themselves, but this illegal cockatrice fighting ring was more bizarre than most.

  Rusty, the full-furred werewolf who raised the hideous creatures and pitted them against each other in the ring, had hired me to watch out for “suspicious behavior.” So, there I was in a crowd of unnaturals who gathered in an empty warehouse, laying down bets to watch chicken-dragon-viper monstrosities tear each other apart. What could possibly be suspicious?

  No case was too strange for Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations, so I agreed to keep my eyes open. “You’ll have a great time, Mr. Shamble,” Rusty growled. “Tonight is family night.”

  “It’s Chambeaux,” I corrected him, though the mispronunciation may have been the result of him talking through all those teeth in his mouth rather than not actually knowing my name.

  Rusty was a gruff, barrel-chested werewolf with a full head—and I mean a full head—of bristling reddish fur that stuck out in all directions. He raised cockatrices in backyard coops in a run-down neighborhood at the edge of town. He wore bib overalls and sported large tattoos on the meat of his upper arms (although his fur was so thick they were barely visible).

  Cockatrice fighting was technically illegal and had been denounced by many animal activist g
roups. (Most of the activists, however, were unfamiliar with the mythological bestiary and had no idea what a cockatrice was, but they were sure “cockatrice fighting” had to be a bad thing from the sound of it.) I wasn’t one to pass judgment; when ranked among unsavory activities in the Unnatural Quarter, this one didn’t even make the junior varsity team.

  Rusty insisted it was big business, and he had even offered me an extra ticket so that Sheyenne, my ghost girlfriend, could join me. I declined on her behalf. She’s not much of a sports fan.

  Inside a decrepit old warehouse, the spectators cheered, growled, howled, or made whatever sound was appropriate to their particular unnatural species. Even some humans had slunk in to place bets and watch the violence, hoping that violence didn’t get done to them here in the dark underbelly of the Quarter.

  In the echoing warehouse, the unsettling ambient noises reflected back, making the crowd sound twice as large as it really was. Previously, the warehouse had hosted illegal raves, and I could imagine the thunderously monotonous booming beat accompanied by migraine-inducing strobe lights. After the rave craze had ended, the warehouse manager was happy to let the unused empty space become the new home for the next best thing.

  I tried to blend in with the rest of the spectators; nobody noticed an undead guy standing there in a bullet-riddled sport jacket. Thanks to an excellent embalming job and good hygiene habits, I was a well-preserved zombie, and I worked hard to maintain my physical condition so that I could pass for mostly human. Mostly.

  The crowd hadn’t come here to see and be seen. The center of attention was a high-walled enclosure that might have originally been designed as a skateboard park for lawn gnomes. The barricades were high enough that—in theory at least—snarling, venomous cockatrices could not leap over them and attack the audience (although, as Rusty explained it, a few bloodthirsty attendees took out long-shot wagers that it would happen; those bettors generally kept to the back rows).