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  “Maybe after we take care of your emergency, Mr. Fennerman—Sheldon, sorry.” I gestured him across the foyer. “Come into the conference room. What trouble are you in?” My heart went out to the guy. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and not for any demonic reason. “You don’t look like you’re sleeping well.”

  “I haven’t slept much at all, and I hate being awake during daylight.” He shuddered. “I was never a night person during my life, and this is still awkward to me. I can’t get used to the shifted sleeping schedule. I’m drowsy as early as four A.M., and I’m wide awake well before sunset. Ever since these threats, I’ve been hiding out at Transfusion, the darkened all-day coffee shop for insomniac vampires . . . and I can’t even drink coffee!” He groaned. “No one should have to live like this.”

  Robin came out to greet the new client, and I introduced her. “We work cases jointly,” I said, “from different directions.”

  Robin’s a lawyer, and I’m a private investigator—separate specialties, but our work is related more often than not. Since neither of us could afford the rent, we’d joined forces—like the Three Musketeers minus one. All for one and one for all. We share office space to cut down on overhead, though technically we’re two separate business entities, a legal firm and a detective agency (it’s all in the fine print on new client disclosure statements). Because we had set up shop in the Unnatural Quarter, Chambeaux & Deyer got sarcastically corrupted to “Shamble & Die”—though in my case, it should be Die and then Shamble.

  Robin already had a yellow legal pad tucked under her arm. “We’re here to help you with your troubles, Mr. Fennerman. Can I join you for the intake meeting?”

  “I need all the help I can get.” He hurried into the conference room, and Robin took a seat across from the vampire, while I folded myself down into the chair beside hers.

  Sheldon Fennerman laid the stake on the table and pushed it across to me, glad to be rid of the thing. “I found this on my doorstep when I came out at twilight yesterday. It’s meant for me—a clear threat.”

  I picked it up, inspecting the sharp tip. “Freshly made, never been used.”

  “Do people reuse stakes?” Robin asked.

  Sheldon continued, “And someone spray-painted Die Vampire Die! on a boarded-up window across the street.”

  I looked at Robin, narrowed my eyes. I had heard about this kind of harassment of unnaturals. “My first guess would be Straight Edge.”

  The purist blowhard group wanted all the monsters to go away. Straight Edge made no distinction among vampires, zombies, werewolves, witches, liches, necromancers, sewer dwellers, ghouls, or anything else. Just another group of bigots, the type who can’t feel superior unless they manage to define someone else as less than human. In this case, at least the “less than human” label was accurate.

  “If they’ve targeted you, personally,” I asked, “why did they spray-paint on the windows across the street?”

  Sheldon fidgeted. “It’s Little Transylvania. A lot of my neighbors are vampires. It’s not hard to find us on the block, especially with the window glass blacked out. The landlord offers good terms, and sometimes he even sublets the rooms during the day when we’re asleep in our coffins. They’re zoned as dual-use properties.”

  He rustled in his overcoat pocket and withdrew a rumpled piece of paper. “I found this graffiti in the alley just behind my brownstone.” He pointed to the phrases with a trembling finger. Eat Wood and Feel My Shaft. “More threats against vampires.”

  “Well, that’s not the only possible interpretation.” I considered the stake and set it back down on the table, careful to turn the point away from the vampire. “If it’s any consolation, Sheldon, the Straight Edgers are mostly talk. Bullies, but cowards.”

  The vampire was still jumpy. “But I know they’ve already succeeded! Six vampires around my neighborhood have vanished without a trace. Six of my friends. I can give you a list of names. We were very close, but they’re all gone now! Someone must have driven a stake through their hearts.”

  “Have you seen any of the bodies?” I asked.

  “If they turned to dust, who would ever find the bodies? It’s a perfect crime.”

  “Not all vampires turn to dust,” Robin pointed out. “Only the ancient ones, from long before the Big Uneasy.”

  “But they left their coffins behind!” Sheldon insisted. “Why would any vampire do that? Either my friends left in a hurry, or they’re dead. Those haters are going to kill us all—and I’m next! But why me? I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just an interior designer. I’m no threat to anyone.”

  “Well, you are a vampire,” Robin said.

  “Not much of one. I was a vegan before the transformation, and now I only drink soy blood.” His face wrinkled in an expression of disgust. “Nasty stuff . . . then again, so was tofu turkey. But a person with strong convictions is willing to put up with things like that. I don’t drink human blood. The very idea curdles my stomach.”

  Even though Sheldon Fennerman may have been a hypochondriac when he was alive, I took his concerns seriously. “Some people have an irrational hatred for what they don’t understand. It’s best to be cautious.”

  “You can offer me protection?”

  I looked up, raised my voice. “Sheyenne? How is my schedule for the afternoon?”

  She appeared at the conference table. “Just your appointment at Bruno and Heinrich’s. I can clear it for you.”

  “I’ll still take the appointment,” I said. “Sheldon, why don’t we go to your place, right now? I’ll assess your home security situation, make sure you’re safe for the time being. Then I’ll gather information and try to track down who’s been harassing you.”

  Robin said with a smile, “My services are available, too, if you need legal help.”

  “I’ll open a new case file,” Sheyenne said. “And we have to work out the financial arrangements.”

  I lifted my sport jacket and fedora from the coat rack and tucked my .38 in its holster. “All right, Sheldon. Let’s hit the streets.”

  He reached out to pump my hand. “Thank you, thank you!” After applying extra sunscreen from a squeeze bottle in his pocket, he pulled on his gloves and floppy hat, turned up the collar of his overcoat, and adjusted the wraparound sunglasses. “I’ll feel safe with you, Mr. Chambeaux.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Every unnatural should have a Best Human Friend, someone to rely on, someone to talk to, someone who doesn’t take any crap from you or give you any crap in return.

  My BHF is a rough-around-the-edges beat cop, Officer Toby McGoohan. We’ve known each other since college, well before the Big Uneasy, well before I got killed. After only a month, McGoo was still getting used to the changed situation with me. To his credit, he was trying.

  Three blocks away from our offices, while Sheldon scampered to keep up with me, I spotted McGoo in his blue uniform, surrounded by a crowd of curious bystanders. Most of them were zombies, mingled with a few human deliverymen, day workers, and just plain curiosity-seekers. They had gathered around a wrecked storefront whose large plate-glass windows were smashed.

  Seeing the commotion, Sheldon hunched down in his overcoat. “Maybe we should cross the street. I don’t want to get mixed up in anything.”

  “That cop is a friend of mine, don’t worry.” In fact, this was a good chance for me to introduce him to McGoo. “I can call in a favor, ask him to keep an eye on your place.”

  “All right, I suppose . . . if you think it’s a good idea.”

  In the middle of the gawkers near the vandalized business, Officer McGoohan waved his hands and shouted at the top of his voice. “Back off! Give me room to breathe here—some of us still require oxygen in our lungs!”

  When he walked his beat, McGoo tried to be prepared for everything. He carried a service revolver loaded with regular bullets on his left hip, and one with silver-jacketed bullets on the right. He had a spray can of Mace and a spray can of holy water, along
with a bandolier with wooden stakes, both blunted and sharpened.

  Right then, though, I could tell McGoo needed a little help with crowd control. When too many zombies gather in one place, people tend to get nervous Night of the Living Dead flashbacks. Nobody needs that kind of mob mentality.

  I could lend a hand a lot faster than official backup would ever arrive. The police force was stretched thin in the Quarter, and not many of the beat cops wanted to be there; it was a bottom-of-your-career assignment.

  McGoo never had a bright future on the force, and he was his own worst enemy. Neither a tactful nor an overly sensitive man, he didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. His biggest mistake was in thinking that everyone shared his rough sense of humor. Years ago he had told a series of inappropriate, non-politically-correct jokes, pissed off the wrong person, and got himself transferred to the Unnatural Quarter (a “punitive promotion”) not long before Robin and I set up shop.

  My BHF may be rough around the edges, but when you boil it down, McGoo is a decent cop who does a good job and actually likes walking the beat. He has no aspirations of becoming a high-and-mighty detective or putting up with the political garbage of the top brass. He considers administrative meetings to be more grueling than a shootout. I’m glad to have him around.

  Basic law enforcement is problematic in a city where even the laws of science don’t always hold true. Police work and the justice system don’t function quite the same around here. Worse, the laws themselves aren’t always defined—which is why Robin based her career on solving problems and setting precedents.

  Even though the Unnatural Quarter has its rough parts, like any inner city, most citizens, natural and unnatural, try to color within the lines. We don’t have to put up with anarchy just because all Hell has broken loose. The vast majority just wants a normal existence and struggles to live within a shaky framework of laws, abstaining from outrageous behavior and doing their best to get along.

  Businesses sprang up that catered to the specialized clientele: Commercial blood drives commissioned fresh supplies for vampire customers; processing plants developed seasonings and treatments to make chicken “taste just like human”; restaurants and bars served the proper food choices.

  It’s an odd sort of détente, but in the worldwide uproar after the Big Uneasy, the unnaturals realized that if they didn’t settle down and behave themselves, the rest of humanity would go on a full-blown crusade to wipe them out. The worst characters were arrested, tried, and sentenced, and the real man-eaters were executed (by whatever means appropriate for their type). But daily life, etc., went on.

  Even so, not everybody behaves.

  While Sheldon kept his distance from the crowd of spectators, I yanked on a few stiff shoulders and pulled the unnatural bystanders back. “Hey, give the officer some space to work! He’s trying to do his job.” I hustled them out of the way. “Move along, nothing to see!” I hadn’t gotten close enough yet to know whether there was anything to see.

  Recognizing me, McGoo looked relieved. “Thanks, Shamble.”

  When the crowd dispersed, I saw that the wrecked place was the Hope & Salvation Mission, a charity operation run by a kind old woman who wanted to save the undead. The windows were smashed, the door ripped off its hinges, the siding splintered. Even some of the bricks had been crushed to powder. Somebody, or something, had made a mess of things. Something huge.

  I groaned. “Who would want to do a thing like this?” Hope Saldana was a sweet, good-intentioned lady, and everybody liked her, both naturals and unnaturals. But not all unnaturals could resist their urges, and I was worried about what might have happened to her. “Was anybody hurt?”

  “Mrs. Saldana is shaken up, but not harmed,” McGoo said. “Got her in protective custody until we figure out what happened here. It’s like a tornado hit the place!” He shook his head. “Imagine the strength of the guy who did this.”

  “Or woman,” I said.

  “If a lady did this, I wouldn’t want to be her blind date.”

  I ran my eyes over McGoo’s face, his square jaw, rounded nose, bristly brown hair, and five-o’clock shadow that hit by noon every day. “You’re assuming she’d want to date you.”

  “I always assume that, until I learn otherwise.” He put his thumbs in his waistband and regarded the scene. “I responded to a call about a disturbance, but the damage was done by the time I got here. Witnesses saw a huge, hulking monster, all hairy and warty, with glowing eyes, long fangs, and a cranky disposition.” With his foot, McGoo scuffed some of the broken glass on the sidewalk. “Around here, that doesn’t narrow the field of suspects by much.” McGoo looked hard at me. “You’re my inside man now, Shamble. Any clue what the perp might be or where I should start looking?”

  By now, the crowd had dispersed like a puff of smoke from an amateur wizard’s spell; Sheldon Fennerman hung back under an awning for shelter. I stepped up to the mission’s broken window, looked inside, and saw minimal damage to the interior of the building. “Can’t imagine why anyone, or anything, would want to do this to a Good Samaritan who’s trying to help down-and-out unnaturals. Could be just a random act of vandalism.”

  McGoo gave me the same expression of scorn and skepticism he’d used when I told him I dated a centerfold model once. “Random act of vandalism? Riiight. I’ll put that in my report—case closed. Let’s go have a drink.”

  “I’ll see you at the Goblin Tavern later.” I gestured Sheldon forward, and the vampire shuffled toward us with great reluctance, pulling his hat down. I said, “I’ve got a favor to ask—new case.”

  McGoo was not impressed. He made a rude sound. “Sure, add more duties to my job description. I’ve got nothing else to do here.”

  I ignored his sarcasm. “This is my client Sheldon Fennerman. He’s been receiving death threats, and I’m assisting him with personal security.”

  McGoo became more businesslike. “What kind of death threats? Credible ones?” He talked as if Sheldon wasn’t right there listening to every word.

  “Mr. Fennerman says other vampires in his neighborhood have disappeared, and he suspects they’ve been murdered. Heard of any troubles down in Little Transylvania? Missing persons reports?”

  “Not that I know of. Why does he think he’s a specific target?”

  “Inflammatory graffiti on the walls, sharpened wooden stakes left on his doorstep.” I noticed that Sheldon was shivering. “Could be Straight Edgers.”

  “Straight Edgers?” McGoo rolled his eyes, made a skeptical assessment of Sheldon, and finally addressed him directly. “So, you’re an undead guy who can turn into a bat, has the strength of ten men . . . and you need Dan Shamble to protect you from a bunch of juvenile delinquents? Can’t you just do the evil eye?” He raised the first two fingers of his left hand, crooked them, and toyed with the air. “Use your Bela Lugosi thing and glamour them?”

  “I’m, uh, not very good at that,” Sheldon said. “Never was.”

  “I believe Mr. Fennerman has good reason to be nervous, so I’m looking into the matter. I’d consider it a personal favor if you kept your eyes and ears open. For old times’ sake.”

  That sparked a smile. “Will do, Shamble. Scout’s honor.” His smile became a sneaky little grin. “And I’ve got something for you—for old times’ sake. What goes ‘Ha-ha-ha . . . plop’?” He didn’t give me time to answer. “A shambler laughing his head off!”

  “You’re not funny,” I told him, although that one was better than most of his jokes.

  He cinched up his lips. “You don’t appreciate deadpan humor.”

  Lately, McGoo had adapted his off-color jokes so that various unnaturals were the butt of the humor. In his early career, he had been reprimanded for his clueless non-PC ethnic jokes; nobody in regular human society took offense if a zombie felt insulted, however. Not so long ago, when I was still human myself, McGoo’s jokes had seemed hilarious. And now I was one of his targets.

  Did you hear the one about the zo
mbie PI, dead set on solving his cases?

  McGoo read the reticence on my face. “Yeah, I miss the old days, Shamble, when we were just everyday guys, you and me. But now that you’re, you know, dead, it’s awkward talking to you.” He looked serious again. “Did you get the ballistics and autopsy report I sent over? Any clues?”

  My own autopsy report. “I read through it, but nothing rang any bells.”

  I’m not a squeamish person, but I had a tough time even looking at the crime scene photos: my body sprawled facedown in the alley, blood pooling all around my head. Some bastard had done that to me. . . .

  “If I come up with any leads, I’ll let you know.” I stepped closer to my client. “Right now Mr. Fennerman’s my priority.”

  Sheldon gave me a thin-lipped smile, and his tiny fangs protruded. We headed off to his place.

  CHAPTER 5

  It would be hard to say what section qualified as the “seedy” part of the Quarter. Unnaturals have different sensibilities about that sort of thing. Many haunters, underground dwellers, sewer jockeys, and walking dead don’t mind ramshackle appearances, piled garbage, or thick shadows; in fact, some landlords charge a premium for particularly run-down buildings, on the assumption that it “adds atmosphere.”

  Whatever the definition, I knew we had found the seedy part of town. Sheldon Fennerman lived there. Definitely an odd location for a decorator.

  He led me to an old brownstone, and we went down three steps to his front door, several feet below sidewalk level, as if the underground tunnels were starting to swallow the building. Stout iron bars fronted Sheldon’s door; another set covered each of the two painted-over windows. Looking back and forth, convinced we were being followed, Sheldon told me to stay close. He dug in his overcoat, fished out a crowded key ring. The keys rattled as he held them in his shaky hands. He worked one dead bolt, then the next, then three more until he had unlocked all five of them. I heard a click, and he pushed open the door. “Quick, come inside!”