Death Warmed Over (Dan Shamble, Zombie PI #1)

I lurched forward. “That vampire’s under my protection!”


The two young men bolted, and one of them gave me the finger. Hooting like nervous hyenas, they dashed around the corner. I could have run after them, but my main priority was to make sure Sheldon was all right.

I went down the steps to the front door and saw that the would-be bullies had left two fresh oak stakes thrust between the bars. Sure that Sheldon must be awake from the ruckus and probably cowering inside his apartment, I knocked on the door. “Sheldon! It’s Dan Chambeaux. You’re safe now.”

I knew it would take at least an hour to talk him down again.





Chapter 18

The red fondue pot was still on the table, and this time I didn’t feel right about declining Sheldon’s invitation. He was a nervous wreck, although vindicated now that I’d caught the vandals in the act, which proved he hadn’t been imagining his peril. (I still wasn’t convinced, however, that the Straight Edgers were capable of true violence, such as successive vampire slayings—and vampires weren’t easy to kill.)

With frenetic movements, Sheldon went through the ritual of making melted cheese for fondue. At first, I thought he was still jittery from the threats, then I realized he was just excited to have company. After he had grated and heated three different cheeses, added kirschwasser and nutmeg to the fondue pot (I wasn’t surprised that he skipped the tradition of rubbing the pot with garlic), he sliced chunks of stale bread and green apples, then sat across from me.

We set about committing fondue.

Sheldon chattered about his life, both before and after becoming a vamp. He talked about books he’d read, Broadway shows he’d seen. Ever the polite host, he asked about my life and hobbies—subjects I rarely discussed with clients. I didn’t have much to say. While Sheldon talked about himself at novel length, my answers were more like short stories or vignettes.

By the time we used up the chunks of bread and wiped clean every smear of melted cheese in the pot, Sheldon had relaxed again. I realized that this was the best meal I’d had since I’d died. I tried to take my leave, but the vampire insisted we play a game of cribbage first. I fidgeted. “I haven’t played since I was a boy, don’t even remember the rules.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a good teacher.” Though I tried to refuse again, he remained persistent, and I did feel sorry for the guy, after all.

One game turned into two, and he kept talking all the while. I thought of his vampire neighbors whom he had coerced into coming over for a dinner party, or to play cards, or to have a book club discussion, just to be polite; then they’d receive another invitation from Sheldon, and another, and another. I was pretty sure I had solved the case of the disappearing neighbors, though I didn’t have the heart to explain it to Sheldon.

After the second game of cribbage, I finally convinced him that I had another appointment. “Remember, Sheldon—I’m an undead private investigator, and I have more people to help, just like you.”

He looked forlorn as he stood at the front door. “You could always send them over here for a game or . . .”

“You’ll be all right, Sheldon,” I assured him. “It’s full dark outside, and the Straight Edgers don’t dare go out in the city at night. Too many unnaturals abroad who don’t appreciate their opinions. You have nothing to worry about.”

Mrs. Saldana had given me the address of the new Straight Edge headquarters here in town, and now that I had seen them harassing Sheldon (not to mention rescued one of them from the troll’s hot-tub deep fryer), I intended to pay them a visit first thing in the morning. But I needed to get something from Robin ahead of time.



I may be undead, but I do try to take care of myself and keep my body in shape. Three times a week I work out at the All-Day /All-Nite Fitness Center, a gym designed for unnaturals of all circadian rhythms. I have a membership and a locker there with worn sweats that smell mustier than my normal clothes.

In the locker room I changed quickly. I’ve never been one for exhibitionism among other naked guys in a gym, the sidelong glances to see whose is bigger and taking smug reassurance that at least yours is average or better.

In the showers behind the lockers, I heard the water running, and steam wafted up like fog on an old English moor. Long strips of cloth had been draped over several of the clothes hooks on the wall, a few frayed ends trailing on the floor. Over the spray, I could hear a cackling old Mayan mummy soaping himself up and singing in the shower. Mummies enjoy the temporary rehydration they get from the water. This one’s name was Ralph, and I’d seen him before sans wrappings—not a sight I wanted to repeat. Many unnaturals are shriveled up and desiccated in plenty of unappetizing ways.

In the bathroom in front of a mirror, a fully transformed werewolf stood with a white towel wrapped around his waist; he was using a blow dryer the size of an aircraft engine to blast the fur all over his body. We nodded to each other in a brusque guy greeting, then I exited into the workout room.

One section of the gym has free weights, resistance machines, pec presses, leg presses, and racks with every possible workout attachment. Treadmills and recumbent bikes line a mirrored wall, with an equal number on the opposite side of the room facing a blank black wall for the vamps, who have no use for mirrors. Though it was still two hours before midnight, I counted fifteen patrons using the equipment, getting in a workout before the night life got into full swing.

In a gym, you become accustomed to the regulars and recognize one another. Sometimes you know names, while other times you just think of the other patrons as “the guy who always hogs the bench press,” or “the one who doesn’t wipe down the recumbent bike after he’s done with it,” or “the chick in pink Spandex,” or, worse, “the chick who should never be seen wearing pink Spandex.”

I intended to work out alone, since Sheldon had given me a week’s worth of conversation, but when I saw an acquaintance using a treadmill on the mirrorless side of the room, I decided to be sociable after all. She might actually have some information I could use.

She was big, buff, and athletic, and would have been intimidating even if she weren’t a vampire. As usual, she had the treadmill set to its maximum incline and speed. If you had to bet, you might have guessed her name was Butch, but you’d be wrong. Her honest-to-goodness birth name was Tiffany, and she was damned proud of it.

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