“And? You unnaturals are all the same to us,” sneered Priscilla. “You should just go . . . away.”
“Go away—or else!” Patrick picked up one of the placards and held it like a shield, as if the sharpened wooden end would scare a zombie. He needed to do better research.
“I’m also here on behalf of the Hope and Salvation Mission, which was recently vandalized—I suspect you had something to do with that as well.”
“You can’t prove it,” said Scott.
“Monster lover!” Todd said.
The young woman made a scoffing sound. “If we wanted to scare that goody-two-shoes old lady out of town, we’d take care of it ourselves, not hire a monster to do it.”
I had to admit, that made sense.
Now that the conversation had stopped being amusing, I pulled the envelope from my pocket. “This restraining order has been duly signed by Judge Hawkins. All Straight Edge members are forbidden from approaching within fifty feet of Mr. Sheldon Fennerman’s residence, Mr. Fennerman himself, or the Hope and Salvation Mission.”
“This is bullshit,” Todd snapped, then looked uncertainly at the young woman. His face flushed so red that his freckles disappeared in the noise. “Isn’t it?”
Priscilla plucked the paper out of my hands, using just her fingertips as if disgusted to touch any object soiled by a zombie. As she read the words, the others peered closer, all four of them pooling their knowledge to understand the legal terminology. The young woman didn’t sound so confident now. “It’s infringing on our rights of free speech.”
“File a complaint. My partner would love to put Mr. Fennerman on the stand, with a full jury of unnaturals, to determine just whose rights are being violated.”
Priscilla spat on the floor in disgust; then, like a series of popcorn kernels popping, her three companions spat on the floor, imitating her. Personally, I thought it was silly. I glanced down at the spittle and phlegm, shaking my head. “And you folks say that zombies are filthy.”
They glowered after me as I walked out the door. I was sure they’d spend the rest of the day fuming, engaging in vociferous imaginary arguments with me once I was out of earshot.
Now that I’d gotten a good look at Priscilla, Todd, Scott, and Patrick, I held them in even lower esteem. I could see why Tiffany at the gym didn’t take Straight Edge seriously. I wondered if other members were more competent.
Chapter 21
I left the Straight Edge headquarters feeling good about myself, head held high. When I told Robin every little detail about the confrontation, I knew it would make her day; she’d probably do her victory dance.
When I came out onto the street, however, I sensed an odd tension in the air, one of those silent humming sensations that make you perk up, like all the friendly wild animals detecting a forest fire in a Disney cartoon. This didn’t feel like the thrill of fear, though, but of hunger and keen interest.
Across the street I spotted the black-gowned, bristle-haired Mavis Wannovich walking along painfully on swollen legs, as if her ankles had filed notice that they didn’t intend to support her body much longer. The enormous spotted sow, Alma, trotted alongside the witch. Mavis looked from side to side, glanced over her shoulder, and walked faster. I could see that both of them were on the verge of panic.
Behind the Wannovich sisters, shambling quickly to keep up, came a trio of zombies, their sunken eyes bright, hands outstretched in a grasping gesture. All three were ripe cases, at a stage where no amount of makeup or visits to the embalming parlor would reverse the putrefaction.
Farther along the sidewalk, the door of an office-supply store opened and a tall female vampire emerged, raising her nose to the air and sniffing as if someone had rung the dinner bell. A hairy werewolf grocer in a wifebeater T-shirt sat in a folding chair outside his tiny tienda; he perked up as well, and his gaze fixed on the sow lumbering down the street. Lifting himself off the chair with a smooth motion, he began loping toward the witch and her sister.
Mavis picked up her pace, but I could see her wince with the effort. The zombies, vampire, and werewolf closed in.
I knew what was about to happen, and I had to stop it.
In order to live peacefully together, unnaturals had learned to control their base urges and get along with one another, though they tended to gather in the monster version of ethnic neighborhoods. Werewolves no longer killed human victims each full moon, vampires gave up drinking all but voluntarily donated blood, zombies and ghouls foreswore eating human flesh.
Most unnaturals, though, had not given up pork. The most devout black sorcerer or vampire kingpin might manage to block the urge to quaff virgin blood, but he couldn’t resist the smell of frying bacon. Or fresh pork on the hoof.
Trotting down the sidewalk, Alma sniffed nervously from side to side. She let out an alarmed squeal, which only taunted the ever-growing crowd of hungry followers. Her sister struggled to keep up, but I could see they were in trouble.
I drew the .38 from my shoulder holster. As a private detective, I’d been licensed to carry a concealed weapon for years, and after my death, no one had tried to rescind the permit or request that I turn in my piece (so far). As far as I know, I’m the only undead private investigator who went back to the practice. Robin wasn’t sure the handgun permit was still valid, after my death certificate was on file; she offered to clarify the issue by sending requests to the Bureau for a ruling, or at least a special exemption in my case, but I told her not to bother—in fact, after I saw the fiery glint in her eye, I insisted that she not bother. “Let me apologize later if I get caught,” I’d said.
For my work in the Quarter, I keep the revolver loaded with silver-jacketed bullets, which are effective on a fair number of creatures. And if I have to fire on a regular human, the bullet part works just fine, silver or no silver.
The crowd increased as more unnaturals emerged from their lairs, and when the frightened sow squealed again, I pointed the .38 in the air, fired off a loud shot, then a second. The gunshots brought all movement on the street to a halt. I wove my way through the decrepit shamblers, sternly shook a finger at them, and glared at the vampire and werewolf.
Mavis took one look at me and almost melted with relief. “Mr. Chambeaux, are we glad to see you!”
“Looks like you could use an escort back home.” I swept my gaze around the hungry faces that had poked out of doorways and converged on the sidewalk.
“Yes, please!”
Alma grunted.
I raised my voice to the crowd and coolly pointed the gun in a slow arc. “If anyone lays a hand or claw on either of my clients, you’ll have to deal with me.”