“What else is in the bag?” Sheyenne said.
Rooting around, I found a packet of breath mints (a newly reanimated corpse could certainly use those), a stale granola bar past its expiration date, a packet of antacids from the Ghoul’s Diner, a coupon for a free drink from the Basilisk nightclub (Premium alcohol and specialty blood types excluded). I also found the cartoony chamber-of-commerce map of the Unnatural Quarter, and a flyer for Full Moon Escort Services. Our Ladies Cater to Discriminating Unnatural Clientele. All species accepted. In fine print, it said, Succubus available upon request.
The Quarter had rough edges and a tendency to ignore gray areas of the law. Prostitution seemed more minor than many evils in the changed world, and nobody minded letting ferocious monsters blow off a little steam.
Sheyenne’s gloved hand squeezed mine. “Why are you studying that brothel flyer so closely, Beaux?” I quickly put it at the back of the stack.
The next page was even more startling, declaring in bold capital letters: You Are Damned! Below that was a campaign picture of stern, cadaverous-looking Senator Rupert Balfour.
“I represent the normal natural humans in this senate district. Monsters might be contained, but they are not forgiven! You creatures may think you can interact with normal society, but sooner or later your true blood will show itself. Good, decent citizens are watching, and we are ready!” In tiny letters at the bottom of the page, a sentence read: Paid for by the Re-elect Senator Rupert Balfour Committee.
“He’s not going to make many friends in the Quarter,” I said. Since unnaturals were not allowed to vote, they were not a constituency that politicians bothered to pander to.
I had heard of the man, a grim and humorless blowhard, an ultraconservative senator who demanded enforcement of laws that prohibited “unnatural acts,” which he defined as any form of sex among vampires, werewolves, zombies, and the like. The senator looked as if he himself had not had sex of any kind, natural or otherwise, in many years, despite the fact that he was married (to an equally grim, humorless, and unattractive woman). He also looked as if he suffered from persistent hemorrhoids. Or maybe I was making assumptions....
Balfour had garnered publicity on far-fringe radio talk shows, whose hosts called for UFOs to abduct the unnaturals and take them away for medical experimentation (don’t forget the anal probes). It was the sort of thing that made most people roll their eyes and regard the man as a joke; the senator’s supporters, however, came out of the woodwork and made so much noise that Balfour’s proposed Unnatural Acts Act had actually gained some traction.
With our tickets for the festival seating area, Sheyenne and I found a comfortable spot on the green among the tombstones. We managed to get close to the stage, since only about thirty others had come to see the play. I guess there isn’t much call for highbrow entertainment in the Unnatural Quarter.
The acting troupe, run by a man who claimed to be the actual ghost of William Shakespeare, struggled valiantly to bring culture to the monsters, though with mixed results. The troupe had built an elaborate stage set that evoked the original Globe Theatre in London, the venue where Shakespeare’s plays had initially been performed (probably to larger audiences than this, and with fewer ghosts). The ambitious set was constructed of whitewashed plywood with painted half timbers and clumps of straw to simulate a thatched roof. By special arrangement with the Greenlawn Cemetery outreach committee, the troupe was allowed to leave the stage in place over the summer months.
Robin joined us with her ticket in hand and a stormy expression on her face. “One of those intolerant Neanderthals who works for Senator Balfour is standing there with a sign that says God Hates Unnaturals.”
“Only one supporter?” Sheyenne asked. “Not a whole demonstration?”
“Just the one man, and he’s being heckled by a bunch of goblins. Normally I’d call them hooligans, but right now I’m tempted to applaud them.”
“If it’s just one person,” I said, “then he looks silly instead of threatening.”
Robin allowed herself a smile. “He does look rather silly, at that.”
For the start of the performance, a ghost flitted onto the stage, and he was the clichéd image of William Shakespeare from all the history books. He wore a velvet cap, a stuffed doublet, a heavily laced and embroidered shirt, and trunk hose padded to an impressive girth. His face was as painted as any woman’s I’d ever seen. All in all, he looked like an overstuffed jeweled-velvet sausage.
“Good ladies and gentle sirs,” said Shakespeare’s ghost. “Tonight we put before you a play whose name no living actor dare speak. Now dead, we no longer fear such a curse, and so this band of humble players presents the Immortal Bard’s Macbeth —a tale of witches, curses, and bloodstained hands . . . a story to which every gentleperson here can relate! For this performance, we are also pleased to have as our special guests three genuine witches to portray the Weird Sisters.”
From the ticket booth, the lone protester yelled, “God hates unnaturals!” which set up an angry grumbling among the audience. Claws and fangs were bared; hulking shapes rose up and began to loom toward the man, who held his sign like a pathetically small shield.
Shakespeare’s ghost defused the situation by calling from the stage, “We thank you for your opinion, sir, and for your amusing performance. All the world’s a stage, but this one does not belong to you. If you have not purchased a ticket, I shall ask you to leave.”
Two hunchbacked bouncers advanced toward the ticket booth, and the man seemed to shrink into himself. Senator Balfour’s support quickly vanished as the man dashed through the cemetery gates and fled into the night.
“Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow . . . ,” Shakespeare’s ghost said with comical regret, and the audience tittered. He continued to strut across the stage. “ ’Tis a sad reminder. Back in my day, religious zealots labeled all plays the work of the Devil, and my Globe Theatre was burned down. The world has changed overmuch since the Big Uneasy, but alas, not in every way.” He cleared his throat. “For tonight, the show must go on. Ladies and gentlemen, ghosts, vampires, werewolves, zombies, and unnaturals everywhere, we present . . . the Scottish Play!”
Robin heaved a contented sigh. I clasped Sheyenne’s glove, and we leaned back against a comfortable tombstone to watch the performance.
Chapter 4