already suggested that we move Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations to a brightly lit, carpeted office complex, but I thought our dingy old second-floor digs had character.
“Hmm, let me see. . . .” The troll turned another page while I stood there not moving, patient; zombies are good at that. Finally, Edgar Allan said, “Honestly, I did see a few figures running around, but didn’t pay much attention. By the time the fire started and people came to watch the show, I was too busy handing out business cards. Wouldn’t miss a great promotional opportunity like that.”
I wasn’t surprised, but I kept my hopes up. “And where’s Burt? Is he wandering the crypts at night?”
“Burt went to Transfusion to get coffee. When he comes back I’ll ask him—and I’ll also put out the word among my tenants. They always spy and gossip about each other anyway. Hmm, this fire might be the impetus for us to start a neighborhood watch in the cemetery.” The troll’s lamp-like eyes brightened. “Are we in any danger? I thought the fire was a one-time thing.”
“I have my suspicions of who might be responsible, and I doubt they’re done causing trouble.” I didn’t have any proof, however. I needed to learn more about Senator Rupert Balfour and just how far the man was willing to go to ensure passage of his Unnatural Acts Act.
CHAPTER 16
When the madam of a brothel says she needs you right away, it’s usually a sales pitch, maybe a special advertising promotion or an extension of the Very Happy Hour pricing. But I could tell from Neffi’s tone that she was dead serious. Normally the old mummy’s voice sounded like crackling dried papyrus, but on the phone I detected an undertone of fear.
And she was really pissed.
“If you don’t find me security soon, Mr. Chambeaux, I’m going to call in the army, or maybe the army of the night, to surround this place with tanks and bazookas. It wouldn’t be good for business, but at least it would keep my girls safe.”
It was the middle of the night, and I had gone back to the office to get some work done. Sheyenne was there, also working (and, I think, still unsettled by her time with Travis in the storage unit that day). She had forwarded me the phone call. “I’ll have a full protection crew for you tomorrow, Neffi,” I promised. I already planned to attend the Adopt-a-Golem job fair. “What happened?”
“Better come down here and see for yourself.”
I headed out the door, telling Sheyenne I was off to the Full Moon brothel. Not the sort of thing you usually say to your girlfriend, but I was distracted.
The withered old mummy was waiting for me on the front porch with the door wide open. Nightshade and Hemlock, the vampire princesses, stood together, talking intently. They still wore their sexy negligees, but they had removed their makeup in the hour before sunrise; one glance at them au naturel and I shuddered to think of waking up next to them. Cinnamon the werewolf was brushing her face, running a long tongue over her teeth as if she just couldn’t turn off the animal-magnetism sell job. The succubus, wide-eyed and waifish with her tight baby-doll perm, remained inside the shadows of the parlor, trying to keep out of the public eye. Her emerald gaze met mine; I could see she was frightened, and she looked so vulnerable.
Indignant and fuming, Neffi strutted back and forth. Her attitude would have made even a harpy cringe. She snapped at me with the sound of a neck bone breaking, “Mr. Chambeaux, we’ve had another threat.” She wrapped her gnarled arm possessively around mine, then lashed out at the vampire women and the two zombie girls who had shuffled out to see what was going on. “Don’t just stand there, ladies—tear down those posters! Make a bonfire and invite all the unnaturals. We’ll have a marshmallow roast and show everyone how we react to intimidation.”
“But Neffi,” said Hemlock, the strawberry-blond vampire, “I thought you wanted to keep this for evidence.”
“I want those despicable posters gone. Mr. Chambeaux has already seen them.”
“Actually, I haven’t seen anything yet,” I pointed out.
“Then take a look . . . but that’s just the window dressing on the disaster.”
The two vacant houses on either side of the Full Moon had been plastered with Senator Balfour’s posters decrying brothels in general, unnaturals in general, and unnatural brothels in particular. With my sharp detective’s eye, I noted