Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,103
Howard Phillips has an entire room full of slush-pile manuscripts. They’ve fallen far behind, all those aspiring authors just waiting for a response . . . Now it’s my responsibility to go through the shelves, alphabetize the submissions, and begin responding. I give each book a fair assessment, don’t pull any punches. And Alma can smell a bad manuscript from the other side of the room.”
The sow circled, pressed her snout against a display case, and came back to us.
Mavis added with a happy sigh, “This is my dream job, Mr. Chambeaux—working as an editor, dealing with writers, seeing a book through the publication process, typesetting, proofreading, printing. I want to thank you and Ms. Deyer for the opportunity. And yes, we will eventually start testing spells to reverse the effects on my sister, as soon as we institute some solid quality control.”
“If you’re satisfied with our service, would you write us a short testimonial—just a few sentences?” Sheyenne said. “Did you receive our bill, by the way? I can print up another one, if you’d like.”
“Oh, yes, don’t worry—the check is in the mail.” Mavis beamed. “And Alma and I would be honored to write you a glowing recommendation.” After pondering a moment, the witch added, “Now that I think of it, Mr. Chambeaux, you’ve been through such enthralling adventures in the Unnatural Quarter. Have you ever considered writing about some of your more interesting cases, penning a memoir? The world would be fascinated to read it . . . or at least a number of our special-edition subscribers would.”
I frowned. “Never thought about it.”
“Since Alma and I have such fond feelings for you, if you were to submit a manuscript to Howard Phillips Publishing, I would give it my fullest attention.”
Sheyenne hovered beside me. “Not a bad idea, Beaux. You could handwrite a few pages a day, and I’ll type them up. In less than a year, you’d finish a whole book.”
I wasn’t convinced, but seeing Sheyenne’s enthusiasm, I decided not to turn her down right away. “I’ll think about it.”
CHAPTER 46
In rare cases, the wheels of justice turn swiftly, like a steamroller.
The evidence against Harvey Jekyll was incontrovertible, and he did not deny the charges of his toiletry-based attempt at genocide. In fact, he seemed proud of himself, expecting “decent humanity” to rally to his defense. He was disappointed.
Meanwhile, the unnaturals demanded revenge, some incensed enough that they called for Brondon Morris’s identifiable body parts to be strained out of the chemical sludge from the factory vat and also put on trial. Such a demand would have made more sense if the pieces had been reanimated, but no such luck.
Instead, Jekyll had to face the music himself—and the music did not sound like Barry Manilow or the Carpenters.
In his final statement to the court, Jekyll said, “One day, you’ll see I was right. When the last humans are cowering under their beds because the monsters have taken over the world, you’ll all wish they’d used Zom-Be-Fresh.”
Verdict: Guilty.
Sentence: Death.
Knowing the brutish monster that Jekyll could become, the warden and prison guards were terrified to have him in their prison. Worried that he might sprout huge biceps and fangs if some additive in the prison pudding or chipped beef interacted with the trace residue of his transformational potion, they reinforced the cell walls and installed extra bars across the door. And all the while, the prisoner just sat there, a scrawny bald human who looked as if he should have been spending the days stroking a white Persian cat on his lap as he plotted the conquest of the world.
But prison rules didn’t allow him to have a cat.
After the trial wrapped up, Miranda Jekyll came to our offices to thank us profusely. She was lighthearted and aloof, completely free—and, in a way, scarier than ever. She was still dressed to kill, lavishly bedecked with jewelry, wearing a dress that had cost more than her imported automobile.
She was accompanied by a hunk—tall, dark, and handsome, exuding power and animal magnetism. He had long black hair that seemed to flow in a faint breeze every time he turned to show off his profile. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. When he greeted us, he spoke in a luscious and exotic foreign accent.
Miranda introduced her male companion. “This is Hirsute, another once-a-month werewolf, my soul mate.”
I shook the man’s powerful hand. “Hirsute?”
“It’s French, I think,” Miranda said. She scratched her fingernails down his bulging sleeve. “He understands me like