Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,106
to the lockers and retrieved a clean set of clothes for Jekyll and handed them to the small, newly undead man. Jekyll scowled down at his hands, flexed his fingers. “You’ve made me an unnatural? This qualifies as cruel and unusual. You’ll be hearing from my attorneys, I assure you.”
Trying to gather his dignity, Harvey Jekyll dressed, glaring at us all the while. His expression held more unspoken words than all of Robin’s legal tomes combined. He left the prison, a free unnatural man.
Jekyll didn’t need to threaten us. We got the message.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This manuscript went through the usual round of test readers and advisors, and I would very much like to thank Deb Ray, Diane Jones, T. Duren Jones, Louis Moesta, and Rebecca Moesta, as well as fans and legal experts Nancy Greene and Melinda Brown for their insights and added humor. My editor, Michaela Hamilton, at Kensington showed enthusiasm above and beyond the call, as did my agent, John Silbersack, of Trident Media Group.
Dan Shamble would like to thank the author for creating him, but let’s not get into that.
Turn the page and read an irresistible teaser chapter
from Kevin J. Anderson’s next novel
starring Dan Shamble, Zombie PI
UNNATURAL ACTS
Coming from Kensington in January 2013
CHAPTER 1
I never thought a golem could make me cry, but hearing the big clay guy’s sad story brought a tear to my normally bloodshot eyes. My business partner Robin, a lawyer (but don’t hold it against her), was weeping openly.
“It’s so tragic!” she sniffled.
“I thought so,” the golem said, lowering his sculpted head. “But I guess I’m biased.”
He had lurched into the offices of Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations with the ponderous and inexorable gait that all golems have. “Please—you’ve got to help me!”
Most clients introduce themselves like that, rather than with a “Hello, pleased to meet you.” Then again, nobody engages the services of a private investigator or lawyer unless there’s some kind of trouble brewing.
Then the golem added, “And you’ve got to help my people.”
Now, that was something new.
Golems are man-sized creatures fashioned out of clay, tailor-made for menial labor, brought to life by an animation spell. They serve their masters and don’t complain about minimum wage. Traditionally, the creatures are statuesque and bulky, their features dependent on the skill of the sculptor-magician that created them. I’ve seen do-it-yourself kits on the market, complete with facial molds and detailed instructions.
This golem was in bad shape: dried and flaking, his gray skin fissured with cracks. His features were rounded, generic, and less distinctive than a store mannequin’s. His brow was furrowed, his chapped gray lips pressed down in a frown.
“Please, come in, sir,” Robin said, hurrying out of her office into our lobby area. “We can see you right away.”
Robin Deyer is a young African American woman with anime-worthy brown eyes, a big heart, and a feisty disposition. She and I had formed a loose partnership in the Unnatural Quarter, sharing office space and helping each other on cases. Zombies, vampires, werewolves, witches, ghouls, and the gamut of monsters were underrepresented in the legal system, and unnaturals had problems just like anyone else. For a lawyer and a private investigator, there’s job security, if you can handle the clientele.
Since I was a zombie myself, I fit right in.
I’d been human, albeit jaded, when I first hung out my shingle as a PI, not quite down-and-out, but unsuccessful enough to settle for a nontraditional client base. Robin and I worked together for years in the Quarter before I got shot in the back of the head during a case gone wrong. Fortunately, being killed didn’t end my career. Since the Big Uneasy, staying dead isn’t as common as it used to be. I returned from the grave, cleaned myself up, and got back to work.
Thanks to high-quality embalming and meticulous personal care, I’m well preserved, not one of those rotting shamblers that give the undead such a bad name. My skin’s pallid, but the shadows under my eyes aren’t too bad, and mortician’s putty covers up the bullet’s exit hole in my skull, for the most part.
I stepped toward the golem and extended my hand. When the clay man took my grip, his hand was firm but powdery. “My partner and I would be happy to listen to your case, Mr. . . . ?”
“Sorry, I don’t know my name,” he said. “I’ve always wondered about that, though, and I’d be much obliged if you’d tell me.” He slowly turned around. In standard magical manufacturing, a golem’s