Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,108

realized he would make a powerful witness. Robin fell for him instantly. He was just her type of client.

“There are a hundred other illegal golems just like me,” Bill said. “Living in miserable conditions, slaves in a sweatshop, animated and put to work.”

“Who created you?” I asked. “Where is this sweatshop, and what work did you do?”

Bill’s clay brain could not hold three questions at a time, so he answered only two of them. “We manufacture Unnatural Quarter souvenirs—vampire ashtrays made with real vampire ash, T-shirts, place mats, paperweights, holders for toothpicks marketed as ‘stakes for itsy-bitsy vampires.’ ”

Recently I had noticed several new gift shops opening up in the Quarter, a chain called Kreepsakes. All those inane souvenirs had to come from somewhere.

More than a decade after the Big Uneasy brought back all the legendary monsters, normal humans were beginning to recover from their shock and horror, and a few brave tourists even ventured into the Quarter. This had never been the best part of town, but now businesses welcomed the increased tourism as an unexpected form of urban renewal.

“Our master is a necromancer who calls himself Maximus Max,” Bill continued. “The golems are mass produced, slapped together from uneven clay, then awakened by using a bootleg animation spell that he runs off on an old smelly mimeograph. Shoddy work, but he doesn’t care. He’s a slave driver.”

Robin grew more incensed every second. “This is outrageous! How can he get away with this right out in the open?”

“We labor hidden in an underground chamber, badly lit, no ventilation, not even an employee break room. We dry out and crumble.” He held up his big blunt fingers, bending them, then straightening them. He dipped his hand into the pitcher of water, leaving a murky residue in it. “We suffer constant aches and pains. As the mimeographed animation spell starts to fade, we can’t move very well, and when the aches get too bad, we fall apart. I’ve seen many of my coworkers, my friends, just crumble on the job, and then other golems have to sweep up the mess, dump it into a bin, while Maximus Max whips up a new batch of clay so he can create more golems. No one lasts very long.”

Robin wrote down detailed notes. She looked up, said in a soft compassionate voice, “And how did you escape, Bill?”

The golem shuddered. “There was an accident on the bottling line. When a batch of our Fires of Hell hot sauce melted the glass bottles and corroded the labeling machine, three of my golem friends had to clean up the mess. But the hot sauce ruined them, too, and they fell apart.

“I was in the second-wave cleanup crew, shoveling the mess into a wheelbarrow. Max commanded me to empty it into a Dumpster in the alley above, but he forgot to command me to come back. So when I was done, I just walked away.” Bill hung his head. “But my people are still there, still enslaved. Can you help me free them? Stop the suffering?”

I turned to the golem. “Why didn’t you go to the police when you escaped?”

The golem blinked his big artificial eyes, now that he was more moisturized. “Would they have listened to me? Legally speaking, I’m the necromancer’s property.”

Robin dabbed her eyes with a tissue and pushed her legal pad aside. “It sounds like a class-action lawsuit in the making, Bill. We can investigate the sweatshop for conformance to workplace safety codes. Armed with that information, I’ll find a sympathetic judge and file an injunction to stop the work line temporarily.”

I could see that Bill was disappointed. “I think he was hoping for something more immediate, Robin. I’ll talk to Officer McGoohan, see if he’ll raid the place, but it might take a day or two.”

The golem’s face showed increasing alarm. “But I can’t stay here—I’m not safe! Max will know where to find me.”

“How?” Robin asked.

“I’m an escaped golem looking for action and legal representation—where else would I go but Chambeaux and Deyer? That’s what the tourist map says.”

“I’ve got an idea,” I said and called for Sheyenne. The ghost appeared immediately. “See if Tiffany will stop by. Promise her I’ll come to her comedy improv in a couple of weeks if she does me a quick favor.”

Sheyenne responded with an impish grin. “Good idea, Beaux.”

As I said, most of the clients who darkened our door were people in trouble, but not Tiffany, the buffest—and butchest—vampire I’d ever met. She had a gruff demeanor and treated her life with the utmost seriousness the second time around.

It turned out the buff vamp had more of a sense of humor than I originally thought. Earlier that afternoon, Tiffany had dropped in wearing a grin that showed her white fangs; she waved a pack of tickets and asked if we’d come see her for open-mic night at the Laughing Skull, a comedy club down in Little Transylvania. I had been noncommittal at the time; maybe now we could trade favors....

“Who is that, Mr. Chambeaux?” Bill asked.

“An acquaintance. You’ll like her.”

I knew Tiffany from the All-Day/All-Nite Fitness Center, where I tried to keep myself in shape. Zombies didn’t have to worry about cholesterol levels or love handles, but it was important to maintain muscle tone and flexibility. The aftereffects of death can substantially impact one’s quality of life. While I worked out regularly, Tiffany was downright obsessive about it. She said she could bench-press a coffin filled with lead bricks (though why she would want to, I couldn’t say).

Like many vampires, Tiffany had invested well and didn’t need a regular job unless she wanted one. Due to her intimidating physique, I kept her in mind in case I ever needed extra muscle.

Sheyenne can be very persuasive, and Tiffany arrived within half an hour. She walked through the door wearing a denim work shirt and jeans. She had narrow hips, square shoulders, no waist, all muscle. She looked as if she were built out of solid concrete blocks; if any foolish vampire slayer had tried to pound a stake through her heart, it would have splintered into toothpicks on the first blow.

Tiffany gave a gruff nod of greeting to Robin and Sheyenne, but focused on me. “So, tell me what you’ve got, Chambeaux.” When Bill emerged from the conference room, Tiffany eyed him up and down. “You’re a big boy.”

“I was made that way. Mr. Chambeaux said you can keep me safe.”

“I’ll give you a place to stay, but you look like you can take care of yourself. Hang out at my house for a few days until this blows over.” Tiffany glanced at me, raised her eyebrows. “A few days—right, Chambeaux?”

Robin answered for me. “That should be all we need to start the legal proceedings.”

Bill’s clay lips rolled upward in a genuine smile now. “My people and I are indebted to you, Miss Tiffany.”

“No debt involved. I’m doing some work at home, installing shelves and a work bench in the garage, a dark-paneled den and wet bar in the basement. I need help putting in a heavy circular saw and a drill press. You could be useful.”

“Thanks for the favor, Tiffany,” I said.

The vampire gave me a brusque nod. “Don’t worry, he’ll be putty in my hands.”

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

119 West 40th Street

New York, NY 10018

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 978-0-7582-7735-0

Table of Contents

PRAISE FOR DEATH WARMED OVER . . .

Also by Kevin J. Anderson

Title Page

Dedication

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C HAPTER 2

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

UNNATURAL ACTS

Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,108

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