Double booked, p.1
Double-Booked, page 1
PRAISE FOR DAN SHAMBLE, ZOMBIE P.I.
“Sharp and funny; this zombie detective rocks!”
—Patricia Briggs
“A dead detective, a wimpy vampire, and other interesting characters from the supernatural side of the street make Death Warmed Over an unpredictable walk on the weird side. Prepare to be entertained.”
—Charlaine Harris
“Master storyteller Kevin J. Anderson’s Death Warmed Over is wickedly funny, deviously twisted and enormously satisfying. This is a big juicy bite of zombie goodness. Two decaying thumbs up!”
—Jonathan Maberry
“A darkly funny, wonderfully original detective tale.”
—Kelley Armstrong
“The Dan Shamble books are great fun.”
—Simon R. Green
“A good detective doesn’t let a little thing like getting murdered slow him down, and I got a kick out of Shamble trying to solve a series of oddball cases, including his own. He’s the kind of zombie you want to root for, and his cases are good, light hearted fun.”
—Larry Correia, New York Times bestselling author of the Monster Hunter International series
“Anderson’s world-building skills shine through in his latest series, Dan Shamble, P.I. Readers looking for a mix of humor, romance, and good old-fashioned detective work will be delighted by this offering.”
—RT Book Reviews (4 stars)
“Kevin J. Anderson’s Death Warmed Over and his Dan Shamble, Zombie P.I. novels are truly pure reading enjoyment—funny, intriguing—and written in a voice that charms the reader from the first page and onward. Smart, savvy—fresh, incredibly clever! I love these books.”
—Heather Graham, New York Times bestselling author of the Krewe of Hunters series
IN THE UNNATURAL QUARTER, THE PLOT THICKENS … AND THEN RUNS UNCONTROLLABLY!
When Howard Phillips Publishing announces the 12 + 1 anniversary edition (due to unavoidable production delays) of the famed Necronomicon—the very book that caused the Big Uneasy in the first place—it takes zombie P.I. Dan Chambeaux, a.k.a. “Shamble,” to root out the diabolical schemes surrounding the book, and the fanatics who wish to destroy it.
With enough plot twists to confound a professional contortionist, Dan Shamble doesn’t have time for light reading. Along with his ghost girlfriend Sheyenne, his firebrand lawyer partner Robin, his best human friend Officer Toby McGoohan, and his ultra-cute vampire half-daughter Alvina, Dan faces an unnatural caseload.
Entire neighborhoods in the Quarter have simply vanished into thin air.
Rogue werewolf cop Hairy Harry struggles to write and market his memoir.
Customer complaints turn monstrous over an auto mechanic shop run by gremlins, to whom “repair” is a foreign concept.
And when unnatural doppelgangers appear in the shadowed streets, it does not mean double the fun.
Entangled in it all is the mousy virgin librarian—now turned superstar celebrity—whose blood sacrifice, through an accidental paper cut, brought back all the monsters thirteen years ago.
That anniversary is indeed an unlucky number.
DOUBLE-BOOKED
A DAN SHAMBLE, ZOMBIE P.I. ADVENTURE
KEVIN J. ANDERSON
Double-Booked
By Kevin J. Anderson
Copyright © 2022 WordFire, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
The ebook edition of this book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook edition with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
EBook ISBN: 978-1-68057-351-0
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-68057-350-3 Dust Jacket Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-68057-352-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022936377
Cover design by miblart
Kevin J. Anderson, Art Director
Published by
WordFire Press, LLC
PO Box 1840
Monument CO 80132
Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers
WordFire Press eBook Edition 2022
WordFire Press Trade Paperback Edition 2022
WordFire Press Hardcover Edition 2022
Printed in the USA
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CONTENTS
DEADication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
ACK! Knowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kevin J. Anderson
Kevin J. Anderson
Autographed Copies
DEADICATION
To my three grandsons
* * *
Harrison
Xavier
Teddy
* * *
Who always keep me at the top of my game with stupid Grandpa jokes.
It’s a black-tie gala, Beaux—fancy-schmancy,” said Sheyenne, my beautiful ghost girlfriend. She hovered in front of me and fussed over my appearance like an obsessive-compulsive undertaker. “You can’t wear this old sport jacket with bullet holes all over the front.”
With zombie-stiff fingers I brushed at the lumpy black threads where the holes had been clumsily stitched up. “It’s what I always wear.”
“Not for special occasions.” Sheyenne was gorgeous in a phantasmagorical evening gown with sapphire sequins, manifested to perfectly fit her curves.
“I don’t have a black tie either,” I pointed out. “A tie feels like a noose around my neck.”
“You’ve never had a noose around your neck, so how would you know?” She drifted around me, checking my appearance. “And we need to do something about the bullet hole in your forehead. I have embalming putty in my desk drawer. Let’s make tonight special.”
We were in the offices of Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations, getting ready for the swanky reception at Howard Phillips Publishing. The event was a duty dance for our clients, but as a zombie I’ve done very little dancing. It doesn’t turn out well when I try.
With a poltergeist nudge, Sheyenne opened the side drawer of the receptionist’s desk and pulled out a jar of mortician’s putty. She let it hover in front of me until I took it from her insubstantial grip.
“For you, Spooky, I will even do without the hole in my head.”
She gave me a seductive smile that would have made my heart melt, if my heart still functioned, and then added in an enticing tone. “There’ll be hors d’oeuvres.”
“Maybe little cocktail hotdogs!” said a dangerously cheerful voice. “With blood ketchup, my favorite.”
Alvina, a spunky ten-year-old vampire girl, bounded across the office. She bubbled with more joyful energy than I’d ever possessed, even when I was alive. “I like playing dress up. This doesn’t suck at all.” My half-daughter wore a teal blouse with sparkly crystals on the front and a loose chiffon skirt over a silky underskirt. Her blonde hair was in pigtails, and her hopeful grin displayed pointed white fangs.
I knew I had to make the best of the situation. “I still have the dark suit I was buried in. I could wear that—it’s been dry-cleaned, all the dirt stains removed.”
A few years ago, after a case went sour and I got shot in a dark alley, I was buried in the Green Lawn Cemetery. But thanks to the magic released in the Big Uneasy, I clawed my way up through six feet of dirt and went right back to work. Back from the dead and back on the case, and since then, Chambeaux & Deyer has had a string of satisfied clients.
“You can look pretty snappy when you want to, Beaux.” Sheyenne glowed. “You always keep yourself well-preserved.”
“Yay!” Alvina ran to the closet in my office and pulled out the dark suit hanging there, still wrapped in its plastic dry-cleaning bag.
The little vampire girl had only recently come to stay with us in the Unnatural Quarter, abandoned by her sour-tempered mother Rhonda, who couldn’t deal with the
We call Alvina my “half-daughter” because we aren’t entirely sure whether I’m her father or if it’s my best human friend, Officer Toby McGoohan. We both hooked up with Rhonda at about the same time—call it simultaneous temporary insanity, from which we fortunately both recovered.
The poor kid became a vampire through an inept blood transfusion after a skateboarding accident. Because vampire blood made permanent changes to DNA, paternity tests were no longer valid, so McGoo and I could never know the real answer. Alvina was a bright and cheery presence, and we all took care of her. Alvina would come with us to the book-launch gala, since McGoo was working tonight.
I shrugged out of my usual bullet-riddled sport jacket and donned the formal suit, while poltergeist Sheyenne whipped and swirled the tie around my neck, expertly tying a neat Oxford knot, a skill I had never mastered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Meanwhile, Alvina had fun plugging putty into the hole in my forehead, giggling as she probed with her forefinger.
Although it was a formal event, I drew the line at giving up my fedora. Even if the color clashed with my funeral suit, it’s my trademark. I’m a zombie P.I.
Robin Deyer, my human lawyer partner, emerged from her office dressed in a sapphire silk blazer and skirt. Her black hair was clipped back, her features highlighted by dainty gold earrings and subtle plum lipstick.
I gave a slight bow. “You look stunning.”
Robin straightened, exuding more confidence than I could manage on my best day. “My aim is less to stun people, Dan, than to impress them. I want to be seen as the best damn lawyer in the Quarter.” She adjusted the thin gold chain around her neck. “This launch party is important for our clients, and it could generate new business.”
The two witches Mavis and Alma Wannovich work on the editorial staff of the largest publisher in the Quarter. In exchange for letting them base a book series on my real cases, Mavis and Alma perform a monthly maintenance spell on me to counteract the wear and tear an unnatural detective is bound to encounter during the normal course of business.
Tonight, Howard Phillips Publishing would announce a big upcoming release, hoping to drum up media attention and also, presumably, to get rid of surplus cocktail weenies and blood ketchup.
Admiring my three lovely companions, I insisted on serving as chauffeur. We left the front door and stepped out onto the street, feeling like a million bucks … in sharp contrast to our rusty and battered vehicle, a lime-green Ford Maverick that we had affectionately dubbed the “Pro Bono Mobile.”
We climbed in, and I settled behind the steering wheel, while Robin made sure Alvina was buckled in the back seat.
“We should have rented a limo,” Alvina commented.
Shimmering in the passenger seat, Sheyenne said, “Style is in your heart and mind, honey.”
The hinge creaked as I pulled the door shut. The engine coughed, hiccupped, sneezed, and snorted like an orc with a severe head cold, but finally caught. “Don’t worry, I can park out of sight.”
I shifted into gear and lurched along the bright nighttime boulevard.
The publishing headquarters rose above the other buildings in the surrounding blocks, since Howard Phillips Publishing aspired to high literature. They catered to monster readers, ghostly historians, powerful wizards, necromancers, and amateur magicians.
A dried-up fountain was the centerpiece of a pedestrian plaza in front of the main entrance. The ground-level lobby held a company bookstore, and right now workers were setting up for a public book signing to be held after the gala VIP reception.
Alvina flashed our invitations to get us past the lobby guard, a burly uniformed golem named Grundy (according to the name imprinted on his clay forehead). We went to the main elevator bank and rode up to the publishing offices on the thirteenth floor.
I emerged with Sheyenne on one arm and Alvina on the other, proud to be their escort. Robin walked ahead, leading the way.
The reception was already in full swing. Several dozen guests milled about, dressed to the nines (or even higher numbers). A band played quiet, boring jazz. A mummy whisked brushes over a set of drums, a skeleton tinkled the keys of a piano, and a bald mad scientist in a lab coat plucked the strings of a bass.
At a portable bar, an alchemist mixologist poured chemicals from beakers to create smoking red libations, which he dispensed into fluted glasses. Igors in tuxedoes carried silver platters of drinks and drifted among the guests.
“Look, little hot dogs!” Alvina bounded over to a hunched Igor who balanced a tray in each hand. The miniature weenies were skewered with toothpicks whose ends had been carefully blunted, so as not to intimidate vampire guests.
Robin went to order a sparkling water, and I snagged a glass of something green for the sake of appearances. I would have preferred a beer at the Goblin Tavern, but this was a high-class event.
Alvina came running back with an hors d’oeuvre plate filled with cocktail weenies smothered in steaming crimson liquid.
At the back of the room, I noticed two human guests hovering near the wall, a man and a woman who looked just as odd as the unnaturals. The woman wore old-fashioned lavender skirts, a corset, and a bustle that made her butt pop up in an archaically attractive way. Her brown hair was done up in curls under a frilly bonnet, and the heavy rouge on her cheeks made her look like a granny apple doll.
Her male companion wore a Dickensian frock coat, cravat, and a pocket watch on a chain tucked into a paisley satin vest. He accentuated the look with bushy muttonchop sideburns. These two sure must like uncomfortable clothes a lot more than I did. In addition to the odd costume, the man had a leather bag over his shoulder that held a rolled tube, like some ancient chart.
“I wonder if they’re from a retro-historical society,” Sheyenne said.
Robin considered. “Maybe it’s publicity for a new Howard Phillips classics line.”
A large sow waddled up to us, accompanied by a frumpy, heavyset woman in a black dress and tall pointy hat. “Mr. Shamble, I’m so glad you came!” She had a long, hooked nose to which she added a wart for special occasions, and wiry black hair modeled after a steel-wool pad.
“Good evening, Mavis.” I bent down to pat the head of her sow sister, who snuffled and nudged my pant leg. “And you, too, Alma.”
Sheyenne drifted beside me. “We’re very happy to show our support.”
Robin also joined us, sipping her sparkling water. “Congratulations. You two have worked very hard to get this book ready for publication.”
