You’ll be safe here.” I came out of my office and extended my hand to reassure the skittish vampire. “I’m Dan Chambeaux. Come in and tell me more about what happened.”
Humans tend to shrink away from a zombie, but unnaturals aren’t so prejudiced. The vampire clutched my hand and shook it. (The rest of him was already shaking.)
You know the type: bald with black horn-rimmed glasses; intense but not threatening. He looked like the illegitimate love child of a bunny and a hamster, but without the fur. The sort of man who held a long, lit cigarette as an affectation, but never took a drag; he probably practiced the gesture at home with a pack of pristine cigarettes. I could imagine him in a bar ordering martinis—the fruity kind, not the manly kind.
He glanced over his shoulder, stepped farther into the protection of the lobby. I closed the door behind him so he’d feel secure. “I’m sure we can help you, Mr…. ?”
“Sheldon Fennerman.” He removed his hat and gloves. “Fennerman with one n. Actually three n’s, but only one at the end. Would you like me to write it down for you?”
“I can figure it out,” Sheyenne said, drifting up to him. “How about some coffee? I’m making a fresh pot.”
Fennerman’s expression melted into one of pure wistfulness. “Ah, I used to love coffee. Caramel macchiato, extra foam … sometimes when I was really in need of a pick-me-up I’d add another shot of espresso.” He heaved a deep breath, let it out. “But now it just upsets my stomach.”
“How about some water, then, Sheldon,” she said in a soothing voice. “May we call you Sheldon? We like to consider each of our clients a personal friend.”
He brightened a little. “I knew this was the right place to come. I’ll take sparkling water, no ice, with a twist of lime.” Jittery and restless, the vampire paced around the office, adjusted a potted ficus, straightened our only framed picture on the wall (a sunny scene of whitewashed houses on a Greek island—the landlord had given it to us when we rented the office space). “You have very minimalist offices, might even call them austere. I could help you with that. I’m an interior designer.”
“Maybe after we take care of your emergency, Mr. Fennerman—Sheldon, sorry.” I gestured him across the foyer. “Come into the conference room. What trouble are you in?” My heart went out to the guy. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and not for any demonic reason. “You don’t look like you’re sleeping well.”
“I haven’t slept much at all, and I hate being awake during daylight.” He shuddered. “I was never a night person during my life, and this is still awkward to me. I can’t get used to the shifted sleeping schedule. I’m drowsy as early as four a.m., and I’m wide awake well before sunset. Ever since these threats, I’ve been hiding out at Transfusion, the darkened all-day coffee shop for insomniac vampires … and I can’t even drink coffee!” He groaned. “No one should have to live like this.”
Robin came out to greet the new client, and I introduced her. “We work cases jointly,” I said, “from different directions.”
Robin’s a lawyer, and I’m a private investigator—separate specialties, but our work is related more often than not. Since neither of us could afford the rent, we’d joined forces—like the Three Musketeers minus one. All for one and one for all. We share office space to cut down on overhead, though technically we’re two separate business entities, a legal firm and a detective agency (it’s all in the fine print on new client disclosure statements). Because we had set up shop in the Unnatural Quarter, Chambeaux & Deyer got sarcastically corrupted to “Shamble & Die”—though in my case, it should be Die and then Shamble.
Robin already had a yellow legal pad tucked under her arm. “We’re here to help you with your troubles, Mr. Fennerman. Can I join you for the intake meeting?”
“I need all the help I can get.” He hurried into the conference room, and Robin took a seat across from the vampire, while I folded myself down into the chair beside hers.
Sheldon Fennerman laid the stake on the table and pushed it across to me, glad to be rid of the thing. “I found this on my doorstep when I came out at twilight yesterday. It’s meant for me—a clear threat.”
I picked it up, inspecting the sharp tip. “Freshly made, never been used.”
“Do people reuse stakes?” Robin asked.
Sheldon continued, “And someone spray-painted Die Vampire Die! on a boarded-up window across the street.”
I looked at Robin, narrowed my eyes. I had heard about this kind of harassment of unnaturals. “My first guess would be Straight Edge.”
The purist blowhard group wanted all the monsters to go away. Straight Edge made no distinction among vampires, zombies, werewolves, witches, litches, necromancers, sewer dwellers, ghouls, or anything else. Just another group of bigots, the type who can’t feel superior unless they manage to define someone else as less than human. In this case, at least the “less than human” label was accurate.
“If they’ve targeted you, personally,” I asked, “why did they spray-paint on the windows across the street?”
Sheldon fidgeted. “It’s Little Transylvania. A lot of my neighbors are vampires. It’s not hard to find us on the block, especially with the window glass blacked out. The landlord offers good terms, and sometimes he even sublets the rooms during the day when we’re asleep in our coffins. They’re zoned as dual-use properties.”
He rustled in his overcoat pocket and withdrew a rumpled piece of paper. “I found this graffiti in the alley just behind my brownstone.” He pointed to the phrases with a trembling finger. Eat Wood and Feel My Shaft. “More threats against vampires.”
“Well, that’s not the only possible interpretation.” I considered the stake and set it back down on the table, careful to turn the point away from the vampire. “If it’s any consolation, Sheldon, the Straight Edgers are mostly talk. Bullies, but cowards.”
The vampire was still jumpy. “But I know they’ve already succeeded! Six vampires around my neighborhood have vanished without a trace. Six of my friends. I can give you a list of names. We were very close, but they’re all gone now! Someone must have driven a stake through their hearts.”
“Have you seen any of the bodies?” I asked.
“If they turned to dust, who would ever find the bodies? It’s a perfect crime.”
“Not all vampires turn to dust,” Robin pointed out. “Only the ancient ones, from long before the Big Uneasy.”
“But they left their coffins behind!” Sheldon insisted. “Why would any vampire do that? Either my friends left in a hurry, or they’re dead. Those haters are going to kill us all—and I’m next! But why me? I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just an interior designer. I’m no threat to anyone.”
“Well, you are a vampire,” Robin said.
“Not much of one. I was a vegan before the transformation, and now I only drink soy blood.” His face wrinkled in an expression of disgust. “Nasty stuff … then again, so was tofu turkey. But a person with strong convictions is willing to put up with things like that. I don’t drink human blood. The very idea curdles my stomach.”
Even though Sheldon Fennerman may have been a hypo-chondriac when he was alive, I took his concerns seriously. “Some people have an irrational hatred for what they don’t understand. It’s best to be cautious.”
“You can offer me protection?”
I looked up, raised my voice. “Sheyenne? How is my schedule for the afternoon?”
She appeared at the conference table. “Just your appointment at Bruno and Heinrich’s. I can clear it for you.”
“I’ll still take the appointment,” I said. “Sheldon, why don’t we go to your place, right now? I’ll assess your home security situation, make sure you’re safe for the time being. Then I’ll gather information and try to track down who’s been harassing you.”
Robin said with a smile, “My services are available, too, if you need legal help.”
“I’ll open a new case file,” Sheyenne said. “And we have to work out the financial arrangements.”
I lifted my sport jacket and fedora from the coat rack and tucked my .38 in its holster. “All right, Sheldon. Let’s hit the streets.”
He reached out to pump my hand. “Thank you, thank you!” After applying extra sunscreen from a squeeze bottle in his pocket, he pulled on his gloves and floppy hat, turned up the collar of his overcoat, and adjusted the wraparound sunglasses. “I’ll feel safe with you, Mr. Chambeaux.”