Fantastic Detectives

by Dean Wesley Smith

  She drew herself up and took Stevie’s hand in hers. “I’m Evangeline Banks and this is my cousin, Steven Banks. Who are you?”

  The man huffed a laugh while his companion said something to him. In the darkness, Evangeline couldn’t quite see her—just enough to tell that it was a she. “M’lady here says I’m to tell you hello and that’s she’s glad to see you again.”

  He lowered the lantern a degree or two and peered more closely at Evangeline. “I didn’t realize you’d been down here before.”

  “I haven’t,” Evangeline said, suddenly aware her heart had started beating faster. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you still haven’t told me your name.”

  “That’s fair, I guess,” he said. “Name’s Ambrose James Boden, least it was, once upon a time, but I went by Bodie, so you can call me that.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Bodie,” Evangeline said, wondering why she suddenly sounded like she had fallen into an English tea party. Good manners weren’t going to help her get the Blue Roadster bottle back from angry fairies.

  “Can we see the lady now?” Stevie asked.

  Ignoring him, Evangeline said, “I think you know why I’m here.”

  Bodie rubbed his chin. If he was going to say something, he thought better of it as the woman stepped forward. When she entered the cone of light from Bodie’s lantern, Evangeline’s breath caught in her throat.

  She was simply the most beautiful woman Evangeline had ever seen and that included the hours she and her friends had spent poring over magazines analyzing fashion models and movie stars.

  This woman was as tall and thin as a model, but she looked strong and fit, like she could take a tall man like Bodie and break him over her knee if she felt like it. Her hair was so pale it seemed translucent. A pattern of what looked like silvery tattoos raced across her light brown skin so she glowed. But it was her eyes that drew Evangeline. They were pale, as well, so light they might have been gray or light blue or made of pure silver, but they seemed to be lighted from within. Familiar eyes.

  Evangeline stilled, glad Stevie’s warm hand still gripped hers. He was her anchor, her assurance this was real.

  “Isn’t the lady pretty?” Stevie asked.

  “You’ve seen her before, too?” Evangeline asked, surprise echoing through her brain.

  “In the tasting room mostly,” Stevie said, “but I used to see her down here. Before.”

  Evangeline turned back to face Bodie and the woman. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing to my cousin, but you need to leave him alone. He’s just a kid and he never hurt—”

  “Hush,” Bodie said. “You don’t have any idea who you’re talking to, do you?” He sounded exasperated and gestured toward the woman. “Allow me to introduce the Queen Under The Hill.”

  The Queen dipped her chin. “You may call me Your Majesty.”

  “Seriously?” Evangeline said.

  “I wouldn’t recommend getting on her bad side,” Bodie warned.

  “I don’t care who she is—” Evangeline began.

  The Queen said, “There’s no need for such drama. Let us repair to my chamber. There you can rest, take some refreshment.”

  “No,” Evangeline said stubbornly. “I’m not going anywhere. I came for one thing and that’s the Blue Roadster bottle you stole. All you have to do is return it and we’re out of here.”

  The Queen studied Evangeline for a long moment, long enough for a blush to warm Evangeline’s cheeks. “Obviously, you are an uneducated child, and so do not know something important about my kind—”

  “I know plenty about fairies.”

  Bodie snorted. “She ain’t no fairy kid.”

  “Then what is she?”

  “She’s the Queen of the Fey,” Stevie said.

  Evangeline whirled on him. “And you’ve known this how long?”

  Stevie thought for a moment. “Since we moved to Oregon. Since she gave me the bottle.”

  “The Blue Roadster bottle?”

  Stevie nodded. “It’s true and Fey can’t lie.”

  “Lies are the province of small minds,” the Queen said in an acid tone directed at Evangeline.

  Undeterred, Evangeline continued, “Dad said he and Uncle Brian found the bottle when they were cleaning out the basement.”

  “The Queen gave it to me,” Stevie said, “but I left it in the basement. I was little then. I couldn’t play with it and I didn’t know it was worth a lot of money.”

  Evangeline studied the Queen, eyes narrowed. “What were you doing giving a bottle of booze to a little boy?”

  “She was keeping it away from me,” Bodie said. “It was the last bottle from my stash.”

  “You’re the bootlegger?” Evangeline exclaimed.

  “In the flesh.”

  “But you’re… you’re still alive.”

  “Time passes differently under the hill,” Bodie said wearily. “I’ve wanted to leave for some time now, but I couldn’t do that until the last bottle was gone. That was the deal I made with the Queen. I’d had an accident when I was driving down from Portland. Busted up the roadster bad. I was laying on the side of the road busy dying when the Queen found me. Made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  “If you were so miserable, you should have told me.” Bodie flushed and shifted uncomfortably. To Evangeline and Stevie, she said, “I would miss him if he were gone.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I take the bottle back,” Evangeline said.

  “Not so fast,” Bodie said. “I’m the rightful owner.”

  “You are not,” Evangeline shot back. “You stole it.”

  “Can’t steal something that belongs to me,” Bodie said, real anger warming his tone.

  “The Queen gave it to me,” Stevie said.

  Everyone fell silent. That was true, Evangeline supposed, if that was what had really happened. “The Blue Roadster’s last bottle is super important to our family business. The fairies up above are really mad at me. I thought they took the bottle to get even.”

  “I have noticed their little temper tantrums,” the Queen said. “Amusing, actually.”

  “Easy for you to say. They’re not ruining your life.”

  “Like it or not, we’re in this together, kid,” Bodie said. “Your potions have riled up the fairies like stills and bootlegging did a long time ago.”

  He shook his head ruefully. “The potions broke a treaty the Fey had with the drosophila suzukii. I sort of took advantage of everybody looking the other way to get my bottle back.” Bodie shrugged. “I saw an opening, I took it.”

  All this time, she’d thought her potions were helping the winery, but they’d only made things immeasurably worse. What did it matter that she’d found the Blue Roadster and his last bottle?

  They were going to lose the winery and there was nothing she could do about it.

  “I guess we better go, Stevie,” Evangeline said in defeat.

  “Okay,” he said, waving goodbye to the Queen and Bodie. “See you later.”

  Evangeline halted. See you later? “Stevie…how is it you know the Queen?”

  “Oh, I come and visit.”

  “He does,” Bodie said. “That’s why I thought it was the boy when you landed.”

  Stevie laughed. “I like the ride down.”

  The Queen rested her hand on Stevie’s head. “Such a sweet child.”

  “You can’t have him, too!” Evangeline yelled. Her voice echoed from the stone walls.

  “Oh dear, you really don’t understand anything, do you?” The Queen looked down her elegant nose at Evangeline.

  “I understand you’re good at making people do things they don’t want to do.”

  “They don’t make me come,” Stevie said. “I like to visit. Bodie tells good stories.”

  “Well, you can’t come back anymore,” Evangeline snapped, “because we’re going to lose the winery and have to move back to Arizona.”

  Stevie’s face crumpled
. He looked ready to cry.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Bodie said with an exasperated sigh. “Keep the darn bottle.”

  The Queen smiled possessively at Bodie and murmured something. She turned to Evangeline and said, “In gratitude for your help in convincing my dear friend to remain at my side, I will intercede on your behalf with the drosophila suzukii.”

  “No strings?”

  “No…strings,” the Queen said, “but one. You are a dreadfully ignorant child. I will keep the suzukii at bay as long as you visit me, shall we say...at least once per month?”

  For the first time, Evangeline felt a glimmer of hope. “You’re sure she can’t tell a lie?” she asked Stevie.

  Stevie nodded and squeezed her hand.

  “It’s a deal.” She held out her hand. The Queen stared at it like it was a dead fish.

  “Her word is good,” Bodie said softly.

  They said their goodbyes. After that, the Queen whooshed them back up to the basement. Stevie stayed behind to drag the plywood back over the hole (apparently he had a lot of practice at it, who knew?) while Evangeline ran upstairs to replace the bottle.

  When she saw her father sitting alone at the dining room table with his head in his hands, she skidded to a halt. He looked up. His eyes were red and puffy like he’d been crying. His gaze shifted down to the bottle she held and he sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “It’s not what you think, Dad,” Evangeline said.

  “I don’t know what to think, anymore, Evie.” He shook his head. “Why did you lie?”

  Evangeline took a deep breath. She’d been thinking about what she’d tell her father the whole way back up from Under Oregon. No way would he believe a story about a bootlegger and the Queen Under the Hill. On the other hand, she didn’t want him to think Stevie had stolen the bottle, either.

  The only way to make things right was to tell another lie.

  She set the bottle on the table in front of him. “I took the Blue Roadster, Dad. I’m sorry. I know how important it is to you. I won’t do it again.”

  “Thank you for admitting what you did, Evie. I appreciate that.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You realize this means you’re grounded for the rest of the summer, right?”

  “I understand,” she said contritely.

  Staying in home in Oregon was exactly what she wanted.

  Introduction to “Role Model”

  Multiple New York Times bestseller Kevin J. Anderson has over 20 million books in print worldwide. He writes several series, from the Saga of The Seven Suns to the Terra Incognita series. Along the way, he has collaborated in the Dune universe with Brian Herbert and on a variety of projects with Neil Peart, drummer and lyricist for the band Rush.

  “Role Model” comes from yet another Kevin series, this one the popular Dan Shamble P.I. series. The fourth novel in that series, Slimy Underbelly, will appear in September.

  I personally think the Dan Shamble series is one Kevin was meant to write. As long as I’ve known him (and that’s longer than either of us want to admit), he’s wanted to write something that’s an homage to one of the favorite TV shows of his youth, Kolchak: The Night Stalker. I think Kevin has more than written an homage. His work is ever so much better, as you’ll see in the standalone story that follows.

  Role Model

  Kevin J. Anderson

  1

  “Come on, Shamble—it’ll be fun,” said Officer Toby McGoohan, my best human friend. He acted as if he’d gotten season tickets to his favorite sports team.

  I was immediately suspicious, sure that this would not be typical police business. “I don’t even know what a cosplay convention is, McGoo.”

  He had met me outside the offices of Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations, seemingly by happy coincidence as he walked his beat, but we both knew it wasn’t an accident. He’d been waiting for me.

  “Cosplay—costume playing. It’s when people dress up as characters from their favorite movies, TV shows, comics, video games, whatever.” He had looked it up online, so he considered himself an expert.

  “Oh. Trick or treat for grownups.” Every day in the Unnatural Quarter, I saw a parade of werewolves, mummies, vampires, zombies, ghosts, witches, and second-string monsters, so I wasn’t going to be impressed by a few interesting costumes.

  “A lot more than that. These people think they are the characters. It gets a little intense. And weird. And fun.”

  It didn’t sound any stranger than my usual cases, and McGoo and I often helped each other out. “So why do they need a zombie detective?”

  He seemed exasperated that I was spoiling his fun by being such a hard-sell. “They don’t need a zombie detective any more than they need a beat cop, but the hotel manager is nervous about having such big crowds—naturals, unnaturals, all those people running around in costumes. Thought he might need some extra security.” McGoo flashed one of those grins that had, over the years, convinced me to do things that would get us both in trouble. “Besides, he gave us two free passes to the con.”

  He’s a redhead with a round, freckled face and a rough sense of humor (to put it mildly). We’ve been friends for a long time, even back when I was still alive, and our friendship had survived me coming back as one of the walking dead. If a friendship can survive that, it can survive anything (though he still makes jokes about the unsightly bullet hole in my forehead).

  My caseload at Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations was light at the moment, so I shrugged and agreed to go. I had already been to the Worldwide Horror Convention when it was held in the Quarter last year. I assumed this would be the same sort of thing.

  So, that was why the two of us found ourselves in the lobby of the Motel Six Feet Under and Conference Center standing next to two clattery silver-armored cylons from the old Battlestar Galactica TV show. They gleamed and hummed, red optical sensors in their helmet visors drifting to and fro.

  “CosplayCon security,” one said in a vibrating synthetic voice that I could barely understand. He took his helmet off to reveal a young man with dark sweat-plastered hair. “Whew, those things get hot after awhile! Thanks for joining us, but I doubt you guys’ll be needed. We don’t expect any trouble. Everyone has a good time at the con.”

  As I looked around the lobby and common areas, I saw Klingons with wicked-looking bat’leths, masked ninjas with curved swords, Star Wars stormtroopers with heavy blasters, Lord of the Rings orcs with large battle-axes.

  “How could there possibly be trouble?” I asked. “Nothing looks harmful at all.”

  “All the weapons are peace-bonded,” said the cylon. When I gave him a blank look and McGoo didn’t seem to recognize the term from his extensive Wikipedia research, the cylon security guard said, “Zip-tied. Everything’s strapped down so the bladed weapons are perfectly safe. And of course the blasters are just molded resin props. The Jedi lightsabers are neon tubes.” The cylon put his helmet back on and told us in his monotone robotic voice, “Have fun—and stay in character,” then marched off with a clatter of silver armor.

  Tables had been set up in the hall with volunteer staff doing their best to register attendees. This was the first year of CosplayCon in the Unnatural Quarter, and they were glad for the added attraction of real monster attendees as well as cosplayers.

  A banner over the registration area proclaimed “We are all someone else inside!” and the program book cover said, “Find your inner YOU!” as if this was a therapy session. Maybe it was—costume therapy.

  At the motel front desk, a lone vampire clerk shook his head at all the costumes. He muttered, “Bunch of weirdos,” then went back to a magazine he was reading. I didn’t see why costumed fans were any weirder than the socially acceptable sports fans who put Viking helmets or cheese wedges on their heads.

  Normally on a slow Saturday I might have walked around the Quarter with my ghost girlfriend Sheyenne, or helped my lawyer partner Robin Deyer finish paperwork on cases. Like any workaholic, I had “fun”
by doing my job—solving cases and helping clients. It was my reason for living, in a loose definition of the term.

  More than a decade ago, a ridiculously improbable alignment of planets, coincidences, and real-world events, had caused the Big Uneasy—a magical phenomenon that brought legendary and supernatural creatures back to the world: vampires, werewolves, ghosts, ghouls, gargoyles, mummies and, yes, zombies. The unnaturals tended to gather in this section of the city where they were accepted, where they felt right at home.

  But they still had problems, just like anyone else. While most unnaturals lived perfectly normal everyday lives, some were criminals; others wanted a divorce; others needed to find lost family members. A detective working in the Quarter had the same sort of cases as a mundane detective on the outside, but the clientele was a little stranger.

  Back when I was living, and trying to make a living, I’d hung out my shingle and partnered up with young firebrand Robin Deyer. I had a good run, a successful business, before I was killed. But, as I said, I like doing what I do. So when I came back from the dead, I just got back to work.

  In the Unnatural Quarter, being a zombie is no handicap to being a detective, though I insist on maintaining my physical appearance, bathing regularly, going for scheduled top-offs at the embalming parlor, even seeing to it that I receive my monthly maintenance spell. I won’t let myself turn into one of those slobbering shuffling embarrassments that make polite society turn up their noses at zombies.

  I’m accustomed to seeing monsters in my everyday life, but I had to admit these costumes were amazing, even a little intimidating, when I started to think about the obsessive time and effort the fans had put into making them.

  A squad of white-armored Star Wars stormtroopers marched past, representing the 501st Legion, led by an impressive black-caped and wheezing Darth Vader impersonator.

  A group of Klingons had taken over the motel’s woefully inadequate coffee shop and sat around the tables, pounding fists and demanding more coffee. They grew louder and more unruly by the minute, while a harried-looking mummy waitress tried her best to serve them.