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Dead Streets (A Matt Richter Novel) - Softcover

Waggoner, Tim

 
9780857660466: Dead Streets (A Matt Richter Novel)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0857660462 ISBN 13: 9780857660466
Verlag: Angry Robot, 2011

Inhaltsangabe

The return of Matt Richter. Private Eye. Zombie.

MATT RICHTER'S GOING TO PIECES - LITERALLY.

You've got to keep your head to survive in the teeming undead city known as Nekropolis. It's a pity crazed genius Victor Baron couldn't manage that. Now everyone wants a piece of him.

Zombie detective Matt Richter and his glamorous she-vampire companion Devona are back on the case, with another wild and wonderful investigation.

FILE UNDER: Urban Fantasy [ Zombie Detective | Undead City | Crime Overlord | Off with his Head! ]

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Tim Waggoner is a novelist and college professor. His original novels include Cross Country, Darkness Wakes, Pandora Drive and Like Death. He's also created tie-in books for Forgotten Realms, Stargate SG-1, Doctor Who, Xena Warrior Princess, and others. He teaches composition and creative writing at Sinclair Community College, in Dayton, Ohio.

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ONE
 
 
That night, working security at Sinsation, I learned something new. Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you can’t hurt.

I’m not talking physical pain. I hadn’t experienced any of that since the day I died and was resurrected – through means I still don’t quite understand – as a self-willed zombie. And I’m not talking mental and emotional pain. My body may be dead, but my brain is still very much alive – or at least functional – so I still experience those kinds of pain on an all-too-frequent basis. I’m talking about an entirely different sort of pain, one that up to this point I hadn’t given very much thought to: aesthetic pain.

I was making my way through the thrashing, gyrating crowd that choked Sinsation’s dance floor, doing my best to shut out the noise blasting from the stage, but it was impossible. Kakophonie was simply too damned loud. The band’s lead singer went by the sobriquet of Scream Queen, and considering that she was a banshee, the name fit. She looked like an emaciated human woman in her early twenties, with long, stringy black hair, a bone white complexion, eyes set in dark hollows, lips snail belly gray, and a stylish touch of grave mold at her temples and the nape of her neck. She wore a tattered white shroud made from sheer fabric that left little about her too-skinny body to the imagination. Her nails were black, overlong, and sharp, and I wondered if they were fashion statements or weapons. Both, I decided. In Nekropolis almost everything – and everyone – is a weapon in one way or another.

The rest of the band’s lineup was an eclectic mix of Darkfolk. A lean male vampire with cyberimplants played guitar, his technological enhancements allowing him to act as his own amplifier. A short boar-faced, beetle-bodied demon, gender unknown and perhaps inapplicable, played bass, while a huge werebear with a truly impressive set of shaggy dreads pounded away on drums that had been specially reinforced with titanium to stand up to whatever punishment the lyke could dish out. I wasn’t sure how he managed to hold on to the drumsticks with those paws of his, though. It’s hard to describe the sort of music Kakophonie played, mostly because it was so deafeningly loud that it sounded more like a solid wall of noise than anything else. Darkfolk’s senses are different than humans’, and I suppose it’s possible that to the assembled vampires, werebeasts, demons, and assorted other creatures, the band’s music was pleasing, even soothing, but to my zombie ears, it sounded like a dozen vehicles colliding head-on at a hundred miles an hour… over and over and over.

But as bad as the band was, the lead singer was worse. There was a reason she called herself Scream Queen and it wasn’t an ironic reference to the term for a horror movie starlet, or at least not only. The Queen’s idea of singing was to open her mouth as wide as she possibly could – which, given that she wasn’t human, was disturbingly wide indeed – and shriek at the top of her lungs for the entire length of a song without ever pausing for an intake of breath. To be fair, her tone did vary, rising higher, falling lower and with a vague sense that there was some sort of rhythm to the sounds she produced. But there was no way anyone even remotely in their right mind would consider what the Scream Queen did as singing.

I was starting to consider tearing off my own ears and destroying my eardrums with a couple well-placed finger jabs – I could always get my ears repaired later – when a man on the far side of the dance floor signaled to me. He was tall and handsome, with rusty-red hair and a beard that contained enough gray to be considered distinguished. He dressed entirely in black – black jacket over a black T-shirt, black slacks, black shoes – the only variance in the color scheme being the golden medallion he wore around his neck. I’d seen the medallion close up many times, and its face was emblazoned by a circular series of runes that I couldn’t translate, but which looked appropriately grim and mysterious. The hand signal meant All clear on my end and I nodded to the warlock and tried to keep from scowling as I returned the message.

I decided to check on the rest of the team, each of whom was stationed at a different position in the club. Scorch was on the opposite side of the dance floor from Bogdan, and she was dancing wildly to Kakophonie’s music, though how anyone could find enough rhythm in the bizarre sounds the band produced to inspire any movement other than severe convulsions was beyond me. Scorch appeared to be a young woman just entering her teens and she wore her blonde hair in a long ponytail that fell down to the middle of her back. She usually dressed in a riot of color, in counterpoint to Bogdan’s more severe style, and tonight was no exception. Her sleeveless blouse had been sewn together from patches of bright colors and though her skirt was denim, her knee-high socks were rainbow striped. Though Scorch appeared to be just another fan of Kakophonie’s out to have a good time, her gaze was focused and intense, taking in everything around her. I caught her eye and she gave me the all-clear signal, accompanied by a wink and a grin to let me know that just because she was working didn’t mean she couldn’t have fun too.

Tavi was hanging out by the bar, nursing a mug of aqua sanguis and grimacing whenever he took a sip. The synthetic blood substitute might taste like the real thing – or close to it – but it provides little nourishment. It’s kind of like Nekropolis’s version of nonalcoholic beer. It’s cheaper than the real stuff and easier to come by, and any number of the city’s Darkfolk drink it – vampires, demons and lykes, especially. Tavi was one of the latter, though he usually chose to go about in his human form. Many lykes never bothered to don their human shapes in Nekropolis as they saw no reason to hide their true natures here. After all, if you live in a city of monsters and you are a monster, you might as well look the part twenty-four seven. But others still availed themselves of the camouflage of appearing human whenever they wished and Tavi was one of them. Right now he appeared to be a middle-aged man of East Indian descent, lean and wiry, with short black hair, wearing a tan Nehru jacket and matching pants. I once asked him if the jacket wasn’t something of an ethnic cliché. In reply, Tavi asked me if my gray suit was any less of a cliché, considering it was the same sort of outfit I’d worn when I was alive back on Earth.

Your suit screams “cop,” he’d said.

I couldn’t deny it. At least I don’t wear a trenchcoat, I replied.

Tavi gave me the all-clear sign, I returned it, and I then trained my attention on the last member of our team. Even if I hadn’t known where she’d be, I wouldn’t have had any trouble finding her. Devona and I shared a psychic bond that had gotten stronger over the months we’d been together and we could sense each other’s presence within a thousand-foot radius or so. A slender, petite blonde who wore her hair short, Devona wore a wonderfully form-fitting black leather outfit that, given the temperature in the club, would’ve caused her to suffer heat prostration if she’d been human. But she was only half-human, on her mother’s side. Her father was a vampire – one of the city’s five Darklords, in fact – and while she physically appeared to be in her late twenties,...

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Verlag
Angry Robot
Erscheinungsdatum
2011
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0857660462
ISBN 13 
9780857660466
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
414
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Verantwortliche Person
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