Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (18 page)

Ruth winced. For once I felt the supernatural connection that I’d inherited as her temporary boss. It wasn’t sweet, not like my link to Beau. This feeling was harsh and dirty, as if I were beating a child.

“I can’t tell you. He cut those words out of my soul.” Ruth whimpered and I let her go. “I can’t help you. I can’t say. I don’t know.” She squirmed. “It’s not like he consults with me.”

“Ruth,
please
.”

“Don’t ask,” Ruth growled. “Don’t push. I’ll only lie.” Her eyes flashed, wild and yellow. “You oughtn’t listen to my lies!” The genie’s fingernails grew into claws.

“All right. Calm down,” I said soothingly. “I won’t ask any more.”

Ruth nodded. Her claws vanished. She folded her arms on the bar countertop and hid her face.

I longed to follow her example and get some sleep.

Instead, I took the shotgun from underneath the bar and toured the building. The basement and attic were empty. The second floor was full of groans and thumps of people locked in rooms. A dozen customers were still scattered throughout the public spaces: some passed out drunk, some sleeping in the bowling alley with wooden pins under their heads, some still at tables, muttering gently and foaming at the mouth.

Beau joined me in the bar. The ceiling squeaked and groaned with shuffling feet.

“I locked the worst zombies upstairs,” he said. “I don’t think anyone left down here is dangerous.”

“How many?” I yawned, almost too tired to care.

Beau took my hand. His flesh was cold and very slightly gray. “Counting your seven?” he answered. “Sixty-three.”

“Sixty-three.” I shivered awake. “Sixty-three people?”

Beau shrugged. “If that’s what they still are. Some came in off the street. There seemed to be quite a few out there before.”

“We saw, Ruth and I.” They’d been shuffling in mobs. They weren’t fast, or dangerous, or even violent, unless you tried to stop them. No one had quite decided what to do. People who weren’t affected had simply stayed out of their way.

Beau gripped my hand. “It’s slipping, Clara,” he said. “I feel the light slipping away.”

“I know.” He took a stool, and I stood next to him, leaning my head against his chest. “I’m sorry, Beau.”

He held me lightly in his arms. I think I may have dozed.

Beau’s voice woke me. “I don’t want to end up locked in a room upstairs.”

“You’re mine.” I blinked. “Whatever happens, I’ll take care of you.”

“Like a pet poodle.” He stroked my hair. “Clara, there is no
me
without my pride.”

The front door creaked. A moment later, Hans limped in, leaning on his cane. Lamplight flickered across his handsome features.

Ruth melted into cheetah form and slunk away to lie under Bernie’s chair. I took Beau’s hand and pulled him behind the bar.

“Get out!” I cocked the shotgun and braced it on the counter. “Get out unless you’re here to fix what you’ve done to this town.”

Beau picked up a rag, stared at it bleakly, and began mopping up spills.

“I? Why, I’ve done nothing.” Hans gazed around at the destruction: broken dishes, spilled drinks and scattered oyster shells, men and women mumbling where they sat. “And yet, I don’t believe I’ve had such fun since the Titanic sank under my feet.” He smiled winningly. “And this time, I don’t have to paddle to shore.”

“I said, get out!” I took the hellfire out of my pocket. “Or else I’ll dump this in the gun and blast you full of holes.”

Hellfire hurts demons, in theory. But I had no idea if that would work.

“Will you? Truly?” Hans studied me closely. “Surely you must have better uses for those precious drops?”

“I do.”
A lot of better uses
, my cousin seemed to whisper. “I’ll do it anyway. I don’t care.”

“Duly noted.” Hans’ eyes crinkled. “But once I’m gone, who’s left to be your friend?”

“My friend!”

“The gangsters, the zombies, your missing cousin, our bet. Can you solve those problems alone?”

“So you came here to help me.” I held the gun steady. “Fancy that.”

“I came here to make a mutually profitable deal. You’ve got potential, Clara. You could be a good warlock. But you’re in over your head. Let me take you under my wing.” He held up one hand. “On my honor, no soul, no blood, and no killing required. All I want is a reasonably honest chance to teach you the craft.” He smiled slightly. “Promise to work with me and no other demon, ever, and you can name what you want in return.”

“Anything? Can you clean up this mess?”

“Except for minor details, yes.” Hans bowed. “I can.”

If I said yes, I probably could go to bed. The thought was tempting. I was a warlock anyway. Would it make that much difference to pledge myself to Hans?

Since he suggested it,
I imagined Bernie remarking,
it obviously does
. My cousin wasn’t there, but he was right.

I shook my head slowly. “No deal—”

There was a blur of motion, a tug, and then Hans was beside me with the shotgun in his hands. “Did you know,” he asked, changing the subject, “there’s an escape clause for zombies?”

Beau’s head came up. He stopped mopping the bar.

“A what?” I shook my head. “What sort of clause?”

“A way a zombie can be released. It takes hellfire of course, plus some crude magic. You give the monster your demonic blood and he wishes himself free.” The demon caught my look of doubt. “This is the absolute pure truth, I swear.”

“How much?” I had the sinking feeling I knew. “How much would Beau need?”

“Right now? Between a quarter and half a vial.” Hans shrugged. “The cost rises each midnight, depending on the zombie: how many people he’s murdered, how much his flesh has spoiled, that sort of thing.”

In other words, tomorrow at the latest.

“If I did that, if I gave Beau my hellfire, he could wish himself back to life?”

“Don’t be simple.” Hans frowned. “Demons do not grant life. No, Beauregard could do what he’s longed for since we first closed our deal. He could wish himself properly dead.”

I felt Beau watching.

“Think about it.” The demon placed the shotgun on the bar. “I’ve got a suite at the Hollywood Grand. Come get me when you’re prepared to set things right.”

The demon left. I poured myself a whiskey, but I was too exhausted to lift it to my lips.

“Clara.” Beau touched my arm. I felt a spark of warmth. “Clara, I want to discuss this while I still can.”

We picked a table and sat down holding hands. My head sagged forward. I jerked awake to listen.

“I’m not a good man, Clara. I told you. I’ve led a selfish life.”

“Don’t say that.” I patted his hand. “Hans spoils things. He wants to set us against each other.”

“I’m sure that’s true. But other things are true as well. My life has been a string of misdirection and lies. I’ve had innumerable lovers, leading them on, letting each lady believe she held the secret center of my heart.”

“Please, Beau.” I pushed the hair out of my face. “Please don’t.”

“I’ve spent years wrecking the lives of women, and you are just a girl.” He touched my cheek. “I could say things to make you love me. To make you eager to sacrifice your life, your family, your honor. Even your soul. All for my sake.”

My heart felt sore. “Yes, Beau.”

“But I won’t say them.” Beau kissed my forehead. “Because whatever happens, I want there to be one little girl in the world whose love I genuinely deserved.”

“I do love you.” How could love hurt this much? “Would it be so awful?” I asked. “Staying with me in the bar as a…as…you were earlier. Is death really better?”

“Clara. The way I felt. The terrible emptiness and hunger. Watching my own mind slip out of reach.” He looked away. “If that demon had any pity, I’d crawl on my belly across the street and lick his boots, begging for death.”

“He’s going to kill me if I give you the hellfire. Kill me, or force me into his bed. I’ll never win that bet over the dance contest.”

“I know.”

Death or humiliation. What if the choice were death or being a zombie like Beau? Which would I choose? “I’m sorry. I need some time. I’m just too tired to think.”

Beau nodded stiffly. “Very well.”

“Try to be patient.” I stood. “We don’t have to decide this yet. Please trust me. I know tomorrow, when you’re…hungry…that will be hard.”

“You can’t imagine the degradation,” he said bleakly. “You have no idea.”

“There’s more than just my life at stake.” Bernie, Priscilla, the shuffling mob upstairs. “Give me some time to work this out.”

Beau turned my palm upward and kissed it. “Your wish, oh Voodoo Queen, is my command.” He stood and walked behind the bar, selecting a phonograph record, winding the Victrola.

Gee but I'd give the world to see
That old gang of mine.

Beau found a rag and started wiping the bar.

For someone trying not to manipulate you
, my cousin seemed to whisper,
that actor just did a spectacularly lousy job
.

“Shut up.” I piled a tray with dirty dishes. “If you’re so smart, why aren’t you here?”

I lugged the tray into the kitchen and set it gently beside the sink. Without Gladys, the place was a disaster, piled high with oyster shells, used dishes, and unwashed towels. The staff we’d hired to work at night had fled hours ago. But the kitchen wasn’t empty. Luella Umbridge lay sleeping at the worktable. Her clothes and skin were grimy. She reeked of smoke. And she had a revolver clutched in her hand.

I tiptoed over, emptied the bullets, and then returned the gun, trying my hardest
not
to guess what was going on.

Why had my best friend brought a gun into the Fellowship?

She could be hiding from gangsters. But the gangsters were gone.

She could be scared of all the chaos in the street. But then she’d go home to her family.

She could have come here to get George. That seemed likely. But then, why bring a gun? As long as she had a hostage, she didn’t need to threaten anyone.

As long as she had Bernie, she didn’t need to threaten me.

I sank into a chair across from Luella. My mind stalled, refusing to move forward, but my quaking body already knew.

She didn’t have a hostage.

She didn’t have my cousin any more.

I cocked my ear. This time my conscience offered no advice.

Bernie
. I lay my cheek down on the table.

This was a dream. It had to be. I was exhausted, or else I’d finally gone mad like the whole town. I should have wakened Luella. I should have made her tell me the truth.

Instead I closed my eyes.

My dreams were burning buildings, and shuffling footsteps, and smoke.

I woke much later to dawn streaming through the high kitchen windows and Gladys standing silently inside the kitchen door. Her arms were holding all the nightmares of all the dreams in all the world.

The genie, Ruth, in cheetah form, slunk through the door.

“He isn’t dead.” Gladys gingerly lowered herself to sit on the floor. She cradled the burned object in her arms.

“Gladys.” It wasn’t Bernie. I wasn’t even sure that it was human. “Gladys, that can’t….”

“He isn’t dead.” The golem’s eyes flashed red. “There is a spark of life.”

Was there? Or had she lost her mind on losing the last of the Benjamins?

“Miss Clara.” Gladys looked up imploringly. “You know what you must do.”

Did I? Hellfire healed injuries, I knew that much. If that was Bernie, if he was really alive, hellfire might save him. But saved for what? Would it restore him? Or only bring the burned thing Gladys was holding back to life?

And if it didn’t save him, if half a vial of hellfire wasn’t enough, I’d be throwing away my own life and Beau’s one chance at freedom.

It didn’t matter.

“You know what you must do,” Gladys repeated.

I knelt beside the golem and opened my vial. “I know.”

XIV: Yes! We Have No Bananas

“The most powerful weapon on Earth is the human soul on fire.”
—Ferdinand Foch
(qtd. The Boy’s Book of Boggarts)

Bernard:

IF THERE’S ONE THING owning a golem has taught me—and I use the term
own
lightly, the way you might be said to own your name or hair color but, then again, they might be said to own you—if there’s one thing being raised by Gladys has taught me, it’s to take life’s little ups and downs in stride.
Here today, gone tomorrow
has real meaning when you’ve been serving tea and crumpets for over a thousand years. And while my childhood heres and gones were mostly punishments applied
by
Gladys, it’s been a comfort knowing that whatever I suffer in life, my housekeeper has seen worse.

A comfort to Gladys, that is. I find my troubles highly distracting.

Which is why my thoughts upon reviving in the Fellowship’s kitchen were not of Benjamin ancestors struck down by
olde mysfortune
, but of the fact that in the last two days I’d been (a) forcibly turned into a witch (b) vamped by a girl for whom the concept
animal magnetism
knew no bounds (c) soaked in gasoline and lit like a box of matches, and worst of all (d) stuffed with demonic blood.

“Stop!” I closed my lips and scrambled, crablike, onto the floor, snatching a small towel as I realized my union suit had gone up in smoke. A second Bernie, my mirrored twin in sculpted wisps of ash, hovered like a discarded snake skin above my golem’s lap.

“Holy moley!” Ruth exclaimed.

There was a breathless second as we viewed my cremated double. Then Gladys rose with her uncanny grace and shooed the ash away. The golem exited wordlessly through the swinging kitchen door, leaving me sputtering, trying to convince myself that the enormous surge of vitality coursing through my veins did
not
mean I’d been drinking hellfire.

Of course, it did.

I’d been incinerated.

I’d watched my own flesh curl from my bones.

There’d been no pain, thanks to my deeply disturbing deal with Ruth. I thrust my tongue into the gap left by my missing molar. The genie had stopped the pain, but all the rest was seared indelibly into my mind.