Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (3 page)

You’d never guess three minutes ago he’d been in terror for his life.

But then, my cousin is nowhere near as innocent as he likes to act. To start with, he’s got a golem housekeeper, a sort of magic servant made of clay, passed down through centuries from some English lord or other on the Benjamin side of his family. While from the Woodsen side, my mother’s sister—the only Woodsen ever permitted to take her husband’s name—Bernie inherited a mysterious magical legacy that he doesn’t discuss with anyone. Not even me.

“Well, young C.” He sucked in smoke. “What now?”

The answer was obvious. I was dead.

I took the other bottle of Jack Daniels out of Bernie’s satchel and tore off the seal. The last bottle of Jack Daniels in the coven. Possibly the last bottle in the entire United States of Prohibition.

“Now we get plastered.” A bottle wasn’t enough to get me drunk, but I figured the thought would count. “Then you’re going to kiss me, just once, while I pretend you’re a real boy.”

He grimaced. But I was not going to leave this world unsullied.

“Then you pop home, collect Gladys, and catch the five a.m. train out of Falstaff.” This was Thursday. The hellfire wouldn’t be missed until the coven meeting Sunday night. “And never come back.”

My sisters wouldn’t chase Bernie. They were scared of his golem. And besides, he hadn’t broken a vow.

My cousin’s forehead furrowed. “But—”

The basement door slammed open.

I jumped.

The door I’d bolted. The door guarded by magical wards.

An elegant, stunningly handsome man limped into the room, leaning heavily on a silver-tipped cane. He was ancient, fifty at least, of middling height, with high cheekbones, dark hair, and deeply tragic blue eyes. He wore a perfectly cut swallow-tail coat and white shirtwaist, fastened with diamond studs, and held a beaver top hat in his hand. An enormous yellow cheetah with glittering eyes stood by his side.

The cheetah yawned. My seat rocked wildly as Bernie dove for cover behind the sofa.

The gentleman bowed. “I beg your pardon.” The voice was golden honey. His smile appeared to flood the room with light.

I stared, wondering how any man could be more beautiful than Beau.

“I’ve been across the street at the festivities,” he said smoothly. “Did someone call for a demon?”

III: Jazz Vampire

Without the threat of death, there’s no reason to cower.
—The Boy’s Book of Boggarts

Bernard:

THERE MAY HAVE BEEN a moment or two after the stranger’s arrival that I can’t completely account for. I mean, one instant an overdressed dandy complete with menacing pet was hulking inside the coven door. The next I was behind the sofa while he and Clara sat together, knee to knee, sipping whiskey.

The cheetah strolled out of the pentagram—now suspiciously empty of cooked feet—and rubbed itself along the stranger’s ankles. Clara poured Jack Daniels into a glass ashtray on the rug. The cheetah lapped booze, eyeing me evilly through the gap created by the sofa’s wooden legs.

I wondered whether the newcomer was really a demon. Not whether demons exist; even minor Woodsen relatives know better than to question that. But whether my nit of a cousin had actually summoned a demon from…the Hollywood Grand Hotel across the street?

And, if so, did that make Clara a warlock?

She’s probably mentioned her household cabinet stuffed with severed heads. You may have thought she was joking, but no, I saw them once. That is, I got a glimpse of something
cranial
shortly before sputtering awake beneath the icy glare of Cousin Priscilla, empty water bucket in one hand, hickory switch in the other.

“So you see, your Hellishness.” Clara passed me a glass of whiskey over the back of the sofa. “It’s terribly important we save Beau Beauregard. I’d be awfully glad if you helped.”

I swallowed the blessed beverage. A grateful glow infused my feeling of fear.

“Call me Hansie,” the man murmured. I couldn’t see, but I was sure he’d taken her hand.

The cheetah thrust its muzzle under the sofa, rolled onto one shoulder, and shoved a spotted paw in my direction.

Claws like curved razors swished past my nose.

I squeaked.

“For gosh sake, Bernie. Stop teasing that cat.”

Dignity Before Death.
That’s the Benjamin family motto, or was, before all my English relatives bit the dust. So while I’m not ashamed to duck strategically from time to time, timidity is not the alpha and omega of Bernard Benjamin’s character. I stood now, straightening my grubby baseball uniform, and shook the stranger’s hand across the back of the sofa.

The instant we touched, I knew Clara’s summoning ritual had been a success. My clothes, my skin, even muscle and bone seemed to peel away, leaving my soul naked before the demon’s penetrating gaze. In less time than it takes to bait a hook, Hansie probed my heart, dissected the Benjamin brain cage, assessed my sexual potential (low), and tossed me back into the waters of life, an undersized fish.

“
Hans
to you,” the demon said pointedly. And those were the last words I ever got out of him.

Something shifted behind Hans. I blinked, my rumpled brain slow to focus, as the cheetah slowly dissolved into shimmering silver mist and then reshaped itself into a human woman—a real woman, no half-baked girl cousin—wearing a lot of charm bracelets, dressed in a revealing, gauzy frock, edged in spotted fur. She had a stunning face, an even more stunning peroxide bob, and a voice that could have stripped the varnish off a rack of baseball bats at sixty yards.

“I’m Ruthie!” The woman’s eyes sparkled above her cupid mouth. “You wanna dance?”

It was an awkward moment; I didn’t know what to say. For one thing, my companions had to assume I’d never seen a genie materialize, whereas, having been fostered from infancy by a lady golem, I’ve seen a lot of things I’d rather not admit. What I
hadn’t
seen before was the magic the genie materialized from. The shimmering hellfire mist that is invisible to normal human eyes. The shimmering hellfire mist that I’d seen clearly now, providing proof positive that Bernard Benjamin was no longer a normal human.

Sweet little Clara had turned me into a witch.

I’ve always thought that, since the coven is a religious sect of sorts, we ought to install a suggestion box. First slip in would be my earnest plea for better padding under the carpets.

It would reduce bruising when the congregation passes out.

IV: Love Sends Little Gifts of Roses

Don’t plan your funeral. Design your death. It’s never wise to leave the afterlife to chance.
—Girl’s Guide to Demons

Clara:

WHEN IT CAME TO Hansie, there were a few things
The Girl’s Guide to Demons
hadn’t prepared me for. His inability to stay on topic, for one. Every time I brought up the subject of saving Beau Beauregard, Hans leaned close and offered a bunch of distractions: fast cars, trips to Paris, a keyless cage I could lock Priscilla in. Then he’d lean even closer and I’d have to remove his hand from some new part of my dress. Definitely an international demon, if you know what I mean. Roman hands and Russian fingers.

“We are talking about Beau!” I’d worn my poor dead mother’s creaking corset for just that reason. Everyone knows demons are fast. But they can’t get too fresh without permission, thanks to the laws of karma that govern the afterlife. And while I’m not
theoretically
prudish, I wasn’t quite ready to throw out my sheltered upbringing.

“Concerning Beau—”

The demon kissed my palm and I tingled in unexpected ways.

“Such soft skin.” His voice was like a perfumed sunken tub.

Across the room, Bernie was wrestling with Ruth, who’d made it clear she’d have her
dance
whether he was conscious or not. So he’d jumped up and wound the Victrola, but even Bernie’s cultivated lead couldn’t make Ruth’s feet land in time to the music. They’d finally staggered into a waltz, and I honestly couldn’t guess which hurt my cousin more—the genie’s fingers digging into his side or listening to Edith Day’s
Sweet Little Alice Blue Gown
over and over again. At least in waltz position, the genie had to keep her hand out of his pants.

Don’t look surprised. I grew up in a coven and, sheltered or not, I knew the Falstaff Ninepin Fellowship runs on sex. The whole world runs on sex, to go by Dr. Sigmund Freud, but warlocks don’t need foreign psychoanalysts to tell them about libido. Sex generates karma for demons, demons turn karma into hellfire, and hellfire—demonic blood—is the essential ingredient needed to cast spells. The
Girl’s Guide
calls it the
golden triangle
: karma, sex, and power.

The waltz ran down. Bernie moved the Victrola needle back to restart the record.

I peeled Hansie’s mitt off of my thigh.

“Oh, this is pointless.” I slid away from the demon, crossing my arms. “I brought you here for a purpose.” If he’d been conjured all the way from Hell, Hans would owe me something, just for the trip. I wasn’t sure the same rule applied to cross-avenue summoning. “Tell me what you want in exchange for saving Beau.”

Hans sighed but couldn’t hide a twinkle of interest. Apart from sex, a demon’s favorite pastime is making deals.

“I don’t have much to offer,” I added quickly. “We’ll have to work out something on an installment plan.”

“Waltzing’s boring,” Ruth complained. “I wanna Charleston!” She yanked Bernie close and began gnawing his neck. I wondered if I’d have to get up and defend my cousin’s honor.

Surprisingly, the dolt wriggled free on his own.

“Let me refill your drink.” He bustled over, grabbed the last of the whiskey, and gave me a look promising I’d get a
much sterner
look once all this was over.

Ruth wound the Victrola. “Waltzing’s hard.”

“Try counting.” Bernie passed her the drink and they set off again. “To three.”

“One.” She stared straight down at her gold-painted strapped pumps. “Two….” Her brow creased as she looked up at Bernie. “I’ve only got two feet!”

“We make the best bootleg gin in Arizona,” I told Hansie. “Maybe the whole world.” The
Girl’s Guide
says demons like booze. It’s a pure source of energy for them, which saves on burning karma. “Apple brandy our janitor swears by.” He drank enough of it to know. “Smooth corn whiskey.”

“These are prohibition times,” Hans pointed out. “I can get all the liquor I want.”

“I’ve got a cabinet that preserves severed heads.” It wasn’t actually mine, but then, neither was the hellfire I’d swiped for the summoning spell.

The demon shrugged disdain.

“A boat that crosses water without oars?” Maybe he’d never heard of outboard motors. “A stick of light that runs on batteries.”

“Three!” Ruthie squealed triumphantly. “Hey, Daddy,” she bawled across the floor, “the right foot is one
and
three!”

“Very good.” Bernie sounded surprised.

“And one and three makes four.” The genie’s gearbox was grinding.

Hans frowned.

I tried again. “I’ll trade you a quilt stitched with my mother’s love.” That and Bernie’s magical legacy were my two highest cards. I glanced at my cousin. He’s had that stupid legacy since birth and won’t discuss it, won’t even let me peek, though once I caught him stashing a wooden box under his bed.

He’d forgive me for stealing his treasure. I knew he would. But it was no use. I’d never be able to sneak it past his golem and out of the bungalow where Bernie lived.

“Your actor crush is fated to die.” Hansie picked that moment to break my heart. “I can’t simply snap my fingers and make things perfect.” He stood and leaned on his cane. “Too bad we couldn’t come to terms.”

Sitting together, I’d felt a little overheated. Now I was cold. “No, wait!” I jumped up.

“Ruth,” Hans called. “Time to go.”

“I’m not ready to go, Daddy,” the genie whined. “I want to count to four!”

“Wait!” I couldn’t fail Beau. “He doesn’t have to be completely perfect.” We’d figure out something later. “Just swear you’ll do your best. Don’t let him die.”

A calculating gleam came into Hansie’s eye.

“All right,” he told me. “I’ll take the quilt.” Almost before I knew it, he was standing in front of me, tugging my sister’s comb out of my hair. “
And
your cherry.”

I tossed the curls out of my face.

The demon’s hands encircled my waist. Heat flowed in tantalizing waves from him to me. The double buttons on my dress-front began to pop open, one by one, all by themselves.

“Right now,” he murmured. “Here on the couch.”

“Squeak?”
Who knew I could sound so much like my cousin?

Hans’ lips brushed mine and here’s the scary part: I liked it.

I liked it a lot, despite the fact my heart belonged to Beau. Surprised, tingling pleasure raced through me, and for the first time I realized sex might not just be about magical power. Sex might have appeal all on its own.

I gazed at Hans. He had a narrow, aristocratic face, blue irises, and a thin, curling moustache. He wasn’t noble, like Beau. He didn’t have dark, romantic eyes, but he did have a sizzling intensity that made me soften in his arms. I touched the demon’s warm cheek. He sucked my fingers into his mouth and a series of
squeaks
leaked out of mine.

“Macushla,” Hans murmured endearments, caressing the back of my head.

My stomach turned to butterflies that seemed to float away and flutter up the chimney. I pressed against him, feeling his legs, his hips through my long skirt, shivering excitedly as fingers tangled in my hair.

If only he hadn’t been so old.

If only he’d been Beau Beauregard.

“Excuse me.” Bernie strode up, trailing Ruth behind him like a clump of peroxide seaweed. “That’s quite enough.” He tapped Hans on the shoulder. “Let her go!”

“Sweetie, don’t be stupid.” Ruth tugged my cousin’s elbow.

Hans crushed me to him. Blood pounded through my corset, flushing my neck. My heart throbbed painfully as the demon pulled my hair, lifting my chin. He pressed his lips against my throat and I heard myself whimper.