Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (4 page)

If only this were Beau, the way I’d dreamed.
If only
….

Bernie grabbed Hans’ shoulder. “I said, let go!”

The demon dropped me and spun to grasp my idiot cousin by the neck.

“Bernie!” I staggered. “Wait!”

My cousin’s uppercut caught Hans under the chin.

Hansie’s grip tightened. He was at least six inches taller than my cousin. Not to mention supernaturally strong. Also, I knew bare fists couldn’t hurt demons. It takes hellfire, or hellfire mixed with human blood, to even make a scratch.

“Stop!” I stamped my foot. “Both of you, stop!”

Hans pulled Bernie onto his toes, ignoring a battery of well-placed, useless punches.

“Daddy, don’t kill him.” Ruth wrapped her arms around Bernie’s waist and tugged. “I like him. He’s cute.”

I closed my eyes and tried to think. Suddenly, now that we weren’t touching, saving Beau’s life by cheating with Hans didn’t seem very nice. Besides, I realized I was being swindled. My
cherry
—a warlock’s virginity—was worth more to a demon than the amount of hellfire it would take to save Beau’s life.

I felt the sting of tears and forced them away, winding my hair up under the comb, re-buttoning my dress while Hans and Ruthie played tug of war with my cousin.

Bernie’s face changed from freckled pink, to redder than his hair, to blue.

“I’m sorry, Beau.” I knew, now, we would always be apart. “I tried.” But I couldn’t accept a second-rate bargain. I was a warlock. I’d have to spend the rest of my life dealing with demons. Unless I bargained well, someone like Hans might end up owning my soul, and then I’d have to spend the afterlife in Hell.

“Enough!” I kicked the demon’s shins. “No deal.”

Hans dropped my cousin, who staggered, flailing, into Ruthie’s arms. They collapsed together, and then Bernie rolled sideways and vomited streaks of blood onto Pricilla’s carpet.

“We’re done here.” Hans eyed me coldly. “Good bye.”

“Daddy.” Ruth pulled Bernie’s head onto her lap and stroked his brow. “I want to Charleston!”

The demon sighed.

“You promised I could learn to dance.”

My ears pricked up. Demons can’t break promises.
The Girl’s Guide
is absolutely clear on that point. A vow is every bit as serious to them as it is within my family.

I held my breath.

“This Beauregard,” Hans asked slowly. “The man’s a dancer?”

“A famous one. He had his start in vaudeville. He’s danced with the Irene Castle! With Fred and Adele Astaire!”

“Can he teach her?” Hans pointed a skeptical finger at Ruthie.

“The Charleston,” Ruth insisted.

“Probably.” I thought like mad. “I’m sure he can.”

My cousin groaned.

“Can he teach her well enough to…say” —Hans looked at his fingernails— “qualify for the finals in the contest you’re running upstairs?”

The three-day dance contest. I’d almost forgotten. That’s when I hatched my first cunningly unbeatable warlock scheme. Beau Beauregard was the main attraction of our contest. That meant far more women had entered than men, so dancers were competing individually, not as couples.

“Will Beau be well enough to dance?” I asked. “Will he be sick?”

“I think I can safely promise your actor will never be sick again.”

I bit my lip. This was Thursday. The contest finals were from six to eight on Saturday night. That wasn’t really long enough to teach someone to dance. But Beau made even the Dumb Doras he partnered in movies look fabulous. Between Ruth’s beauty and Beau’s talent, it probably didn’t matter how much she learned.

Okay, I admit it was cheating. Ruthie might not learn the Charleston at all. But she’d learn it
well enough to qualify
, because any partner of Beau Beauregard’s was a shoe-in to make the final cut.

“We’ll do it,” I said enthusiastically. “It’s a deal!”

Bernie started to protest. Ruth clamped her hand over his mouth.

“Not so fast.” The demon’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s make this into a wager. If Ruth finals in your dance contest, you win and all is well. But if she fails, if she doesn’t make the final round for any reason, I claim ten pints of Woodsen blood as my payment for saving Beauregard.”

“Ten pints.” How much was that?
A lot
. Enough to kill me, probably, but I had one more secret weapon. There was a half-vial of hellfire in my pocket, left from the summoning. And hellfire heals human injuries. I would have saved Beau that way in the first place if I’d been able to get past the doctors, nurses, and newspaper reporters surrounding his sickbed.

“No interfering,” I told Hans. “You have to promise to leave the contest alone.”

“Agreed.” Hans smiled. “You, too. No influencing the judges.”

I couldn’t anyway. They’d been hand-picked by Priscilla. “Okay.”

Bernie twisted out from under Ruth. “But, Clara—”

The genie bent low and covered his mouth with hers. My cousin’s arms and legs began thrashing.

“One more thing,” I told Hans. “I want Ruth.” Genies are humans, dead humans, with magic power who’ve sold their souls to demons and who, after they die, must work as indentured servants until the debt’s repaid. Ruth had to obey her master’s will. “Transfer her contract to me until the contest is over, so I’ll be sure she’s trying her best.”

“Impossible.”

“Please, Daddy!” Ruth clutched Bernie’s face to her bosom. “It’s just three days. I don’t mind changing—I mean—it’ll be just awful, to be stuck with someone else, but if it helps you make a deal.”

My cousin wriggled helplessly.

“You promised I could Charleston!” Ruth’s face scrunched like a toddler’s. “You swore!”

The demon sighed.

“So, we’re agreed?” I spit into my palm and held it out.

“Oh, very well.” He shook it. “You have a bargain.”

As a girl, I once touched a light switch with wet hands. The jolt that hit me then was just like now, except this time a supernatural vision,
second sight
, popped open to seal the bargain. For one instant, Creation stared me in the face.

And then the deal was done.

“Wheeee!” Ruth kissed my cousin. His arms and legs thrashed harder. “Let’s go save Beau.” She jumped up, hauling a staggering Bernie behind her, and ran for the door.

Hans and I followed at his limping pace. We climbed the spiral staircase, stepping around the coven’s Hungarian janitor who was seated in his usual spot on the top step, nursing a bottle of Priscilla’s brandy and listening to a jazz rendition of the
Maple Leaf Rag
.

Was it possible? I shivered, following the demon. Was I mere moments away from finally meeting Beau?

“Good evening, beautiful Clara.” Mr. Vargas squeezed sideways and draped his threadbare opera cape over his knees.

“Hi, Mr. Vargas,” I answered. “How’s the band?”

“Ah, this music.” As usual, his voice was slurred. “It reminds me of the violins at home.”

“That’s nice.” I patted his shoulder. “Enjoy.”

I pulled Hans forward into the bar. It’s a depressing place, the Fellowship’s old-fashioned saloon, dark, dingy, with shabby wooden stools and a brass rail just like the one
Joe Drunkard
used to rest his feet on before stumbling home to beat his wife on Saturday nights. Right now the room was unusually full of people, some dancing, some sitting at small tables, some sipping cocktails and listening to the band. Many were drinking the pungent confection known as
Jacques
, sweetened Jamaica ginger mixed with rotgut, which was becoming the Hollywood Grand Hotel’s signature cocktail. My best friend’s family, the Umbridges, had been brewing the stuff for years. Now that they were part-owners of the Hollywood Grand, they’d put their Jacques recipe into production with—although my family would never tell them to their faces—less than spectacular results.

Hans limped toward the bar. “I believe I’d like to sample your sister’s famous whiskey.”

“You what?”

“Miss Woodsen.” He bowed. “It’s been a pleasure. We’ll meet again.”

“What? Wait!” I grabbed his sleeve. “What about saving Beau?”

“That little matter,” he said, shrugging me off, “is taken care of.”

I frowned.

“The man is waiting for you outside,” Hans said smugly. “Bless you. He’s all yours.”

I turned and ran.

Outside, the street was clogged with traffic, the night air cool and pure. Across from me, the Hollywood Grand Hotel was lit like Christmas, cascading balconies framing two-story panes of glass. People, rich, beautiful people who couldn’t have found Falstaff on a city map, flowed through the grounds among statues and fountains, laughing, sparkling, sipping cocktails, stubbing out cigarettes on towering potted palms while local sightseers, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mary Pickford or Douglas Fairbanks, jostled against each other on sidewalks and in cars.

None of that mattered. My heart thudded in my mouth. All that mattered was Beau.

I stood on tip-toe, scanning the Hollywood Grand.
Outside
, Hansie had said.
Outside waiting
, but where?

My cousin was the first person I spotted, in the shadowed corner of an indented wall. Ruth, peroxide bob easy to identify, hovered nearby, wringing her hands. Between them, a wilted figure stood staring at the ground. He had the same hair as Beau Beauregard, the trademark cheekbones, the aquiline nose, but lacked the film-star’s regal bearing. None of the tourists had even stopped to glance at him.

Beau’s head came up. Our eyes met over the tops of cars, and he began shuffling my way. His skin, famously pale, looked drained of color, ghostly white, and even with traffic flowing between us, I knew something was wrong.

“Oh,” Ruth wailed. “Oh, no!”

My stomach heaved. My brain sat down hard on the pavement. But I remained stiffly upright.

Not perfect
. That was the deal.
As long as Hans agreed to do his best
.

Beau stared at me with bruised and haunted eyes.

Not perfect, as long as Hans kept Beau from dying.

A zombie wasn’t dead.

Ruth, Bernie, and Beau moved toward me through the traffic.

A zombie was
undead
, a living soul bound to its lifeless corpse.

Witches made zombie slaves sometimes, out of their worst enemies. I’d read that in the
Girl’s Guide
. But it was a cruel fate, with no hope of escape. Most covens didn’t dare begin that sort of feud.

Cars puttered by. Women and men streamed past. I met Beau at the edge of the sidewalk and clasped his icy hands. Intelligence flared briefly when we touched. Intelligence and silent, screaming horror.

“Oh Beau, I’m so sorry.”

“My dance lessons!” Ruth threw herself on Bernie’s shoulder. “I’ll never learn the Charleston now!”

Something tugged at my memory. Something the demon had said.
He’s all yours
.

“Oh, no!”
My zombie?
I covered my mouth. “Oh, it’s too cruel!”

But it had been my blood in the goblet. My deal with Hans.

Clara
, Beau mouthed my name, grunting. He looked almost human,
almost alive
, except for the dark circles around his eyes, the empty expression.

My cousin took my elbow. “People are starting to notice,” he said. “I think we ought to get Beau off the street.”

“Khlara.” Beau squeezed my hands.

“I’m not kidding.” Bernie pointed us at the coven. “March.”

“Khlara. Hunkh.”

“Okay.” I started forward. “Okay, I need to think.”

“Is he really—?” my cousin asked.

I nodded, chilled.

We crossed the sidewalk and entered the Fellowship door. To the left, a laughing group was bowling, spilling
Jacques
cocktails, burning the finish off the floor. To the right, inside the bar, the band was playing an old Art Hickman tune.

Hold me, fold me, right in your arms….

“Khlarha.” Beau squeezed my wrist. His fingers felt like iron bands. “Hhnghry.”

…until I promise to behave.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bernie asked. “What does, um” —he cleared his throat— “that sort of person eat?”

Beau turned and gazed at the customers. His eyes moved with all the probing intensity that had made him a romantic legend from the dancers’ feet, up along their bodies, to their heads.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” I said sadly. “We’ll have to look it up.”

The zombie dropped my wrist and shuffled forward.

Ruth knew the answer. “Brains.”

V: Where the Lazy Daisies Grow

Necessity is the mother of defection.
—The Boy’s Book of Boggarts

Bernard:

“COFFEE, MR. BENJAMIN?”

“On the table, please, Gladys.” Eleven o’clock the next morning found me wedged into a corner of the Fellowship’s bustling dance floor, anticipating a hard-earned breakfast of eggs Benedict, cooked to order by the Benjamin family retainer.

“Your newspaper.” My golem, pale and proper, presented Friday’s
Gazette
. Behind her, the Fellowship’s off-hours jazz band took up their instruments and struck Paul Whiteman’s “Japanese Sandman” a series of staggering blows about the neck and shoulders. Miss Pinn, the contest’s morning judge, moved between dancers, hugging her clipboard, making marks.

“Thank you,” I answered Gladys coolly. She’d forsaken the Benjamin bungalow before dawn, offering to help out in the Fellowship’s overburdened kitchen, leaving me to teach a half-human-half-cheetah genie to foxtrot on no better fuel than dry gin fumes and water.

Gladys poured coffee and placed the pot on the tablecloth. “Cream?”

I gave the noble nod. A gentleman who’s endured three heated hours clutched to the bosom of a female who has not only two left feet but two
right
feet as well cannot be easily mollified by beverages.

Fortunately, Ruth’s good looks and lively personality had attracted a stag line of men eager to tap out the old slow, slow quick-quick in place of Bernie. I estimated I had twenty minutes to pile on calories before the genie crippled the lot and I was driven once more unto the breach.