by Vicky Loebel
“Touch me, Clara.” Beau pulled my hand up to his cheek. “Make me real.”
He slid my fingers over his face, part invitation, part command, and things lit inside me that I couldn’t name.
“Um…?” Elegant cheekbones seared my fingertips.
Beau kissed my palm. Liquid warmth rippled along my skin. “Look at me, Clara.” He touched my chin again. “Gaze into my eyes.”
The last time we’d done this, he’d called me a rotten louse.
“What are you doing, Beau?” I asked gently. “I know you don’t care for me.”
“You’re wrong.” His eyes sharpened. “You’re all I care for in the living world. You have control of me. You burn inside me like a goddess. When I can’t think, when I’m in total darkness, your face floats like a beacon. Your command, your slightest word, carves bleeding rivulets into my soul.”
“I don’t mean to.”
Beau gathered me in his embrace. “I adore and despise you.” Lips touched my neck. “I want to make you scream in pleasure, and hear your cry of anguish when I toss you off the roof.” Kisses traveled toward my ear. “I want you to burn as I burn, suffer as I suffer. I want to carve my words into your bleeding soul.”
“Beau, I—”
“Make love to me, Clara.” Beau’s lips brushed my cheek leaving a trail of fire. “Burn me. Be my sun.” He hovered over my mouth.
“No.” I turned my head. “Stop.”
We paused, half a breath apart, while I shivered.
“Back up,” I said. “Give me space.”
Beau had to obey. He pulled away in surprise.
“This is wrong.” It seemed so simple when it happened in the movies. “We can’t make love.”
His eyes widened in astonishment. “Why not?”
“Well, for one thing.” I squirmed upright. “People can see us from the Hollywood Grand.” The hotel’s seven stories towered above the Fellowship’s three. “For another, I’ve got too much on my mind. And…um….”
He might not know the third reason. Or else he might not know I knew. The Girl’s Guide was very clear on one point: zombies are not physically capable of the act of love.
“Please sit up, Beau,” I said softly. “Please let go.”
“Is that an order?” He frowned.
“Do women usually have to order you away?”
He put me down and crossed his arms in indignation. “No woman’s ever wanted to.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to. Just….” I touched his knee and felt our connection. “Look, I’ve no intention of ordering you around. Honestly. But if something happens, if I have to give an order, I’ll call you Ali.” I picked the nickname from his most famous film. “Like Ali-Baba-Beau.”
The man was still scowling, still stunned I’d turned him down. Beau Beauregard might have been raised in Buffalo, but he was all European pride.
“Unless I call you Ali,” I continued, “it’s not a real command and you can ignore my words. Okay?”
Beau nodded grudgingly.
“Do I need to order you not to kill me?”
He looked away. “I think we’ve both discovered that I can’t.”
So he had meant to let George Junior do me in. I swallowed hurt feelings. “Okay then. I’d like you to help me run the bar and get Ruth through the quarter-finals judging tonight. But your only command, Ali, is to stay on the Fellowship premises and not hurt anyone. Is that clear?”
The gray eyes hooded sullenly. “Woof, woof.”
I rewrapped my book in its oilcloth cover.
Beau waited while I slipped the Guide into its hiding place.
“Did you find anything useful?” he asked. “What did your Girl’s Guide to Demons say?”
“Just what I already knew.” I frowned; he must have been watching very closely to read the faded name. “Zombies are made with binding spells. You get something personal from the victim.” I blushed; hair and fingernail clippings were not what the guide recommended. “And then you build a pentagram, spend a whole lot of hellfire, and hope your spell doesn’t bounce back. Which it has a chance to do, making the spell-caster into a zombie instead.”
“That’s all?”
I shrugged. “It says that, unlike genies, zombies own their own souls. That they’re bound to their dead bodies. That brains and karma—that’s a sort of supernatural account book—will keep the zombie healthy, and that wild zombies who don’t belong to anyone….” I gulped. “Get violent and froth at the mouth.”
“Like George,” Beau suggested gently.
I shook my head.
“Does your book talk about zombie bites? Or say where wild zombies come from?”
“Not a word.” I shook my head again. Could there have been something in the liquor that made George Junior attack me? I’d read that sort of thing in the paper, stories about bootleg booze causing insanity.
“Well, George is safe for now,” Beau said. “He can’t hurt anyone. But Mr. Vargas may be out roaming the town. Perhaps you’d better go find him.”
“Priscilla will kill me if I run off.” Although there wasn’t much happening in the bar during the day. We had a backup band for people who wanted to dance before the quarter-finals judging began at six o’clock, when King Oliver, our big attraction, was scheduled to play.
“Leave your sister to me. I’ll keep her entertained and manage the customers.” Beau bit his lip petulantly. “I wish I hadn’t put on that silly French accent when I met her. But oh well.” He stood and stretched his beautiful shoulders. “Women never stay mad at me. Do they?” Beau flashed a puppy-dog smile and I couldn’t help smiling back. “We’ll simply laugh it off.”
There are times being five-foot-three is a disadvantage for a girl. Let me tell you, having a six-foot-tall, gleaming god lift you over a railing is not one of them. Beau’s big hands closed around my waist and by the time my feet touched the widow’s walk I was ready to double-check my facts on whether zombies could or could not reproduce.
Beau leapt the railing, grinning, and pulled on his jacket. This time he watched me watching him. To my surprise the grin faded.
“I’m not a nice person, Clara.” Beau brushed the curls back over one of my ears. “You mustn’t fall in love.”
I couldn’t answer.
“I’m twice your age.” He brushed the other side of my head, making both ears tingle. “Before I…nearly died…I felt twice as old as that. I was a lonely, bitter man. And I’m a monster now. Without my meal of brains, I have very little self-control.”
“You’re not alone. I won’t abandon you.”
“You’re a good girl.” Beau kissed my forehead. “But you’re out of your depth.”
“I can take care of myself, take care of us both.”
The serious look changed to gentle mockery. “Can you?” He chucked me under the chin. “Ah well, perhaps. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
We headed downstairs together.
As promised, Beau had Priscilla eating out of his hand within moments of his return to the bar. I got him started restocking booze, with strict instructions to keep Priscilla away from looted crates, and then set off to search the neighborhood for signs of Mr. Vargas.
By the time I returned without success, the Fellowship was packed. Beau Beauregard, dancing, laughing, chattily pouring drinks had proved an even bigger draw than I’d imagined, and when some movie friends of his, Douglas Fairbanks and Marion Davies, wandered over from the big party at the Hollywood Grand and bribed King Oliver’s jazz band into playing early, they’d had to pull the dividers out of the ninepin bowling lanes and lay down waxed canvas so people could dance in there.
Fortunately Gladys, who’s managed castles in her day, had taken charge of the kitchen and temporary staff. This had the double advantage of making things run smoothly and keeping the golem too busy to ask awkward questions about my cousin.
“Quick!” I dragged Beau into the storage pantry behind the bar. “Check my hair for spiders!” I
poured water into a basin and scrubbed my face, vowing the pantry would get plumbing when we remodeled. “I’m almost certain there’s a tarantula on my neck.”
I’d spent the previous hours searching in sheds, peeking under foundations, and thinking up casual ways to ask our neighbors if they’d spotted a walking corpse. My shoes and the apron I’d grabbed on my way out were filthy, but luckily the dress and stockings were okay.
Beau sorted through my tangled hair and retrieved a hissing June beetle. “No tarantula.” He eyed the insect thoughtfully. For a moment, I thought he might eat it. But then he crushed the bug between his thumb and forefinger and dropped it in the trash.
“Thanks.” I tossed the dirty apron into a corner.
Beau pulled spider webs and bits of leaf out of my hair. Then he ran his hands along my scalp, finger-combing the snarls.
“You really have remarkable tresses,” Beau said, gently teasing out tangles.
I relaxed into the luxury of feeling cared for. “My sisters tell me I get it from our mom.”
Eleanor sometimes played with my hair. Dottie and Lottie, the twin musicians, washed and braided each other. Priscilla wound my rag curls ruthlessly every Saturday night. But once in a while, Eleanor would place me at the kitchen table and weave an elaborate Victorian coif while telling me stories out of our family history. Then we’d make cocoa and look at photographs, while she pointed out how much I looked like our mom. I used to love those nights until I realized she’d never once mentioned my father.
I shook Beau’s hands off. “Did you get a chance to check the liquor?”
“I did.” He crossed his arms. “Your burglars emptied about two thirds of the crates, but I think we’ll have enough to make it through the weekend, since so many men are drinking the Jacques cocktails they buy across the street.”
“That’s good.” I didn’t mind people bringing in booze. We were piggybacking on the Hollywood Grand’s opening, after all. I just hoped the Jacques drinkers weren’t going to get sick on my floor.
“Your sister, Priscilla,” Beau continued, “retired to her lab with instructions for us to call her when the band learns a decent ragtime melody.”
We paused to listen to “Canal Street Blues.” The music soared and galloped and sighed with glorious energy. King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band was just about the hottest group of musicians in Chicago. They’d only agreed to play here because Bill Johnson’s cousin had known my dad on the railroad and because Luella had hired them—for much more money—to play across the street each night after our contest judging ended. My second-eldest sisters, Dottie and Lottie, would have swallowed glass to have been here right now.
Ragtime indeed. “Priscilla,” I commented, “is a fuddy-duddy.”
Beau smiled. “I tidied the furnace room and moved the full liquor crates to the top of each stack. So there’s not much chance, for now, your sister will notice the theft.”
“Thanks, Beau.” I took his hand.
In retrospect, that was probably a mistake. Skin-to-skin, the supernatural connection flared strongly, reminding the zombie—however sweetly—exactly what he’d become.
Beau’s gaze cooled. His chin lifted with the haughty motion that had made women around the world fall in love.
“If that’s all, my Voodoo Queen?” He pulled his hand away and stalked off to sit with his friends.
I grabbed three bottles and went out to deal with customers.
“You know?” Ruth appeared at my elbow, wearing her black and tan tea dress.
“Good grief.” I juggled frantically as my bottles began to slip.
“You know, if I were you,” Ruth said, frowning at Beau, “I’d lock that conceited gigolo in a closet and toss out the key.”
“Ruth, where have you been? Do you have any idea what time it is? Did you find Bernie?”
“Searching.” The genie ticked off answers on her fingers. “Four o’clock, like you said. And no luck.”
“You didn’t find him?” That surprised me. “Did you check the Umbridge Funeral Emporium? Their house in town? The Hollywood Grand?”
“Those, plus two more places the Umbridges own that you didn’t mention,” Ruth assured me. “That icehouse of theirs is full of gangsters guarding your booze, by the way. I don’t think anyone at the big hotel even knows it was stolen.”
“The booze doesn’t matter.” I bit my lip. The fact she hadn’t found Bernie someplace obvious mattered a lot. It meant Luella was afraid I’d find him, that she thought she might actually need Bernie as a hostage.
That meant she thought George Junior was in danger here with me. Which was ridiculous. I’d never do anything to her brother. I mean, lock him up, sure, but that was for his own good. As soon as George got better, he was free to go.
Except, what if he didn’t get better?
What if George Junior was suffering from something that wouldn’t go away?
In that case, Bernie had to be home, safe and sound, before anyone figured it out.
Meanwhile, Ruth’s dancing was becoming a crisis. Of the nearly 200 people who’d entered our dance contest, only twenty men and twenty women would move on to tomorrow night’s semi-finals. If Ruth’s name wasn’t on the big chalkboard behind the bar by eight o’clock tonight, I’d lose my bet with Hans a whole day early.
“All right,” I told Ruth. “Get out there and practice dancing. That’s an order!”
I sent one of Gladys’ workers for clean glassware and started pouring drinks. By the end of an hour, I knew Ruth didn’t stand a chance. The genie was gorgeous and friendly, and she’d improved a bit—despite his grumbling, Bernie’s a good teacher—but it was going to take a truly great partner to fool the judges.
A truly great partner like Beau, although if he’d been in town, I suppose Fred Astaire would have been a reasonable substitute.
Beau, meanwhile, prickling with pride, sat and drank steadily with his famous friends. I felt his eyes on me as I rushed about the bar, but he refused to meet my gaze.
At five, King Oliver’s band broke for dinner and the bar emptied out. The Hollywood people lingered a long time at our door, teasing Beau, pressing him to come across the street. This time his eyes met mine; I felt his silent pleading, but I just couldn’t let him go. There was no knowing how long his meal of brains would last. By the time the zombie made excuses and stormed up the spiral stairs, his hands were shaking with outraged pride.
I didn’t blame him. I could have ordered him not to be angry. I could have forced him to like the idea of dancing with Ruth. The man had no free will and I could hardly blame him for clinging to his rage.
We had a couple of temporary waitresses working in the bar, but up till now, I’d been too distracted to pay my respects to King Oliver, so I served the band a dinner of chop suey Gladys had prepared, sent my regards to Mr. Johnson’s cousin, and made sure everyone was happy with the rooms Luella had arranged at the Hollywood Grand. After a while, the conversation ebbed, and we watched Ruth wind the Victrola and clump around the floor, practicing on her own.
“Is that…?” Lil Armstrong asked carefully. “I mean is your friend…ill?”
“She got dropped on her head as a baby,” I explained. “Her dying wish…er…I mean it’s her dying uncle’s wish for me to teach Ruthie to dance.”
“You don’t much like the old guy, huh?” Lil Armstrong grinned to cut the sting of her words.
I must have looked sad, anyway, because she pushed her chair back from the table.
“Let’s see if I can do something, baby girl.” She sorted through our records, picked a nice, slow 4/4 beat, and then took the genie’s arm and danced beside her. Mrs. Armstrong trained as a dancer when she was a girl.
It turned out, that wasn’t a lot of help.
After a few minutes her husband, a sweetie pie and absolutely amazing cornetist, joined us, taking the lead while Lil glided alongside Ruth and offered advice, and it was a tribute to Mr. Armstrong’s patience that no matter how many ti
mes Ruth kicked him, he never uttered a cross word.
People began flowing into the bar. At ten to six, the judges arrived and we gave up on Ruth.
“Thanks, awfully.” I gave both Armstrongs a hug.
Lil patted my shoulder. “Tell Ruth’s dying uncle I’m sorry.”
The band returned to their instruments. Miss Pinn, Mr. Aimsley, and Mrs. Lund, our three judges, announced the rules. Beau Beauregard stalked in, collected a whiskey from the bar, and was instantly surrounded by fans.
I ran upstairs and traded my afternoon outfit for the shin-length gray velvet party dress Priscilla had sat up nights embroidering in contrasting gray thread. The dress was soft, tasteful, exquisitely stitched, and couldn’t have been sleepier if it had curled up in a corner and snored.
By the time I got down, Beau had settled amid a large crowd of simpering women.
I took him a Coca Cola and pushed my way through the mob. “Couldn’t you try?” I asked. “Couldn’t you see what you can do with Ruth?”
“Beg me.” Beau’s voice was harsh. He tipped his whiskey into the soft drink. “Put your heart into it.”
I squatted beside his knee, carefully not touching. “Beau, this is your decision. I’m not going to pressure you or call you…that name…or make it a command. You have my word.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“But if you could help, if you’d just take Ruthie—”
“I don’t want Ruth.” Beau’s hand closed over mine. I felt the vivid intimacy of our connection. “I want you.”
“Please, Beau.”
The zombie held me, held my gaze. Inside I felt him fighting the spell that bound him to my will. Beau stood and pulled me against his chest.
Ladies around us gasped and waved their fans.
“Dance with me, Clara,” Beau murmured passionately. “Or else come to the roof.” He kissed my knuckles, one by one. “Spend these last hours before my mind darkens holding my hand. I ask for nothing more.”
“I can’t. Not now. Later—”
Beau’s brow lowered. “You will.” He started toward the door, dragging me by the wrist.
“Beau!” It was a test, I knew. A test of how far he could push me. “Beau, please.” I had to run to match his long-legged pace.