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

by Vicky Loebel

  “I don’t let strangers into my lab.”

  “This time you do.” I crossed my arms.

  “I’d love to see it, Priscilla.” George Junior rose. “I’d feel privileged to help. And my sister, Luella….” The look he gave the girl was masterful. I filed it carefully for future use. “My entire family would be grateful for the opportunity to undo this harm.”

  “Well, George.” Priscilla looked demure. “If you insist.”

  “I’ll take these people across the street for sandwiches,” Gladys offered. “My good friend, Mary Pickford, has an impressive way with mayonnaise.” She left ahead of the shuffling mob.

  A tabby cat flitted across the kitchen. Clara pounced, caught it, and raised it by the scruff.

  “Bernie,” Luella pulled me aside. “What about Gaspar?”

  “I tried to save him.” I showed her the mark on my palm. “I had the ankh in my hand. That’s all that’s left.”

  Luella’s color drained. “I see.” Her lip trembled. “I’m sorry, Bernie,” she said dully. “Sorry I didn’t protect you.”

  I touched her cheek, remembering the clicking icehouse lock. The way Luella had chosen Stoneface instead of me. “I’m sorry, too.”

  She shivered and followed her brother out the door.

  “You knew.” Clara turned the tabby cat to face her. “You tricked me. I told you zombies were not contagious, and you kept hinting they might be!”

  The cat turned to mist. An instant later, my cousin had Ruth by the neck.

  “I didn’t know. I never guessed about the booze.” The genie grinned unrepentantly. “But it was awfully fun leading you on. Working here is loads better than working for Hans. I can’t fool him one second.”

  “But people might have died! That’s bad karma!”

  “So what?” Ruth looked puzzled. “Not your bad karma, and certainly not mine. We didn’t make the poison booze.”

  Young C. took her hands off of the genie. “All right,” she sighed. “All right, it’s hopeless. Never mind. Go out and start cleaning the bar.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The genie shimmered herself out of the cheetah frock into a housedress and apron, without bothering to hide the state that came between, and then headed with mop and bucket into the hall.

  “So….” I scratched the hairless dome and gazed at my cousin. “I guess you had a quiet night?”

  “You idiot!” She ran three steps and barreled against me. “You absolute dunce!”

  I stood, awkwardly, patting her curls.

  “I thought I heard your voice while you were gone,” my cousin said after a minute. “That is, I almost thought so. It wasn’t really you?”

  “Did it say ‘golly, those flames look hot’?”

  “No.” She shivered. “It said I was an awful ass.”

  “Both true.”

  “Beau wants my hellfire.” She looked at me, round-eyed. “There’s still some left. Hans told us that with enough hellfire Beau can wish himself properly dead. But now…well…I’m not even sure I’ve got enough.”

  “Hans told you that, did he? Seems like a remarkable coincidence. One might almost call it a trap, although I don’t suppose it’s fair to blame the zombie for wanting out.”

  “I don’t blame him. I made him. It’s all my fault.”

  “Well.” I shrugged. “Things could be worse. We’re both Woodsens. We’ll split Hans’ ten pints 50/50 if it comes to that.”

  Clara pulled back. “No, Bernie.” She shook the mane. “It’s my bargain and my debt. I can’t ask you to pay.” She sighed. “Besides, Hans seems determined to get the blood from me.”

  “Then Ruth had better qualify for the finals.” I chucked her under the chin. “Lucky for you, Bold Benjamin is equal to the task. At least as long as my veins keep running with hellfire. How long does this stuff last?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Spells end at dawn, usually. Or sometimes midnight. It’s hard to say.”

  “Well.” I rubbed my hands. “Reason dictates that we assume the best. Meanwhile, I can’t stand here forever.” My feet itched to be off and doing. “A slice of toast, a sip of fresh brewed beans, and then I’ll bustle off and find a train to wrestle or other useful occupation to fill the day. I’ll be back this afternoon to whip the genie into dancing form.”

  “But Bernie,” Clara protested. She’s always been a timid, fretful thing.

  “Not to worry. Dr. Benjamin has taken you under his wing.” I turned to go. The kitchen door swung inward and bashed me on the nose.

  Grover Aimsley—pastry purloining pipsqueak from my past—waved a grubby slip of paper in the air.

  “Tellhergram!” He thrust the slip into my hands and dashed away.

  I glanced down. “Ahem.” Abruptly, I felt a bit less brave.

  “What is it?” Clara pressed close.

  We read together our six words of doom:

  ARRIVING TONIGHT SIX-THIRTY TRAIN. ELEANOR.

  For once, it was my cousin’s turn to faint.

  I caught her, feeling not the least pleased at remaining conscious.

  XV: Japanese Sandman

  If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs, they’ll be decapitated first.

  —The Girl’s Guide to Demons

  Clara:

  YOU’VE GOT TO HAND it to my cousin, the man doesn’t hold a grudge. There are relatives who would have taken an incident like being burned to cinders pretty hard, would have packed their bags and caught the next train east. But Bernie, after a hasty dish of oysters and cup of coffee, shrugged off the evening’s calamity the same way he’d shrugged off every disaster over the years, stopping only to stick a cap on his bald head before trotting off to help round up Jacques poisoning victims and feed them Priscilla’s cure.

  Of course, being drugged to his missing eyebrows with hellfire hadn’t hurt. I’d never known my cousin to be so energetic, so…well…manly as he and Douglas Fairbanks scoured the town, rescuing kittens, delivering backslaps and all-clear messages to nervous families, inviting all the townspeople to a lavish picnic Marion Davies was hosting on behalf of the Hollywood Grand to show the world that Mr. Hearst’s hotel was healthy, wholesome, and definitely not peddling tainted booze.

  Inviting all the townspeople to a lavish picnic, that is, except for me.

  Now that it was absolutely clear that I’d had no part in creating the phony zombies, popular opinion had laid the whole mess at the coven’s door. The Hollywood Grand had announced the trouble was caused by food poisoning from bad oysters, graciously admitting they’d served a few themselves, but no one local believed it. None of my former friends was even speaking to me.

  It didn’t help that Beau had sunk once more into despair. Gladys had made a cold soup—dispacho Bernie dubbed it, after the gangsters who’d kidnapped his golem—but those brains hadn’t been fresh enough to really pep the zombie up.

  A rumor was spreading that I’d locked Beau into a contract so vicious that he had to work despite the illness that left him near death, and that was depressingly close to the truth. Poor Beau had tried to kill himself twice since dawn. But zombies aren’t affected by drowning, and all the quart of bleach he’d drunk had done was sweeten his breath.

  Maybe the town was right. Maybe I didn’t deserve friends. Or maybe Eleanor was right and I should stick to family and coven members and leave the outside world alone.

  Eleanor. Was coming back. Tonight.

  Given the choice, I’d have rather faced an entire building full of zombies. The question was, how long would it be before my eldest half-sister noticed the missing hellfire? I’d been counting on having all day Sunday to make a second deal with Hans and sneak the hellfire back into the coven. I needed that time, because whatever else, I’d promised myself never again to let a demon rush me into a bad bargain.

  That, however, was a problem for after the contest. Before the contest there was last night’s mess to clean—a faster job than you might expect, give
n that I had a golem and a genie helping—Ruth’s dance lessons to supervise, and a difficult decision to make about whether or not to give my last quarter-vial of hellfire to Beau.

  “Okay,” I told Ruth. After three hours’ dance practice, I’d been kicked and stepped on so often my legs were numb, despite the fact I’d had the sense to make the genie take off her shoes. “Okay, let’s think.”

  Lil Armstrong had stopped by in the late morning and offered to play piano for us. Partly out of kindness, but mostly, I suspected, because Beau sat beside her on the piano bench and turned the pages of her music.

  I took a break to rub my shins while Lil and Beau sang “Kashmiri Song” for the fourth time.

  Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,

  Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?

  “All right.” I eyed the genie. “You’ve got to learn to follow. It’s not enough to count to four.”

  “I am following,” Ruth whined. “You keep going the wrong way.”

  “Look.” I tried to think in terms she’d understand. “Look, you hunt sometimes, right? When you’re a cheetah?”

  “Uh huh.” A yellow gleam lit Ruth’s round eyes. “I run prey down and clamp my jaws over its pulsing throat until it suffocates and dies.”

  “Yes. Good. But it’s not all running and clamping, is it? You have to watch your quarry. Dodge when it dodges, change direction, and double back?”

  “Sometimes.” Her eyes grew rounder. “There was this one gazelle who thought a few low branches would—”

  “My point,” I said, breathing a silent apology to Bernie, “is that a dance partner is like your prey.”

  Ruth’s head tipped skeptically. “I bite him?”

  “No! Prey you’re about to catch. See, when the man moves, you move; when he turns, you turn too. Like chasing prey the last second before you bite.”

  “That’s when I trip him and fling myself on top.”

  “Before that! Earlier!” I tried again. “Look, pretend it’s the last moment—before tripping and suffocating—when you and your quarry both move as one. Except you never catch him. The moment stretches, teases, as you pursue your victim, but never ends. That’s dancing.”

  “That’s…” Ruth licked her lips “…interesting.”

  Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float,

  On those cool waters where we used to dwell.

  We waited until Lil and Beau finished their song—lyrics seemed easier for the zombie to manage than ordinary speech—and then I took the lead with Ruth again. One dance convinced me we’d found the right system.

  “Okay, great.” I let Ruth go and backed away. “That’s good.” She hadn’t stepped on me or put a foot wrong anywhere, but the feeling I was about to be devoured was very strong. “I think we’re done. Dance just like that with Bernie, and you’ll do fine.” Or else she’d eat him. “Maybe practice smiling…without the fangs.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ruth collected her shoes. Oddly, she walked on tiptoe, even barefoot. “Can I go over to the picnic at the big hotel?”

  I looked around. I doubted Ruth’s dancing would get any better than it was right now. The bar was clean and decorated. And I was tuckered out.

  “Sure, go ahead,” I said. “Stay out of trouble.”

  The genie laughed and padded away.

  Lil Armstrong began collecting her things.

  “Thanks for helping us,” I said. “Would you like a drink or something to eat? I think Gladys made quite a few fried-oyster sandwiches this morning.”

  “I’ll have a Coca-Cola, if you don’t mind. Then I believe I’ll head back to my room and take a nap.”

  Beau went to the storage room behind the bar and started chopping ice. I put some into tall glasses and mixed cola syrup and carbonated water.

  “Aren’t you going to the picnic?” I asked Lil.

  “With Mr. Hearst and Mary Pickford?” She laughed. “You think they want me there?”

  I frowned. “Well, sure.” Was she a warlock? “Why wouldn’t they?”

  Lil didn’t answer. “That housekeeper of yours, she’s really Swedish?”

  “Gladys is Bernie’s housekeeper,” I hedged. “How come?”

  “Just wondering. And your sister, she’s sweet on Mr. George?”

  “George Junior?” He and Priscilla had seemed chummy this morning. But sweet? Priscilla was nearly thirty; though I supposed my mother had been even older when she’d met my dad. “Is she? I didn’t notice. Why?”

  “I’m trying to figure out this town.”

  I frowned. George Junior and Priscilla? I hadn’t told Priscilla about Eleanor’s telegram. She’d only panic, and that would do no good. I had to fix things, settle my bet and negotiate a second deal with Hans before my half-sisters found out about the missing hellfire.

  Lil Armstrong finished her drink and left the building. I ducked into the storage room to look for Beau. He was standing beside a counter full of melting chunks of ice, holding the metal pick he’d driven through his heart.

  “Oh, Beau.” I braced one hand against his chest and yanked out the long pick. “You’re ruining your clothes.” Gladys had starched and ironed him thoroughly, after we pulled him from the tub. But Beau’s beautifully cut eveningwear had not taken the soaking well. Now he was drenched again with ice water.

  “Khlara.” Beau clutched me imploringly. “Khlara…cannot…keep…on.”

  “It’s not much longer.” I felt him struggle through our connection, felt the effort it took just to be human. “You’ve got to wait. We’ve both got to wait until the semi-finals end at eight o’clock.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, um.” Because I hadn’t absolutely decided to give him my hellfire. So many things depended on that quarter-vial. My life, for one. A quarter-vial might not heal me completely, if I lost the bet with Hans, but it should keep me alive. And if I won the bet, then having hellfire gave me a stronger bargaining position in my next deal.

  I squeezed the zombie’s hand. “We’ve got to see this through.”

  “People…watch,” he said with difficulty. “Friends…pity.” His eyes were haunted. “I want to die.”

  “I know.” His words were icepicks in my heart. “But I can’t let you go. Not yet. That demon’s pressuring us. He wants me to be helpless. I can’t give in.”

  Beau stared down bleakly. Water dribbled off of the counter onto his slacks.

  “Come on.” We went to the kitchen and collected one of Gladys’ fried oyster sandwiches. Then I led Beau up the back stairs. “Let’s get you dry.”

  I left Beau baking in the warm attic and climbed the ladder to the widow’s walk. The sky was bright and cloudless. We’d been lucky, this week, not to have summer storms. I swung myself over the guardrail, unwrapped my sandwich, and sat down on the edge of the roof, feet dangling, watching the picnic across the street.

  Beau’s actor friends were there, Marion Davies, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, along with starlets, singers, and politicians who were staying at the Hollywood Grand. My cousin was there among them, juggling, performing stunts, much petted and admired. Of the gangster, Stoneface Gibraltar, there wasn’t any sign.

  Stoneface Gibraltar. I crumpled half of my sandwich into an unforgiving ball.

  The nuisance fires last night had been distractions set by gangsters so they could murder Bernie and sneak away with all the stolen booze. Each time that thought occurred, a dark pit seemed to open in my soul.

  I swung my feet and watched two Vaudeville girls draw false eyebrows on Bernie’s face with kohl. The image of him, the memory of that awful, choking smell, engulfed me, while the sweet tones of Ukulele Ike drifted like unforgiving angels through the air.

  Gee it would be great

  If I could go to sleep and wake

  Up where the lazy daisies grow.

  Gladys, silent as always, wearing a long dress, full apron, and her new fox stole, sat down beside me on the roof. I blinked at the thre
e-story drop, wondering if she’d come to push me off because of Bernie. Wondering if I deserved a push.

  Life to me would always be a holiday

  Down in the fields that I once knew.

  “Can I fetch you anything, miss?” the golem asked. “A light sweater or parasol to block the sun?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Below, Bernie began organizing men into a tug-of-war across the hotel’s oblong sunken fountain.

  “Thanks for the sandwich.” I hid the crumpled ball under my skirt. “It was great.”

  The teams picked up their rope. A whistle blew. Bernie’s opponents flew forward and landed in the trough.

  “My oysters,” Gladys grumbled, “were not poison.”

  “I know.”

  “No one would eat them. I had to throw good food away.”

  The tug-of-war regrouped, swapping dry men for wet. They bent, grabbing the rope, and braced their feet.

  “I’m sorry.” Not just about the oysters.

  “It’s not your fault,” Gladys said calmly. “Your plate was full.”

  Bernie’s team won again. Laughing men splashed and scrambled out of the fountain. Money changed hands. Ladies stood and waived their handkerchiefs. Five extra men joined the defeated team and were promptly soaked through.

  Douglas Fairbanks rose from his seat. A cheer ran through the crowd as he stepped to the front of the line facing my cousin’s team.

  The men on both sides braced their feet. Doug spit onto his palms and grabbed the rope. The whistle blew again.

  Bernie, grandstanding shamelessly, took one hand off and waved to the crowd before clasping the rope to pull again. People hollered enthusiastically as each team inched forward and back.

  “I should have found him,” I said. “I shouldn’t have trusted Ruth.”

  “It’s never wise to put your faith in a genie.”

  “I should have searched the wreckage of the fire and dug him out.”

  “The ashes were very hot,” Gladys replied. “You would have burned your hands.”

  A yell went up as Bernie’s team dragged Doug Fairbanks over the edge. At the last moment, the actor used the rope to vault across and land safely beside my cousin. Behind him, his teammates toppled, one by one, into the drink.