by Vicky Loebel
Lights flickered. A cold wind whistled through the room, rocking the kitchen door. In the front of the Fellowship building, the sounds of merrymaking died. Silence descended as if the stone foundation had drawn a breath and held it.
“Whatever can that be?” Priscilla asked.
There was a sound of glassware shattering on the floor. My mother’s crystal.
I winced.
Gaspar walked up to stand beside me. “I do believe I smell a warlock.”
Luella chased him. “But—”
Gladys opened the swinging door. “Miss Eleanor,” she announced calmly, “is here.”
“Eleanor!” Priscilla staggered. “But—but—” She joined Luella impersonating a motor boat.
“You didn’t warn her?” I asked young C., aghast.
“She would have worried! It wouldn’t help! I thought…you know…the train might…crash?”
“Eleanor?” Gaspar frowned at Luella and then at me. “Excuse me, kids. I think I’ll sit this out.” He tossed a brief salute and vanished.
Gladys stepped through the doorway into the hall. “Miss Woodsen, Miss Dottie and Lottie, I’m pleased to see you home.”
“Hello, Gladys.” Eleanor blew, like winter’s heart, into the kitchen, dark-haired, dark-souled, unfairly tall, garbed in a red and white traveling suit layered with geometric patterns sewn in darker thread. “It’s nice to think someone is pleased.” Behind her stood the second-eldest Woodsens, Dottie and Lottie, Siamese twins—metaphorically speaking—joined at the brain, each wearing a middy sailor dress under a lot of fur. Behind them crowded the rest of the coven, fresh from the train, including the Chinese lawyer who lived next door.
“Every day,” our gangsters chorused, “in every way….”
I glanced past them, swallowing nervously. The thug Gladys had killed was gone. A length of shoelace dangled from the cupboard near where he’d lain.
“Excuse me,” Luella squeaked. “My mother’s calling.” She darted through the group and down the hall.
Eleanor smiled gently. “Would somebody care to explain what’s going on?”
“Sisters.” Priscilla curtseyed. She was copied more slowly by Clara, proving for once, young C. possessed a lick of sense.
A lick I lacked, alas.
“Welcome back, Cousin Eleanor.” I stepped up cheerfully and shook her hand. “Dottie and Lottie.” I tossed off a salute. “We’ve missed your violin scrapings. Did you make a killing in Florida?”
Eleanor’s eyes flickered silver with power. This was a woman who had demons to summon demons for her. With one whisper, she could turn me to dust, with one gesture, flatten the town.
So why pretend? It’s not like groveling would keep me safe. Besides, one gesture would not flatten my golem. She’d have to wave two times, possibly three.
“Bernie-you-idiot,” Eleanor greeted me with affection. “Shouldn’t you be home studying?”
“Nope. Summer.” I brought my eldest cousin up to date on the school calendar. “Clara and I are hosting a contest in the bar.”
“The contest’s over. Send everybody home.”
“No ma’am.” Clara stepped forward and took my arm. Her voice was shaky but determined. “You promised I could run the Fellowship’s saloon. I signed contracts staging a dance contest. That makes this evening your promise as much as mine.”
“Did I promise,” Eleanor’s eyes flicked toward the gangsters, “that you could drag us into a war?”
“There’s no war, sister.” Priscilla stepped up on Clara’s other side. “Some wrinkles, yes, as you’d expect when the Umbridges bring outside bootleggers to town.”
Point scored. We all had standing orders to play nice with Umbridges.
“However, Gladys and I” —Priscilla bit her lip— “and Clara and Bernie have been ironing things out.”
“Is that correct?” Eleanor turned to my golem.
“There’s no problem,” my housekeeper replied smoothly, “that can’t be solved with hot metal and starch.”
“Well, then.” Eleanor flicked an eyebrow at Clara. “Finish your contract and we’ll speak of this later. At length. Meanwhile.” She faced Priscilla. “The rest of us will go downstairs and audit the coven.”
“Audit?” Priscilla and young C. squeaked in unison. “Right now?”
“Right now.” Eleanor’s smile sent ice into our souls. “You see, I’ve reason to believe there’s been a theft.”
XVII: He’s the Hottest Man in Town
What the warlock does in the end, the demon planned in the beginning.
—The Girl’s Guide to Demons
Clara:
AFTER THE INQUISITION headed downstairs, Gladys drew Beau aside and fed him the dead gangster’s brains. And so we entered what might be the last forty-five minutes of both our lives tending bar side-by-side, watching the dance contest that ruled our fate. Beau was himself again: soulful, quick witted, handsome enough to break your heart and, for once, genuinely sweet to his admirers, clasping their hands, offering smiles and small teasing compliments tailored to each individual, as if he realized this might be his last chance on Earth to be kind.
Hans was perched in his usual spot at the end of the bar, a vulture in white tie and waistcoat, sipping whiskey while he caressed the arm of a woman draped in a butterfly cape.
I didn’t know what to think about Ruth’s chances. By eight o’clock, five men and five women were supposed to be chosen as finalists. Those ten people would take turns partnering each other, with the winning couple announced at nine. But despite a good deal of whispering among Miss Pinn, Mr. Aimsley, and Mrs. Lund, so far only one man and two ladies had been written on the board.
The reason was obvious: our contestants were lousy. Whether from Jacques poisoning, too little sleep, or too much partying across the street at the Hollywood Grand, most people weren’t so much dancing as stumbling to music. Bernie was easily the best man on the floor, but while Ruth followed my cousin avidly, the genie’s feet never quite matched the beat.
At one point, Miss Pinn walked over and wrote the letter ‘R’ on the board. Beau squeezed my hand; my heart leapt with hope. Then Madame Butterfly fluttered over and whispered in the judge’s ear, and the capitol letter was promptly erased.
“Clara Woodsen.” Miss Pinn drew me aside, looking like she’d swallowed a mouthful of bees. “I’m shocked to learn you’ve placed a wager on this contest.”
Hans, I fumed silently. He’d let the cat out of the bag.
“You must realize,” the woman scolded, “this is highly improper.”
“It’s not what you think. There’s no money involved.”
“Nevertheless. We’ll have to cancel immediately and refund all the contest fees.”
“But Miss Pinn!” That last part might have bothered me if I thought I’d live long enough to refund them. “It’s all completely legit. I haven’t done anything to affect the outcome.”
“You gave that Ruth creature your cousin to dance with. That’s a considerable advantage, given the, ahem, selection of gentlemen available this evening.”
“Yes, but—”
“I understood originally that Bernard intended to dance with any lady needing a partner.”
“Originally? Yes, but—”
“Well?” Miss Pinn asked severely. “Has there been need?”
I was beaten. “Yes, ma’am.”
Beau circled the counter to join us. “Madam.” He kissed Miss Pinn’s gloved hand. “Would it help for me to offer my services in place of Mr. Benjamin’s?”
Oh, no! “But Beau,” I cried, “your partners always win!”
“That…that…that….” Miss Pinn flicked open a fan and wafted it urgently in front of her face. “That would….” Her cheeks reddened as Beau clung to her hand.
“I have no personal wager on this contest.” He shivered a wink in my direction. “You may rely upon my integrity.”
“Well, of course. That is, there’s no question….” The w
oman’s corset was laced far too tight. Her face was turning purple.
I ran and fetched a glass of lemonade.
Miss Pinn reluctantly reclaimed her hand. “That would be satisfactory, Mr. Beauregard,” she managed.
“Please, call me Beau.”
“Beau.” Her eyelids fluttered. “But Clara must realize the judging will be scrupulous.” She turned to me. “This Ruth of yours must be unquestionably better than anyone else to make the final cut.”
“I understand.” I nodded. At least we had a chance.
I scurried behind the counter to where Ned Aimsley was serving cocktails. He’d been pushing soft drinks and lemonade, bless his Presbyterian heart, which had been a good thing, given our dwindling supply of liquor.
“Whiskey, please.” Hans raised his silver-tipped cane for service. “Since it appears I’ve got to wait another twenty-five minutes to collect your blood.”
“You cheated!” I hissed. “You tampered with the judges.”
“I told the truth to this lady.” He touched the butterfly girl. “She spoke only truth to Miss Pinn. No court in Hell will take your side on that. Of course” —he tilted his head thoughtfully— “those courts are staffed by demons.”
I clenched my fists, darted a look at the contest, and brightened. Ruth and Bernie were doing better than ever. Beau and his partner, not so good. The film star was true to his word, dancing every bit as well as his lady. But he wasn’t shining. He hadn’t really put his heart into it, and she, sloppily drunk, was no better than Ruth.
Beau changed partners. This one, unfortunately, appeared sober.
The demon offered Madam Butterfly a slim case. “Cigarette?”
She fitted one into her holder and leaned forward. Hans waited until the exact moment Bernie was looking our way to flick open his lighter and spin the metal wheel.
Fire shot six inches into the air.
The butterfly shrieked. My cousin staggered. Ruth followed him precisely as they clobbered another couple, rebounded, and tripped over someone else.
“Oops.” The demon put his lighter away. “I keep forgetting to adjust that pesky wick.”
The song ended. Miss Pinn walked briskly to the chalkboard and inscribed Beau’s partner’s name. The zombie caught my eye and shrugged apologetically.
I checked the clock. Twenty minutes to go.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” King Oliver announced. “We’re going to take a short break before we play the last two dances of the contest semi-finals.”
My cousin squared his shoulders and headed toward the bar. Beau caught Ruth’s arm and tried a few experimental gliding steps, but it was no use. She was lovely, he was more than lovely, but the two of them simply couldn’t connect.
Bernie took a seat at the bar as far from Hans as possible and closed his eyes.
Beau reached across the counter and clasped my hand. “Clara.” His fingers were warm and strong. If he’d been short, or ugly, or even asked me to turn Presbyterian, I’d have loved him for those hands.
“Clara,” he said softly, “I fear you’re going to have to choose.”
Between my life and his. I swallowed. Or rather, between my death and leaving Beau trapped as a zombie. My heart pushed upward into my throat. I didn’t want to die. What’s more, I didn’t want to abandon my sister. At the last moment, before she’d gone downstairs, Priscilla had nodded to me. And all at once, I realized she knew. Knew about the stolen hellfire and booze. Knew I’d made a deal with a demon. Knew about Beau. Priscilla had known, but she hadn’t interfered. She’d left me to work things out like a responsible warlock. Like a responsible adult.
If things went wrong, Eleanor would punish Priscilla for taking that risk.
“Do you know?” Beau squeezed my hand. Heat traveled along my arm. “A week ago, I could have had any woman I chose?”
“Could you?” I bit my lip, blushing.
“Even you, my innocent Voodoo Queen. Even your much less innocent sisters. Do you know why?”
“Because we all love you?”
“Because there is no me.” He smiled desolately. “I’m an illusion. A blank canvas, where women paint their dreams and fall in love. Never permitted to paint dreams of my own. There is no Beau Beauregard and never was. It’s all pretend.”
“You’re real to me,” I told him. “Not at first, maybe. I guess you were imaginary when I made that deal with Hans. But now I care about you for yourself.”
“Perhaps.”
“Couldn’t we stay the way we are?”
Beau sighed. “Do you know whose balcony I fell from, my Voodoo Queen? Last Wednesday night? Before a warlock’s deal turned me into a zombie?”
I shook my head.
“My own. Pushed by the only woman I ever cared for, Milady Bourbon, because I couldn’t bear being so empty anymore.”
King Oliver’s band walked to their instruments. My cousin squared his shoulders, a look of determination on his face.
“There you are, handsome,” Madam Butterfly yodeled at Bernie. “I’ve missed you terribly!” She sauntered toward him, arm-in-arm with Hans.
“Beat it!” Ruth snarled at the woman.
“Don’t be a bore, darling.” The woman waved an unlit cigarette. “I’m absolutely parched for a smoke.”
“Allow me.” Hans raised his hand and flicked the lighter. Fire blazed up, catching the butterfly’s sleeve. In a flash, her whole shawl was aflame.
“Help!” the girl screamed. “Help!”
Ruth grabbed a pitcher of lemonade and dumped it over the woman, dousing the fire. Hans gripped her wrist, calming her cries. The woman stared, hypnotized, into the demon’s eyes.
“So very clumsy,” he said. “I do apologize.”
I raced around the counter to find my cousin passed out on the floor.
Ruth dropped to her knees and pulled Bernie’s head onto her lap. A cloud of multi-colored fans blossomed around us as ladies rushed over to give him air.
“You cheated,” Ruth growled at Hans. “You interfered.”
“The man’s not a contestant.” He shrugged. “Therefore fair game.”
King Oliver and his band picked up their instruments. “If everyone’s okay,” he said, “we’d better start. There’s just enough time for our two last dances.”
Miss Pinn nodded. The band began to play.
Bernie had not revived. I couldn’t blame him. In fact, I felt grateful. The wait was over. We’d given it our best effort and lost.
Ruth looked up, stricken. “What now?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “You were great. You and Bernie both.” I swallowed. “You’ll tell him for me, won’t you? When he wakes up?”
The genie frowned suspiciously. “Why me?”
“Because I’ve finally made my decision.” I took the quarter-vial of hellfire and turned to Beau. “Maybe….” I swallowed. “Maybe we’ll see each other once we’re both dead.”
“Perhaps.” Beau smiled gently.
“If it doesn’t work, if it’s not enough hellfire to release you, and you get left behind, try to remember I did my best.”
The zombie nodded. “I will.”
“Stop!” Ruth’s hand clamped over mine. “Don’t do it. It’s all a pack of lies!”
“Ruth!” Hans said sharply.
“Shut up, you bully!” the genie snapped. “You’re not my boss until this contest ends. And you, you stupid warlock” —she pinched my arm— “you didn’t make Beau Beauregard into a zombie!”
“Of course I—”
“Clara.” My cousin sat up shakily. “Clara, let her speak.”
“You can’t make someone into a zombie,” Ruth said. “I mean, you can, but not by accident. Think about it! All you did was ask Hans not to let him die. Beauregard did this to himself.”
What was she talking about? I frowned at Beau.
“What do you think made him so irresistible all his career? Talent?” The genie scoffed. “Why do you think we were alrea
dy at the Hollywood Grand? Beau Beauregard’s a warlock. Hans has been selling him hellfire for fifteen years.”
“He’s…he’s…?” I stared at Beau’s frozen expression.
“Hans bought his soul over a decade ago. When Beau Beauregard realized he was dying two nights ago—after that stupid fall—he panicked, just like they always do. He summoned us and begged, offering Hans anything in exchange for selling back his soul. And my boss, great humanitarian that he is, accepted.”
“Hans bought Beau’s soul? Years ago?” That was what happened to warlocks most of the time. My Girl’s Guide to Demons was full of warnings.
Ruth dropped my arm and poked the zombie’s chest. “Hans gave back Beau’s soul along with a promise he’d never have to die. All he had to do was deliver you, to make sure the baby warlock across the street burned any excess hellfire, so she’d be completely at the demon’s mercy.
“Beau did that?” I touched my heart, amazed to find it beating. “He promised me?”
“Of course, Beau didn’t expect to become a zombie. And he never guessed the demon would make him your slave. Hans tricked him, all right. But it was Beau’s deal that went sour, not yours. Beau promised to sell you out, believing it meant that he would live forever. ”
I watched the zombie’s features: proud, elegant, painfully aloof. “This is all true, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“I didn’t turn you into a zombie?” How could I have been so dumb? “That’s why you looked surprised when I apologized in Priscilla’s lab.” It seemed a million years ago.
“I told you, I’m no good.” Beau shrugged. “But death isn’t the hell for you it would have been for me. You’re not a demon’s plaything. You’ve never sold your soul.”
“That’s true.” But then, I’d only been a warlock for two days. Who was I to judge? Who knew how low I might have sunk in fifteen years?
“Hans gave you back your soul,” I said slowly, “when he made you a zombie?” He’d have to. A zombie’s soul was bound to its dead corpse. “So, if I do this, you’ll be free?”
Beau nodded. “Genuinely free to end my life in peace.”
“Clara!” Bernie protested.
“Maybe it’s better,” I told my cousin. “Better to end the scheming now than carry on and drag my family down to Hell.” Bernie had often joked I’d be the death of him. I saw, now, I could be worse than that.