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

by Vicky Loebel

  The band finished their song. One dance in the semi-finals left to go.

  “This isn’t your fault,” Bernie insisted. “None of it. It’s all a trick!”

  “I know. Please tell my sisters…I’m sorry.”

  I turned to Beau and placed the hellfire in his hand. “This is my gift,” I said. “Take it freely, with my blessing.”

  Hans chuckled. The genie flung herself into my cousin’s arms.

  “You’re a good girl, Clara.” Beau touched my cheek. “Better than I deserve.” He hesitated and then looked thoughtfully at the vial.

  Hope flared in my heart, and I’m ashamed to say for one instant I thought he’d refuse my sacrifice. But that was not to be. Beau popped the cork and swallowed my last drops of hellfire down. And then he closed his eyes and whispered a wish…or maybe a prayer…or a spell. Silver mist began to rise from his skin.

  A spell, I thought. His lips were moving.

  Would Beau collapse right here? Would he simply drop dead?

  “Clara.” Miss Pinn jostled my elbow. “I’d like permission to close the semi-finals early. It’s disappointing, with only three couples as finalists, but I honestly believe we’ve seen enough.”

  “Go ahead.” I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Miss Pinn walked toward the bandstand.

  “I’m going to enjoy killing you,” the demon purred.

  I didn’t care. I watched Beau’s last moments and knew I’d chosen right. The man had been lovely before, but now, as silver turned to gold and light flooded his skin, he became genuinely glorious, as if he’d entered the kingdom of heaven.

  Beau smiled at me; I saw peace in his eyes.

  And then…he didn’t die.

  Hans rumbled dangerously. Ruth slapped her hand over her mouth and laughed.

  “One moment!” Beau called after Miss Pinn. “A moment, please. I’d like to finish the contest.” He turned to Hans. “I got the hellfire away from your baby warlock. Our deal’s concluded.”

  I stared at Beau, not understanding.

  The film star clasped the genie’s hand. Golden light extended outward and enveloped Ruth. I didn’t know if it was real, or magic, or even holy, but it was breathtaking.

  The room fell silent.

  “By the way. About that bet with Clara?” Beau smiled at the demon. “You’re going to lose.”

  He led the genie onto the floor. The space around them emptied.

  “Maestro.” Beau raised one hand and struck a matador’s pose. Fans flashed open around the room as ladies gasped for air. “The tango!”

  The band paused briefly and then began to play. Beau swept Ruth into his arms.

  Butterfly girl swooned, watching. My cousin eased her to the floor.

  Beau and the genie danced. When they’d done this before, it had been lifeless, clumsy. But now they dipped and turned in perfect harmony, bound by the golden glow. Forward and back they glided, two creatures trapped in eternal passion, lost to the living world. Two lovers, the dance whispered, who might go on forever, and yet would never know each other’s touch again.

  Two souls that, having merged, must ever be apart.

  Fans fluttered. Men drew handkerchiefs and patted their brows. More than one woman sank, senseless, into a chair. For those few moments, we all were tragic lovers. For that short while we understood that hope is darkness, and darkness teaches us to hope.

  The music dwindled. With one last sweeping flourish, Beau twirled Ruth backward and landed on one knee.

  Silence echoed, softened by gentle sobs.

  The judges slipped into a tight, whispering group.

  “Well, who’d have thunk,” Hans murmured dryly.

  I spun to face him.

  “You meet a talented young warlock, invest years and painful quarts of blood training, testing, encouraging the man to be selfish and vain, and then he meets a chit of a girl and chucks it in the fire.”

  “Beau’s still a zombie?”

  “Oh, yes.” Hans’ eyes narrowed. “A lake of hellfire won’t set him free after tonight. I’ll see to that.”

  “He used his dying wish to save me?”

  “Or got cold feet.” The demon shrugged. “That was always a weakness in my plan. Release, for zombies, is like the weather; everybody talks about dying, but nobody does anything about it.”

  “You’re not taking this as hard as I expected.”

  “Shh.” The demon raised a finger as Miss Pinn reached the bandstand. “Let’s find out who won our bet.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” The woman cleared her throat. “As you know, it’s been an eventful weekend. Many contestants fell ill to…to….” Her voice faltered. I looked over and saw Gladys standing by the door. “…to stomach trouble,” Miss Pinn concluded weakly. “As a result, dancing has not been up to par. I’m closing the semi-finals with only three gentlemen and three ladies qualified to move on.”

  Three and three? I glanced at the board. Ruth’s name was not listed.

  Nobody spoke. I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “That said” —Miss Pinn’s voice trembled— “there’s been an exhibition tonight, the likes of which I never expected to see this side of Paradise. Although he wasn’t strictly competing, Mrs. Lund, Mr. Aimsley, and I, agree it would be sacrilege to overlook perfection. We therefore declare Beau Beauregard and Ruth to be our first-place winning couple.” She patted her eyes.

  A sigh spread through the room.

  “This contest is closed. Thank you all for attending.” Miss Pinn stepped off the bandstand.

  “Well, well.” Hans gripped my arm. “I believe I may have got you on a technicality.”

  “We didn’t final?” Ruth stepped in front of the judges. “We won?”

  “Yes, dear.” Miss Pinn patted her arm. “Congratulations.”

  “How can we win without making the finals?” Ruth asked. “That isn’t right.”

  “Winning is better, dear,” Miss Pinn assured her.

  “No, it’s not.” Ruth stepped closer. “I’ve got to final! You’ve got to write it on the board!”

  “Perhaps—”

  “I’m not kidding,” the genie growled.

  Miss Pinn fell back a step.

  “Madam, if you don’t mind.” Beau clasped the judge’s hand. “As a favor?”

  “Well…if you ask, Beau…I just don’t know….”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Mr. Aimsley spoke for the first time all night. “I’ll do it!” He walked over and wrote Ruth on the board.

  The genie squealed. She kissed Beau quickly and then ran to Mr. Aimsley and kissed him slowly. The crowd began to cheer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen?” King Oliver leaned forward. “Another song?”

  The band lifted their instruments. Miss Pinn launched herself into Beau’s arms. He led her onto the floor, amiably enough. But all she got was a foxtrot.

  “Ah well.” Hans shrugged. “You beat me after all.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “I prefer to win.” He smiled. “But losing is part of the game.”

  “But you were going to kill me.”

  “Yes, certainly. I would have kept my word.” Hans took my hand. “The threat of death adds spice. Don’t you agree?”

  I shivered. The man was frighteningly compelling. Frighteningly attractive. Especially when we touched.

  I put my hands behind my back and stepped away.

  “Well.” Hans bowed. “If that’s everything, I’ll bid adieu. Places to go…warlocks to torment. Please tell my soft-headed genie I expect her back promptly at dawn.”

  I followed Hans as far as the spiral staircase. “Wait!” I swallowed. “That isn’t all.”

  Hans arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “I need hellfire.” My half-sisters might finish their audit at any moment. There wasn’t time for an elaborate bargain. “Can I— Can I interest you? In another deal?”

  “I’m very interested.”

  I offered
him my hand. “Upstairs?”

  Hans laced his fingers into mine. His grip, far more commanding than Beau’s, was warmer and, despite the fact I had every reason to despise him, deeply appealing. I started up the stairs feeling…excited? …guilty? …terrified? I wasn’t sure. My heart belonged to Beau, but this was something the zombie and I could never share.

  “Hold it!” Bernie shoved in front of us on the steps. “Stop!”

  Hans brushed past him.

  “Clara.” My cousin grabbed me. “We’ll talk to Eleanor. I’ll take the blame. She’ll let us work this off some other way. You don’t have to…to….” He couldn’t say it.

  “I know.” And he was right. “But this is what I chose, Bernie. It’s what I knew was coming, from the start. The warlock’s out of the bottle and won’t fit back.”

  I looked for Beau, but he was lost in the crowd. Would I wind up like him someday? Selfish? Miserable? Begging a demon for a chance to trick some idiot child?

  Over my family’s dead body, I suspected. I grinned and squeezed my cousin’s arm. “I don’t think you’d fit in that bottle either. Good night.”

  I led the demon to my favorite room. We stepped inside and bolted the heavy door.

  “Macushla.” Hans touched my face.

  “Wait,” I said. “I’m not…. I’m not….”

  Hans ran his thumb over my cheek. Part of me hated him. Part of me already longed to throw myself into his arms.

  “You needn’t fear this, Clara,” Hans said, and I was pretty sure he spoke the truth. It was the one thing demons did, my Girl’s Guide said, that never caused regret.

  “I’m going to pretend you’re Beau,” I told him.

  The demon chuckled. “Oh, no.” He kissed my forehead.

  Excitement branched, like lightening, down my spine, leaving intense, tingling pleasure in its place.

  “Oh, no, you’re not.” Hans put his arm around me and took me to the bed. We sat together, very close.

  My heart fluttered with anticipation. I could get to like this. All at once, I understood why Bernie was so afraid of hellfire. I could get to like it too much.

  But that was a risk I’d have to take. I ran my fingers through my hair. I was a warlock. I understood about demons and sex.

  But I was not the idiot child who’d summoned this creature two nights ago.

  “All right.” I slid away from Hans and crossed my arms. “Let’s make a deal.”

  XVIII: I’d Rather Charleston

  “Never take a wife till thou hast a house (and a fire) to put her in.”

  —Benjamin Franklin.

  (qtd. The Boys Book of Boggarts)

  Bernard:

  SOME MEN ARE BORN GREAT, some have greatness thrust upon them, while still others find a convenient grate to hide behind. But most people, I mused, as Gladys delivered coffee and sandwiches to my reserved table in the darkest reaches of the Fellowship’s bar, spend their lives greatly confused.

  I contemplated the sandwiches while Gladys removed the liquid calories I’d been planning to consume. Eating without having to outwit my cousin hardly seemed worth the effort, and I did not enjoy the thought of what young C. was doing instead of filching my food.

  I pushed my chair back, listened to the best jazz I was ever likely to hear, and tried not to wince each time somebody lit a match. This was becoming easier as my newfound fear of fire faded into the background terror I’d been living with all my life.

  “You should eat.” Gladys sat down across from me at the table.

  She hardly ever does that. I raised the place my eyebrows used to be.

  “You’ll feel hungry when the hellfire wears off.”

  “It has already.” At least the sex-appeal portion was gone; ladies no longer clustered around. Or perhaps the hellfire was still with me, and I’d simply been outclassed. Beau Beauregard held the entire room in thrall. Men imitated him. Band members smiled upon him. Women flitted, one after another, into his net as he swept effortlessly back and forth across the dance floor, trading partners every ten or fifteen seconds.

  “You are displeased,” Gladys observed.

  “No, sorry.” I toyed with my coffee. “Not with you.”

  “Miss Clara is old enough to make her own decisions.”

  “She’s an idiot child.” An idiot child whom I’d failed to protect.

  I pushed the coffee cup away.

  “She completed her first deal successfully. Many new warlocks panic and settle for unfavorable terms.”

  “And this deal’s favorable?”

  “I expect it will be, yes.” Gladys cleared her throat. “Do you have romantic objections?”

  “You’re not serious. I changed her diapers.” At least I’d stuck her with the pins.

  “It happens sometimes between cousins.”

  I sighed ruefully. “That would be like falling in love with my commanding officer.” Terrifying. “Bad for morale.”

  Gladys held out my cigarette case and lighter. I hesitated, and then lit a Lucky with barely shaking hands.

  “The kitchen staff can manage on its own.” Gladys rose from her chair. “I believe I will go home and starch the linen. Mr. Gibraltar and his associates will be needing a place to stay.”

  “What? With us?” I sat up straighter. “At our house? Why?”

  “There will be more outsiders in Falstaff soon, more bootleg liquor, thanks to the Hollywood Grand Hotel. I believe we’ll all be happier working with someone who’s grown accustomed to our ways.”

  “You’re joking!” I exclaimed. Gladys does joke sometimes. I’m almost sure she does. The problem is, she looks and sounds the same as when she’s deadly serious. “He tried to kill me. For all intents and purposes the man burned me to death.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Her eyes flickered. “Neither will he.”

  I crossed my arms.

  Gladys waited in stony silence.

  “All right. Fine. Go ahead.” As if she needed permission. As if anyone in my family gave two figs what I thought.

  The golem turned to leave.

  “By the way,” I said grudgingly. “Thanks for lengthening my trousers.” An inch of flashing sock might have been my undoing.

  “I had no choice.” She shrugged. “You’d gotten too big for your britches.”

  Gladys walked to the door, greeted the elder cousins, and turned toward the kitchen, presumably to collect Stoneface and his men.

  The elder cousins? My gloom evaporated in a puff of panic. They must have finished the audit. I searched for some way to sneak out and warn Clara.

  If I ducked low and crawled behind the tables….

  “Bernard.” Eleanor’s regal finger crooked at me.

  Somewhere, someday, I’m going to live a life that isn’t ruled by women.

  I sighed and shuffled toward the stairs. Behind me, music and conversation dwindled. By the time I’d reached the hall, the bar was silent as a tomb.

  “This is a private matter,” Eleanor addressed the dancers gently. “Don’t let us disturb you.”

  Like a phonograph record spun in reverse, the merrymaking backed up and resumed. The middle cousins, Dottie and Lottie, tiptoed away and found a place to sit, enthralled, beside the band. Not overly chatty, our Woodsen twins, but they did, between them, have one good head for music.

  Eleanor’s cool gaze met mine. “I’d like an explanation of what’s going on.” She flicked a finger at Beau. “Starting with that.”

  The that in question left its dance partner and walked our way.

  “Ah, yes. Well,” I said sagely. “That’s a zombie.”

  “I know it’s a zombie,” Eleanor replied. “Why is it here?”

  “Well….” I hesitated. “You see…I don’t quite know how to….”

  “Try.”

  “All right.” I took a breath. “You see, when a mommy zombie and a daddy zombie love each other very much—”

  Eleanor slapped me. Not a hard slap. More like the gentle jolt
that an electric eel might give a smaller, stupider eel it catches playing with knives. It was a matter of mere moments before my toes uncurled and life trickled into my tongue.

  “Bernardyouidiot.” A ringing sound blurred her words. “If I have to execute my baby sister over something you’ve been involved in, you will regret it.”

  “Sister,” Priscilla interrupted. “I really think….”

  Eleanor turned toward Priscilla, whose thoughts appeared to dry to dust.

  “Perhaps I can be of service.” The zombie joined us. “Beau Beauregard.” He took my eldest cousin’s fingers. “At your command.”

  The eldest cousin pursed her lips, and if the world had wanted proof that she was no mere mortal, it had it now as Beau bent over the woman’s upturned palm, kissed it, and got an eel-eyed ogling in response.

  “Mr. Beauregard,” Priscilla said faintly, “has been tending bar during our contest.”

  “A zombie bartender?” Eleanor watched Beau nod. “Is that not less glamorous than sweeping women across a burning desert on the silver screen?”

  So she had recognized him. What’s more, the hand Beau held exhibited a touch of pink. Perhaps the eel had human wriggling in its veins.

  “Bartending is less glamorous, I admit.” The zombie turned on his full wattage smile. “But the company more than makes up for any loss.”

  “Ah. Yes.” The pink color rose to Eleanor’s cheeks as she retrieved her hand. “That’s very well. But” —she swung on me, and everything was eels again— “we have the matter of stolen hellfire to address.”

  “Stolen?” Clara’s voice rang down the spiral stairs. “Was something stolen? Whatever could it be?”

  The voice was followed by a pair of high heels strapped around sheer stockings, rolled to below the knee. Above the stockings floated an asymmetrical green skirt. Gold beads sewn onto beige netting branched upward along a gauzy, sleeveless dress, forming the shapes of stems and leaves. And then the rest of Clara plunged into view: rouged, powdered, wearing a waist-length string of pearls.

  My cousins gasped. I felt a blow and shuddered from the shock. The pale ringlets that had cascaded over Clara’s shoulders, the rag-rolled curls that were her sisters’ secret pride, were gone. In their place, young C. sported a girlish bob in perfect finger waves.