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

by Vicky Loebel

  Priscilla staggered. The zombie caught her in his arms.

  No Woodsen woman had ever docked the mane.

  Behind Clara limped Hans the demon, looking smug, and behind him padded Ruth, watching the scene with laughing yellow eyes.

  “Hello, Hans,” Eleanor said icily. “I hope you haven’t been causing trouble while I was gone.”

  “Not as much as I’d have liked.” He smiled. “Back early, aren’t you?” The demon reached into his pocket and drew out a watch. It was not the timepiece, however, that riveted our attention. All eyes were fastened on the exquisitely crafted, strawberry-blonde fob from which the watch dangled. A fob woven from human hair exactly Clara’s shade.

  “Good gracious.” Hans tucked the timepiece away, leaving the fob exposed. “The night’s still young.”

  My cousin Eleanor is often quiet. I’d never before seen her speechless.

  Clara produced a vial of silver hellfire and walked to Priscilla. “This is for you.” She hugged her sister tightly. “Thank you for trusting me.”

  Priscilla clutched the vial, still staring at the fob. “But Clara,” she whispered, “you didn’t sell your beautiful hair?”

  “That’s not the end of this, young lady.” Eleanor regained the power to oppress. “Theft is a serious matter. It’s not simply a question of repayment—”

  Clara turned toward her eldest sister. “And this.” She produced a second glittering vial. “Makes 100% interest on my loan. That ought to even things up.”

  “Two vials?” Eleanor frowned at Hans. “Two vials?”

  “What can I say?” The demon shrugged. “Your sister is enormously persuasive.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Eleanor muttered under her breath.

  “So we’re even?” Clara asked. “And I’m a success? No, wait.” She raised her chin, the movement emphasized by her bobbed hair. “You admit I’ve been a stunning success running the bar?”

  “You’ve stunned me, certainly. The rest we’ll leave until I’ve seen the bar’s accounts.”

  “They’re ready, any time,” young C. fibbed shamelessly. “Until then” —she pressed the vial of hellfire into her sister’s hand— “put that in your pipe and smoke it!”

  Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, but she took the vial.

  Clara reached for her zombie. “I guess we’re stuck together.”

  Beau smiled. “So it appears.”

  “Would you…?” Her confidence evaporated. “I mean, you don’t have to. But will you please dance with me? Just once?”

  Beau led Clara onto the floor. There was no golden glow connecting them, but I suppose they shared a different bond.

  King Oliver grinned broadly. “What’ll it be, Beau?” he called. “Another tango?”

  Beau bowed to Clara. “My queen?”

  Clara hesitated, looking self-conscious as everybody stared. Then she squared her bare shoulders and tossed the head. “Forget tangos.” She winked across the room at me. “I’d rather Charleston!”

  The music started. The crowd closed in around the dancing couple.

  My elder cousins took their leave: Priscilla, shell-shocked, slipping down to her lab and Eleanor, accepting Hans’ arm, off to inspect the new hotel.

  I sat down on the spiral staircase and watched the party roar. Two days ago the janitor, Mr. Vargas, would have sat just below me. One day ago, I’d been incinerated in an icehouse fire. I lit a cigarette and contemplated life’s vagaries while Ruth strolled over and sat beside me.

  “She didn’t do it, you know.” Ruth snuggled against me. “Sleep with Hans. She just gave up her hair.”

  “Not just her hair.” I grimaced. Clara had sold the demon her childhood in every sense but one. “Is that better or worse?”

  “It’s different.” The genie laughed. “Who knows? Of course, this way, he’s got a chance to get the other prize next time around.”

  My palm tickled. I rubbed the ankh tattoo and felt my gaze dragged down the hallway toward the kitchen. Literally dragged. Gaspar had spotted Luella, leaning forlornly against a wall.

  The tickle became a burn. “All right,” I said, “come out.”

  It wasn’t as bad as last time. Some minor gagging, a slightly searing pain, a puff of ectoplasm from the tattoo, and then Gaspar emerged, choking on wisps of ethereal smoke, brushing his Zorro clothes into position.

  We traded irritated looks.

  “You’re going to have to learn to do that better.” The same words came from both our mouths.

  Ruth sniggered.

  I sighed. “Go, talk to Luella.” I told Gaspar. “Take all the time you want. No need to hurry back.”

  The ghost nodded. “Stay in the building, though. I think my range is very short.” He hurried down the hall and drew Luella aside into the stairway alcove.

  So much for slipping home early. Although with Stoneface Gibraltar moving in, the Benjamin Bungalow had lost much of its charm.

  I closed my eyes and listened to King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band.

  Ruth snuggled close and kissed my cheek. “You’re cute.”

  “You knew,” I said. “You knew right from the start that Beau Beauregard had been a warlock.”

  “Of course I did. I’ve known the man for years.” She kissed my ear. “We’re both the same, you and me.” She kissed below the ear as well. “We’re not as dumb as people think.”

  I frowned.

  “So how about it?” Ruth slipped off the step into my lap. “You’re here. I’m here. We’ve got all night.” She wrapped her arms around my neck. “Want to escort me up the stairs?”

  “Ruth, I—”

  She kissed my lips. We spent a moment in silent negotiation.

  “I promise,” Ruth said when one of us came up gasping for air, “nothing we do, or say, or give each other between now and sunrise will ever be used against you.”

  She moved suggestively. We practiced holding my breath again.

  I had to admit, despite her flaws, I found Ruthie appealing. I didn’t trust her. I didn’t entirely like how she’d behaved—letting me burn to death and all—but there was an innocent quality beneath the flashing claws that made me feel protective.

  “Can I have my tooth back?”

  “Nope.” Ruth licked my ear, purring. “It’s mine.”

  “I’m not the prize you think,” I warned. “It won’t be my first time.”

  “I don’t want prizes, Bernie.” That was the first time she’d spoken my name. “I just want nice.”

  Color me prime sap of the century. I lifted the woman and carried her upstairs. We picked a room facing the Hollywood Grand and then stood side-by-side, watching the bustle: the cars, the lights and laughing crowds. Strange to think that, with all that went on here, the bulk of the party had been across the street.

  King Oliver’s jazz thumped through the floor. We kicked off shoes and felt the beat reach up as I slipped off my jacket.

  Ruth undid my tie and stood holding the ends.

  I touched her dress, feeling an awkward tenderness, a longing I wasn’t sure how to express.

  “No claws,” I grumbled. “No animal anything.”

  Ruth smiled. “Okay.”

  “Also,” I swallowed nervously. “As far as—”

  “C’mon, lover.” She yanked my tie.

  I floundered forward to the bed. The genie tripped me, flipped me, and landed on my chest.

  Soft lips began to move along my throat. “Let’s tango!”

  Turns out, she had some dance techniques to teach me, after all.

  Epilogue: Do it Again

  Love conquers some.

  —The Girl’s Guide to Demons

  Clara:

  BEAU DANCED WITH ME for nearly three hours. That was the happiest I’d ever been or ever expect to be again in this life. The knowledge we’d each sacrificed everything on the other’s behalf washed clean the poisonous fact he was my minion. The zombie owned my heart. What did it matter, if I controlled his mind?
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br />   After we danced, I got a blanket and bottle of whiskey and led Beau to the widow’s walk up on the roof to watch the glittering Hollywood Grand Hotel. King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band had said goodbye to us, once and for all, and moved to the more profitable rooftop stage across the street. Light blazed, music pounded, and jazz cascaded over the golden waterfall balconies where couples danced.

  We sat together under the stars. The town had changed. Falstaff was filling with gangsters, celebrities, and sweeping industrial curves. The outside world was here to stay.

  I snuggled close to Beau. “I’ve been thinking,” I said. “About Luella wanting booze. Her family handles dead bodies all the time. We may be able to make a deal for brains. Sometimes, at least.”

  Beau squeezed my hand.

  “I’ll never love anyone but you, forever,” I vowed. “I mean, sooner or later, I’ll probably wind up in some demon’s bed.” That was the way things worked with warlocks. “But my heart’s yours as long as you desire it.”

  “Thank you, my Voodoo Queen.” Beau brushed my cheek. “I’ll keep it safe.”

  “Are you sorry?” I asked. “Will you regret staying?”

  “Possibly,” he admitted. “But I’ve learned a lesson, Clara. Life isn’t something we choose to keep or toss away. Life is a gift we earn.”

  “Is it?”

  He smiled. My heart caught in my throat.

  “I plan” —Beau kissed my fingertips— “to be extremely worthy.”

  The End

  ****

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  ****

  Also Available From Vicky Loebel

  Keys to the Coven

  The Road to Hell is Paved with Bad Intentions

  Get ready for Keys to the Coven, a tightly plotted, spicy urban fantasy set in an original universe where karma is power, sex is karma, and it's not who you know but whose soul you own that matters.*

  To become a demon, you must die in complete and utter despair.

  Three hundred years ago, Max passed that test with flying colors and joined the afterlife resolving never again to have innocent blood on his hands. Now Max has been given the job of breaking Felicity Woodsen’s family curse. But what she doesn't know, what Max can't bring himself to tell her, is that completing his mission almost certainly means her death.

  "A witty urban-fantasy debut...

  The entertaining start of an epic supernatural series."-Kirkus Reviews

  Sample: Keys to the Coven – Prologue

  HELLFIRE ROARED THROUGH the pedestrian underpass, fusing concrete to glass. Max dove forward, flattening himself into nonexistent cover, hunching head and neck into his demon-skin jacket. A flaming nest of what had once been baby birds thudded to the bubbling pavement. He kicked off the smoldering remains of socks, wriggled bound wrists over his naked butt and past his feet, and smeared a handful of sticky asphalt—ouch—onto the hemorrhaging gash much too high for comfort on the inside of his thigh.

  The tunnel reverberated to a low, menacing chant.

  Witches. Crap. On his trail, a lot closer than he’d intended.

  Max worked his wrists free of shimmering ropes. He hated when his own blood was used against him. Hated even more when it was used against him during really good sex.

  “Demon!” A woman’s voice rang out. “We have you cornered. Surrender the soulstones!”

  Most of all, he hated when really good sex turned out to be a trap.

  Max darted a look up the exit stairwell, retreating hastily as rubble cascaded down and blocked his escape. He reached into his jacket, fished out a pair of slacks and hobbled into them, feet skipping over hot tar, pain jolting his groin as he jogged forward to inspect the stairwell he’d come down. Two witches loomed against the night sky: the one who’d knifed him and the stranger who’d made a conflagration from his demonic blood.

  Max took out his cell phone. “Kate.”

  “Darling,” his Personal Spiritual Assistant breathed over the line. “I want you.”

  “I’m in no mood for sarcasm, Kate.” Particularly sarcasm about his botched seduction. Max dropped flat as a second jet of fire roared past. He’d stopped bleeding; the hellfire fueling the spell hadn’t come from him. That made the stranger a sorceress, a rare and dangerous witch who could summon demonic blood straight from Hell. Double crap. He jumped up and kicked off the burning slacks, beating out flames on his black turtleneck. Max’s jacket was indestructible, his body slightly less so. Everything else went up like kindling.

  “Darling, let me slide my mouth around your hot, thick—”

  “How are you coming with that assignment?” Max prompted.

  “I found the orb, boss.” His PSA sighed dramatically. “It’s in a locked safe.”

  He searched the jacket for his remaining pair of slacks, wondering if it was worth putting them on, cursing silently as an incautious shift in weight sent him down to one knee. This was getting embarrassing.

  “Guarded by magical wards,” Kate continued.

  Which was why she was in the coven stealing the orb while Max was imitating the marshmallow portion of a camping trip.

  “Immersed in salt water.”

  “Ah.” He frowned. Demons weren’t good in water, and Kate was demi, a half-demon indentured servant. She couldn’t even exist in salt water.

  Max reached in his pocket and touched the marble-sized soulstones he’d retrieved from the coven. Eight stones, each containing the enslaved spirit of a living human being. They were worth a fortune in karma, but the orb he’d sent Kate after was the real prize. The orb was used to manufacture new soulstones.

  “Don’t you carry diving charms?”

  “Surrounded by hellfire-devouring piranhas,” Kate finished.

  “Oh.” Nothing for it then; they’d have to scratch. And since the taskmistress who issued Max’s orders seldom took oops for an answer, that meant trying again tomorrow or the night after without the dubious advantage of surprise.

  A paper dove fluttered down the unblocked stairs and landed on sticky pavement. Oily white liquid began to bubble from its folds.

  “Which is why,” Kate said, “I had to burn half my charms getting the stupid orb. I hope this job covers expenses, boss, because that’s a mighty big chunk of karma.”

  “You have it?” Max grimaced. The pool of white goo expanded and he retreated toward the collapsed stairwell. “That’s good. Because I could use some help—”

  A third round of hellfire turned the underpass into an inferno. Liquid splattered, scalding his legs. Max ducked and rolled, grabbing a cloth from his pocket, scrubbing off the sticky stuff as it ate into his skin. Too late, he caught the flash of his dropped cell phone vaporizing in the advancing white pool.

  There wasn’t going to be help from Kate.

  Max edged backward toward the blocked exit. He’d led the witches away from Kate when things started to go wrong at the coven, away from city streets where people might get hurt. A deserted pedestrian underpass had seemed like a safe haven at the time.

  Across the tunnel, the sorceress descended in a garish swirl of orange and purple skirts, her face obscured by a veil. One hand stretched forward, creating a shimmering blue ward that formed a shield against irate demons and goo. The other clutched the coven-witch Max had rather spectacularly failed to seduce.

  “Surrender the soulstones,” the sorceress intoned, “or meet your doom!”

  Doom was bad. Doom seldom left room for negotiation. Max stepped back as sputtering liquid lapped close to his feet. Demons were tough. Th
ey could endure practically anything. He glanced at the white place where his cell-phone had disappeared. Probably not vaporization, though.

  Hellfire collected around the sorceress’ form. Who was this woman? Max caught a flash of golden curls under her veil. She thought anonymity would protect her, would prevent him—if he escaped—from exacting revenge.

  Sadly, she was correct.

  Max raised the bag of soulstones over the goo. Kate would be unhappy if he destroyed them here. His boss, Margaret Elizabeth, would be less happy by far.

  Still, bargains were a demon’s stock in trade.

  “Withdraw your spell,” Max said. “Or we both lose the stones.”

  “I’ll split them,” she countered airily. “You keep half.”

  Four stones. Four slaves to pass up his chain of command.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “You can have your bedmate.” She shoved the coven-witch through her shimmering ward. “I’ll throw the slut who betrayed you into our bargain.”

  The woman teetered, shrieking, at the edge of the goo.

  Rebecca. Max’s thigh twinged painfully. Not some nameless human. A person he’d connected with at the most intimate level. Rebecca’s deepest wish had been a night of extravagant pleasure.

  Although, in retrospect, apparently not with him.

  She turned and pounded frantically on the impenetrable blue shield.

  “You can have her, body and soul,” the sorceress offered. “You have my word.”

  Max didn’t trade in souls. “No.” And he had no use for an unwilling body. “How about this?” Destroying demons—destroying anyone without just cause—carried significant penalties. “Take your goo and leave now so you don’t get stuck with a whopping karmic debt.” He stepped back and hit the blocked exit. “In exchange, my Personal Spiritual Assistant won’t hunt you down and rip off your head.” Anonymity was no protection from Kate who, without Max to restrain her, would simply rip the head off every witch she could find and hope for the best.