Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (7 page)

“Let them,” I scoffed. We were a coven, after all. “Who cares?”

“Our sister, Eleanor, will care.”

My stack tumbled. “Eleanor!” Tins rolled and dropped onto the floor.

The thing to know about my eldest half-sister, Eleanor, the really big thing, is she’s a warlock. I mean, I’m a warlock. I’ve summoned a demon. But Eleanor’s more like the Princess of Hell.

If my career as bar manager dragged Eleanor into a fight with the Feds, the first sound would be a loud squeal of pain from the Federal government. The second would be the gentle murmur of my name….

“That’s bad.” I chased the tins. “Really bad!”

Priscilla sighed. “We cannot let that happen, Clara.”

“No, ma’am.” My heart deflated. “I don’t suppose we can.” All my plans, all my grand schemes were going flatter than a bald tire in a nail factory.

Without the bar to manage, I had nothing. No college, no travel, no film career. All those ideas had already received a firm and final
no
from Eleanor. A girl’s options tend to be somewhat limited when she’s fourth in line to be the next Princess of Hell. That’s why Priscilla, the third in line, had built herself a tomb of test tubes and copper coils.

“I guess,” I said sadly, “I guess I’d better close the bar.”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Priscilla scolded.

I kicked the worktable, scuffing my Mary Janes.

“I know how much this opportunity means to you.” Priscilla tipped her mixture into a tin and wrote
stomach powder
on the lid. “I’m saying you must proceed with caution.”

“Proceed?”

“Avoid unnecessary risks. Don’t make mistakes.”

“I won’t.” Could she suspect I’d stolen hellfire? Summoned a demon? But no, if so, she’d have charged in and taken over by now. “I really won’t!”

“You’re nearly grown, Clara. You deserve this chance to be yourself. To find your path in life.”

I threw my arms around my sister. “Thank you!”

“One chance.” She hugged me. “I can’t do more.”

“I know.”

“If this goes badly, Eleanor will punish us both.”

That stopped me. Eleanor liked a quiet life. That was why the Umbridges, with their paltry ghost magic, were permitted to run the town. The pranks I’d been caught pulling, as a girl, had met with harsh punishment, and this scheme—running the dance contest, changing the Fellowship’s saloon into a speakeasy while my eldest sisters were off in Florida—was no girlish prank.

If all went well, if I had the new speakeasy running smoothly before Eleanor got back in September, she’d be forced to accept it. I had official permission to manage the bar. But if I caused trouble, if I brought the wrath of outsiders down on the coven, Eleanor would be livid. She might literally kill me, though it would cause her pain. And then she’d turn her wrath on Priscilla for letting me run wild.

“I won’t let things turn out badly,” I told Priscilla solemnly. “I swear.”

Something thumped loudly. I heard a clank of bottles, the groan of wood, and then a stack of brandy crates along the back wall wobbled and fell with an enormous, splintering crash.

“I think,” Priscilla said evenly, “whomever you’ve got hidden back there had best come out.” She grasped my elbow and marched me through the lab. Boxes were everywhere, some open, some shut. More than a dozen had fallen, though there was surprisingly little glass or liquor on the floor. Beyond the crates, the coal-room door stood ajar. A strip of light shone through the coal chute onto the floor.

Priscilla began turning that way.

“Hi there!” Ruth stepped in front of her. “I’m Ruthie!”

I held my breath. The
Girl’s Guide
says you can’t tell someone’s a genie unless you see them use magic. But still….

Priscilla nodded. “How do you do.”

“And you’ve met Mr. Beauregard, I’m sure.” Ruth gestured.

A muscular god stepped from the shadows. Not the pale, vacant creature who’d been tending bar, not even the heart-rending icon of the screen, but the real Beau Beauregard, warm, sensitive, and far more beautiful than he’d ever been on film.

“Madame, I beg your pardon.” He spoke with just a trace of French accent. “Your gin, your whiskey, they are such nectar, so
délicieux.
I begged your sister to reveal to me this holy shrine.”

Beau talked.
My mouth fell open.
He smiled.
He looked so human, so alive, now that he’d eaten brains.

Beau raised Priscilla’s hand, turned it, and kissed her palm.

“Oh, well, that’s quite all right,” she almost cooed. “The honor’s mine. It’s charming to hear your voice, Mr. Beauregard.”

“Ah,
oui
. Down here, it is not necessary to act the silent publicity.” He waved at the spilled crates. “I do apologize. You will permit me to pay these damages.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. No difficulty at all.” Priscilla gave me the eye. “Clara will handle it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I eyed Ruthie, in turn, who made a face and started stacking crates.

Beau took Priscilla’s arm. “I see you favor the double vent,” he said, leading her toward a still. “I, myself, dabble in cognac. Perhaps you could advise….”

“Say, listen,” Ruth hissed. “Do you know these crates are empty?”

“Empty?” I grabbed a broom and swept up glass, unable to take my eyes off Beau. “Don’t be ridiculous.” His voice, charisma, and grace were so much more than I’d imagined. More than I’d dreamed.

“At least partly empty.” Ruth raised a lid.

“They were all full last night.” I dumped glass in a can and filled a bucket at the sink.

Priscilla led Beau to the highboy cabinet and began showing him her alchemy ingredients and herbs. She unlatched a hidden compartment, opened a tin and then, giggling of all things, passed it to Beau.

The actor inhaled, clutched his heart in appreciation, and sighed.

I mopped spilled brandy off of the floor. Ruth finished stacking crates.

Something moaned in the coal room.

Could that be wind?
I cocked my head and heard voices arguing outside, against the background of a rumbling motor. A deep rumble, I thought, not Bernie’s car. Someone was in the alley.

Priscilla shut the herb cabinet. Beau eased her toward the stairwell door.

“
Merci beaucoup
, most gracious lady,” he said, bowing. “You are too kind.” He clasped her hand against his chest.

Priscilla simpered. For one instant, my heart burned hot with jealous rage.

“If you permit,” he told Priscilla, “I shall aid in the cleaning before I follow,
non?
” He bent and kissed her fingertips. “
Au revoir?
”

“
Bien sûr
.” Priscilla floated into the landing. “
Au revoir
.”

The door slid shut. We held our breaths, waiting to see if she’d come back.

After a moment’s pause, Beau turned to me.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen.” His feet rapped out a vaudeville shuffle. “Is how we wow the folks back home in Buffalo!”

“Beau!” I raced over and threw my arms around his chest. “Beau you’re alive!”

“Clara!” Beau spun me in a circle. He had the most beautiful blue-gray eyes.

My heart thudded with happiness so hard it hurt my teeth.

“Clara.” Beau dropped me. “You rotten louse!”

“I’m not!” I cried. “It’s not my fault!”

“You dragged me to this hellhole.” He stepped forward, raising one fist.

I backed away.

“Hey,” Ruth called from the coal room.

“I’m ruined. Finished!” Beau snarled. “Trapped mixing cocktails inside this rotting corpse, thanks to you.”

“You’re not rotting. At least, I don’t think so. Not yet!”

“My god. I must look ghastly.” Beau dropped his fist and grabbed the oil lamp off the workbench, carrying it to a gleaming copper still. “Quick!” He stared intently at his reflection. “Fetch some pomade!”

“You look perfect. That was incredible the way you charmed Priscilla.”

“I’m not perfect.” He shrugged his dinner jacket straight. “I’m a
zombie
, you little nit. And you and I are not on speaking terms.”

“Hey,” Ruth called again. “There’s stuff back here you ought to see.”

“I’m so sorry.” I grabbed Beau’s sleeve. “I tried to save you. I didn’t mean to turn you into a zombie. I tried!”

Dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. “
You
turned me into a zombie?”

“A demon tricked me. I’ll make it up to you after the contest. After we teach Ruthie to dance.”

“Not me, sister.” He spit into his palms and swept his hands back through his hair. “I’ve been watching that lady cripple dance partners all morning.”

“But I need help. We’re both in this together. If things go wrong….” Hans would claim ten pints of Woodsen blood. I’d probably survive, thanks to the hellfire left from last night. But if I didn’t, that would be bad for Beau. “Well, I don’t know.” I shuddered. “You might get hurt.”

“That won’t happen,” Beau stated. “Because I won’t be here.”

“Did I mention,” Ruth called, “you ought to come back and take a look?”

“Good bye.” Beau strode away.

I chased him to the secret door. “You can’t leave me.”

“Farewell, Clara.” He turned and took me in his arms.

My insides melted. “Oh.”

“We shall not meet again,” Beau murmured. “Remember, oh Voodoo Queen, what might have been.” His lips touched mine.

Something inside boiled up and burned my skin. Until that instant, I’d never truly lived. My heart, my body, cried out for Beau, were his more thoroughly than they’d ever been my own. I’d have died then and there to bring him back to life.

Beau tipped me sideways. We kissed.

I swooned.

Next thing I knew, my zombie minion was halfway out the door.

“Oh, no! It isn’t safe!” I scrambled after him. “Oh, won’t you listen?”

“That’s showbiz, kid.” Beau kissed his fingertips. “So long!”

“No, wait!” I couldn’t let him go. “Stop right now! That’s an order!”

Beau laughed. And then he realized he couldn’t move.

“You see,” I babbled. “Zombies
belong
. That’s how it works. Zombies, genies, most dead creatures except demons have to belong to someone, and Hans gave you to me.”

He stared, frozen. Bitter resentment crept into his gaze. In one fell swoop, my heart shriveled and died. The full horror, the full cruelty of Hans-the-demon’s trick grew clear. Beau would hate me forever for making him my slave.

“You can move now,” I said sadly. My body ached with shame. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and cry. But Beau was mine. For both our sakes, I had to keep my head. “Don’t try to leave again. Stay in this building. That’s my command.”

“I see.” Beau squared his shoulders, the picture of injured pride.

“Please don’t be angry,” I begged. “I’ll work this out. I’m not sure how, but Bernie and I will think of something. We always do. Give me a chance.”

His face thawed slightly.

“Try to be happy.” I grasped his hand. “I wish I’d saved you. This isn’t perfect, I know.”

“It’s awful. The way I felt before.” Beau squeezed my fingers. “Not speaking. Barely feeling at all. Cut off and hungry. I’d rather die.”

“Not any more you wouldn’t.” Ruth stood beside us. “A zombie’s soul is bound to its dead body. When your corpse is destroyed, your soul gets stuck wherever the flesh rots apart. Trust me, that’s worse.”

“It won’t happen.” I hugged him. “We’re partners. We won’t let it. I won’t!”

“Partners.” Beau turned his face away.

“Meanwhile,” Ruth clamped one hand on each of our shoulders. “I wasn’t kidding. You need to see this. Now.”

We followed Ruth to the coal room. Sunlight slashed through the open chute, dazzling my eyes.

A truck engine rumbled outside.

I blinked. Mr. Vargas’ once tidy coal room was a disaster, with empty liquor crates, loose straw, and stray bottles scattered around. A strange ladder was propped against the wall under the chute.

“Someone’s been here.” I couldn’t believe it. No one in Falstaff was dumb enough to steal Priscilla’s booze. “We’ve been robbed. The liquor’s gone!”

Beau found an open bottle and took a swig. “Want some,
partner?
” He held it out.

I shook my head.

“I tried to tell you,” Ruth said. “And something else is gone, too.
Someone
.” She pointed to the brick wall separating the empty coal storage area from the furnace. “That’s where I left your janitor.”

“Mr. Vargas?” I gasped. “You left him here?”

“Partners.” Beau drained the bottle and searched a crate for more. “Like Echo and Narcissus.”

“But where’d he go?” I asked. “The janitor couldn’t get up and walk away.”

“Or maybe he could.” Ruth growled and a soft light appeared. Dried smears of blood trailed from the brick wall, across the floor, up the ladder, and out the chute. “Considering he’d just been eaten by a zombie.”

“Partners.” Beau found more brandy and gulped it down. “Like Fatty Arbuckle and Virginia Rappe.”

Outside, a motor roared. A set of gears clashed loudly.

I climbed the ladder and tried to peer up through the coal chute but wasn’t tall enough to see outside. “Zombies are not contagious! They’re made with binding spells.” I’d checked this morning in
The Girl’s Guide to Demons
. “Aren’t they?”

“Usually.” Ruth shrugged. “But then, zombies are not
usually
turned loose to eat the staff.”

Beau drained his third bottle of brandy. “Partners like Claire Adams and fucking Rin Tin Tin.” He sank down on a crate.

“Please, Beau, enough.” I climbed back down. “Oh, this is awful! We need to find Mr. Vargas!”

“Woof, woof.” Beau swayed. “Your loyal pooch will search in every well.”

Tires crunched outside. There was a long, shrill shriek of metal.

“I’d better see what’s going on.” Ruth started up the ladder.

“No! Wait!” I grabbed her skirt. “You swear you didn’t hide him? It’s not a genie trick?”

“I haven’t seen or touched your janitor since we left him here,” Ruth said. “I swear.” She climbed upward and pushed her head out through the chute.