Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) Page 14

  The icehouse groaned. Water ran down the blocks of ice like boiling tears.

  “Oh.” Ruth wrung her hands. “Oh, sweetie!”

  Heat raked my skin. I threw my arms over my face.

  “Sorry old man.” Gaspar shimmered through heavy smoke. “For a minute, I thought we’d make it out alive.”

  “Is this—” I wheezed. “Will you—” Would Gaspar burn? His ankh was carved from wood.

  The ghost shrugged. “I’ve been advising the family to invest in bone magic for centuries.”

  Flames chased each other along the rafters. A blazing board dropped on my thigh.

  I screamed.

  The genie’s hand plunged through my mouth. I felt a pinch…and then nothing.

  No fire, no searing lungs, no pain.

  “I’m taking this.” Ruth held one of my molars. “Is that a deal?”

  “Absolutely!” I blinked through streaming eyes.

  “You’re a swell kid.” She kissed my head. “Look me up if you’re around after you die.” She started to change to mist.

  “Wait!” I pulled off my wristwatch and placed it in her hand. “Give this to Gladys.”

  “Eventually.” The genie nodded once and vanished.

  Fire howled almost too loud to hear. I’d stoked a locomotive, once, riding with Clara’s dad. The ash and noise had been like this, minus the bubbling blisters along my skin. My body was shivering uncontrollably but, true to Ruth’s promise, I felt no pain.

  “I think,” I told the ghost, “those trading cards I owe you are a lost cause.”

  Gaspar jumped up and swung his épée at a low block of ice. “Help me!” He swung again, carving a tiny notch. “I’ve got a plan.”

  I tried to stand, tumbled off of the coffins, and landed, choking, on knees and elbows on the smoldering floor.

  My arms and legs began to char.

  The ghost hacked wildly. He had a space three inches deep carved in the ice. I crept toward Gaspar, leaving strips of myself behind. The smell of burning hair and roasting meat, roast Bernie, clogged my brain and I pitched forward. In one last herculean effort, I tugged Luella’s ankh off of my neck and wrapped it in my hand. The fist holding the ankh reached just as far as Gaspar’s little cave.

  “Good luck, old man,” I told the ghost.

  The icehouse roof collapsed. Boards rained down fire. I felt a rush of pure, sweet air and then white, holy incandescence blossomed and tossed me upward.

  It was the light of heaven. The glorious dawn of suns.

  I floated gladly, wishing my cousins well.

  XIII: Who’s Sorry Now?

  “Do not concern yourself with things outside your door.”

  —Chinese proverb

  (qtd. The Girl’s Guide to Demons)

  Clara:

  WE SPENT A LONG EVENING searching for Bernie first, then Gladys, and then finally Priscilla, who wasn’t downstairs in her lab after all. The town had gone mad, some people drinking and dancing drunkenly in the street, many fighting or staggering blindly in groups. Some—nearly all the visiting actors and musicians—valiantly fighting small nuisance fires that had been set by vandals.

  Mary Pickford and Marion Davies took over the Hollywood Grand’s ballroom, serving coffee and sandwiches, setting up cots for volunteers. Douglas Fairbanks rescued two urchins from a burning shed. William Randolph Hearst strode back and forth, gleefully rubbing his hands, issuing edicts to mobs of reporters while little Grover Aimsley dogged his heels. When Grover’s legs gave out, the newspaperman carried him on his shoulders first, then in his arms, not letting go until the boy was tucked safely into a cot so, try as I might, I couldn’t dislike the old windbag.

  Ruth, after we started looking for Bernie, spent the evening in and out of tears. I dragged her everywhere that I could think of, starting with the Hollywood Grand, the genie changing to hellfire so she could search each room unobserved, and then moving on to the Woodsen homestead, Luella’s house, the Umbridge Funeral Emporium, and even the grounds around the smoldering remains of their icehouse—one of the many outbuildings that had been burned by vandals.

  Each time we failed to find my cousin, I felt more frantic, less certain I still trusted my best friend. Would Luella risk starting a blood feud with my family? Had she convinced herself that I’d already started one because of George? Once that doubt hit me, we repeated the entire search, this time looking for Stoneface Gibraltar. But he and his men appeared to have left town.

  Around midnight, Falstaff’s electric plant broke down and the streets plunged into darkness. People began shuffling and wringing their hands.

  Where was Priscilla? All my life, I’d always had family around me. Now there was no bossy advice, no criticism, no one who might know what was going on, except for Hans. I was sure the demon would be delighted if I begged him for help. And I was pretty sure that begging Hans would only make things worse.

  At one a.m., with no place left to search, Ruth and I slunk back to the Fellowship. Beau Beauregard was standing forlornly in the open doorway, watching candles flicker at the Hollywood Grand.

  “All right. I want the truth!” I led the genie to the bar and lit a pair of oil lamps. “Has Hans taken Priscilla? Where’s Bernie? What’s going on? I order you to tell me everything you know.”

  “I can’t.” The genie hunched her shoulders. “I can’t discuss my master’s plans.”

  “I’m your master.” I grasped her chin. “And I want facts.”

  Ruth winced. For once I felt the supernatural connection that I’d inherited as her temporary boss. It wasn’t sweet, not like my link to Beau. This feeling was harsh and dirty, as if I were beating a child.

  “I can’t tell you. He cut those words out of my soul.” Ruth whimpered and I let her go. “I can’t help you. I can’t say. I don’t know.” She squirmed. “It’s not like he consults with me.”

  “Ruth, please.”

  “Don’t ask,” Ruth growled. “Don’t push. I’ll only lie.” Her eyes flashed, wild and yellow. “You oughtn’t listen to my lies!” The genie’s fingernails grew into claws.

  “All right. Calm down,” I said soothingly. “I won’t ask any more.”

  Ruth nodded. Her claws vanished. She folded her arms on the bar countertop and hid her face.

  I longed to follow her example and get some sleep.

  Instead, I took the shotgun from underneath the bar and toured the building. The basement and attic were empty. The second floor was full of groans and thumps of people locked in rooms. A dozen customers were still scattered throughout the public spaces: some passed out drunk, some sleeping in the bowling alley with wooden pins under their heads, some still at tables, muttering gently and foaming at the mouth.

  Beau joined me in the bar. The ceiling squeaked and groaned with shuffling feet.

  “I locked the worst zombies upstairs,” he said. “I don’t think anyone left down here is dangerous.”

  “How many?” I yawned, almost too tired to care.

  Beau took my hand. His flesh was cold and very slightly gray. “Counting your seven?” he answered. “Sixty-three.”

  “Sixty-three.” I shivered awake. “Sixty-three people?”

  Beau shrugged. “If that’s what they still are. Some came in off the street. There seemed to be quite a few out there before.”

  “We saw, Ruth and I.” They’d been shuffling in mobs. They weren’t fast, or dangerous, or even violent, unless you tried to stop them. No one had quite decided what to do. People who weren’t affected had simply stayed out of their way.

  Beau gripped my hand. “It’s slipping, Clara,” he said. “I feel the light slipping away.”

  “I know.” He took a stool, and I stood next to him, leaning my head against his chest. “I’m sorry, Beau.”

  He held me lightly in his arms. I think I may have dozed.

  Beau’s voice woke me. “I don’t want to end up locked in a room upstairs.”

  “You’re mine.” I blinked. “What
ever happens, I’ll take care of you.”

  “Like a pet poodle.” He stroked my hair. “Clara, there is no me without my pride.”

  The front door creaked. A moment later, Hans limped in, leaning on his cane. Lamplight flickered across his handsome features.

  Ruth melted into cheetah form and slunk away to lie under Bernie’s chair. I took Beau’s hand and pulled him behind the bar.

  “Get out!” I cocked the shotgun and braced it on the counter. “Get out unless you’re here to fix what you’ve done to this town.”

  Beau picked up a rag, stared at it bleakly, and began mopping up spills.

  “I? Why, I’ve done nothing.” Hans gazed around at the destruction: broken dishes, spilled drinks and scattered oyster shells, men and women mumbling where they sat. “And yet, I don’t believe I’ve had such fun since the Titanic sank under my feet.” He smiled winningly. “And this time, I don’t have to paddle to shore.”

  “I said, get out!” I took the hellfire out of my pocket. “Or else I’ll dump this in the gun and blast you full of holes.”

  Hellfire hurts demons, in theory. But I had no idea if that would work.

  “Will you? Truly?” Hans studied me closely. “Surely you must have better uses for those precious drops?”

  “I do.” A lot of better uses, my cousin seemed to whisper. “I’ll do it anyway. I don’t care.”

  “Duly noted.” Hans’ eyes crinkled. “But once I’m gone, who’s left to be your friend?”

  “My friend!”

  “The gangsters, the zombies, your missing cousin, our bet. Can you solve those problems alone?”

  “So you came here to help me.” I held the gun steady. “Fancy that.”

  “I came here to make a mutually profitable deal. You’ve got potential, Clara. You could be a good warlock. But you’re in over your head. Let me take you under my wing.” He held up one hand. “On my honor, no soul, no blood, and no killing required. All I want is a reasonably honest chance to teach you the craft.” He smiled slightly. “Promise to work with me and no other demon, ever, and you can name what you want in return.”

  “Anything? Can you clean up this mess?”

  “Except for minor details, yes.” Hans bowed. “I can.”

  If I said yes, I probably could go to bed. The thought was tempting. I was a warlock anyway. Would it make that much difference to pledge myself to Hans?

  Since he suggested it, I imagined Bernie remarking, it obviously does. My cousin wasn’t there, but he was right.

  I shook my head slowly. “No deal—”

  There was a blur of motion, a tug, and then Hans was beside me with the shotgun in his hands. “Did you know,” he asked, changing the subject, “there’s an escape clause for zombies?”

  Beau’s head came up. He stopped mopping the bar.

  “A what?” I shook my head. “What sort of clause?”

  “A way a zombie can be released. It takes hellfire of course, plus some crude magic. You give the monster your demonic blood and he wishes himself free.” The demon caught my look of doubt. “This is the absolute pure truth, I swear.”

  “How much?” I had the sinking feeling I knew. “How much would Beau need?”

  “Right now? Between a quarter and half a vial.” Hans shrugged. “The cost rises each midnight, depending on the zombie: how many people he’s murdered, how much his flesh has spoiled, that sort of thing.”

  In other words, tomorrow at the latest.

  “If I did that, if I gave Beau my hellfire, he could wish himself back to life?”

  “Don’t be simple.” Hans frowned. “Demons do not grant life. No, Beauregard could do what he’s longed for since we first closed our deal. He could wish himself properly dead.”

  I felt Beau watching.

  “Think about it.” The demon placed the shotgun on the bar. “I’ve got a suite at the Hollywood Grand. Come get me when you’re prepared to set things right.”

  The demon left. I poured myself a whiskey, but I was too exhausted to lift it to my lips.

  “Clara.” Beau touched my arm. I felt a spark of warmth. “Clara, I want to discuss this while I still can.”

  We picked a table and sat down holding hands. My head sagged forward. I jerked awake to listen.

  “I’m not a good man, Clara. I told you. I’ve led a selfish life.”

  “Don’t say that.” I patted his hand. “Hans spoils things. He wants to set us against each other.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But other things are true as well. My life has been a string of misdirection and lies. I’ve had innumerable lovers, leading them on, letting each lady believe she held the secret center of my heart.”

  “Please, Beau.” I pushed the hair out of my face. “Please don’t.”

  “I’ve spent years wrecking the lives of women, and you are just a girl.” He touched my cheek. “I could say things to make you love me. To make you eager to sacrifice your life, your family, your honor. Even your soul. All for my sake.”

  My heart felt sore. “Yes, Beau.”

  “But I won’t say them.” Beau kissed my forehead. “Because whatever happens, I want there to be one little girl in the world whose love I genuinely deserved.”

  “I do love you.” How could love hurt this much? “Would it be so awful?” I asked. “Staying with me in the bar as a…as…you were earlier. Is death really better?”

  “Clara. The way I felt. The terrible emptiness and hunger. Watching my own mind slip out of reach.” He looked away. “If that demon had any pity, I’d crawl on my belly across the street and lick his boots, begging for death.”

  “He’s going to kill me if I give you the hellfire. Kill me, or force me into his bed. I’ll never win that bet over the dance contest.”

  “I know.”

  Death or humiliation. What if the choice were death or being a zombie like Beau? Which would I choose? “I’m sorry. I need some time. I’m just too tired to think.”

  Beau nodded stiffly. “Very well.”

  “Try to be patient.” I stood. “We don’t have to decide this yet. Please trust me. I know tomorrow, when you’re…hungry…that will be hard.”

  “You can’t imagine the degradation,” he said bleakly. “You have no idea.”

  “There’s more than just my life at stake.” Bernie, Priscilla, the shuffling mob upstairs. “Give me some time to work this out.”

  Beau turned my palm upward and kissed it. “Your wish, oh Voodoo Queen, is my command.” He stood and walked behind the bar, selecting a phonograph record, winding the Victrola.

  Gee but I'd give the world to see

  That old gang of mine.

  Beau found a rag and started wiping the bar.

  For someone trying not to manipulate you, my cousin seemed to whisper, that actor just did a spectacularly lousy job.

  “Shut up.” I piled a tray with dirty dishes. “If you’re so smart, why aren’t you here?”

  I lugged the tray into the kitchen and set it gently beside the sink. Without Gladys, the place was a disaster, piled high with oyster shells, used dishes, and unwashed towels. The staff we’d hired to work at night had fled hours ago. But the kitchen wasn’t empty. Luella Umbridge lay sleeping at the worktable. Her clothes and skin were grimy. She reeked of smoke. And she had a revolver clutched in her hand.

  I tiptoed over, emptied the bullets, and then returned the gun, trying my hardest not to guess what was going on.

  Why had my best friend brought a gun into the Fellowship?

  She could be hiding from gangsters. But the gangsters were gone.

  She could be scared of all the chaos in the street. But then she’d go home to her family.

  She could have come here to get George. That seemed likely. But then, why bring a gun? As long as she had a hostage, she didn’t need to threaten anyone.

  As long as she had Bernie, she didn’t need to threaten me.

  I sank into a chair across from Luella. My mind stalled, refusing to mov
e forward, but my quaking body already knew.

  She didn’t have a hostage.

  She didn’t have my cousin any more.

  I cocked my ear. This time my conscience offered no advice.

  Bernie. I lay my cheek down on the table.

  This was a dream. It had to be. I was exhausted, or else I’d finally gone mad like the whole town. I should have wakened Luella. I should have made her tell me the truth.

  Instead I closed my eyes.

  My dreams were burning buildings, and shuffling footsteps, and smoke.

  I woke much later to dawn streaming through the high kitchen windows and Gladys standing silently inside the kitchen door. Her arms were holding all the nightmares of all the dreams in all the world.

  The genie, Ruth, in cheetah form, slunk through the door.

  “He isn’t dead.” Gladys gingerly lowered herself to sit on the floor. She cradled the burned object in her arms.

  “Gladys.” It wasn’t Bernie. I wasn’t even sure that it was human. “Gladys, that can’t….”

  “He isn’t dead.” The golem’s eyes flashed red. “There is a spark of life.”

  Was there? Or had she lost her mind on losing the last of the Benjamins?

  “Miss Clara.” Gladys looked up imploringly. “You know what you must do.”

  Did I? Hellfire healed injuries, I knew that much. If that was Bernie, if he was really alive, hellfire might save him. But saved for what? Would it restore him? Or only bring the burned thing Gladys was holding back to life?

  And if it didn’t save him, if half a vial of hellfire wasn’t enough, I’d be throwing away my own life and Beau’s one chance at freedom.

  It didn’t matter.

  “You know what you must do,” Gladys repeated.

  I knelt beside the golem and opened my vial. “I know.”

  XIV: Yes! We Have No Bananas

  “The most powerful weapon on Earth is the human soul on fire.”

  —Ferdinand Foch

  (qtd. The Boy’s Book of Boggarts)

  Bernard:

  IF THERE’S ONE THING owning a golem has taught me—and I use the term own lightly, the way you might be said to own your name or hair color but, then again, they might be said to own you—if there’s one thing being raised by Gladys has taught me, it’s to take life’s little ups and downs in stride. Here today, gone tomorrow has real meaning when you’ve been serving tea and crumpets for over a thousand years. And while my childhood heres and gones were mostly punishments applied by Gladys, it’s been a comfort knowing that whatever I suffer in life, my housekeeper has seen worse.