Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) Page 15

  A comfort to Gladys, that is. I find my troubles highly distracting.

  Which is why my thoughts upon reviving in the Fellowship’s kitchen were not of Benjamin ancestors struck down by olde mysfortune, but of the fact that in the last two days I’d been (a) forcibly turned into a witch (b) vamped by a girl for whom the concept animal magnetism knew no bounds (c) soaked in gasoline and lit like a box of matches, and worst of all (d) stuffed with demonic blood.

  “Stop!” I closed my lips and scrambled, crablike, onto the floor, snatching a small towel as I realized my union suit had gone up in smoke. A second Bernie, my mirrored twin in sculpted wisps of ash, hovered like a discarded snake skin above my golem’s lap.

  “Holy moley!” Ruth exclaimed.

  There was a breathless second as we viewed my cremated double. Then Gladys rose with her uncanny grace and shooed the ash away. The golem exited wordlessly through the swinging kitchen door, leaving me sputtering, trying to convince myself that the enormous surge of vitality coursing through my veins did not mean I’d been drinking hellfire.

  Of course, it did.

  I’d been incinerated.

  I’d watched my own flesh curl from my bones.

  There’d been no pain, thanks to my deeply disturbing deal with Ruth. I thrust my tongue into the gap left by my missing molar. The genie had stopped the pain, but all the rest was seared indelibly into my mind.

  I’d been incinerated, dragged from the edge of death, and shoved one giant demon-step closer toward losing my soul by drinking demonic blood. If I hadn’t felt absolutely fabulous, I might have been annoyed.

  Sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows. The building groaned.

  I blinked around at the Fellowship’s kitchen, at counters stacked with dirty dishes and buckets of oyster shells, at copper pots that had been used, wiped out, reused, and tossed aside, at the big double ice-box, open and dripping water onto the wooden floor. I looked from Ruth, clothed in her spotted cheetah dress, to wide-eyed Clara, kneeling where I’d been, to even wider-eyed Luella Umbridge, sitting on the other side of the kitchen table with her hands in her lap.

  Luella Umbridge. I gazed at my own hand. The image of a wooden ankh was burned in my left palm.

  Gaspar? Old man? I tried, but felt no otherworldly stirrings.

  “I don’t suppose” —I squinted at the messy stove— “there’s any coffee?”

  “Bernie!” Clara leapt forward, tackling me flat. “You idiot!” She landed on my chest, curls flying, and grabbed my face with both her hands. “You awful dunce! Whatever were you thinking, getting burned up like that?”

  “Mostly of ways not to get burned,” I admitted. “They didn’t work.”

  Clara wriggled happily. I lay still, acutely conscious of the scrap of towel that was all the clothing I possessed. Young C. is my cousin, my lifelong playmate, my bane, and in all probability my ultimate cause of death. She’s got as much sex appeal for me as an abandoned kitten. But there are moments when a gentleman thinks of his reputation.

  “Get off, won’t you?” I grumbled.

  She wrapped her arms around my chest and squeezed.

  I patted my cousin’s shoulder. She doesn’t cry, young C. She’s been raised hard, raised in a coven, as I have, although with differing results. But in spite of her sisters’ best efforts, Clara has never become hard herself. And this is why—in much the sense of an abandoned kitten—I love her.

  A sound of shuffling feet came through the ceiling. Many shuffling feet. Somewhere upstairs a door opened and closed. I wondered if the dance contest had shifted to the second floor? But there was no music anywhere in the building.

  “You two look cozy.” Ruth placed a sultry hand on one hip. “Can anybody play?”

  A man sporting a brand new, mostly exposed, suit of skin has a large canvas on which to blush. “You,” I cried, turning the attack. “You jezebel! You murderous sneak!”

  “Who, Ruthie?” Clara looked up. “She can’t kill anyone. Not without orders. Bernie, you’ll never guess. We made it to the semi-finals. You should have seen Ruth shimmy! Miss Pinn—”

  “She locked me in that icehouse.”

  Clara planted her pointy elbows on my chest. “Ruth did?”

  “That isn’t true.” The genie sat on the table, swinging her stockinged legs. Behind her, Luella Umbridge watched in silence. “The gangsters locked you,” Ruth said. “I just refused to let you out.”

  Clara rose to her feet, brushing a very dirty gray dress. Out in the Fellowship’s back stairway, loose floorboards creaked.

  “You could have saved me,” I told Ruth, clutching my towel and scooting against a cabinet. “You left me there to die!”

  “You didn’t die.” She pouted. “And I made sure it wouldn’t hurt, which was sticking my neck out pretty far, believe me.” Ruth showed a predatory smile. “Besides, you’ll be a better witch after that dose of hellfire.”

  “I do not want to be a better witch.”

  “And you feel great now, right? Stronger? More manly?” Ruth licked her lips. “Ready to shred all enemies in your path?”

  “Especially,” I said thinly, “enemy genies.”

  Ruth made a gesture and tossed me something. My father’s Waltham wristwatch.

  I nodded grudgingly and strapped it on.

  “So see?” She grinned. “Everything worked out for the best.”

  “Worked out?” Clara turned on her. “Worked out? You lied. You swore you couldn’t find him. You broke a vow!”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Ruth tossed her platinum head. “You baby warlocks are all alike. I swore I didn’t know what caused all the zombies. And I still don’t.”

  “Zombies?” I felt a sinking chill in my stomach. “All?”

  Ruth sniffed. “What I told you about Bernie was I had no report.”

  “But you cried! You led me all over town,” Clara protested. “You acted so upset!”

  “Look, let me spell it out.” Ruth crossed her arms. “I like you; I swear on my own unmarked grave. I like your cousin better. He’s such a sexy little mouse. Before this visit’s done I plan to wrap him in my paws and lick that bald body until he squeaks so hard he pops.”

  “A mouse?” I crossed my legs. “Bald?”

  “So listen up.” Ruth hopped off of the table. “I work for a demon.”

  “Who’s bald?” I touched my chest and found pink, hairless skin. The arms doing the touching were hairless too.

  Clara stepped forward and grabbed Ruth’s arm. “You work for me!”

  I stroked my face. No stubble. When had I shaved? Yesterday? No, not really. Gladys had left the house at dawn. The night before.

  “I work for you now, kiddo,” Ruth told Clara. “Go on, give orders; I’ll follow them whether you like it or not. But Hans owns my soul. You know it. I know it. He knows it, too. He only left me here to trip you up.”

  “That’s horrible! It’s…it’s rotten!”

  I touched my scalp. Nothing. Decency forbad checking anyplace else.

  “Of course it’s rotten.” Ruth rolled her eyes. “You thought you’d summon a demon and he’d be nice?”

  The staircase floorboards creaked again. Priscilla had ordered me to fix them, just last week, but I’d forgotten.

  “Ruth,” Clara said slowly. “I command you to only give me good advice.”

  “Sorry, it doesn’t work that way,” Ruth answered. “Look, you two don’t realize the chance I’m taking, admitting this. My boss will skin me if he finds out I’ve tipped his hand. And personally, I’m against being skinned.” She looked at me. “It hurts as much as being burned, and no soft-hearted genie is going to be there to take away the pain.”

  I shivered, remembering a flash of light, imagining what might have been.

  “Ruth,” I said sincerely, “with all my heart, thank you.”

  The kitchen door swung open, carrying a scent of sweat, the sound of groans. Clara jumped nervously, but it was only Gladys with a stack of clothes.


  “Your garments, Mr. Benjamin.” She passed a key ring to my cousin.

  Young Clara’s mouth shaped a round “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry.” Gladys shook out a blanket and held it in front of me as a privacy screen. “I had to mix outfits. There was nothing matching to wear.”

  The slacks were brown, the coat a hounds tooth gray, but there was a tan knitted vest that I decided, under the brash influence of hellfire, to wear without a jacket. I scrambled into the thigh-length union suit, nattily patterned hose, garters, trousers, dress shirt, bracers, repp tie, and wingtip shoes.

  “Cufflinks?”

  Gladys held out an ivory pair.

  “You’re a life saver.” I touched her hand. “Literally.” I blinked as Gladys folded the blanket. Her blouse and skirt were singed and stained with soot—I shivered—but underneath the soot, the fabric was caked with mud.

  No, I realized slowly. Caked with dried blood.

  I waited for my knees to buckle, or the kitchen to swim, but when you’re hopped up on hellfire, fainting apparently isn’t an option.

  “That’s a new look,” I commented.

  Gladys shrugged smoothly. “A minor incident, Mr. Benjamin. Five of those gangster men. I’m sorry I couldn’t take time to change.” She found a full apron and tied it on, covering most of the mess.

  “You killed…?”

  She nodded.

  “…five men? What for?”

  “The first four gentlemen declined to tell me what they had done to you.” Gladys’ eyes flickered. “The fifth one did.”

  “I see.” I rubbed my hairless head. “Ah. Well, no loss there.”

  “No, sir.”

  Something further seemed called for. Some lordly gesture.

  “You know that fur scarf you admired?” I asked Gladys. “The one at Altman’s Feed and Frocks?”

  “The one you said looked like tarantulas crawling along my neck?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Yes, sir. The little foxes feel so soft against my skin.”

  “Go home and burn your dress. And buy it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I frowned as the back steps creaked again. What was that stamping shuffling sound?

  “Gladys?” my cousin asked. “Did you unlock the upstairs bedrooms?”

  “Yes, miss. I needed access to the wardrobe. And there were people who wanted out.”

  “Real people?” Clara looked worried. “People who talk?”

  “Your sister, Miss Priscilla, had a few words to say.”

  “Priscilla!” Clara’s hand flew to her mouth. “Locked up? How did Priscilla–” She swung on Ruth. “You!”

  “Pretty slick, huh?” Ruth preened. “And you, searching all over town.”

  “I feel,” I said, “as if I missed something.”

  “With the racket all the zombies made,” Ruth chuckled, “you never heard her pounding to get out. Of course those doors and walls are pretty thick. What do you people do up there?” She smirked. “Have sex with demons?”

  “All the zombies?” I asked. The ceiling creaked again. “Upstairs?”

  “Oh!” Clara pulled her curls. They looked like they’d been tugged a lot over the last two days. “Priscilla’s up there? Oh dear!” She turned to go.

  “Hold it right there.” Luella Umbridge rose from her chair, holding a revolver. “I want that vial.”

  “What vial—” Clara began.

  “That silver stuff. Whatever it was you used to save Bernie. I’m serious, Clara. You know I am. Don’t make me shoot.”

  “Miss Luella,” Gladys said calmly, “please reconsider your threat.”

  The back staircase was squeaking up a storm.

  “This doesn’t concern you, Gladys.” Luella licked her lips. “Clara turned George into a zombie. Now she is going to turn him back.”

  “A zombie?” I shook my head. “George Junior? Why’d she do that?”

  “I didn’t! It was an accident! Hellfire won’t help!” Clara protested. “There’s not enough. Besides, Luella Umbridge, I took the bullets out of your gun!”

  “I know,” Luella answered. “Why do you think I’ve been sitting here all this time? I needed to reload.”

  “But why George Junior?” I asked, puzzled. “What did he do?”

  “He got bitten by Mr. Vargas,” Clara said, “after Beau ate the janitor’s brains. Then Mr. Vargas disappeared.”

  “Ah, no, he didn’t.” I knew something about that. “He’s in the gangster’s van. He bit me posthumously, too.” I held my hand up, but of course the mark had healed. “Although in retrospect, I think I might have panicked and caught my fingers on his teeth.”

  “Are you crazy?” Luella asked. “There’s no corpse in the van. We left the body in the icehouse. In a coffin. So I could arrange a burial for Clara in accordance with our deal. And…um…you know, in case I needed to convince your family to overlook the theft of your booze.”

  “The icehouse? Inside the bench I sat on all night?” I shuddered.

  Footsteps came from the hall.

  “He bit you, Bernie?” Young C. looked thoughtful. “And you didn’t become a zombie?”

  “Not so I’ve noticed.”

  Clara turned to Luella. “And you swiped Mr. Vargas? He’s not wandering the town?”

  “How could he wander?” Luella frowned. “The man is dead.”

  “And you,” she swung on Ruthie. “I order you to speak the truth. Did you ever believe for one minute we’d started a zombie plague?”

  “Well….” Ruth examined her fingernails carefully. “That sort of depends on what you mean by zombie” —she scrunched her face— “and plague.”

  The kitchen door swung open wafting the ginger stink of Jacques into the room. Cousin Priscilla, pale and disheveled, walked through the doorway leading a shuffling mob. The creatures behind her were battered, slack-jawed, and smelled like they’d missed several weekly baths. Beside Priscilla stood George Umbridge, Junior, whose rumpled suit, bent glasses, and mottled skin were a far cry from his usual polished appearance.

  Luella’s gun waivered. “George!”

  Everyone turned to stare.

  Everyone, that is, except yours truly. In half a second I’d vaulted the table and taken Luella’s revolver. A second later I’d bent the barrel, silently cursing the hellfire in my veins, and the next after that I’d swept Luella into my arms and kissed her. Admittedly, in retrospect, that might have been poor timing. To my surprise, however, she kissed me back.

  The next second, she fainted.

  “Luella?” George croaked. “What’s going on.”

  I lowered the girl into a chair, chafing her hands.

  Luella stirred. “Bernie?” she murmured. “George?”

  George staggered over and knelt beside his sister. “Are you all right?”

  “Am I?” She threw herself at him. “Am I all right? What about you?”

  George teetered dangerously. I picked them up and set them in the chair.

  Cousin Priscilla crossed her arms. “Clara?”

  “I’m getting better,” George told Luella. “We all are. It’s fortunate Miss Priscilla got locked into that room last night. Those Jacques cocktails you fed me yesterday were poison.”

  “Poison?” Young C. and L. echoed together.

  Ruth slapped her palms. “Ah hah!”

  “It’s the embalming fluid,” Priscilla explained. “It’s very difficult to detoxify. I warned George Senior that he was taking an awful risk, but he and that gangster were so certain—” She bit her lip. “Well, never mind. Dr. Umbridge has gone across the street to make sure it’s all destroyed.”

  “The Jacques?” Clara sidled away from her half-sister. “But…but….” She ducked behind Gladys which, given my housekeeper’s five feet of height, took skill. “But the snapping! The staggering!” She peered over the golem’s shoulder. “The frothing mouths!”

  “The neurological presentation can be severe,�
� George Junior said, reminding us of his two years of medical school. “Anything from dopiness and difficulty swallowing to madness, paralysis, and loss of speech. Considering the natural tendency of alcohol to stimulate aggression, I’m surprised the whole town wasn’t in an uproar.”

  “It was,” Ruth chimed in helpfully. “You should have seen.”

  “Lucky for us, Miss Woodsen found an antidote.”

  My elder cousin smiled. “Call me Priscilla, please.”

  “Because without treatment” —George shot an accusing look at Clara, who ducked again— “victims might suffer permanent injury or even death.”

  “But—” Young C. sputtered. “But—”

  “Clara, you knew about this yesterday,” Priscilla scolded. “Why didn’t you tell me? How could you simply lock up those suffering people?”

  “But I thought—that is, with Mr. Vargas—and Ruth—and then I couldn’t find you. And Bernie was missing! And the whole town went mad!”

  Priscilla sighed. “Well, never mind. You’ll have to give up this foolish contest. Run downstairs to my lab, right now. Fortunately, the remedy is very simple. We’ll start mixing a batch. If everyone in town’s been drinking Jacques, then we’ve got hours of work ahead of us.”

  Clara wilted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I stepped between them. “No.”

  Priscilla stared. So did Clara, and even Gladys looked surprised. If there’d been a mirror handy, I’d have stared at myself. Damn hellfire.

  “The contest is going forward,” I told Priscilla. “The poison liquor wasn’t Clara’s fault.”

  “Bernard, whatever happened to your hair?”

  “That doesn’t matter. This mess” —I gestured at the crowd behind her— “from what I gather, was caused by the Hollywood Grand’s bad bootleg booze. Let George and Luella help brew the antidote and treat the sick.”