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

  “Stop!” I grasped my cousin’s shoulders. She’d broken her vow. “Look, we can fix this. We’ll say I did it.” I’d never promised not to become a witch. “It’s not too late!” I’d end up chopping wood for fifty years, but that was nothing compared to what would happen to Clara—to both of us—if she got caught.

  “Let go!” She shook me off.

  I grabbed her arm.

  “Don’t stop me, Bernie.” She struggled. “I’m going to save the man I love, and no one’s going to get in my way.” Clara lunged for her tray. When she stood up, the cleaver was in her hand. “Not even you.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Besides, this isn’t breaking my promise.” Clara advanced. “I’m not going to become a witch.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “I’m going to summon a demon and be a warlock instead.”

  I could have run. I could have decked her with a clean conscience and left her to face her sisters’ wrath. Instead, I did as I have always done when faced with one of Clara’s schemes. I made her job easy.

  I fainted dead away.

  II: It Had to be You

  Perform every demonic ritual as if it were your last. It probably will be.

  —The Girl’s Guide to Demons

  Clara:

  THE THING TO UNDERSTAND about my cousin, Bernie, is he’s basically a weak sister. That isn’t bad. Heaven knows, I’ve got enough strong sisters to build a floor-to-ceiling pyramid if you stacked them carefully and ran away fast. I’d probably have gone stark raving mad by now if there wasn’t someone softer than me to boss around. And I certainly wouldn’t have been able to get anyone brighter than my cousin to follow me and my sharpened cleaver into that candle-lit pentagram.

  It helps that (don’t tell him I said so) Bernie’s a shrimp. Good dancer. Handy with a catcher’s mitt. Even decent with his fists in that scrappy way small men sometimes have, but at five-foot-five and barely a hundred and fifteen pounds wet, he’s always seemed more or less destined to end up bound, gagged, and stuffed into a wingback chair in front of a pentagram.

  “Clrrrha! Clrrrha!”

  “Don’t struggle.” I shoved his feet, cross-legged, under his knees. “It isn’t going to help.”

  We’re peas in a pod, Bernard Benjamin and me. We’ve got the same September birthday, three years apart, and neither one of our mothers lived to see our squalling mugs. His dad, Falstaff’s first and only English doctor, contracted a fatal bout of King and Country and died of patriotism during the Great War. Mine, a railroad engineer, lasted a little longer. On September 3, 1918, he got off the train in Chicago complaining of aches and pains. Two days later, they shoveled him into a mass influenza grave, leaving me a charity case for my half-sisters, a penniless orphan.

  There’s nothing you can count on in this world except the gullibility of cousins.

  “Don’t worry,” I promised. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

  I covered Bernie’s legs with an old Mexican poncho, unscrewed a maple syrup tin, and dribbled blood artistically around his chair.

  That was the easy part. The hard part—I gritted my teeth and entered the pentagram—was dumping a man’s foot out of my butcher parcel onto the tray.

  “It’s from the hospital,” I assured my cousin. The Girl’s Guide to Demons says you have to include human flesh in summoning spells. It doesn’t say you have to hack the flesh yourself. “Ole Jonson lost it in a tractor accident this morning.”

  My words were wasted. Bernard had fainted again.

  I kissed Beau’s photograph and backed out of the pentagram, drawing my last breath as an ordinary human girl. From this point on, I’d be a warlock, a sort of super-witch who summons demons, and damn the consequences.

  I hesitated, holding my vial of hellfire. That was enough demonic blood to fuel a hundred ordinary spells, and Bernie was right; if I got caught, the consequences would be dire. My sisters could not ignore this sort of theft.

  “Dear Beau,” I whispered, remembering the way he looked in films, the way he looked when he’d arrived in Falstaff yesterday, perfect and whole as he waved from the train.

  The way my father looked the last time he left town.

  “Courage, Clara,” I muttered. “Full steam ahead.”

  I pricked my wrist again and circled the pentagram counter-clockwise, drizzling blood mixed with stolen hellfire onto each burning candle.

  Flames shot up. Metallic smoke writhed in the air. I knelt outside the pentagram beside my cousin and recited the incantation I’d memorized out of the Girl’s Guide. I don’t know what it meant. I’m not sure it really meant anything. In magic, it’s the drama—and demonic blood—that count.

  “Clrrrha!” My cousin began to writhe.

  “Spirits of Hell….”

  The air grew clearer, cleaner, calm. I reached inside myself, just like The Girl’s Guide to Demons instructed, and opened an inner eye, and there for the first time I saw it: hellfire, beautiful, glittering like misting creation, rising from the outline of the pentagram to form the vertical walls of a five-pointed star.

  “Clrrrha!” Bernie’s voice squeaked hysterically.

  “Abaddon.” Power began to build. “Devourer of souls.” The candles melted and ran upward, brown, red, sage, into the pentagram walls.

  “Prince of Perdition.”

  A sense of urgency filled me. I wound the summoning spell tight, tighter, as tight as I could and let it fly. Light burst inside the pentagram, a conflagration of color that flashed and then burned low, like embers.

  The pentagram walls faded. I blinked, dazzled, clearing my eyes.

  The magic goblet was empty, the picture of Beau Beauregard burned to ash. With a little imagination, the lump of roast meat smoldering on Priscilla’s tray might have been a rack of lamb.

  But there was no demon. A shock of disappointment rippled through me. I closed my eyes and crossed my fingers, counting to ten, then counted to ten again before I looked.

  Nothing.

  Except for Bernie, peeping out under the poncho, I was alone.

  My demon summoning had flopped.

  “Uh, oh.” I turned on the electric light and uncovered my cousin, using the butcher’s cleaver to slice his ropes. Then I looked behind me and checked the pentagram one more time. Empty.

  “Oh, hell!”

  The magnitude of what I’d done was sinking in.

  Without a demon, I hadn’t become a warlock.

  Without a demon, the fact I’d cast a spell made me an ordinary witch.

  An ordinary witch who’d broken her solemn oath.

  My half-sisters were going to kill me.

  There’s a cabinet back at the family homestead, a large, well-polished walnut armoire containing the heads of all the Woodsens who’ve ever broken their vows. My half-sisters used to make me wash and braid the hair of the little girls.

  Bernie rose, goggle-eyed, rubbing his arms. He took a few wobbling steps, dodging the blood, and then stopped and pulled a blue enameled cigarette case out of his baseball uniform.

  “Do you—” He cleared his throat and his voice dropped two octaves. “Do you know, for one minute, I thought you’d actually pull that off?”

  He lit a cigarette with increasingly steady hands.

  I sat down on the sofa beside the rock fireplace.

  “Right after I decided you’re completely nuts.” Bernie flopped onto a cushion beside me and propped his feet on a footstool. “Nuts, squirrels, leaves, and acorn tree.” He blew a chain of smoke rings. “With rabbits frolicking among the roots.”

  You’d never guess three minutes ago he’d been in terror for his life.

  But then, my cousin is nowhere near as innocent as he likes to act. To start with, he’s got a golem housekeeper, a sort of magic servant made of clay, passed down through centuries from some English lord or other on the Benjamin side of his family. While from the Woodsen side, my mother’s sister—the only Woodsen ever permitted to take her husband�
�s name—Bernie inherited a mysterious magical legacy that he doesn’t discuss with anyone. Not even me.

  “Well, young C.” He sucked in smoke. “What now?”

  The answer was obvious. I was dead.

  I took the other bottle of Jack Daniels out of Bernie’s satchel and tore off the seal. The last bottle of Jack Daniels in the coven. Possibly the last bottle in the entire United States of Prohibition.

  “Now we get plastered.” A bottle wasn’t enough to get me drunk, but I figured the thought would count. “Then you’re going to kiss me, just once, while I pretend you’re a real boy.”

  He grimaced. But I was not going to leave this world unsullied.

  “Then you pop home, collect Gladys, and catch the five a.m. train out of Falstaff.” This was Thursday. The hellfire wouldn’t be missed until the coven meeting Sunday night. “And never come back.”

  My sisters wouldn’t chase Bernie. They were scared of his golem. And besides, he hadn’t broken a vow.

  My cousin’s forehead furrowed. “But—”

  The basement door slammed open.

  I jumped.

  The door I’d bolted. The door guarded by magical wards.

  An elegant, stunningly handsome man limped into the room, leaning heavily on a silver-tipped cane. He was ancient, fifty at least, of middling height, with high cheekbones, dark hair, and deeply tragic blue eyes. He wore a perfectly cut swallow-tail coat and white shirtwaist, fastened with diamond studs, and held a beaver top hat in his hand. An enormous yellow cheetah with glittering eyes stood by his side.

  The cheetah yawned. My seat rocked wildly as Bernie dove for cover behind the sofa.

  The gentleman bowed. “I beg your pardon.” The voice was golden honey. His smile appeared to flood the room with light.

  I stared, wondering how any man could be more beautiful than Beau.

  “I’ve been across the street at the festivities,” he said smoothly. “Did someone call for a demon?”

  III: Jazz Vampire

  Without the threat of death, there’s no reason to cower.

  —The Boy’s Book of Boggarts

  Bernard:

  THERE MAY HAVE BEEN a moment or two after the stranger’s arrival that I can’t completely account for. I mean, one instant an overdressed dandy complete with menacing pet was hulking inside the coven door. The next I was behind the sofa while he and Clara sat together, knee to knee, sipping whiskey.

  The cheetah strolled out of the pentagram—now suspiciously empty of cooked feet—and rubbed itself along the stranger’s ankles. Clara poured Jack Daniels into a glass ashtray on the rug. The cheetah lapped booze, eyeing me evilly through the gap created by the sofa’s wooden legs.

  I wondered whether the newcomer was really a demon. Not whether demons exist; even minor Woodsen relatives know better than to question that. But whether my nit of a cousin had actually summoned a demon from…the Hollywood Grand Hotel across the street?

  And, if so, did that make Clara a warlock?

  She’s probably mentioned her household cabinet stuffed with severed heads. You may have thought she was joking, but no, I saw them once. That is, I got a glimpse of something cranial shortly before sputtering awake beneath the icy glare of Cousin Priscilla, empty water bucket in one hand, hickory switch in the other.

  “So you see, your Hellishness.” Clara passed me a glass of whiskey over the back of the sofa. “It’s terribly important we save Beau Beauregard. I’d be awfully glad if you helped.”

  I swallowed the blessed beverage. A grateful glow infused my feeling of fear.

  “Call me Hansie,” the man murmured. I couldn’t see, but I was sure he’d taken her hand.

  The cheetah thrust its muzzle under the sofa, rolled onto one shoulder, and shoved a spotted paw in my direction.

  Claws like curved razors swished past my nose.

  I squeaked.

  “For gosh sake, Bernie. Stop teasing that cat.”

  Dignity Before Death. That’s the Benjamin family motto, or was, before all my English relatives bit the dust. So while I’m not ashamed to duck strategically from time to time, timidity is not the alpha and omega of Bernard Benjamin’s character. I stood now, straightening my grubby baseball uniform, and shook the stranger’s hand across the back of the sofa.

  The instant we touched, I knew Clara’s summoning ritual had been a success. My clothes, my skin, even muscle and bone seemed to peel away, leaving my soul naked before the demon’s penetrating gaze. In less time than it takes to bait a hook, Hansie probed my heart, dissected the Benjamin brain cage, assessed my sexual potential (low), and tossed me back into the waters of life, an undersized fish.

  “Hans to you,” the demon said pointedly. And those were the last words I ever got out of him.

  Something shifted behind Hans. I blinked, my rumpled brain slow to focus, as the cheetah slowly dissolved into shimmering silver mist and then reshaped itself into a human woman—a real woman, no half-baked girl cousin—wearing a lot of charm bracelets, dressed in a revealing, gauzy frock, edged in spotted fur. She had a stunning face, an even more stunning peroxide bob, and a voice that could have stripped the varnish off a rack of baseball bats at sixty yards.

  “I’m Ruthie!” The woman’s eyes sparkled above her cupid mouth. “You wanna dance?”

  It was an awkward moment; I didn’t know what to say. For one thing, my companions had to assume I’d never seen a genie materialize, whereas, having been fostered from infancy by a lady golem, I’ve seen a lot of things I’d rather not admit. What I hadn’t seen before was the magic the genie materialized from. The shimmering hellfire mist that is invisible to normal human eyes. The shimmering hellfire mist that I’d seen clearly now, providing proof positive that Bernard Benjamin was no longer a normal human.

  Sweet little Clara had turned me into a witch.

  I’ve always thought that, since the coven is a religious sect of sorts, we ought to install a suggestion box. First slip in would be my earnest plea for better padding under the carpets.

  It would reduce bruising when the congregation passes out.

  IV: Love Sends Little Gifts of Roses

  Don’t plan your funeral. Design your death. It’s never wise to leave the afterlife to chance.

  —Girl’s Guide to Demons

  Clara:

  WHEN IT CAME TO Hansie, there were a few things The Girl’s Guide to Demons hadn’t prepared me for. His inability to stay on topic, for one. Every time I brought up the subject of saving Beau Beauregard, Hans leaned close and offered a bunch of distractions: fast cars, trips to Paris, a keyless cage I could lock Priscilla in. Then he’d lean even closer and I’d have to remove his hand from some new part of my dress. Definitely an international demon, if you know what I mean. Roman hands and Russian fingers.

  “We are talking about Beau!” I’d worn my poor dead mother’s creaking corset for just that reason. Everyone knows demons are fast. But they can’t get too fresh without permission, thanks to the laws of karma that govern the afterlife. And while I’m not theoretically prudish, I wasn’t quite ready to throw out my sheltered upbringing.

  “Concerning Beau—”

  The demon kissed my palm and I tingled in unexpected ways.

  “Such soft skin.” His voice was like a perfumed sunken tub.

  Across the room, Bernie was wrestling with Ruth, who’d made it clear she’d have her dance whether he was conscious or not. So he’d jumped up and wound the Victrola, but even Bernie’s cultivated lead couldn’t make Ruth’s feet land in time to the music. They’d finally staggered into a waltz, and I honestly couldn’t guess which hurt my cousin more—the genie’s fingers digging into his side or listening to Edith Day’s Sweet Little Alice Blue Gown over and over again. At least in waltz position, the genie had to keep her hand out of his pants.

  Don’t look surprised. I grew up in a coven and, sheltered or not, I knew the Falstaff Ninepin Fellowship runs on sex. The whole world runs on sex, to go by Dr. Sigmund Freu
d, but warlocks don’t need foreign psychoanalysts to tell them about libido. Sex generates karma for demons, demons turn karma into hellfire, and hellfire—demonic blood—is the essential ingredient needed to cast spells. The Girl’s Guide calls it the golden triangle: karma, sex, and power.

  The waltz ran down. Bernie moved the Victrola needle back to restart the record.

  I peeled Hansie’s mitt off of my thigh.

  “Oh, this is pointless.” I slid away from the demon, crossing my arms. “I brought you here for a purpose.” If he’d been conjured all the way from Hell, Hans would owe me something, just for the trip. I wasn’t sure the same rule applied to cross-avenue summoning. “Tell me what you want in exchange for saving Beau.”

  Hans sighed but couldn’t hide a twinkle of interest. Apart from sex, a demon’s favorite pastime is making deals.

  “I don’t have much to offer,” I added quickly. “We’ll have to work out something on an installment plan.”

  “Waltzing’s boring,” Ruth complained. “I wanna Charleston!” She yanked Bernie close and began gnawing his neck. I wondered if I’d have to get up and defend my cousin’s honor.

  Surprisingly, the dolt wriggled free on his own.

  “Let me refill your drink.” He bustled over, grabbed the last of the whiskey, and gave me a look promising I’d get a much sterner look once all this was over.

  Ruth wound the Victrola. “Waltzing’s hard.”

  “Try counting.” Bernie passed her the drink and they set off again. “To three.”

  “One.” She stared straight down at her gold-painted strapped pumps. “Two….” Her brow creased as she looked up at Bernie. “I’ve only got two feet!”

  “We make the best bootleg gin in Arizona,” I told Hansie. “Maybe the whole world.” The Girl’s Guide says demons like booze. It’s a pure source of energy for them, which saves on burning karma. “Apple brandy our janitor swears by.” He drank enough of it to know. “Smooth corn whiskey.”

  “These are prohibition times,” Hans pointed out. “I can get all the liquor I want.”