Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) Page 9

  The tabby jumped between us on the stump. No chance, sadly, that any human would intervene. The Umbridges used their icehouse to store dead bodies. The nearest residence was six blocks away.

  Thug Two slashed his knife close to my eyes. Sooner or later he’d either collapse with apoplexy or get a lucky hit and slice my throat. I didn’t want to wait and find out which. I snapped my jacket at his face, planning to drive him back and race for the van.

  The cat jumped at my coat and caught the sleeve.

  I staggered off balance. The knife flashed, opening a long gash in my vest, and then I stumbled over a tree root and landed flat.

  “Got you!” This time, Thug Two tripped on the cat.

  We paused, wheezing, facing each other on hands and knees.

  “Hey, kid.” Astonishingly, Gaspar picked up and tossed a bottle of Priscilla’s brandy.

  I caught it, swung my arm, and brought the bottle down on the tree stump.

  It didn’t break. Vibrations traveled along my arm, shaking my entire body.

  The knife swished past my cheek.

  I slammed Pricilla’s bottle against the man’s head. His skull crunched painfully. The bottle survived intact.

  Thug Two collapsed.

  I grabbed the knife and clambered to my feet, wiping the dirt and sweat out of my eyes.

  “Not bad,” Gaspar applauded. “What do you call that move where you almost broke yourself instead of the bottle?”

  I told Gaspar what he could call it. He guffawed loudly.

  Thug One, I saw, was on his feet, rubbing his swollen chin. I started for the van at a cat-wary jog.

  “Too bad” —Gaspar’s thumb flicked sideways— “the big one’s got a gun.”

  Stoneface Gibraltar stepped through the ghost and pointed his revolver.

  I froze.

  “All right, cute stuff,” he said. “Get back inside.”

  I thought about it. That icehouse was not where I wanted to be. But fifteen feet would be an easy-money shot.

  Stoneface pulled back the hammer.

  “Gaspar, no!” Luella cried.

  The ghost’s épée halted against the mobster’s neck.

  I stared.

  She’d stopped Gaspar from hurting Stoneface.

  Sharp pain began to well up in my chest. I glanced down, wondering if I’d been shot. But no.

  Luella had stopped Gaspar from hurting Stoneface.

  She hadn’t stopped Stoneface from shooting me.

  I blinked, surprised to find myself still on my feet. But some things cut too deep for fainting.

  “Bernie, be sensible.” Luella guided the gangster’s gun into his pocket. “You’re here as a precaution. No one’s going to get hurt.”

  “Thath right,” Thug One lisped past his swollen jaw. He walked over and yanked my wrist behind my back. “No one neeth to get hurt.” My elbow creaked. He twisted sharply, making Luella’s words a lie.

  I didn’t care.

  Gaspar turned toward his mistress. “Are you sure about this? About who we’re backing? The lad has worshipped you for years, you know. He’s a good boy.”

  Luella shook her head. “I’m sorry, Bernie. I know.” She shrugged. “But I like men.”

  Thug One marched me into the icehouse. A sharp jab in the kidney sent me, whimpering, to my knees. My ruined suit coat thudded on the coffins.

  Pain laced itself into my lower body. I couldn’t speak.

  Luella squatted and took my arm. “I’ll always care about you as a friend.”

  I looked away.

  She helped me rise and settle on the coffin bench.

  “I mean it, Porthos.”

  My childhood nickname: the surplus Musketeer.

  “You trust me, don’t you?” Luella squeezed my arm. “All for one and one for all?”

  I found my voice. “How about one for the road?”

  She laughed. “As soon as Clara gives me George, I’ll let you out. In the meantime….” Luella glanced over her shoulder at the gangsters. “I think you might need better protection.” She clasped the cord strung with her wooden ankh, the charm that bound her soul to Gaspar’s, and hesitated, looking unsure.

  “You aren’t serious!” Gaspar exclaimed.

  “The situation’s serious.” Luella closed her eyes. “I have to be.” She took a breath and untied the leather cord.

  “Gaspar, avatu,” Luella whispered, and then a string of words I didn’t understand.

  Green light, ghost magic, I guessed, sparkled around the ankh. Still chanting, Luella tied the leather cord around my neck. Sparkles rippled through the ghost’s red-and-black costume.

  “Avatu, Gaspar,” she said. “Protect this man.”

  A slippery feeling, like a refreshing summer bath, washed through my soul.

  The ghost staggered.

  She’d given me her spirit guide? My mind was staggering too.

  “It’s just a loan,” Luella said. “He isn’t really yours.”

  “Yes, but—” She’d had that ankh, I knew, since she was three. It was the basis of…of everything her mother’s family worshipped. Her source of magic. It was unthinkable for her and Gaspar to be apart.

  My broken heart mended a little. And then it melted, seeing the look of loss that young Luella tried to hide.

  “Always the noble, Athos.” I chucked her chin.

  “Hey doll.” Stoneface stepped through the icehouse door. “We’re done here. Time to go.”

  “You two take good care of each other.” Luella gulped. “I mean it. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Take care, yourself.” I flicked my eyes to Stoneface. “And watch your back.”

  Luella’s confidence returned. “Who, him?” She stood and straightened her hat. “Oh, I can handle Harry.”

  “No doubt.” At least, not much doubt. At least there was some hope.

  I shivered. Luella suddenly seemed very young indeed.

  She draped her raccoon coat over my shoulders. “Sit tight.”

  And then she took the gangster’s arm and walked away.

  The icehouse door locked with a hollow thud.

  “You’re very pale.” Gaspar sat with me on the coffin. “Are you injured?” He indicated my shredded shirt.

  “Just scratches.” I dug through the ruined jacket and found my cigarettes. The air was thick with fumes from embalming fluid and home brewed jake. Combined with straw, and wooden crates, and all Priscilla’s booze, the risk of fire seemed pretty high.

  I lit the cigarette and took a drag.

  “Are you upset,” I asked the ghost, “about being farmed out to me?”

  “Surprised.” Gaspar shrugged. “A rare feeling when you’ve been dead as long as I. Don’t expect miracles, however. I can’t do much, given an untrained host.”

  “Your power comes from Luella?”

  “It’s symbiotic. But I’ve been working with her for fifteen years. We know each other. Besides, she’s clever,” he added, making the contrast with certain other people clear.

  I didn’t mind. “I quite agree.”

  “Exactly how stuck are you on our lovely Luella?” Gaspar reached out to catch a handful of my smoke and roll a ghostly cigarette. “I ask in kindness, because you’re really not her type.”

  “Stuck, me?” I lied, “Hardly at all.”

  “Probably just as well. Now if you ask—”

  The lock clicked, interrupting his advice. The icehouse door swung open. Stoneface Gibraltar stood in the sun with his revolver drawn. His beady eyes darted around the room.

  “Izzat ghost around?”

  “Behind you.” I blew a smoke ring. “His icy fingers are reaching for your heart.”

  “Not in daylight, he’s not,” the gangster sneered. “So I prefer to stand out here.”

  Gaspar padded close to the door. “Lure him inside,” he suggested. “Into the shadows, and then we’ll have some fun.”

  “Aren’t you my jailor?” I asked the ghost.

  “Luel
la said to protect you.” He shrugged. “If you ask me, the best protection is getting the hell out of this place.”

  “I’m your jailor for now.” Stoneface also answered my question. “Later you might not be so lucky.” He took a knife out of his pocket and slid it across the floor. “I want you to cut a hunk of that fire-engine hair, nice and easy, for me to show your cousin.”

  Fire-engine? “It’s auburn, surely.”

  “Do what I say.” He aimed his gun.

  I picked up the knife and weighed it in my hand. “No.”

  He wouldn’t shoot. If Luella had warned him about Gaspar, she’d have read him the riot act about my family.

  “Please yourself,” Stoneface growled. “But if I hafta come and get it, you’re gonna lose an ear.” He dipped his free hand in his pocket and came out scattering white pellets—rock salt—through the air.

  Gaspar staggered back, steaming.

  That’s the problem with ghosts. Very sneaky. Not very tough.

  I bit my lip. “You really don’t want to upset my cousins.” Warlocks were sneaky. And tough. And they never forgot a grudge.

  The gun flashed blindingly. Splinters erupted beside my thigh, and then Stoneface was on me, frantically tossing salt.

  “You think I’m kidding?” He grabbed my vest and bounced me on the coffin bench. “You and your cousin think it’s a game?”

  I raised my arms in a defensive block and tucked my head, forgetting I had a knife, forgetting everything in a dull haze of punishment.

  “For two cents.” Stoneface dropped me.

  I slumped back weakly, breathing hard. He had both knife and hair, I saw, a fist-sized chunk, yanked from my scalp. But on the bright side, I still had both ears.

  “For two cents, I’d kill you now and give that uppity cousin your head.”

  Stoneface reached in his pocket and found a penny.

  “Just one cent. Huh.” His punch exploded in my gut. “Must be your lucky day.”

  The world slid down toward darkness.

  I sighed.

  About damn time.

  X: Stumbling All Around

  Most people are no crueler than they need to be to get what they want. It’s the same with demons; they simply want more.

  —The Girl’s Guide to Demons

  Clara:

  IN THE END, Beau didn’t let George Junior rip me to pieces—just gnaw a couple of chunks out of my shoulder. I’m not sure why. Maybe he wasn’t angry enough to watch a seventeen-year-old girl bleed to death in front of his eyes. Maybe being my zombie meant he couldn’t kill me. Or maybe he wanted to keep my brains fresh until he was hungry again. Possibly I won him over because I didn’t cry.

  Whatever reason, about one minute into the struggle, Beau wrapped his arms around George’s shuddering body and carted him the rest of the way upstairs from the landing.

  Fortunately Bernie and I both keep clothes at the Fellowship, I because the Woodson homestead is five miles away, and Bernie because he wrecks his clothes on a regular basis and doesn’t like to go home mussed. I stuffed my ruined dress behind a bookcase, used a drop of hellfire to heal myself—it was an awful waste, but I couldn’t think of anything else to get rid of the gore—lingered thirty seconds over the beautifully shear, beaded dancing gown that had been my graduation present from Luella, and then pulled on a dowdy, green Chelsea-collared frock that left me looking like Tess of the Storm Country.

  At least my hair looked good. Priscilla had rag-rolled it two nights before, and a touch of Vaseline freshened the curls. I’m not vain about my hair…well…maybe I am, a little, but it’s also my best disguise. Ladies pet it, gentlemen melt before it, and as long as the locks are clean, curled, and free of cobwebs, my sisters mistakenly assume that I’ve been keeping out of trouble.

  “All right, hang on,” I called into the bathroom where Beau was holding George. “I’ll be right back.”

  I slipped down to the first floor, sidled up to Priscilla, and sneaked the key ring out of her apron pocket. Then I dashed back upstairs and washed and bandaged George’s arm while Beau held him. The cut looked almost like a bite mark, and I spent a shuddering minute watching George foam at the mouth, convincing myself it wasn’t rabies.

  George was drunk. He had to be! Luella had gotten him drunk, and he would absolutely die of shame if we let anyone see him. The best thing to do was let him sleep it off and hope he forgot all about how violent he’d been.

  Fortunately, the Fellowship keeps guest bedrooms for coven members who have business with demons or just want to spend the night in town. The rooms are well insulated, practically soundproof, and the deterrent spell on the staircases keeps out unescorted guests. We shoved George into a bedroom with a pitcher of water and locked the door.

  “Come on.” The drop of hellfire I’d swallowed had given me a boost of energy. “I need to double-check my reference on zombies.” I’d combed through the Girl’s Guide this morning, but that was before Beau had eaten Mr. Vargas.

  I dragged Beau up the back stairs to the attic and climbed the ladder that leads to the widow’s walk on top of the Fellowship’s roof, taking a minute to blink in the sun. There’s a terrific view up there of the San Francisco mountains to the north and the seven-story Hollywood Grand across the street. I’d spent a lot of the last year wrapped in blankets, watching the building take shape. But today, I wasn’t interested in hotels.

  I hiked myself over the iron guardrail that surrounds the widow’s walk and onto the gently sloping slate roof, crouched low, and reached as far as I could under the platform. There, hidden behind a piece of slate, wrapped in three layers of oilcloth, was my copy of The Girl’s Guide to Demons—or rather the copy I’d discovered six years ago in our attic at home. The copy I’d never shown anyone, not even Bernie, although Luella knew something about it.

  The book was old. Thirty or forty years, with the silver leaf almost worn off the binding and so many notes and scribbled drawings, it could be hard to read the printed text.

  “If you made me into a zombie,” Beau asked conversationally, “and I made the janitor into a zombie, does that make Mr. Vargas our son?” He’d been falling-down drunk a little while ago. Now he seemed perfectly sober as he leaned against the railing and gazed at the view.

  “Of course not.” I glanced up and froze, breath strangling in my throat. Silhouetted against the afternoon sky, looking into the distance, Beau’s perfect profile had an ethereal glow, an otherworldly beauty, as if a broad-shouldered angel had settled on our rooftop. While I watched, he slipped out of his dinner jacket and stood, oblivious, in his blazing white shirt and waistcoat, staring into the distance.

  I shivered, hypnotized, unable to move. For a minute, I wondered if this was what had happened to George Junior, if I’d caught rabies when he’d bitten me. But I was suffering from a different sickness altogether.

  The Girl’s Guide slipped and thudded on the rooftop with a bang.

  Beau turned and raised a mocking eyebrow that seemed to pull my insides into his long fingers and tie them into knots. I fumbled for the book, dropped it, picked it up again and then plopped myself down on the slate, blushing furiously, putting my back to the railing, making a mental note never again to fall in love with a beautiful man.

  “And if you and I,” Beau continued with a hint of laughter, “made Mr. Vargas into a zombie, and Mr. Vargas transformed George, does that make us his grandma and grandpa?”

  “George Junior is not a zombie.”

  I opened the Guide and thumbed through carefully, trying to concentrate on the text. I had a deal with a demon. I had missing booze, a missing cousin, and…practically speaking…a missing genie as well. I had a zombie, a real one, on my hands, a dance contest to run, a dead janitor, and a half-sister who might, at any moment, wise up and pull the rug out from under me.

  On top of all that, I’d just imprisoned a member of a prominent family that, in a certain light, might be viewed as my own family’s arch-rivals. No amount of su
pernatural etiquette or best-friendship with Luella was going to save my neck if something bad happened to George.

  All those problems demanded my attention as I skimmed the pages of the Girl’s Guide to Demons. And yet all I could think about was how handsome Beau looked in his waistcoat.

  What was wrong with me? I banged my fist into my head.

  Hadn’t I seen Bernie in all sorts of states of half dress?

  Hadn’t I been about to kiss Ned Aimsley thirty minutes ago?

  I had things to achieve. Goals to accomplish.

  Beau vaulted the railing and landed lightly by my side. He sat down and draped one arm around my shoulders, and all my goals flew off the roof in a rush. Muscles rippled behind my back. I’d never realized, on screen, that he was so well defined. His scent was masculine, faintly musty, as if he spent his days deep in books.

  “Ah.” My chest tightened. “Ah.” I felt a fleck of drool on my lips.

  Maybe I had caught rabies after all.

  “If we’re going to make baby zombies,” Beau said, squeezing me lightly, “I can think of more pleasurable ways.”

  “Ah.” There was a spooky connection when we touched. A tingling closeness that had nothing to do with dress shirts and broad shoulders, and everything to do with the fact this man had become my supernatural minion.

  “Clara.” He tipped my chin up. “Clara, look at me.”

  His eyes were ocean blue, almost gray, and as compelling as the sea itself.

  “So young.” Beau stroked my lips with his thumb. “So very innocent.”

  My heart fluttered. “Ah, Beau?”

  “When I look at you, Clara, I see the lost light of my youth.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “When I touch your golden locks….” He threaded fingertips into the curls. “A thousand butterflies tremble in my soul.”

  I knew what he meant about the butterflies, although mine were someplace else. The attraction of being held, of being admired by this man, was overwhelming.

  “I don’t think—” I began.