Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (22 page)

King Oliver played a low, sensual tune. Luella gazed down earnestly, thanks to the added height of her dancing shoes, while I wondered if hellfire could change
her
into putty in my hands.

Probably not. She’d probably boss me around, the same as always.

I stepped onto the bottom stair, putting us eye-to-eye. “What’s up?”

“Bernie.” Luella squeezed my hand. “Bernie, you said Gaspar was gone.”

“He burned.” I didn’t want to think about it. “His ankh was in my fist when my hand burned. There’s nothing left.”

“There’s this.” She turned my left palm upward and touched the ankh tattoo.

I shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s just a mark.”

“The spirits say he hasn’t left our plane.”

“He hasn’t? How?” I knew nothing about the subject. “Did he…go somewhere?” It would be nice to think I hadn’t killed her ghost.

“The spirits say” —she stroked my palm— “he’s still right here.”

A shiver, horror with a side order of
gosh-she’s-a-lovely-girl
, slid up my arm. “He’s what?”

“They say he’s trapped.” Luella whispered a word. The tattoo tingled. “They say you stole him.”

My body vibrated. “Of course I didn’t!”

She whispered again. The tingle became a sting.

“Stop it!” I tried to back away, tripped on the stairs, and landed on a step. “Ouch! Hey!”

The mark glowed faintly. Luella murmured a string of words I didn’t understand. Wisps of gray-green ectoplasm began rising from my palm.

“Luella!” It burned. “Ow! Can’t we discuss—”

Phantom flames flickered to life around me. I shrank from memories of falling beams and crackling heat.

“Luella! Please!” I cringed. “Enough!”

Green, choking smoke rose in my throat. Panic bubbled inside me. Even on hellfire, even knowing it wasn’t real, I couldn’t face that blaze again.

“Dammit!” My right hand balled into a fist. “Enough!”

Stoneface Gibraltar saved me from slugging a girl.

“I got to agree with you.” He stepped into the alcove, revolver drawn, and all at once, ghost flames seemed less important. “I’ve had about enough of both of youse.”

“Er…glorp?” I asked.

Three thugs ran past the alcove in the direction of the kitchen.

“That goes for you too, doll. You and that spooky stuff.” He shoved Luella. She landed, murmuring under her breath, clutching my burning hand.

“We thought” —I stopped to wheeze on spectral smoke— “you’d gone.”

“What, ditch this gold mine?” He laughed. “Not hardly. Besides, five of my boys vanished last night. I can’t just let that slide.”

“You would if you had any sense.”

Stoneface slapped me. “Shut your gob, baldy!” He grabbed both my lapels in one big hand and shoved the gun between my eyes.

Ghostly blisters bubbled along my skin. Green fog oozed out and rose to hover around my head.

“Let’s go.” Stoneface pulled me along the hall into the kitchen. Luella followed, chanting under her breath, clutching my hand. Through heavy haze I saw the thugs with Tommy guns, each threatening one of my relatives—Gladys, Clara, and Priscilla—against a different wall. Gladys’ two kitchen maids sat at the table, eyes downcast, staring at their laps.

“Bernard,” Priscilla asked, “are you all right?”

I gagged on ghostly goo. “Top notch,” I gasped. So far, hellfire had kept me awake beyond my usual fainting point. But it was getting hard to breathe.

“Bernie!” Clara exclaimed. “You let him go, you oaf!” She sprang forward. The thug in front of her swung his gun and clubbed her to the ground.

Clara did not get up.

“Now listen.” Stoneface thumped his revolver against my skull. “Because I’m only sayin’ this one last time. You Woodsen dames is gonna sell me booze.”

“Mr. Gibraltar.” Priscilla’s voice buzzed distantly. “I’m very willing—”

Black and red colors began to swirl inside the fog. The kitchen spun. I sank down to my knees.

“I know you’re willing,” Stoneface growled. “Cause
one
, you’re not a dope, and
two
, as long as you do what I say, your sister lives. But shorty here” —he pulled me to my feet— “gives me a pain. And I lost five good men. Me and that Swedish meatball is gonna settle up.”

Luella finally finished her chant. “
Gaspar!
”

The fog left me and swirled away. I sucked in air as Zorro made his entrance. He wore, as he had done before, the mask, the Andalusian hat, the sash, in black and red, but there was something different. This ghost was smaller, more wiry than the one I’d met, with a sardonic tilt about his mouth.

“Oh, no!” Luella cried.

“Well, this is awkward.” Gaspar glanced back and forth between the two of us. His eyebrows arched into the mask. “My ankh appears to have” —he coughed delicately— “changed
hands
.”

Luella’s fist exploded against my cheek. “You bastard!” She hit me again. “You bastard! You can’t have him!”

Stoneface Gibraltar pushed Luella aside and pressed his gun against my skull. “So long, pipsqueak.” His finger tightened on the trigger.

“Go left,” Gaspar advised.

I dove hard to the right. The épée swished past my left ear, catching the gun. The hammer clicked, failing to send a bullet through my brain.

Gaspar’s backstroke cut through the gangster’s neck.

“Ow! Hey” He slapped his skin. “What’s that?” Green goo oozed in a line across his throat. He didn’t react—not obviously—but a dazed look began to spread across his features.

“Hey,” he repeated blankly. “What gives?”

I took his revolver and looked around the room. In the last seconds, things had changed. Gladys’ thug lay limp, neck broken, on the floor. Priscilla’s guard was trying desperately to rub yellow powder out of his eyes. The thug who’d clobbered Clara was dangling, groaning, from the golem’s fist. Since he was a good two feet taller than Gladys, she had to kick his ankles, repeatedly, to make him hang.

The kitchen maids leapt from their chairs and darted past me out the swinging door.

“Be quiet.” Gladys released her thug. He curled into a ball, clutching his scalp. The golem swiveled, eyes flickering, toward Luella. “I would advise you, miss, not to pick up that weapon.”

Luella raised her hands and backed away from the dead gangster’s Tommy gun.

Young C. sat up rubbing her head. “What happened?” She looked around. “Dammit! I missed the action.”

“Clara, language,” Priscilla scolded.

My cousin stood and gave her thug a vicious kick. “There.” She dusted her hands. “We’re even.” She spotted me. “Bernie, you ass! How many times do you expect me to save your life?”

“Once less,” I said with some asperity, “than it takes you to get me killed.”

“Baloney. If you’d just—” she hesitated. “Oh, hi, Gaspar.”

“Miss Clara Woodsen.” He swept into a bow. “Gaspar the Great, at your service. I’m deeply honored that we should meet at last.”

“Um, charmed.” My cousin curtseyed. Priscilla offered the ghost a cordial nod.

All this short while, our favorite mobster had stood, contemplating nothing. Now he sprang into action, reaching toward me with one gigantic paw.

“Hey, pal.” He tugged my sleeve. “Is this the Drake Hotel?”

Priscilla took a steak out of the icebox and fussed over Clara’s head.

Gaspar wrapped one arm, chummily, around Stoneface’s back. “You’ve had a long day,” he suggested. “Why not sit down?” He led the gangster to a chair.

I watched them, wondering how the ghost made himself heard.

“Kids.” Gaspar pulled his épée. “Don’t try this trick at home.” He slashed a
Z
into the forehead of each remaining thug and then popped them, like puppies, into the other kitchen chairs.

“Repeat these words,” the ghost intoned hypnotically. “Every day in every way, I’m getting better and better.”

“Every day,” Stoneface began, “I’m…huh?”

“…better and better,” his friends chorused.

I left them to it and went to check on my cousin. She had a goose egg beneath the strawberry tresses, sure enough. “I bet that hurts.”

“Only when I laugh,” she said.

I smiled.

“Bernie.” Luella tapped my shoulder. “We aren’t done. This isn’t settled. I’m not just letting you take my spirit guide.”

I turned, crossing my arms. “Agreed. Not permanently settled. But for tonight, it is.”

“But—”

“Tomorrow.” I used her brother’s commanding look. “Next week, a month from now, I’ll try my best to help you sort this out. But not tonight.” I checked my wristwatch. It was already seven o’clock. “Go home.”

“But—”

“
Every day, in every way
,” the gangsters chanted, “
I’m getting better and better
.”

“But—” Luella tried again.

Lights flickered. A cold wind whistled through the room, rocking the kitchen door. In the front of the Fellowship building, the sounds of merrymaking died. Silence descended as if the stone foundation had drawn a breath and held it.

“Whatever can that be?” Priscilla asked.

There was a sound of glassware shattering on the floor.
My mother’s crystal
.

I winced.

Gaspar walked up to stand beside me. “I do believe I smell a warlock.”

Luella chased him. “But—”

Gladys opened the swinging door. “Miss Eleanor,” she announced calmly, “is here.”

“Eleanor!” Priscilla staggered. “But—but—” She joined Luella impersonating a motor boat.

“You didn’t warn her?” I asked young C., aghast.

“She would have worried! It wouldn’t help! I thought…you know…the train might…crash?”

“Eleanor?” Gaspar frowned at Luella and then at me. “Excuse me, kids. I think I’ll sit this out.” He tossed a brief salute and vanished.

Gladys stepped through the doorway into the hall. “Miss Woodsen, Miss Dottie and Lottie, I’m pleased to see you home.”

“Hello, Gladys.” Eleanor blew, like winter’s heart, into the kitchen, dark-haired, dark-souled, unfairly tall, garbed in a red and white traveling suit layered with geometric patterns sewn in darker thread. “It’s nice to think someone is pleased.” Behind her stood the second-eldest Woodsens, Dottie and Lottie, Siamese twins—metaphorically speaking—joined at the brain, each wearing a middy sailor dress under a lot of fur. Behind them crowded the rest of the coven, fresh from the train, including the Chinese lawyer who lived next door.

“
Every day
,” our gangsters chorused, “
in every way
….”

I glanced past them, swallowing nervously. The thug Gladys had killed was gone. A length of shoelace dangled from the cupboard near where he’d lain.

“Excuse me,” Luella squeaked. “My mother’s calling.” She darted through the group and down the hall.

Eleanor smiled gently. “Would somebody care to explain what’s going on?”

“Sisters.” Priscilla curtseyed. She was copied more slowly by Clara, proving for once, young C. possessed a lick of sense.

A lick I lacked, alas.

“Welcome back, Cousin Eleanor.” I stepped up cheerfully and shook her hand. “Dottie and Lottie.” I tossed off a salute. “We’ve missed your violin scrapings. Did you make a killing in Florida?”

Eleanor’s eyes flickered silver with power. This was a woman who had demons to summon demons for her. With one whisper, she could turn me to dust, with one gesture, flatten the town.

So why pretend? It’s not like groveling would keep me safe. Besides, one gesture would
not
flatten my golem. She’d have to wave two times, possibly three.

“Bernie-you-idiot,” Eleanor greeted me with affection. “Shouldn’t you be home studying?”

“Nope. Summer.” I brought my eldest cousin up to date on the school calendar. “Clara and I are hosting a contest in the bar.”

“The contest’s over. Send everybody home.”

“No ma’am.” Clara stepped forward and took my arm. Her voice was shaky but determined. “You promised I could run the Fellowship’s saloon. I signed contracts staging a dance contest. That makes this evening your promise as much as mine.”

“Did I promise,” Eleanor’s eyes flicked toward the gangsters, “that you could drag us into a war?”

“There’s no war, sister.” Priscilla stepped up on Clara’s other side. “Some
wrinkles
, yes, as you’d expect when the Umbridges bring outside bootleggers to town.”

Point scored
. We all had standing orders to play nice with Umbridges.

“However, Gladys and I” —Priscilla bit her lip— “
and
Clara and Bernie have been ironing things out.”

“Is that correct?” Eleanor turned to my golem.

“There’s no problem,” my housekeeper replied smoothly, “that can’t be solved with hot metal and starch.”

“Well, then.” Eleanor flicked an eyebrow at Clara. “Finish your contract and we’ll speak of this later.
At length
. Meanwhile.” She faced Priscilla. “The rest of us will go downstairs and audit the coven.”

“Audit?” Priscilla and young C. squeaked in unison. “Right now?”

“Right now.” Eleanor’s smile sent ice into our souls. “You see, I’ve reason to believe there’s been a theft.”

XVII: He’s the Hottest Man in Town

What the warlock does in the end, the demon planned in the beginning.
—The Girl’s Guide to Demons

Clara:

AFTER THE INQUISITION headed downstairs, Gladys drew Beau aside and fed him the dead gangster’s brains. And so we entered what might be the last forty-five minutes of both our lives tending bar side-by-side, watching the dance contest that ruled our fate. Beau was himself again: soulful, quick witted, handsome enough to break your heart and, for once, genuinely sweet to his admirers, clasping their hands, offering smiles and small teasing compliments tailored to each individual, as if he realized this might be his last chance on Earth to be kind.

Hans was perched in his usual spot at the end of the bar, a vulture in white tie and waistcoat, sipping whiskey while he caressed the arm of a woman draped in a butterfly cape.

I didn’t know what to think about Ruth’s chances. By eight o’clock, five men and five women were supposed to be chosen as finalists. Those ten people would take turns partnering each other, with the winning couple announced at nine. But despite a good deal of whispering among Miss Pinn, Mr. Aimsley, and Mrs. Lund, so far only one man and two ladies had been written on the board.