Authors: Vicky Loebel
Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (25 page)
“Mr. Beauregard,” Priscilla said faintly, “has been tending bar during our contest.”
“A zombie bartender?” Eleanor watched Beau nod. “Is that not less glamorous than sweeping women across a burning desert on the silver screen?”
So she had recognized him. What’s more, the hand Beau held exhibited a touch of pink. Perhaps the eel had human wriggling in its veins.
“Bartending is less glamorous, I admit.” The zombie turned on his full wattage smile. “But the company more than makes up for any loss.”
“Ah. Yes.” The pink color rose to Eleanor’s cheeks as she retrieved her hand. “That’s very well. But” —she swung on me, and everything was eels again— “we have the matter of stolen hellfire to address.”
“Stolen?” Clara’s voice rang down the spiral stairs. “Was something stolen? Whatever could it be?”
The voice was followed by a pair of high heels strapped around sheer stockings, rolled to below the knee. Above the stockings floated an asymmetrical green skirt. Gold beads sewn onto beige netting branched upward along a gauzy, sleeveless dress, forming the shapes of stems and leaves. And then the rest of Clara plunged into view: rouged, powdered, wearing a waist-length string of pearls.
My cousins gasped. I felt a blow and shuddered from the shock. The pale ringlets that had cascaded over Clara’s shoulders, the rag-rolled curls that were her sisters’ secret pride, were gone. In their place, young C. sported a girlish bob in perfect finger waves.
Priscilla staggered. The zombie caught her in his arms.
No Woodsen woman had ever docked the mane.
Behind Clara limped Hans the demon, looking smug, and behind him padded Ruth, watching the scene with laughing yellow eyes.
“Hello, Hans,” Eleanor said icily. “I hope you haven’t been causing trouble while I was gone.”
“Not as much as I’d have liked.” He smiled. “Back early, aren’t you?” The demon reached into his pocket and drew out a watch. It was not the timepiece, however, that riveted our attention. All eyes were fastened on the exquisitely crafted, strawberry-blonde fob from which the watch dangled. A fob woven from human hair exactly Clara’s shade.
“Good gracious.” Hans tucked the timepiece away, leaving the fob exposed. “The night’s still young.”
My cousin Eleanor is often quiet. I’d never before seen her speechless.
Clara produced a vial of silver hellfire and walked to Priscilla. “This is for you.” She hugged her sister tightly. “Thank you for trusting me.”
Priscilla clutched the vial, still staring at the fob. “But Clara,” she whispered, “you didn’t sell your beautiful hair?”
“That’s not the end of this, young lady.” Eleanor regained the power to oppress. “Theft is a serious matter. It’s not simply a question of repayment—”
Clara turned toward her eldest sister. “And this.” She produced a second glittering vial. “Makes 100% interest on my loan. That ought to even things up.”
“Two vials?” Eleanor frowned at Hans. “
Two
vials?”
“What can I say?” The demon shrugged. “Your sister is enormously persuasive.”
“Don’t I know it,” Eleanor muttered under her breath.
“So we’re even?” Clara asked. “And I’m a success? No, wait.” She raised her chin, the movement emphasized by her bobbed hair. “You admit I’ve been a
stunning
success running the bar?”
“You’ve stunned me, certainly. The rest we’ll leave until I’ve seen the bar’s accounts.”
“They’re ready, any time,” young C. fibbed shamelessly. “Until then” —she pressed the vial of hellfire into her sister’s hand— “put that in your pipe and smoke it!”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, but she took the vial.
Clara reached for her zombie. “I guess we’re stuck together.”
Beau smiled. “So it appears.”
“Would you…?” Her confidence evaporated. “I mean, you don’t have to. But will you please dance with me? Just once?”
Beau led Clara onto the floor. There was no golden glow connecting them, but I suppose they shared a different bond.
King Oliver grinned broadly. “What’ll it be, Beau?” he called. “Another tango?”
Beau bowed to Clara. “My queen?”
Clara hesitated, looking self-conscious as everybody stared. Then she squared her bare shoulders and tossed the head. “Forget tangos.” She winked across the room at me. “I’d rather Charleston!”
The music started. The crowd closed in around the dancing couple.
My elder cousins took their leave: Priscilla, shell-shocked, slipping down to her lab and Eleanor, accepting Hans’ arm, off to inspect the new hotel.
I sat down on the spiral staircase and watched the party roar. Two days ago the janitor, Mr. Vargas, would have sat just below me. One day ago, I’d been incinerated in an icehouse fire. I lit a cigarette and contemplated life’s vagaries while Ruth strolled over and sat beside me.
“She didn’t do it, you know.” Ruth snuggled against me. “Sleep with Hans. She just gave up her hair.”
“Not just her hair.” I grimaced. Clara had sold the demon her childhood in every sense but one. “Is that better or worse?”
“It’s
different
.” The genie laughed. “Who knows? Of course, this way, he’s got a chance to get the other prize next time around.”
My palm tickled. I rubbed the ankh tattoo and felt my gaze dragged down the hallway toward the kitchen. Literally dragged. Gaspar had spotted Luella, leaning forlornly against a wall.
The tickle became a burn. “All right,” I said, “come out.”
It wasn’t as bad as last time. Some minor gagging, a slightly searing pain, a puff of ectoplasm from the tattoo, and then Gaspar emerged, choking on wisps of ethereal smoke, brushing his Zorro clothes into position.
We traded irritated looks.
“You’re going to have to learn to do that better.” The same words came from both our mouths.
Ruth sniggered.
I sighed. “Go, talk to Luella.” I told Gaspar. “Take all the time you want. No need to hurry back.”
The ghost nodded. “Stay in the building, though. I think my range is very short.” He hurried down the hall and drew Luella aside into the stairway alcove.
So much for slipping home early. Although with Stoneface Gibraltar moving in, the Benjamin Bungalow had lost much of its charm.
I closed my eyes and listened to King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band.
Ruth snuggled close and kissed my cheek. “You’re cute.”
“You knew,” I said. “You knew right from the start that Beau Beauregard had been a warlock.”
“Of course I did. I’ve known the man for years.” She kissed my ear. “We’re both the same, you and me.” She kissed below the ear as well. “We’re not as dumb as people think.”
I frowned.
“So how about it?” Ruth slipped off the step into my lap. “You’re here. I’m here. We’ve got all night.” She wrapped her arms around my neck. “Want to escort me up the stairs?”
“Ruth, I—”
She kissed my lips. We spent a moment in silent negotiation.
“I promise,” Ruth said when one of us came up gasping for air, “nothing we do, or say, or give each other between now and sunrise will ever be used against you.”
She moved suggestively. We practiced holding my breath again.
I had to admit, despite her flaws, I found Ruthie appealing. I didn’t trust her. I didn’t entirely like how she’d behaved—letting me burn to death and all—but there was an innocent quality beneath the flashing claws that made me feel protective.
“Can I have my tooth back?”
“Nope.” Ruth licked my ear, purring. “It’s mine.”
“I’m not the prize you think,” I warned. “It won’t be my first time.”
“I don’t want prizes, Bernie.” That was the first time she’d spoken my name. “I just want nice.”
Color me prime sap of the century. I lifted the woman and carried her upstairs. We picked a room facing the Hollywood Grand and then stood side-by-side, watching the bustle: the cars, the lights and laughing crowds. Strange to think that, with all that went on here, the bulk of the party had been across the street.
King Oliver’s jazz thumped through the floor. We kicked off shoes and felt the beat reach up as I slipped off my jacket.
Ruth undid my tie and stood holding the ends.
I touched her dress, feeling an awkward tenderness, a longing I wasn’t sure how to express.
“No claws,” I grumbled. “No animal anything.”
Ruth smiled. “Okay.”
“Also,” I swallowed nervously. “As far as—”
“C’mon, lover.” She yanked my tie.
I floundered forward to the bed. The genie tripped me, flipped me, and landed on my chest.
Soft lips began to move along my throat. “Let’s tango!”
Turns out, she had some dance techniques to teach me, after all.
Epilogue: Do it Again
Love conquers some.
—The Girl’s Guide to Demons
Clara:
BEAU DANCED WITH ME for nearly three hours. That was the happiest I’d ever been or ever expect to be again in this life. The knowledge we’d each sacrificed everything on the other’s behalf washed clean the poisonous fact he was my minion. The zombie owned my heart. What did it matter, if I controlled his mind?
After we danced, I got a blanket and bottle of whiskey and led Beau to the widow’s walk up on the roof to watch the glittering Hollywood Grand Hotel. King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band had said goodbye to us, once and for all, and moved to the more profitable rooftop stage across the street. Light blazed, music pounded, and jazz cascaded over the golden waterfall balconies where couples danced.
We sat together under the stars. The town had changed. Falstaff was filling with gangsters, celebrities, and sweeping industrial curves. The outside world was here to stay.
I snuggled close to Beau. “I’ve been thinking,” I said. “About Luella wanting booze. Her family handles dead bodies all the time. We may be able to make a deal for brains. Sometimes, at least.”
Beau squeezed my hand.
“I’ll never love anyone but you, forever,” I vowed. “I mean, sooner or later, I’ll probably wind up in some demon’s bed.” That was the way things worked with warlocks. “But my heart’s yours as long as you desire it.”
“Thank you, my Voodoo Queen.” Beau brushed my cheek. “I’ll keep it safe.”
“Are you sorry?” I asked. “Will you regret staying?”
“Possibly,” he admitted. “But I’ve learned a lesson, Clara. Life isn’t something we choose to keep or toss away. Life is a gift we earn.”
“Is it?”
He smiled. My heart caught in my throat.
“I plan” —Beau kissed my fingertips— “to be extremely worthy.”
The End
****
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Speakeasy Dead
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Also Available From Vicky Loebel
The Road to Hell is Paved with Bad Intentions
Get ready for
Keys to the Coven
, a tightly plotted, spicy urban fantasy set in an original universe where karma is power, sex is karma, and it's not who you know but whose soul you own that matters.*
To become a demon, you must die in complete and utter despair
.
Three hundred years ago, Max passed that test with flying colors and joined the afterlife resolving never again to have innocent blood on his hands. Now Max has been given the job of breaking Felicity Woodsen’s family curse. But what she doesn't know, what Max can't bring himself to tell her, is that completing his mission almost certainly means her death.
"A witty urban-fantasy debut...
The entertaining start of an epic supernatural series."-
Kirkus Reviews
Sample: Keys to the Coven – Prologue
HELLFIRE ROARED THROUGH the pedestrian underpass, fusing concrete to glass. Max dove forward, flattening himself into nonexistent cover, hunching head and neck into his demon-skin jacket. A flaming nest of what had once been baby birds thudded to the bubbling pavement. He kicked off the smoldering remains of socks, wriggled bound wrists over his naked butt and past his feet, and smeared a handful of sticky asphalt—
ouch
—onto the hemorrhaging gash much too high for comfort on the inside of his thigh.
The tunnel reverberated to a low, menacing chant.
Witches.
Crap.
On his trail, a lot closer than he’d intended.
Max worked his wrists free of shimmering ropes. He hated when his own blood was used against him. Hated even more when it was used against him during really good sex.
“Demon!” A woman’s voice rang out. “We have you cornered. Surrender the soulstones!”
Most of all, he hated when really good sex turned out to be a trap.
Max darted a look up the exit stairwell, retreating hastily as rubble cascaded down and blocked his escape. He reached into his jacket, fished out a pair of slacks and hobbled into them, feet skipping over hot tar, pain jolting his groin as he jogged forward to inspect the stairwell he’d come down. Two witches loomed against the night sky: the one who’d knifed him and the stranger who’d made a conflagration from his demonic blood.
Max took out his cell phone. “Kate.”
“Darling,” his Personal Spiritual Assistant breathed over the line. “I want you.”
“I’m in no mood for sarcasm, Kate.” Particularly sarcasm about his botched seduction. Max dropped flat as a second jet of fire roared past. He’d stopped bleeding; the hellfire fueling the spell hadn’t come from him. That made the stranger a
sorceress
, a rare and dangerous witch who could summon demonic blood straight from Hell.
Double crap.
He jumped up and kicked off the burning slacks, beating out flames on his black turtleneck. Max’s jacket was indestructible, his body slightly less so. Everything else went up like kindling.