Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (11 page)

She stood, a sparking goddess in her raccoon coat.

“I sent George into the coven basement,” she snapped. “Will you swear you don’t know what happened?”

“Upon a stack of Ouija boards. I swear.”

“Can you swear Clara doesn’t know?”

I closed my mouth. What young C. doesn’t know could fill encyclopedias. But this? My suit jacket, I saw, was covered in chicken feathers. One-by-one, I started plucking them off.

“That’s what I thought,” Luella said coldly. “That’s why you’re here. I’m going to keep you until Clara releases George.”

“Did you ask her?” I queried, reasonably enough.

Luella shook her head. “Not yet. We’ve been too busy.”

The door slammed open framing Stoneface Gibraltar. He ducked his head under the sill. “All right, doll. The pipsqueak’s conscious. Let’s stack these last boxes and then we’ll go.”

A spotted tabby cat strolled in and jumped onto a wooden crate.

“I’m sorry, Bernie.” Luella crossed her arms. “But something bad is happening in this town.”

“You mean apart from stealing booze?”

She shrugged. “You know I’ll work that out with Clara. No. People are acting crazy, fighting, staggering and foaming at the mouth. The man who came up from your basement bit three workmen before we tied him down, and now they’re acting strange as well.”

I thought of my brief tussle in the van. Luella’s magic had healed my bitten hand. “Then let me out of here,” I said. “I’ll help.”

“You and your demon? The one who’s
staying in our hotel?
No thanks.”

“Hans isn’t—”

Stoneface reached for Luella. “I said, doll-face….”

I watched, aghast, as he kissed her.

“…It’s time to go.”

“Harry!” Luella shot me a blushing glance. “Harry, not here.”

“Why not? The runt don’t mind.” He grinned. “Or if he does, we better show him who’s your Daddy.”

“We’re
partners
.” Luella slipped away. “I’m doing this to help my father launch the Hollywood Grand.”

“Is that a fact.” He took her shoulders into his hands, grasping Luella, pulling her close. Kissing her neck, her cheek, her soft and willing mouth.

I looked away. My heart felt like a lump of ash.

Luella sighed.

I scowled at Gaspar, whom Stoneface Gibraltar obviously couldn’t see. “Why don’t you slice
his
soul?”

“We think alike.” The ghost sat on the bench beside me. “The problem is, she seems to favor him.”

“Harry!” Luella broke free laughing. “You’re such a brute!”

The mobster traced a spit-curl on her cheek. “Don’t sweat. I’m only doin’ this to help your dad.” He shoved Luella against a stack of crates and lent further assistance to Dr. Umbridge.

There are times, Emily Post tells us, when a young man has overstayed his welcome. I stood and started edging toward the door.

“Good luck.” Gaspar stretched out along my bench which, I now realized, was made of two stacked coffins. “Mind the cat.”

He placed the Andalusian hat across his eyes.

I tiptoed forward. The tabby cat hopped down and rubbed itself along my slacks.

“Hey, boss.” Two thugs appeared, carrying a crate of booze apiece. “These are the last of—”

They stopped, looked at me, and scowled.

I dove between them as the crates thumped to the ground. Outside, afternoon sun glinted off the idling Ford van. No one was in it. I ran three steps, tripped on the tabby cat, and came down hard.

One of the thugs caught up and dragged me to my feet. “Upsy-daisy.”

“Ooph.” I’d have stayed more
upsy
without his fist in my gut. But on the other hand, the low punch left him open. I threw a hook that caught him on his jaw.

A glass jaw, evidently. He went down like a sack of bricks.

I turned, sprinting, and tripped over the cat again.

Thug Two pulled out a wicked-looking knife.

Gaspar stood just inside the doorway, laughing.

“How about cutting
his
soul?” I asked the ghost.

“Too bright, old man. I can’t come out.” He swung his épée at the sun. “Besides, I’m not entirely sure whose team I’m on.”

I backed slowly, watching the thug’s blade, wishing I’d shown more promise when, as a child, Gladys had trained me to repel Vikings. All I remembered now was lesson one: if someone comes at you with a sharp, pointy object, be somewhere else.

The man charged. I stepped aside, scooped up a handful of dirt, and threw it in his eyes. He snarled and charged again, shaking his head.

I dodged, aiming a kick, intending to break his knee, but only hit the shin. Three knife slashes ruined my coat and linen vest as I hopped backward.
Too close!
But I was lighter, faster, and he was over thirty, already short of breath.

A large tree stump stood in the yard. I rolled across it and then skipped back and forth around a circle, slinging dirt, tiring the thug—hopefully faster than I tired myself. The sun beat hot on my uncovered head. I whipped off my jacket and held it by the collar like a defensive flail.

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.

“Luella 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.