Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (26 page)

“Darling, let me slide my mouth around your hot, thick—”

“How are you coming with that assignment?” Max prompted.

“I found the orb, boss.” His PSA sighed dramatically. “It’s in a locked safe.”

He searched the jacket for his remaining pair of slacks, wondering if it was worth putting them on, cursing silently as an incautious shift in weight sent him down to one knee. This was getting embarrassing.

“Guarded by magical wards,” Kate continued.

Which was why
she
was in the coven stealing the orb while Max was imitating the marshmallow portion of a camping trip.

“Immersed in salt water.”

“Ah.” He frowned. Demons weren’t good in water, and Kate was
demi
, a half-demon indentured servant. She couldn’t even exist in salt water.

Max reached in his pocket and touched the marble-sized soulstones he’d retrieved from the coven. Eight stones, each containing the enslaved spirit of a living human being. They were worth a fortune in karma, but the orb he’d sent Kate after was the real prize. The orb was used to manufacture new soulstones.

“Don’t you carry diving charms?”

“Surrounded by hellfire-devouring piranhas,” Kate finished.

“Oh.” Nothing for it then; they’d have to scratch. And since the taskmistress who issued Max’s orders seldom took
oops
for an answer, that meant trying again tomorrow or the night after without the dubious advantage of surprise.

A paper dove fluttered down the unblocked stairs and landed on sticky pavement. Oily white liquid began to bubble from its folds.

“Which is why,” Kate said, “I had to burn half my charms getting the stupid orb. I hope this job covers expenses, boss, because that’s a mighty big chunk of karma.”

“You have it?” Max grimaced. The pool of white goo expanded and he retreated toward the collapsed stairwell. “That’s good. Because I could use some help—”

A third round of hellfire turned the underpass into an inferno. Liquid splattered, scalding his legs. Max ducked and rolled, grabbing a cloth from his pocket, scrubbing off the sticky stuff as it ate into his skin. Too late, he caught the flash of his dropped cell phone vaporizing in the advancing white pool.

There wasn’t going to be help from Kate.

Max edged backward toward the blocked exit. He’d led the witches away from Kate when things started to go wrong at the coven, away from city streets where people might get hurt. A deserted pedestrian underpass had seemed like a safe haven at the time.

Across the tunnel, the sorceress descended in a garish swirl of orange and purple skirts, her face obscured by a veil. One hand stretched forward, creating a shimmering blue ward that formed a shield against irate demons and goo. The other clutched the coven-witch Max had rather spectacularly failed to seduce.

“Surrender the soulstones,” the sorceress intoned, “or meet your doom!”

Doom was bad. Doom seldom left room for negotiation. Max stepped back as sputtering liquid lapped close to his feet. Demons were tough. They could endure practically anything. He glanced at the white place where his cell-phone had disappeared.
Probably not vaporization, though
.

Hellfire collected around the sorceress’ form. Who was this woman? Max caught a flash of golden curls under her veil. She thought anonymity would protect her, would prevent him—if he escaped—from exacting revenge.

Sadly, she was correct.

Max raised the bag of soulstones over the goo. Kate would be unhappy if he destroyed them here. His boss, Margaret Elizabeth, would be less happy by far.

Still, bargains were a demon’s stock in trade.

“Withdraw your spell,” Max said. “Or we both lose the stones.”

“I’ll split them,” she countered airily. “You keep half.”

Four stones
. Four slaves to pass up his chain of command.

He shook his head. “No.”

“You can have your bedmate.” She shoved the coven-witch through her shimmering ward. “I’ll throw the slut who betrayed you into our bargain.”

The woman teetered, shrieking, at the edge of the goo.

Rebecca
. Max’s thigh twinged painfully.
Not some nameless human
. A person he’d connected with at the most intimate level. Rebecca’s deepest wish had been a night of extravagant pleasure.

Although, in retrospect, apparently not with him.

She turned and pounded frantically on the impenetrable blue shield.

“You can have her, body and soul,” the sorceress offered. “You have my word.”

Max didn’t trade in souls. “No.” And he had no use for an unwilling body. “How about this?” Destroying demons—destroying anyone without just cause—carried significant penalties. “Take your goo and leave now so you don’t get stuck with a whopping karmic debt.” He stepped back and hit the blocked exit. “In exchange, my Personal Spiritual Assistant won’t hunt you down and rip off your head.” Anonymity was no protection from Kate who, without Max to restrain her, would simply rip the head off every witch she could find and hope for the best.

“I try to avoid murder.” The blue ward vanished; the coven-witch tumbled to safety. “Particularly my own.”

Rebecca staggered to her feet and fled up the stairs.

“On the other hand,” the sorceress gestured and set her ward back in place. “What sort of demon lets himself fry over a handful of insignificant soulstones?”

White liquid sizzled against Max’s toes. “I will destroy the soulstones before I surrender.” He stripped off the jacket and wrapped his feet to protect them. That just left everything from the shins up to vaporize. “I swear.”

No demon could break a promise. No human could afford the outright murder of a demon. Any sensible, self-preserving sorceress would back down right about now.

This one laughed lightly. “It’s not surrender as long as we agree on terms.” She tipped her head. “How about this? You take seven stones, I get one, and we both keep our skins?”

Seven stones
. That was a reasonable compromise, one he could accept without shame. One person would remain a slave, but Margaret Elizabeth could set the other seven free.

Max sighed. Demons—some demons—collected the souls of people after they died. It took a human witch to commit that sort of atrocity against living beings.

“No deal.” With silent apologies, he emptied the bag of stones into the pool. There should have been a ceremony to ease the transition. His boss should have said a few words. But the end result was the same. Eight stolen soulstones vaporized in the goo. Eight liberated souls flashed back to their bodies. At dawn, eight people would reawake, safe and sound with their families.

Kate would deliver the orb to Margaret Elizabeth and that would be destroyed too. The coven Max had infiltrated would go back to palm reading and divination and leave the real magic to Hell.

Thus ends another successful Demonic Intervention
. Max swallowed. Eliminating dangerous magical artifacts was an important job, one he believed in. And the rewards in karma made the risks worthwhile.

Usually.

The sorceress shook her head slowly. “How very uncompromising.” She sounded pleased. “Well, since that offer’s vaporized I’ll make another. Trade an unspecified promise. Give me your marker and you can leave here unharmed.”

Max’s marker amounted to a blank check on services. It could cause a lot more trouble than a couple of soulstones.

Oily liquid began to seep over his jacket.

“Despite the trust we’ve built up during our brief acquaintance,” he kept his face blank while his shins burned, “no.”

She tossed her head. “Then promise a simple favor. Swear you’ll help me achieve a mutually acceptable goal sometime in the future. Promise to keep this meeting secret and not to search for me or interfere in my life until then.”

A good demon knew when to accept a deal: once the terms were sufficiently vague and while there was still flesh on his bones.

“All right.” Max nodded. “Agreed.”

The blue protection ward vanished. The sorceress snapped her fingers and the white goo receded. Within seconds, it had been reabsorbed into the paper bird.

Max’s skin steamed painfully as the bird fluttered to her hand.

“I’ve met a lot of demons,” she said. “You’re the first who refused to sacrifice even one human to save himself.”

She made it sound like a test. “I’ve met a lot of witches.” Max shook his jacket and put it on. “They’re all power-crazed kooks.” He searched his pockets and found a battered kilt. Red plaid, printed with Scottie dogs. Kate’s idea of packing. “Are we finished? Or are you asking for help?”

“Not now. Not for a few years, I hope, but the day is coming.” The woman pulled off her veil and ash-blonde curls tumbled free. She was on the young side for so much power—early forties—but then, few sorcerers lived to old age.

“My name is Rose Woodsen,” she said. “I’ve got a task for you. A daughter who’s going to need your help. A Demonic Intervention I believe you’re much too moral to refuse.”

“Sounds lovely,” Max told her. “What is it?”

“All in good time. For now, honor your promise to keep out of my life!”

She snapped her fingers and with a puff of smoke, a flurry of owl wings, she was gone.

Max frowned at the single red rose left behind on the pavement. He’d botched things badly—letting himself get trapped, relying on the link to Kate through his phone. That promise to leave Rose Woodsen alone almost certainly meant trouble.

“Boss!” Kate’s panicked voice echoed through the tunnel. She flowed like mist down the open stairwell and materialized, brunette, long haired and leggy, clutching the soulstone orb in one hand and an assault rifle in the other. Men had been known to fall through open manhole covers, staring at Kate. That was one reason she was still stuck as a mid-karma demi.

“Boss, are you?” Her dark eyes took in the rubble behind him. The ruined asphalt. Max’s scarred shins.

The kilt.

A smirk spread slowly across Kate’s elegant features. She waved her weapon away and stored its miniaturized charm on a conspicuously empty silver bracelet.

Max winced. Kate’s missing charms would make an awkward item on their expense report. Along with the vaporized phone, the missing soulstones, the little coven-witch who’d nearly sliced off his…. He sighed and limped toward his Personal Spiritual Assistant, mentally composing their official report. Some details would have to be kept secret, thanks to his promise.
Most details
. Which might be just as well.

Not that it mattered. Max shrugged. He’d given Rose Woodsen his word. For good or bad, he couldn’t change the deal now.

Kate punched his shoulder. “Hot date?”

Max brushed past Kate and trudged up the stairs.

“It was magic.”

Keys to the Coven: available on Amazon.com

Hellfire Universe Glossary

MOST OF THE explanations of how the Hellfire Universe works can be found in the text of this novel, but a brief glossary is offered for convenience. Some of what appears here may include slight spoilers in the form of information that would otherwise have been parceled out in bits and pieces. Please note this is a purely fictional universe. No disrespect to existing religions or religious terms is intended.

Afterlife
: The collective community of souls who are not eligible to move on after death. This group includes the residents of
Hell
(primarily
demons
) as well as assorted
demis
and
ghosts
who may remain in the living world.

Alcohol
: Provides a handy source of energy for supernatural creatures, reducing the amount of karma needed to operate in the world. Although tastes vary, the widely known favorite is demon rum.

Beau Beauregard
: War hero, vaudevillian, dancing heartthrob of
Ali Baba’s Arabian Knights
and the even more popular
Blood of Ali Baba,
Beau is a silent film star who agreed to grace Clara’s dance contest with his presence in return for a share of the profits. Sadly, Beau fell from one of the Hollywood Grand Hotel’s cascading golden balconies before the contest opened, suffering internal injuries that led to a lethal case of peritonitis. As
Speakeasy Dead
opens, Beau is on the cusp of dying amidst a crowd of doctors, nurses, and reporters in his suite at the Hollywood Grand Hotel.

Bernie
: Bernard Benjamin (September 23, 1903- ): Clara’s cousin on her maternal side. Bernie’s father, Dr. Teddy Benjamin, was an English immigrant—descended from long distant royal blood, if Gladys is to be believed—who returned to his home country to aid in the Great War and died in 1915, leaving Bernie in the charge of Gladys. Bernie’s mother, Edith, a rare Woodsen who took her husband’s name, died giving birth to Bernie.

Binding
: Magical subjugation of one soul by another. The bound soul loses free will, meaning his or her acts become the responsibility (and affect the
karma
) of the master.
Demons
sometimes agree to be bound temporarily to
warlocks
, usually as part of a
summoning
ritual, often hoping the warlock will run up a debt that makes it easier to eventually purchase the warlock’s soul.

Boy’s Book of Boggarts
: A book of pithy advice for
spiritualists
.

Clara Woodsen
(September 23, 1906- ): Bernie’s cousin, a much-indulged youngest Woodsen half-sister, fourth in line to inherit Eleanor’s gift of
sorcery
. Clara’s father, Bill Johnson, was a railroad man who died of influenza in 1918. Her mother, Martha Woodsen, died when she was born, passing the gift of sorcery onto her eldest daughter, Clara’s half-sister Eleanor.