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

before I looked.
    Nothing.
    Except for Bernie, peeping out under the poncho, I was alone.
    My demon summoning had flopped.
    “Uh, oh.” I turned on the electric light and uncovered my cousin, using the butcher’s cleaver to slice his ropes. Then I looked behind me and checked the pentagram one more time. Empty .
    “Oh, hell!”
    The magnitude of what I’d done was sinking in.
    Without a demon, I hadn’t become a warlock.
    Without a demon, the fact I’d cast a spell made me an ordinary witch.
    An ordinary witch who’d broken her solemn oath.
    My half-sisters were going to kill me.
    There’s a cabinet back at the family homestead, a large, well-polished walnut armoire containing the heads of all the Woodsens who’ve ever broken their vows. My half-sisters used to make me wash and braid the hair of the little girls.
    Bernie rose, goggle-eyed, rubbing his arms. He took a few wobbling steps, dodging the blood, and then stopped and pulled a blue enameled cigarette case out of his baseball uniform.
    “Do you—” He cleared his throat and his voice dropped two octaves. “Do you know, for one minute, I thought you’d actually pull that off?”
    He lit a cigarette with increasingly steady hands.
    I sat down on the sofa beside the rock fireplace.
    “Right after I decided you’re completely nuts.” Bernie flopped onto a cushion beside me and propped his feet on a footstool. “Nuts, squirrels, leaves, and acorn tree.” He blew a chain of smoke rings. “With rabbits frolicking among the roots.”
    You’d never guess three minutes ago he’d been in terror for his life.
    But then, my cousin is nowhere near as innocent as he likes to act. To start with, he’s got a golem housekeeper, a sort of magic servant made of clay, passed down through centuries from some English lord or other on the Benjamin side of his family. While from the Woodsen side, my mother’s sister—the only Woodsen ever permitted to take her husband’s name—Bernie inherited a mysterious magical legacy that he doesn’t discuss with anyone. Not even me.
    “Well, young C.” He sucked in smoke. “What now?”
    The answer was obvious. I was dead.
    I took the other bottle of Jack Daniels out of Bernie’s satchel and tore off the seal. The last bottle of Jack Daniels in the coven. Possibly the last bottle in the entire United States of Prohibition.
    “Now we get plastered.” A bottle wasn’t enough to get me drunk, but I figured the thought would count. “Then you’re going to kiss me, just once, while I pretend you’re a real boy.”
    He grimaced. But I was not going to leave this world unsullied.
    “Then you pop home, collect Gladys, and catch the five a.m. train out of Falstaff.” This was Thursday. The hellfire wouldn’t be missed until the coven meeting Sunday night. “And never come back.”
    My sisters wouldn’t chase Bernie. They were scared of his golem. And besides, he hadn’t broken a vow.
    My cousin’s forehead furrowed. “But—”
    The basement door slammed open.
    I jumped.
    The door I’d bolted. The door guarded by magical wards.
    An elegant, stunningly handsome man limped into the room, leaning heavily on a silver-tipped cane. He was ancient, fifty at least, of middling height, with high cheekbones, dark hair, and deeply tragic blue eyes. He wore a perfectly cut swallow-tail coat and white shirtwaist, fastened with diamond studs, and held a beaver top hat in his hand. An enormous yellow cheetah with glittering eyes stood by his side.
    The cheetah yawned. My seat rocked wildly as Bernie dove for cover behind the sofa.
    The gentleman bowed. “I beg your pardon.” The voice was golden honey. His smile appeared to flood the room with light.
    I stared, wondering how any man could be more beautiful than Beau.
    “I’ve been across the street at the festivities,” he said smoothly. “Did someone call for a demon?”

III: Jazz Vampire
Without the threat of death, there’s no reason to cower.
—The Boy’s Book of