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

Boggarts
    Bernard:
    THERE MAY HAVE BEEN a moment or two after the stranger’s arrival that I can’t completely account for. I mean, one instant an overdressed dandy complete with menacing pet was hulking inside the coven door. The next I was behind the sofa while he and Clara sat together, knee to knee, sipping whiskey.
    The cheetah strolled out of the pentagram—now suspiciously empty of cooked feet—and rubbed itself along the stranger’s ankles. Clara poured Jack Daniels into a glass ashtray on the rug. The cheetah lapped booze, eyeing me evilly through the gap created by the sofa’s wooden legs.
    I wondered whether the newcomer was really a demon. Not whether demons exist; even minor Woodsen relatives know better than to question that. But whether my nit of a cousin had actually summoned a demon from…the Hollywood Grand Hotel across the street?
    And, if so, did that make Clara a warlock?
    She’s probably mentioned her household cabinet stuffed with severed heads. You may have thought she was joking, but no, I saw them once. That is, I got a glimpse of something cranial shortly before sputtering awake beneath the icy glare of Cousin Priscilla, empty water bucket in one hand, hickory switch in the other.
    “So you see, your Hellishness.” Clara passed me a glass of whiskey over the back of the sofa. “It’s terribly important we save Beau Beauregard. I’d be awfully glad if you helped.”
    I swallowed the blessed beverage. A grateful glow infused my feeling of fear.
    “Call me Hansie,” the man murmured. I couldn’t see, but I was sure he’d taken her hand.
    The cheetah thrust its muzzle under the sofa, rolled onto one shoulder, and shoved a spotted paw in my direction.
    Claws like curved razors swished past my nose.
    I squeaked.
    “For gosh sake, Bernie. Stop teasing that cat.”
    Dignity Before Death. That’s the Benjamin family motto, or was, before all my English relatives bit the dust. So while I’m not ashamed to duck strategically from time to time, timidity is not the alpha and omega of Bernard Benjamin’s character. I stood now, straightening my grubby baseball uniform, and shook the stranger’s hand across the back of the sofa.
    The instant we touched, I knew Clara’s summoning ritual had been a success. My clothes, my skin, even muscle and bone seemed to peel away, leaving my soul naked before the demon’s penetrating gaze. In less time than it takes to bait a hook, Hansie probed my heart, dissected the Benjamin brain cage, assessed my sexual potential (low), and tossed me back into the waters of life, an undersized fish.
    “ Hans to you,” the demon said pointedly. And those were the last words I ever got out of him.
    Something shifted behind Hans. I blinked, my rumpled brain slow to focus, as the cheetah slowly dissolved into shimmering silver mist and then reshaped itself into a human woman—a real woman, no half-baked girl cousin—wearing a lot of charm bracelets, dressed in a revealing, gauzy frock, edged in spotted fur. She had a stunning face, an even more stunning peroxide bob, and a voice that could have stripped the varnish off a rack of baseball bats at sixty yards.
    “I’m Ruthie!” The woman’s eyes sparkled above her cupid mouth. “You wanna dance?”
    It was an awkward moment; I didn’t know what to say. For one thing, my companions had to assume I’d never seen a genie materialize, whereas, having been fostered from infancy by a lady golem, I’ve seen a lot of things I’d rather not admit. What I hadn’t seen before was the magic the genie materialized from. The shimmering hellfire mist that is invisible to normal human eyes. The shimmering hellfire mist that I’d seen clearly now, providing proof positive that Bernard Benjamin was no longer a normal human.
    Sweet little Clara had turned me into a witch.
    I’ve always thought that, since the coven is a religious sect of sorts, we ought to install a suggestion box. First slip in would be my earnest plea for