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

if she doesn’t make the final round for any reason, I claim ten pints of Woodsen blood as my payment for saving Beauregard.”
    “Ten pints.” How much was that? A lot . Enough to kill me, probably, but I had one more secret weapon. There was a half-vial of hellfire in my pocket, left from the summoning. And hellfire heals human injuries. I would have saved Beau that way in the first place if I’d been able to get past the doctors, nurses, and newspaper reporters surrounding his sickbed.
    “No interfering,” I told Hans. “You have to promise to leave the contest alone.”
    “Agreed.” Hans smiled. “You, too. No influencing the judges.”
    I couldn’t anyway. They’d been hand-picked by Priscilla. “Okay.”
    Bernie twisted out from under Ruth. “But, Clara—”
    The genie bent low and covered his mouth with hers. My cousin’s arms and legs began thrashing.
    “One more thing,” I told Hans. “I want Ruth.” Genies are humans, dead humans, with magic power who’ve sold their souls to demons and who, after they die, must work as indentured servants until the debt’s repaid. Ruth had to obey her master’s will. “Transfer her contract to me until the contest is over, so I’ll be sure she’s trying her best.”
    “Impossible.”
    “Please, Daddy!” Ruth clutched Bernie’s face to her bosom. “It’s just three days. I don’t mind changing—I mean—it’ll be just awful, to be stuck with someone else, but if it helps you make a deal.”
    My cousin wriggled helplessly.
    “You promised I could Charleston!” Ruth’s face scrunched like a toddler’s. “You swore!”
    The demon sighed.
    “So, we’re agreed?” I spit into my palm and held it out.
    “Oh, very well.” He shook it. “You have a bargain.”
    As a girl, I once touched a light switch with wet hands. The jolt that hit me then was just like now, except this time a supernatural vision, second sight , popped open to seal the bargain. For one instant, Creation stared me in the face.
    And then the deal was done.
    “Wheeee!” Ruth kissed my cousin. His arms and legs thrashed harder. “Let’s go save Beau.” She jumped up, hauling a staggering Bernie behind her, and ran for the door.
    Hans and I followed at his limping pace. We climbed the spiral staircase, stepping around the coven’s Hungarian janitor who was seated in his usual spot on the top step, nursing a bottle of Priscilla’s brandy and listening to a jazz rendition of the Maple Leaf Rag .
    Was it possible? I shivered, following the demon. Was I mere moments away from finally meeting Beau?
    “Good evening, beautiful Clara.” Mr. Vargas squeezed sideways and draped his threadbare opera cape over his knees.
    “Hi, Mr. Vargas,” I answered. “How’s the band?”
    “Ah, this music.” As usual, his voice was slurred. “It reminds me of the violins at home.”
    “That’s nice.” I patted his shoulder. “Enjoy.”
    I pulled Hans forward into the bar. It’s a depressing place, the Fellowship’s old-fashioned saloon, dark, dingy, with shabby wooden stools and a brass rail just like the one Joe Drunkard used to rest his feet on before stumbling home to beat his wife on Saturday nights. Right now the room was unusually full of people, some dancing, some sitting at small tables, some sipping cocktails and listening to the band. Many were drinking the pungent confection known as Jacques , sweetened Jamaica ginger mixed with rotgut, which was becoming the Hollywood Grand Hotel’s signature cocktail. My best friend’s family, the Umbridges, had been brewing the stuff for years. Now that they were part-owners of the Hollywood Grand, they’d put their Jacques recipe into production with—although my family would never tell them to their faces—less than spectacular results.
    Hans limped toward the bar. “I believe I’d like to sample your sister’s famous whiskey.”
    “You what?”
    “Miss Woodsen.” He bowed. “It’s been a pleasure. We’ll meet