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

again.”
    “What? Wait!” I grabbed his sleeve. “What about saving Beau?”
    “That little matter,” he said, shrugging me off, “is taken care of.”
    I frowned.
    “The man is waiting for you outside,” Hans said smugly. “Bless you. He’s all yours.”
    I turned and ran.
    Outside, the street was clogged with traffic, the night air cool and pure. Across from me, the Hollywood Grand Hotel was lit like Christmas, cascading balconies framing two-story panes of glass. People, rich, beautiful people who couldn’t have found Falstaff on a city map, flowed through the grounds among statues and fountains, laughing, sparkling, sipping cocktails, stubbing out cigarettes on towering potted palms while local sightseers, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mary Pickford or Douglas Fairbanks, jostled against each other on sidewalks and in cars.
    None of that mattered. My heart thudded in my mouth. All that mattered was Beau.
    I stood on tip-toe, scanning the Hollywood Grand. Outside , Hansie had said. Outside waiting , but where?
    My cousin was the first person I spotted, in the shadowed corner of an indented wall. Ruth, peroxide bob easy to identify, hovered nearby, wringing her hands. Between them, a wilted figure stood staring at the ground. He had the same hair as Beau Beauregard, the trademark cheekbones, the aquiline nose, but lacked the film-star’s regal bearing. None of the tourists had even stopped to glance at him.
    Beau’s head came up. Our eyes met over the tops of cars, and he began shuffling my way. His skin, famously pale, looked drained of color, ghostly white, and even with traffic flowing between us, I knew something was wrong.
    “Oh,” Ruth wailed. “Oh, no!”
    My stomach heaved. My brain sat down hard on the pavement. But I remained stiffly upright.
    Not perfect . That was the deal. As long as Hans agreed to do his best .
    Beau stared at me with bruised and haunted eyes.
    Not perfect, as long as Hans kept Beau from dying.
    A zombie wasn’t dead.
    Ruth, Bernie, and Beau moved toward me through the traffic.
    A zombie was undead , a living soul bound to its lifeless corpse.
    Witches made zombie slaves sometimes, out of their worst enemies. I’d read that in the Girl’s Guide . But it was a cruel fate, with no hope of escape. Most covens didn’t dare begin that sort of feud.
    Cars puttered by. Women and men streamed past. I met Beau at the edge of the sidewalk and clasped his icy hands. Intelligence flared briefly when we touched. Intelligence and silent, screaming horror.
    “Oh Beau, I’m so sorry.”
    “My dance lessons!” Ruth threw herself on Bernie’s shoulder. “I’ll never learn the Charleston now!”
    Something tugged at my memory. Something the demon had said. He’s all yours .
    “Oh, no!” My zombie? I covered my mouth. “Oh, it’s too cruel!”
    But it had been my blood in the goblet. My deal with Hans.
    Clara , Beau mouthed my name, grunting. He looked almost human, almost alive , except for the dark circles around his eyes, the empty expression.
    My cousin took my elbow. “People are starting to notice,” he said. “I think we ought to get Beau off the street.”
    “Khlara.” Beau squeezed my hands.
    “I’m not kidding.” Bernie pointed us at the coven. “March.”
    “Khlara. Hunkh.”
    “Okay.” I started forward. “Okay, I need to think.”
    “Is he really—?” my cousin asked.
    I nodded, chilled.
    We crossed the sidewalk and entered the Fellowship door. To the left, a laughing group was bowling, spilling Jacques cocktails, burning the finish off the floor. To the right, inside the bar, the band was playing an old Art Hickman tune.
    Hold me, fold me, right in your arms….
    “Khlarha.” Beau squeezed my wrist. His fingers felt like iron bands. “Hhnghry.”
    …until I promise to behave.
    “Just out of curiosity,” Bernie asked. “What does, um” —he cleared his throat— “that sort of person eat?”
    Beau turned and gazed at the customers. His eyes