Read Online Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) by Vicky Loebel - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vicky Loebel
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eat the staff.”
Beau drained his third bottle of brandy. “Partners like Claire Adams and fucking Rin Tin Tin.” He sank down on a crate.
“Please, Beau, enough.” I climbed back down. “Oh, this is awful! We need to find Mr. Vargas!”
“Woof, woof.” Beau swayed. “Your loyal pooch will search in every well.”
Tires crunched outside. There was a long, shrill shriek of metal.
“I’d better see what’s going on.” Ruth started up the ladder.
“No! Wait!” I grabbed her skirt. “You swear you didn’t hide him? It’s not a genie trick?”
“I haven’t seen or touched your janitor since we left him here,” Ruth said. “I swear.” She climbed upward and pushed her head out through the chute.
“No corpses,” Ruth called. “But…um…ohhh mmmm.” Her voice sank to a growl.
“What is it?” I asked. “Is Bernie there? Where’s Mr. Vargas? What’s going on?”
“Poultry!” Ruth shuddered. Her dress transformed into dense, spotted fur. “An alley full.” She snarled. Powerful haunches leapt up the ladder and scrambled through the chute. Her long tail swished and disappeared.
A chicken burst into the basement and hit the ceiling. Feathers rained down.
“You know.” Beau slid drunkenly off of his crate onto the floor. The chicken landed in his lap. “This place is going to the dogs.”
“Oh, Beau!” I yanked my hair in aggravation. “Can’t you be helpful?”
The zombie hiccupped. Ruth’s magic light went out.
A long, low groan suffused the air.
“What’s that?” I froze.
It wasn’t Beau. The groan sounded again. It seemed to be back by the furnace, behind the brick dividing wall.
“M-Mr. Vargas?” I hated that furnace. Hated its dark, dusty, octopus arms.
“Khlaaah.” The groan changed to a name. “Khlaarah.”
Goosebumps popped up along my arms. Where was my cousin when I needed him?
“C’mon!” I shook Beau’s shoulder. “Get up. We’ve got to look.”
Beau staggered upright. “Your wish, oh Voodoo Queen, is my command.” He draped one arm, and most his weight, across my shoulders, letting his breath, thick with brandy, flow over my face.
“Khlaarraaah.”
I clutched my half-full vial of hellfire and marched with Beau around the brick dividing wall to where the furnace perched like an upside-down spider, its fat legs bent and twisting into ducts.
Someone was slumped across the furnace in the shadows. A man.
I blinked.
A man wearing a pale pink suit whose perfect grooming and round glasses—I knew—went with kindly, gentle intelligence. George Umbridge, Junior , Luella’s older brother.
“Khlara.” George’s skin, normally the tone of warm mahogany, was pale as ash. His right wrist had a ragged, shallow gash. “Khlaaaa—”
“What happened?” I squatted and caught the ginger stink of Jacques cocktails. A lot of Jacques! But that was crazy. George Junior was a medical student, a teetotaler, a soft-hearted advocate of vitamins and soap.
“Khlara.” The man lunged furiously, mouth snapping open and shut.
Beau intercepted him as I scrambled backward, gagging on the smell of booze.
“Woof, woof,” my zombie drawled sarcastically. “Don’t hurt my mistress. Bark. Bark.”
George stiffened. His arms and legs twitched violently.
“Oh dear.” I glanced from Beau and George up to the coal chute. “Oh, dear, what do we do?”
Outside, a child’s shrill voice began to scream.
VII: Under the Chicken Tree
Faint heart never won fair treatment.
—The Boy’s Book of Boggarts
Bernard:
IF YOU’VE BEEN READING closely, you may have formed the impression I do not always approve of young Clara’s behavior. Summoning a demon, for example, is nothing an affectionate cousin could recommend, although—growing up, as she did, in a family stocked to the gills with warlocks—it was pretty much bound to happen sooner or later.
Then there was the matter of hellfire, stolen from Priscilla’s lab. It would have to be repaid, which meant
Beau drained his third bottle of brandy. “Partners like Claire Adams and fucking Rin Tin Tin.” He sank down on a crate.
“Please, Beau, enough.” I climbed back down. “Oh, this is awful! We need to find Mr. Vargas!”
“Woof, woof.” Beau swayed. “Your loyal pooch will search in every well.”
Tires crunched outside. There was a long, shrill shriek of metal.
“I’d better see what’s going on.” Ruth started up the ladder.
“No! Wait!” I grabbed her skirt. “You swear you didn’t hide him? It’s not a genie trick?”
“I haven’t seen or touched your janitor since we left him here,” Ruth said. “I swear.” She climbed upward and pushed her head out through the chute.
“No corpses,” Ruth called. “But…um…ohhh mmmm.” Her voice sank to a growl.
“What is it?” I asked. “Is Bernie there? Where’s Mr. Vargas? What’s going on?”
“Poultry!” Ruth shuddered. Her dress transformed into dense, spotted fur. “An alley full.” She snarled. Powerful haunches leapt up the ladder and scrambled through the chute. Her long tail swished and disappeared.
A chicken burst into the basement and hit the ceiling. Feathers rained down.
“You know.” Beau slid drunkenly off of his crate onto the floor. The chicken landed in his lap. “This place is going to the dogs.”
“Oh, Beau!” I yanked my hair in aggravation. “Can’t you be helpful?”
The zombie hiccupped. Ruth’s magic light went out.
A long, low groan suffused the air.
“What’s that?” I froze.
It wasn’t Beau. The groan sounded again. It seemed to be back by the furnace, behind the brick dividing wall.
“M-Mr. Vargas?” I hated that furnace. Hated its dark, dusty, octopus arms.
“Khlaaah.” The groan changed to a name. “Khlaarah.”
Goosebumps popped up along my arms. Where was my cousin when I needed him?
“C’mon!” I shook Beau’s shoulder. “Get up. We’ve got to look.”
Beau staggered upright. “Your wish, oh Voodoo Queen, is my command.” He draped one arm, and most his weight, across my shoulders, letting his breath, thick with brandy, flow over my face.
“Khlaarraaah.”
I clutched my half-full vial of hellfire and marched with Beau around the brick dividing wall to where the furnace perched like an upside-down spider, its fat legs bent and twisting into ducts.
Someone was slumped across the furnace in the shadows. A man.
I blinked.
A man wearing a pale pink suit whose perfect grooming and round glasses—I knew—went with kindly, gentle intelligence. George Umbridge, Junior , Luella’s older brother.
“Khlara.” George’s skin, normally the tone of warm mahogany, was pale as ash. His right wrist had a ragged, shallow gash. “Khlaaaa—”
“What happened?” I squatted and caught the ginger stink of Jacques cocktails. A lot of Jacques! But that was crazy. George Junior was a medical student, a teetotaler, a soft-hearted advocate of vitamins and soap.
“Khlara.” The man lunged furiously, mouth snapping open and shut.
Beau intercepted him as I scrambled backward, gagging on the smell of booze.
“Woof, woof,” my zombie drawled sarcastically. “Don’t hurt my mistress. Bark. Bark.”
George stiffened. His arms and legs twitched violently.
“Oh dear.” I glanced from Beau and George up to the coal chute. “Oh, dear, what do we do?”
Outside, a child’s shrill voice began to scream.
VII: Under the Chicken Tree
Faint heart never won fair treatment.
—The Boy’s Book of Boggarts
Bernard:
IF YOU’VE BEEN READING closely, you may have formed the impression I do not always approve of young Clara’s behavior. Summoning a demon, for example, is nothing an affectionate cousin could recommend, although—growing up, as she did, in a family stocked to the gills with warlocks—it was pretty much bound to happen sooner or later.
Then there was the matter of hellfire, stolen from Priscilla’s lab. It would have to be repaid, which meant
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