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

stomach powder on the lid. “I’m saying you must proceed with caution.”
    “Proceed?”
    “Avoid unnecessary risks. Don’t make mistakes.”
    “I won’t.” Could she suspect I’d stolen hellfire? Summoned a demon? But no, if so, she’d have charged in and taken over by now. “I really won’t!”
    “You’re nearly grown, Clara. You deserve this chance to be yourself. To find your path in life.”
    I threw my arms around my sister. “Thank you!”
    “One chance.” She hugged me. “I can’t do more.”
    “I know.”
    “If this goes badly, Eleanor will punish us both.”
    That stopped me. Eleanor liked a quiet life. That was why the Umbridges, with their paltry ghost magic, were permitted to run the town. The pranks I’d been caught pulling, as a girl, had met with harsh punishment, and this scheme—running the dance contest, changing the Fellowship’s saloon into a speakeasy while my eldest sisters were off in Florida—was no girlish prank.
    If all went well, if I had the new speakeasy running smoothly before Eleanor got back in September, she’d be forced to accept it. I had official permission to manage the bar. But if I caused trouble, if I brought the wrath of outsiders down on the coven, Eleanor would be livid. She might literally kill me, though it would cause her pain. And then she’d turn her wrath on Priscilla for letting me run wild.
    “I won’t let things turn out badly,” I told Priscilla solemnly. “I swear.”
    Something thumped loudly. I heard a clank of bottles, the groan of wood, and then a stack of brandy crates along the back wall wobbled and fell with an enormous, splintering crash.
    “I think,” Priscilla said evenly, “whomever you’ve got hidden back there had best come out.” She grasped my elbow and marched me through the lab. Boxes were everywhere, some open, some shut. More than a dozen had fallen, though there was surprisingly little glass or liquor on the floor. Beyond the crates, the coal-room door stood ajar. A strip of light shone through the coal chute onto the floor.
    Priscilla began turning that way.
    “Hi there!” Ruth stepped in front of her. “I’m Ruthie!”
    I held my breath. The Girl’s Guide says you can’t tell someone’s a genie unless you see them use magic. But still….
    Priscilla nodded. “How do you do.”
    “And you’ve met Mr. Beauregard, I’m sure.” Ruth gestured.
    A muscular god stepped from the shadows. Not the pale, vacant creature who’d been tending bar, not even the heart-rending icon of the screen, but the real Beau Beauregard, warm, sensitive, and far more beautiful than he’d ever been on film.
    “Madame, I beg your pardon.” He spoke with just a trace of French accent. “Your gin, your whiskey, they are such nectar, so délicieux. I begged your sister to reveal to me this holy shrine.”
    Beau talked. My mouth fell open. He smiled. He looked so human, so alive, now that he’d eaten brains.
    Beau raised Priscilla’s hand, turned it, and kissed her palm.
    “Oh, well, that’s quite all right,” she almost cooed. “The honor’s mine. It’s charming to hear your voice, Mr. Beauregard.”
    “Ah, oui . Down here, it is not necessary to act the silent publicity.” He waved at the spilled crates. “I do apologize. You will permit me to pay these damages.”
    “Oh, that’s nothing. No difficulty at all.” Priscilla gave me the eye. “Clara will handle it.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” I eyed Ruthie, in turn, who made a face and started stacking crates.
    Beau took Priscilla’s arm. “I see you favor the double vent,” he said, leading her toward a still. “I, myself, dabble in cognac. Perhaps you could advise….”
    “Say, listen,” Ruth hissed. “Do you know these crates are empty?”
    “Empty?” I grabbed a broom and swept up glass, unable to take my eyes off Beau. “Don’t be ridiculous.” His voice, charisma, and grace were so much more than I’d imagined. More than I’d dreamed.
    “At least