Jozzie & Sugar Belle

by Lilith Saintcrow

  It wasn’t until Joz was several pounds lighter and running the water in the pink sink—the deep almost-red was really disconcerting, for some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on—that Joz’s back twinged again, not just because his kidneys had finished floating and were resettling. He turned, yanking up his blue, thankfully unpuked-upon T-shirt, and blinked, craning at his lower back in the mirror.

  Joz almost had to rest his arse on the chill counter to get a glimpse of the base of his spine, and when he did, he was more mystified than ever. He breathed out a long wondering string of profanities, and there were clicking footsteps in the hall.

  Still, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the delicate inked whorls spreading in floral profusion on each side of his sacrum, his skin already well-healed. His nuts were gone, and he had…he had gone and…

  The obscenities failed him. He stared for a few more moments, before exhaling in blank wonder.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “I got a tattoo on me arse.”

  Four

  Brekkie

  * * *

  At least he wasn’t heaving in my bathroom, so there was that. He was in there for a really long time, though, long enough I had visions of him doing an Elvis and having to get rid of a body in the canyons. I had a couple tarps, though my little Volkswagen Rabbit could barely fit the both of us even if he was a corpse.

  I won’t say it’s happened before, but I will say it’s a Belle family motto to be prepared.

  But no, there was movement and the bathroom door swung a little when I tapped it, beads swaying gently. “Good morning,” I chirped, loud enough to drive a nail or two through a hungover skull. Getting the guy off the chair and into my car had been a job, even though he was a pretty docile drunk. Why he insisted on a tattoo, I had no idea, but I went along with it, both because he’d said the magic words…and because under the dust and the scruff and the big shoulders—he was ridiculously muscled—the outline of his inner self ran with the fluid blurring that meant this fellow wasn’t normal any more than I was.

  And it’s not every day a guy comes in looking for a tramp stamp. Now that he wasn’t drunk, his accent was also halfway decipherable. But only halfway.

  “I got me a bloody tattoo,” he said through the door.

  I rolled my eyes, tightening the belt of my silk wrap. “You insisted on it.” What had he said? Oh, yeah. “To prove you weren’t a pomegranate bastard, you said.” Every poster in the hall watched me, some of them with meaningless doodles, others with glyphs meant to sizzle an intruder Sharpie-drawn carefully on their glossy corners.

  “A what?” One furious, bloodshot hazel eye peered from very far up through the cracked-open bathroom door. He was a tall one. “Err. Oh. Mornin’, mum, and I would come out but y’see, Imma bit drafty in me nethers.”

  “What?” He certainly sounded British. Did they grow them that big over there? I couldn’t see how, unless the rain was full of fertilizer. Even the few corn-fed boys from Kansas I’d met weren’t his size.

  “I. Need. Me. Trousers.” Each word enunciated crisply.

  Don’t we all. My own legs were comfortably bare. “You were wearing them when I put you on the couch, cowboy.”

  “Ent no cowboy. I’m a roo shiftah, missus, and I ent decent wif just me unders on.”

  “You want me to go find your pants?” I inquired, sweetly enough that anyone who knew me might take a step back. I rubbed my bare toes on the hallway carpet, enjoying the scratch. “Or you think I’ve never seen a naked British man before?”

  “I ent British, I’m Orstrailian.”

  Oh. Well, that explained that. “Okay, well, I’ve seen shrimp on any number of barbies, honey, and I’m sure yours isn’t different. Unless you’re a duck. They have corkscrews down under, I’m told.” Watching the Nature Channel while my mother was at work hexing in the downstairs parlor had taught me a lot about the world. “Also, there’s bacon. Come on out and find your pants.”

  “Me trousers,” he muttered mournfully, and I couldn’t help but giggle.

  I left him to it and retreated down the hall. The bacon wasn’t going to burn unless I let it, but he seemed to need a moment or two to collect himself, so to speak.

  When he emerged blinking into my sunshine-yellow kitchen, he had found his cargo pants and his boots. He hadn’t bothered to tie the latter, though, so when he closed his eyes against the assault from the overhead light, he tripped over the threshold—there was some loose linoleum there I didn’t feel like nailing down with a curse or two yet.

  His outline blurred, his chest hair spread, he almost face-planted…and the shift stopped halfway, poured him back up into his human form, and left me blinking.

  “Uh.” I tried to sound casual. “You’re a kangaroo.”

  “Damn right I am, mum.” He wrinkled his long nose and rubbed at his blondish stubble. All things considered, he wasn’t bad on the eyes. And he was definitely not a movie extra. That mat of chest hair wasn’t fashionable here in the City of Angels. “Didja think I were a wallaby?”

  “I didn’t know what you were, except drunk and in trouble. What the hell is a kangaroo doing in LA?”

  “Lookin for me…” He halted, shut his mouth, opened it, made a short, uncomfortable sound, and looked at my crimson-painted toenails. “Well, lookin for somethin, mum.”

  “I’m not your mother,” I snapped, and pointed at the sink. “Get some water. I take it you’re hungover, that should help.”

  “Didn’t call ye me me mam, mum. I’m bein polite-like.”

  “Much appreciated.” Good Lord. I turned back to the bacon and decided it was time for the toast to go in. “You got a name, handsome?”

  “Jozzie, mum. Erm, Joseph Irwin Shale, how d’ye do.” He held out a big blond paw, but put it down when I shook my head. He was staring at my short silk wrap—it was exactly the same shade of pink as my bathroom and a few moist folds of yours truly’s, which was half the reason I’d taken this place. The rent was cheap, and if you come across a bathroom done exactly the shade of your vulva, well, you should consider it a sign.

  I was just glad said pink-painted bathroom hadn’t been in a restaurant. Plus, airing out your undercarriage is healthy.

  Joseph Irwin? You poor bastard. “All right. And you’re looking for something in LA, so you needed a witch. Fine.”

  “Y’re a witch?” As if he hadn’t noticed.

  “No, I’m a perfectly normal young lady who works in a tattoo shop and takes home drunken kangaroos. It’s getting almost routine.” I pantomimed a yawn and was glad I hadn’t put on anything other than the wrap. Today promised to be a scorcher, and the air conditioning in here, while adequate, was nothing more. I was going to have to dip myself in sunscreen if he wanted to move around by daylight.

  He was still staring at me. I could perhaps be pardoned for thinking he wasn’t really tops in the brain department. I stuck out a hip and waved my old, taped-up spatula at him. In a pinch, it could do as a wand, and had once or twice while cooking. “See something you like, sailor?”

  “I ent no sailor.” He drew himself up, and his chest was kind of distracting. Normally I like them built a bit wider, but he was…well. Nice muscle definition. “Em a shiftah. And a right proper bogan, even got me a Ute.”

  He might as well have been speaking Swahili. I popped a couple slices of sourdough in my ancient chrome toaster and hissed at it, warning the appliance not to char the bread. “Uh, great. Drink some water, it’ll help. You can tell me what you’re looking for over breakfast.”

  He wouldn’t say what he was looking for, but he did stare at my tits whenever he thought I wasn’t looking. I let him look—they’re worth it, and even though men with accents always mean trouble, I kind of liked him.

  Plus, if he got any ideas, I could send him back to his continent as a pile of ash.

  I also let him eat two pounds of bacon, two loaves of sourdough, and an ungodly amount of butter. Thank God he didn’t really like coffee,
or I would have had to peel him off the ceiling. It was a nice brekkie, even if I didn’t understand half of what he said.

  It’s a shame the rest of the day went to hell.

  Five

  Personal

  * * *

  Witches tended to be striking. But this sheila wasn’t just witch. She was flat-out gorge.

  Black bangs in front, long straight black hair behind, legs that went for miles and cherry-red lips, wicked painted-crimson fingernails and cute little toes—oh, she was like a whipped-cream dessert, and if Jozzie hadn’t been missing a few inches he would have been trying to chat her up a bit, preparing to take a nibble or two.

  As it was, he couldn’t even shift properly. Just halfway, and the testosterone patch on his left thigh itched. Petey swore Joz wouldn’t lose much muscle if he used the patches, but so far they were scratchy, gummy nuisances. Maybe he should just chew them and hope for the best.

  The witch even cooked her rashers right—half of them cremated, the other half juicy. She moved around her cheerful yellow kitchen, sunshine staring aggressively through a window over the sink full of cactuses and a monstrous aloe plant, and every once in a while that rosy silk wrapper would flutter a bit and he’d almost get a glimpse while she hummed vaguely familiar pop tunes. It was enough to drive a healthy male mad, and Jozzie was finding out that the only thing worse than missing his danglies was having his little soldier standing to attention with no reinforcements, so to speak.

  She even kindly waited for the worst of the hangover to drown in a pitcher of ice water, the ice chipped from anemic trays and smoking with cold, before beginning with the questions. “So, how long have you been in La-La Land?”

  “Just flew in yesterday, mum.” He put his manners on and looked longingly at the pan on the stove. There didn’t appear to be any more bacon. “Little girl spewed on me at the airport, even.”

  “Sounds like a rough ride.” One perfect charcoal eyebrow quirked, and she settled demurely in a floral-patterned kitchen chair, her thighs sticking to the vinyl a bit and making a fetching little sound when she moved. She sipped at her coffee and was suddenly all business, the spice-smell of witchery threading through that gorgeous scent of strawberry TimTam.

  If his head hadn’t been pounding, he might have made some sort of joke. As it was, the hangover was on its last legs but determined to stuff every bit of pain it could into his skull. His own narrow, vinyl-padded chair creaked again. It didn’t seem very sturdy, but then again, how much furniture was built for roo weight? “Er, yeh. Anyway, Petey gave me yer address, said a witch would help me.”

  “Who gave you my address?” She folded her hands, and the contrast between her prim little mouth and the loose top of her wrapper was downright distracting.

  “Petey.” His throat was dry, and not just from yesterday’s bender. “Echidna,” he added, in case she knew a lot of Peteys.

  He bloody well hoped she didn’t.

  “Petey Erkidner?”

  “No, he’s an echidna shifter.”

  “An…oh, echidna. Echidna shifter. Okay. Uh, I think I’d remember if I knew one of those.”

  “Well, he…” Jozzie dug in his trouser pockets while his own chair threatened to tip him onto the floor. “Here it is. Gave me a note.”

  She took the crumpled, sweat-stained paper and smoothed it on her tabletop, studied it with those bright, beautiful blue eyes, and frowned. Her cleavage was a soft shadow between two dewy globes. “Well, it’s the shop address, but…uh-oh. Lolly’s.”

  “Whadja mean, uh-oh?” Jozzie finished the last slab of bacon and mopped up a small lake of butter with the toast. It was all right for one of those skinny movie-star brekkies, but he wanted a proper lunch. A couple meatpies and some lager would go down easy—hair of the dog that bit him, and so on.

  Then the spindly chair creaked ominously, and he tried to sit very still. It was both easier without his danglies…and harder, because she was just so…finding words wasn’t his strong suit, and he couldn’t come up with one that seemed to apply.

  “Well, first of all, I don’t know any Peter Echidna.” She held up one slim little finger, then another. “Second of all, Lolly’s was the shop in that space before us; there was a fire three years ago. The lady who ran it moved to Switzerland.”

  “Switzerland?”

  “Yeah. Something about an inheritance. I think she fired the place to collect insurance, but nobody asks me what I think, right?” Her nose wrinkled a little, and his hangover began to retreat. “But you’re in luck, because you’ve got a witch here anyway. It’ll go easier if you tell me what exactly you’re looking for—this just says locate one item and you owe me, yadda yadda. Lolly evidently owed this Petey a huge favor.”

  “It’s a wee bit personal.” Jozzie did not want to tell this tasty bit of crumpet he was missing his two eggs, for God’s sake. Once he got them back, things would look different, but for right now…well, he just didn’t.

  “Well, I can’t go looking blind, my man.” She rolled her eyes and flicked the paper back at him, those delicate fingers tipped with scarlet claws. “Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

  “Huh?” Bloody hell, how could he answer that? “Well, uh, animal, a bit.”

  “Okay. If you won’t tell me, will you tell another shifter?”

  “Well…” Oh, that would be a right riot, wouldn’t it.

  “Are you even sure this thing is in LA?” Rapid-fire questions, now. This witch did not believe in letting any grass grow.

  “Dead sure, mum.” Or Petey would be dead something, that was for sure.

  “Will you stop calling me your mother?” Her little irritated moue was just like a cat’s, except no cat wore glossy crimson lipstick. “It’s Sugar Belle, Miz Belle if you’re formal, and baby if you’re nasty.”

  All the Australian witches he knew were prim, proper little stiffs. This one seemed extremely…well, American. “I ent nasty, mu—uh, Miss Belle.”

  “That’s a damn shame.” She bit at her lower lip, gently, and Jozzie’s chair made another sound halfway between a squeak and a groan. His head throbbed, and a couple other parts of him that hadn’t got the we-lost-the-stones memo were throbbing too.

  He had to be polite, he reminded himself. Witches were nothing to mess with, ever. “Don’t mean to be no trouble, Miss. I can be on me way if ye point me kindly at a few shifters here.”

  She bounced upright—and, braless, there was a lot of bouncing involved. “You asked for my help, dumbass. I’ll get dressed and we’ll go see Juan.”

  “Wan?” What a name. Was it a fellow, a sheila, or a place? “What? I don’t mean to be no trouble to ye, Miss Belle—”

  “Oh, can it.” Her eyes were all but spitting sparks. “I live here because I feel like it, Mister Australia, not because I’m a bad witch. I’ll have you know I’m a damn good witch. The only trouble here is you eating all my bacon. Finish up, I’m going to take a shower.”

  She swung out through the kitchen doorway, a pert little bottom swinging under pink silk, and if Jozzie had been himself he might not have twisted around to watch. Or, he definitely would have, but it wouldn’t have been with his mouth open like an idiot’s, and he further wouldn’t have shifted his weight so sharply.

  Which meant two of the chair’s tubular legs might not have suddenly crumpled, spilling him to the peeling lino, and his mouth might not have snapped shut hard enough to almost take off a chunk of his tongue. Sprawled on the floor, tasting blood and stinging salt from the bacon, he gazed up at the ceiling and wondered what in hell he’d done to make the cutest witch on the planet angry.

  Six

  Curse Seven

  * * *

  Go figure, the seventh and last piece of the old curse, and he thought I was a fucking amateur. I swore under my breath in the shower, trying to be careful. Still, my muttering made the water fluctuate, and one particularly vengeful F-bomb heated it to near-boiling that would have scalded my tender behind if I hadn’t sn
apped an ice-charm that turned the bottom of the tub into a slippery deathtrap.

  You just can’t win, some days.

  See, when the Belles settled in Virginia, they disturbed a lot of things and ended up cursed. My ancestors were not nice people by any stretch of the imagination, which was partly why I’d crossed an entire continent once I was old enough to drive and fairly sure I’d learned all they had to teach me. Anything else I could pick up through practice, I figured, and I thought I was smart enough to pick a piece of the curse that wouldn’t be too bad.

  The Belle Curse is simple: seven acts of magic you’re forced into doing, picked when you achieve your first full act of witchery. Only seventeen-year-old me, when it came time to pick the terms and conditions, just blurted out the infamous I have to help people.

  Yeah, even I was that silly, a long time ago.

  The entire story involves a quartet of down-on-their-luck gamblers, a Spring Break in Las Vegas, a waitress, a flock of doves escaped from a magician’s act, a horse smarter than the cop who rode him, a mob enforcer who liked to sniff helium, and a honest-to-gracious-goddamn demon. It was killing the mob enforcer that qualified as my first major act of witchery, and, horrified, I’d blurted out But I have to help people!

  So there it stood. People said the four magic words, and there I was, at the mercy of sob stories, jams, pickles, outright problems, and once, memorably, a pair of star-crossed lovers in the middle of a Baptist town where sex was forbidden because it looked too much like dancing. So far, I’d managed to stay a step ahead each time, and managed to make sure the situation fell the right way so the poor sobs who needed help got it.

  Even if they weren’t the ones who had asked me.

  Anyway, I froze my ass off in the now iced-over shower, wriggled my way into my most comfortable jeans and a tank top, and slathered sunscreen as well as sun-charms all over every inch of me, even the ones no solar radiation was likely to touch. Six times I’d pulled it off, and this guy looking for something was the seventh.