Belladonna's Curse

by E. M. Whittaker

  “Yeah.” Her slight Hispanic accent ended on a drawl. “I had three finals last week.”

  He eyeballed her. “And?”

  “They were killer, sweetie.” She ran a hand through her wavy black hair. “I mean, I aced them, but by the time I dipped into the candies, I was totally stressed out. Why didn’t you tell me pharmacology was so hard, Limmy?”

  “I did warn you.” Lim patted his wallet in his back pocket. “You’re dealing with science, chemistry, and other nifty shit your teacher forgot to teach you in high school. You can’t slack off in this program.”

  “You quit school.”

  He took a deep breath and mouthed the Serenity Prayer before he went into the technicalities of his case and drove himself nuts.

  Lim didn’t quit. The judge incarcerated him in the middle of the semester while he prepared for his dissertation: the effect of drugs on the human body. He would’ve aced the damn experiment, too. At the time, he had no conscience, so he had plenty of viable test subjects. And dead bodies. He learned a lot of medical science by helping his sister perform autopsies.

  However, she didn’t need to know those details. Those were of a different man—one who no longer dabbled with human lives like he believed he was Jesus.

  “We’ve been over this.” He expelled hot air through his mouth. “I signed up for college for the spring semester to help you. I gotta finish my degree. Anyway, that’s not the point. You’re supposed to ask me about my stash first, remember?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “I mean it. I need them to combat my migraines. They’re killer … not studying boring textbooks.”

  Cel lowered her head. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  Lim headed to the driver’s side, opened the door, and gave her a gentle kiss.

  Her kiss sent warm sensations throughout his body.

  He fought off most of the troublesome fantasies until her legs locked around him. Then they came in full force. He could—in theory—tip down the seats for a ten-minute quickie and no one would notice with her tinted windows. Not unless they came closer to the car.

  His hand reached for her seat belt and unbuckled it.

  She grabbed his hand. “Not here.”

  Dammit. They had to help Sis, not play hanky panky in the parking lot.

  “Either way, you can pick out your present.” He willed his erection down, but it had other ideas. “But we should hurry. And stop teasing me. You wrapped your legs around me, remember?”

  “All right.” Cel released his legs and pulled down her dress. “You can’t get mad at me, though.”

  “Let me guess.” He helped her out of the vehicle. “You want more edibles. The sour patch kind.”

  “No.” Her finger slid down his chest. “I want more clothes. And a new pair of shoes, too. My capoeira instructor hates the ones I bought last week. She says heels aren’t a fighter’s shoe.”

  Smart woman.

  Heels were a deadly weapon. Those kinds of shoes caused sustainable damage. Not that he tried to get injured by them, but some women threw them like boomerangs. Or used them in a street fight. Jemina—Cel’s mother—was the perfect example of how heels could become a woman’s deadliest weapon.

  He’d pass on those, thanks.

  “Hon.” He wrapped his arms around her. “I know it’s your birthday—and you’re excited about getting your present—but pick one thing, sweetie. I can’t buy both of your gifts this week.”

  She kissed the side of his neck. “Then shoes will do.”

  “Good.” He took back his mod. “Then let’s go. Take your vape with you.”

  Cel grabbed her boxmod, took a generous hit, and blew smoke in his face. Starburst lingered in his nostrils.

  His mouth watered. He’d hit Walmart on the way home for another stash of sweets.

  He puffed on his own mod to take the edge off.

  Lim trailed behind her and shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked. Several cars had parked in front of the entrance. One of them turned their police lights on. Two people took someone away on a stretcher while another one started putting up yellow police tape. They sealed it off.

  Someone guarded the door to the Mistress.

  It wasn’t Marco.

  “Wait.” He grabbed her shoulder. “We’ll wait for Roland out here.”

  “Aw.” She flashed her trademark smile at him. “I thought you’d teleport inside.”

  “Keep it down.” His fingers tightened on her shoulder. “We have to blend in, remember?”

  She pointed to the side of the Mistress. “The corner. Let’s wait for him there. We can keep an eye on the paramedics and the cops.”

  Good. Cel wasn’t completely blitzed.

  Still, this was why happy-go-lucky she got herself into trouble. She never thought about the risks to her wonderful plans when she got high. Ever. He always got her enthusiastic ass out of trouble. Sometimes, she realized she had a ridiculous plan, but she never remembered how she got into her weird situations.

  After this, he’d set stricter expectations for her. He couldn’t protect her from her own stupidity all the time.

  They passed by an abandoned bench, but she growled when they arrived near the trash can. There went her high. Now, she became her real self: territorial, bitchy, and borderline overprotective with a keen sense of smell.

  “Cel?”

  “Look around.” Her hand dug into the trash can. “This place stinks. I don’t like it.”

  Okay. He could handle this. At least he didn’t have to manipulate her feelings with his magic to dispel her high.

  He headed toward the other side of the building. What did she find inside the trash can? The place looked clean from here. No trash. No cigarette butts. Nothing.

  His foot stepped on something hard.

  A half-filled syringe of heroine rested inside a plastic baggie.

  He licked his lips, picked up the bag, and held it between his thumb and forefinger. Mistress’s teats. Why this? Any other drug wouldn’t trigger his shivers and cold chills. Not to mention the adrenaline rush. The moment he picked up the bag, his body reacted as if he prepared the syringe himself.

  God. Maybe one injection wouldn’t hurt.

  The high alone was worth shoving that sacrilegious needle in his arm.

  What a shitty dealer. Whoever dropped this baggie wanted to avoid the cops or tried selling the drug to someone else. A good dealer would’ve taken the drugs and run. So, either this jerk was a newbie, or a careless person who didn’t care about owing his supplier money later.

  Neither prospect looked good. South Baltimore’s Underboss didn’t peddle in the drug market.

  Neither did he.

  Despite knowing the consequences, he held the baggie and rode on the imagined high his body longed for. All those twelve step meetings and therapy appointments didn’t matter. The cravings grew stronger. They haunted him the longer he tried staying out of trouble.

  He salivated.

  His darkest secret—his demonic side—snickered. You know it’s inevitable. Just take it.

  The demoness was right. If he used the syringe, she’d disappear for a while. He’d have his sanity back again.

  “Lim!”

  Shit. Cel.

  He whirled around with the baggie in hand. “Yeah?”

  “I knew it.” She put her hand on her hip. “There’s drugs everywhere. They’re inside the trash can, too.”

  No shit. They both knew someone peddled drugs at the Mistress.

  The question was who.

  His posse—well, ex-posse—stayed out of South Baltimore. At least, they used to. Perhaps they’d moved here after the market dried up in Central Baltimore. That was a big possibility.

  Still, Chelsea better watch her back before she started a turf war. He wouldn’t bail her out. Not this time. Even if Armandi or Donahue cornered her or blackmailed him, he’d still refuse to help her on principle.

  His ex had to learn her
lesson.

  “Limere.” Cel’s voice could cut through steel. “Give me the bag. Those syringes…”

  “Yeah.” Sweat beaded on his forehead. “I’m okay.”

  She held her hand out to him. “Now.”

  Jesus. Not this again.

  He should’ve left the baggie by his feet.

  “I just picked up the bag.”

  “Then look at me.”

  Why? So she could judge him? Compare him to someone else like Sis? Or Reese? Maybe her father, perhaps?

  The accusations got old. So did the constant mistrust and half-hearted apologies whenever he proved everyone wrong. When would people believe him again? When he cut himself open? When he proved he didn’t inject coke into his bloodstream?

  He hugged the baggie and had a brilliant idea. He’d keep it for an emergency stash. It’d help take the edge off whenever he had a bad day.

  His body shook. Adrenaline poured through his scrawny body. It agreed with his sudden decision.

  It’d be so easy to—

  “Don’t do it.” Her hand moved closer. “I didn’t go to all those religious twelve-step meetings for you to screw up tonight. Especially on my birthday.”

  “Everyone has a vice.” He’d use a simple argument to convince her. “An addiction, if you will. Your father has one, right?”

  She crossed her arms. “Keep Papa out of this.”

  “Well, he does.”

  “My father doesn’t beat people up when he’s drunk, Lim.” She stepped closer. “And alcohol is still legal in all fifty states. Your habit is dangerous. Destructive. It’ll destroy you. I don’t … I can’t. I’ll break up with you if you relapse again.”

  He bit his cheek until it bled.

  Fine. Whatever.

  He didn’t expect a foolish child to understand his addiction.

  “You have that glint in your eye.” Disappointment darkened her tone. “You’re better than this. After all the progress we’ve made together, you’d screw everything up for a night of… Well, whatever you call it. Bliss? No. You turn into someone else whenever you use that vile shit. You’d lose me and your family. Don’t do it.”

  Why not? If they thought he’d turn back, why make a liar out of them? It’d be so easy. Just one tiny hit.

  Before he reached for the bag, she [ Did I miss him drop it? Or Cel take it?]grabbed his hands until they hurt.

  Damn her and her superhuman grip.

  “Lim, listen to me.” Her chest tensed up.[ His POV, so he can't know her chest was tense.] “You’re getting along with your family now, right?”

  His mouth went dry. “Y—yeah. We are.”

  “Then why throw it away?”

  To keep me at bay.

  Lim winced. That damn demoness and her homicidal urges. The drugs kept her silent. His headaches stopped. In fact, all the pain she inflicted disappeared until the medicine or drugs wore off. No one would understand the psychological burdens he carried.

  Well, except Cel.

  Even she tried his patience.

  “Limmy.” Her voice cracked, and she cupped his face with her warm hands. “You promised you wouldn’t shoot up anymore. Remember? When you almost had a heart attack from your last relapse?”

  He thrust the bag out toward her, but he avoided eye contact. “Take it. Before I do something both of us will regret.”

  “Thank you.” Cel snatched it. “I’ll be back.”

  She stormed off.

  What was wrong with him?

  He should’ve been stronger than this. He almost ruined her birthday over a syringe and a few hour high he couldn’t afford on his permanent record. What would have happened if she hadn’t stopped him? Would he have shot up and hidden the coke from his family until a crisis happened?

  Maybe. God, maybe.

  Lim couldn’t resist the temptation.

  He cursed his magic because he sacrificed his shifter side. A demon— demoness, really— bonded with him during a failed transmogrification spell conducted by the Sect years ago. Then it began destroying his mind slowly. Well, she did. She embraced every moment of pain and suffering she inflicted upon him until he couldn’t fight her torturous attacks. When he couldn’t tolerate it, he relapsed. Then the cycle continued because of one other problem.

  Lim hid the truth from his judgmental family.

  He couldn’t help it. He had to hide his secrets. Sis and Reese didn’t have magic, so they wouldn’t understand his pain. Not on this magnitude, anyway. They would hide behind the fact he made excuses if they ever had this discussion. However, they never got that far. They always found excuses of their own to leave or cut him off in mid-conversation, especially Aviere. It ripped her apart whenever they talked about his drug problems.

  One day, he’d get her to talk.

  In the end, the only people who supported Lim were his girlfriend and his bestie, Summer—well, Aquarius—a hundred-year-old vampire.

  He snickered at life’s cruel irony.

  “Ah, Dalara.” Another male’s voice came closer to him. “Times have changed, I guess.”

  “Nice to know you still hate me, Pop.” Lim’s posture straightened as he faced his stepfather with a straight face. “I’m surprised you stuck around tonight.”

  Roland’s lips pursed into a thin line. “Don’t be a smartass.”

  “I’m not. You don’t rely on addicts, though. Remember?”

  “No shit. I’m here for your sister, not you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” A smirk crossed Lim’s lips as he got himself comfortable with an unwanted heart-to-heart with three key ingredients: regret, heartache, and possibly a mini demolition of his self-worth. “Because it’s always about Sis. So, start talking. I don’t got all night.”

  “Okay. Listen to me.” The director wrung his hands together. “I couldn’t tell her everything. She ended the conversation rather abruptly.”

  Oh, dear. Pop cared.

  He’d have to play the dutiful big brother now.

  “Well…” Lim leaned against the wall. “What did you discuss with Sis?”

  “Her case. She’s investigating your old drug ring.”

  “Oh, that.” He took a hit from his mod. “Yeah. I know. She asked me about it earlier this week. By the way, we found some presents on the sidewalk. You might wanna check the trash cans. Cel said she found something there, but—”

  “Here.” Roland handed him an envelope. “I gave this to Aviere. She said you should make your own decisions and left.”

  Lim squinted at the simplistic envelope. “What is it?”

  “A get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  Oh, boy. Just what he always wanted.

  A handout because he couldn’t fulfil his parole sentence on his own.

  “Let’s do a hypothetical situation where I believe your sudden sincerity.” He took a peek inside the envelope, folded it up, and then shoved it inside his free pocket. “What do you want from me?”

  “Your help.”

  Lim pushed a foot against the wall. “For what? Sis has partners of hers at her beck and call. I don’t approve of them, but they’re better than—”

  “They can’t protect her from Sanderson like you or those brash friends of hers, but no one listens to me.” Roland played with his tie as they talked. “You wouldn’t help me for free, boy.”

  What an unpleasant fellow. The sharp-tongued demoness passed her judgment quickly. You protected Sister Dearest whenever she got her pretty panties in a twist. This fool shouldn’t project his own insecurities onto you. If anyone should demand payment for her protection, it’s you. You’ve sacrificed more than this addle-brained shifter could ever hope to imagine.

  Lim nodded. Damn right he did.

  He donated his body and mind to medical science for Sis. One day, they’d find the cure to her illness.

  Let Pop beat that.

  “Well, gee.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I never thought I’d see the day where you’d ask your drug-addicted stepson for h
elp. You’ve always hated me.”

  “I still do.”

  Nice to know.

  “However, your sister won’t listen to me. You care about her, don’t you?”

  Lim blew out hot air. “You don’t gotta guilt me. I’m not one of your lackeys. And yes, I care. I stayed clean for her. It’s been difficult. She has no idea, but she always judges me.”

  “I made a mistake.”

  He leaned forward. “What?”

  “About … well, you. Her.” Roland turned his head toward the parking lot. “About abandoning you guys. I shouldn’t have done it. But I didn’t want Sanderson getting her, so…”

  Oh. Just Sis, huh?

  The syringe of coke sounded better by the second.

  “Listen, Pop.” Lim hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “I don’t care what you’ve done to me, but Sis…”

  “Yeah. I might have fucked up there.”

  His woman headed back toward them.

  Thank God. He’d wrap this conversation up pretty quick.

  “Yes, you did.” He waved her over. “I admit, there’s no coming back from the Fuckville train of our teenage years. I’ve accepted we’ll never see eye-to-eye or that you’ll never accept me as Mom’s legitimate son, but right now, this is about Sis. So, man up. Be her father for once instead of the stuffy director of the goddamn feds.”

  “I need your help, too.”

  “Life has a funny way of biting you in the ass.” Lim met Cel before she entered halfway into their conversation. “I guess I’ll help you. He’s a creepy fucker, though.”

  Roland huffed. “Don’t make me regret this, Lim. Good luck.”

  He hurried back into the Tethered Mistress.

  “Wow, what a creep.” Cel kissed his cheek. “What did he want, anyway?”

  How could he answer her question without upsetting her? He promised to buy her a birthday gift, but his freedom—no, the key to restoring their family’s tarnished reputation—was on the line.

  He had to tell Maurice. He’d be supportive. Maybe he’d even buy them a drink at the bar like old times. Hopefully, he did. He could use a stiff drink.