Jozzie & Sugar Belle Read online

  You were supposed to space out the curse-works, but I never did believe in sitting and waiting. Plus, people tend to ask me for things.

  It must be my sunny disposition.

  Once this was done, I could go to college. And, not so incidentally, I wouldn’t have to move around as much, since each time the curse hits, the great book in the Belle family library wakes up and starts recording particulars. My grandmother was not likely to be happy that I’d up, run off, and stayed one step ahead of the cousins sent to track me down. My mama, of course, would be somewhat pleased, because it meant she was the second-most powerful witch in Belle Reve instead of third, and that was right where she was comfortable.

  Which all added up to me being hot to figure out what this guy was looking for and smacking a spell on the problem posthaste. Bye-bye curse, hello sweet sweet freedom.

  I was inclined to be charitable, even when I shook my head a little to make sure my dagger earrings were hanging just right, grabbed my sunhat, and sashayed out into my living room to find Mr Jozzie the Australian cross-legged in front of my coffee table, trying to unbend the wreck of a kitchen chair. It looked like it’d been smushed, and I stared for a few moments, trying to figure this out.

  “Er,” he said, hunching his big shoulders defensively. His T-shirt stretched most fetchingly over them. “Were an accident, mum, I mean, Miss.”

  Well, really, the amount of bacon he’d managed to consume, I wasn’t surprised. “Uh,” I managed. The chair’s tube-metal legs gave a forlorn sound as he tried to unbend one, and the cheap strut snapped in two.

  “Oh, feck,” he said, and an unwilling smile bunched up my cheeks.

  “It’s okay, I got those out of a dumpster anyway. Another’ll happen along. You might want to brush your teeth, we’re leaving.”

  “Oh. Right.” He looked around, trying to figure out where to put the chair, and I couldn’t help myself, I had to laugh, catching the sound behind my palm.

  “Just put it near the patio door. Come on, Mr Jozzie, daylight’s wasting. Still hungover?”

  “No, Miss. It’s jest Jozzie, Miss.” He unfolded gingerly, and when I passed the kitchen I saw an outright dent in the old linoleum. Laughter bubbled and boiled in my throat, but it died as soon as I yanked my front door open.

  Funny, I’d been thinking about where to find the shifters. I really hadn’t expected Don Juan Demarquez to show up on my front step, slick-haired, smiling, in his asskicking boots, and lifting his hand to knock just as I turned the knob.

  “Just the man I wanted to see!” I said, brightly, and cursed inwardly.

  The feeling was probably mutual, but he pushed the brim of his cowboy hat up with a finger, nodded, and for once didn’t fasten his gaze on my chest.

  That was the first intimation of doom.

  The second, of course, followed hard and fast. “Uh, Sugar, we’ve got a problem.”

  Seven

  Crystal

  * * *

  “Let me get this straight.” The American witch snapped her fingers and the spoon chattered inside her coffee mug, stirring vigorously enough to slosh sugar, caffeine, and water to bits. Her cute little nose wrinkled, and she fixed the new arrival with a blue-eyed glare. “You’re here uninvited to talk about the end of the world.”

  “Man, I been tryin to tell you, some jackass got himself the Book.” The coyote shifter—she introduced him as Wan, what a name—was wiry, dressed all in black except for the silvery points on his boot-toes, and didn’t even take off his bloody cowboy hat when he came inside. Copper-skinned and long-nosed, he sat in the only chair at the table since Jozzie had broken the other, and barely glanced at Jozzie himself. “The big Book. Human skin cover, old hellscrape ink, carnivorous pages, and all. Got a party all set up for the dark of the moon.”

  “That’s tomorrow night.” Miss Sugar Belle—even her name was sweet—made another little gesture, and the spoon stopped stirring. She picked up her mug and tasted the result, holding the spoon well away with a graceful red-clawed index finger. “I knew I needed more coffee,” she muttered. Her jeans looked smooth as butter, over those long legs it was a shame to hide. Still, the tank top showed her pale shoulders and the top slopes of her cleavage something beautiful.

  “I sent two guys to talk to the Rat.” Wan-the-coyote kept working his hands, opening and closing them like he had a small animal trapped. A silver signet ring glittered on his left middle finger—looked like he was a big one in his pack. “Fucker could find out where, but he won’t unless we offer him something.”

  Jozzie’s own signet was in the ashtray of his Ute, a whole ocean away. No reason to keep it if he was going walkabout. Let Gary have it, and welcome. They’d find the Ute and the blood, and maybe think poachers had carted him off wholesale. Only Petey knew where Jozzie was, and what he was looking for.

  Well, hopefully he’d threatened Petey enough to keep the oily little wanker’s mouth shut.

  “Oh, the Rat won’t give something for nothing, even when it’s in his own best interests. And you don’t have anything to threaten him with since the restaurant incident.” The witch nodded, thoughtfully. “Which is why you come to me. Typical.”

  Jozzie leaned against one side of the kitchen entryway, trying to avoid getting tangled in the long strings of beads and their click-clacking sway.

  “Sugar…” Wan-the-coyote spread his hands, a helpless gesture.

  “So someone has the Book.” She took another gulp of coffee, and Jozzie couldn’t help but watch her throat work as it carried its cargo down. “It’s useless without someone to read it correctly. Preferably a warlock.”

  That bit was faintly troubling. Warlocks were bad news. There weren’t too many at home because of the didgeridoo shamans. Start playing one of those, and an oathbreaking dark-magic wanker started bleeding from the ears and a few other places. That generally drove ’em off, but if they stuck around their skin would start to peel in strips.

  Didgis were not to be messed with.

  “This is LA, man.” Wan shrugged. A gold crucifix peeped out from the unbuttoned top of his shirt. “You can’t swing a dead starlet without hittin one of those crazyass sumbitches.”

  “Yeah, well. The Book. The big Book.” Miss Belle tapped her crimson fingernails on the counter, a tiny graceful clicking. She practically glowed in the sunlight; the plants in her kitchen window were jades, emeralds, pretty things for a pretty witch. “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” Wan agreed, morosely.

  “Scuse me,” Jozzie broke in, polite-like. “Miss Sugar, mum, what’s the hassle?”

  Wan snorted, twisting to finally glance at him. “Where did you find this guy? His shift’s all weird.”

  “Drunk and in a cab, like most shifters on a Thursday night.” She set her coffee aside, next to the ancient avocado-colored stove. “Which brings back memories, now doesn’t it. Mr Jozzie, I’m going to help you find your item, this just puts a teensy little crimp in the plan.”

  “What’s he lost?” The coyote peered at Jozzie with dark, beady little eyes, the tip of his long nose twitching. “Something valuable?”

  “Maybe.” Miss Belle rolled her own eyes and sighed, rubbing delicately at her temples as if Jozzie’s hangover had come to nest there. “So the Rat won’t talk, huh?”

  Wan shrugged, spreading his lean coppery hands. “You know him. He’s a shit.”

  “Plus you fucked him over with that restaurant stunt.” The witch kept rubbing at her temples. Jozzie’s fingers itched to help. “Why can’t you just man up and apologize?”

  “Man, come on. He makes my skin crawl.” Wan was a wheedler, that was for certain. “Besides, you’re a witch. Shit like this is your plate of nachos.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Her charcoal eyebrows went up and she leaned against the cupboards, a pair of well-worn combat boots over those pretty painted toenails. The curve of her hip was enough to throw a racecar off the track with rubber-smoking envy.

  The shifter fidgeted, his chair giving a
sharp groan. “What if mofo’s got a coven? We go up against a buncha warlocks, man, it’s hasta la vista.” Wan’s nose kept twitching. “We ain’t wolves or witches.”

  Jozzie had been turning this around inside his head for a little bit, and now the situation became clear. Or, at least, clearer. “You want a girl to do your fightin for you, mate?”

  Wan glanced at Miss Belle. “What’s he sayin?”

  “Nothing.” She waved it away and sighed. “I suppose I could drop by and talk to the Rat, kill two birds with one stone. But I’m not going up against a coven of warlocks alone either, Juan.”

  The fellow in the chair shrugged. “Fair, I guess. Got any friends?”

  “Ha.” She picked up her coffee again. “I don’t suppose you’d take this big hunk of handsome and help him find what he’s looking for?”

  Wan didn’t think much of this idea. “He ain’t coyote.”

  “Neither am I,” the witch said, patiently. “I’d be grateful.”

  That perked up the little fellow’s hairy ears. “How grateful?”

  “Not enough to take on several warlocks alone if it turns out there’s a coven. You owe me a rather large favor, Señor Demarquez. Facing down warlocks will make it two. Unless you want to help my friendly kangaroo here.”

  “Shiiiiiit.” The coyote—his shift looked smaller than a dingo, and that was surprising— leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out like he owned the apartment. “Man, you a bitch.”

  That, Jozzie decided, was enough. He plucked the little bastard from the chair, and a few moments of confused motion had the coyote shifter up against the wall, Jozzie’s fists bunched in the slippery fabric of black button-down shirt. “You want to watch your mouth, mate.” At least the testosterone patches meant he wasn’t missing too much in the strength department. The little fuck was wriggly, blurring between fuzz and skin, sharp teeth gnashing.

  But Joz held him there. Even nutless, he was more than a match for this mange-furred bastard. He’d thought everything in America was bigger, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

  “Now I have seen everything.” Miss Belle sounded amused, and took another drink of coffee. The slight sound of liquid touching her lips was enough to make Joz’s ears perk up. “Jozzie, honey, let him down. He can’t help being an asshole, it’s just how he’s built.”

  “He ent gonna talk to a lady that way.” Not in front of Jozzie Shale. His shoulders ached, and his jaw kept wanting to shift further than he liked.

  “Aren’t you just the chivalrous type.” Even more amused now, a laugh running under her sweet little voice. “It’s all right, Jozzie. Let him go.”

  So he dropped the little blighter. Wan hit the floor and the shift caught him, kept him from landing face-first. “Cocksucker,” he snarled.

  “Lucky I don’t do yer face in, mate,” Joz returned.

  “Boys, boys.” The witch was suddenly there, on a draft of strawberry TimTam and smoky incense, one red-tipped hand spread on Wan’s chest and her other, holding her coffee, pressed against Jozzie’s. The liquid in the cup was less scorching than her skin through his thin T-shirt. “That’s enough. Run along, Juan. The Rat will let you know where the party’s at if I need help. And if I call and you don’t show, not even the end of the world will stop me from ripping your dick off and stuffing it down your throat. Clear?”

  “Crystal.” The coyote snarled some more, his clever little hands straightening his torn shirt. He backed into the hallway, nose twitching and lip lifting, and must have half-shifted because a split second later the front door slammed so hard it was a wonder the hinges didn’t pop off.

  The witch sighed. “That could have been handled better.”

  Jozzie shook his head. Dealing with that little shit while trying to find his nuts wasn’t the most preferable option, true, but there was a larger issue here. “He ent got no call to talk to you that way, Miss Belle. You’re a fecking lady, you are.”

  “It’s nice that you think so.” She shook her head, and took down the rest of her coffee in one go. “Come on. We’ve got to go steal some cheese.”

  Eight

  Blend 17

  * * *

  Mr Shale left his bag at my apartment and apparently didn’t have a problem when I informed him outright theft was our mission that day. No, he had an entirely different problem. “Bloody hell,” the big lug choked, as soon as we got through the sliding door into garish fluorescent light and welcome air-conditioning, the dusty wind outside falling away. “What is this?”

  “A supermarket.” I peered through my heart-shaped sunglasses and gave a low, slow whistle, scrambling the entire store’s security feeds. The blur would last about half an hour, plenty of time for what I had planned.

  Unfortunately, rubbernecking tourist kangaroos put a dent in even the best plans.

  “No, I mean…good God, what on earth…” Jozzie clapped both hands atop his tousled blondish-brownish head and stared across the checkouts. His dark eyes were huge, and some of the color had drained away from under his tan. “It’s like a bloody Woolworth’s, only…bigger.”

  “I’m gonna take that as a compliment.” I hitched my black knockoff Chanel purse—not my working bag, just an about-town carryall—higher on my shoulder and set off at a good clip, enjoying the cool breeze across my shoulders. “How much can you lift, wild man?”

  “What?” He dropped his hands and hurried to keep up. For someone with such long legs, he didn’t appear to be too speedy. He kept craning to look around, and when we plunged into the canned vegetable aisle he slowed down even more. “Er, what do you mean?”

  “How. Much. Can. You. Carry.” I enunciated each word extremely clearly, and lengthened my stride. If this went well, maybe I could get home before the real heat hit late in the afternoon. The winds were making everyone nuts, and all that free-floating anxiety and anger was catnip to warlocks.

  Jozzie ruminated while he hurried after me. His hair had a bit of stubborn curl to it, and gold highlights in sunshine. “Depends on if it’s got handles, Miss Belle.”

  “Assuming it’s got handles. And you can call me Sugar.” How much would the Rat consider an acceptable offering? The point-nosed bastard had a big appetite, and I couldn’t afford to outwait him in negotiations if the situation was serious enough to send Juan to my door. “How much can you schlep?”

  “Well, like, give an example.” It was getting easier to decipher his accent.

  I’ve always had a good ear. It also helped that he wasn’t drunk anymore. “Can you lift a car?”

  “Like your sardine can? Ef I put me back into it, yeh, prolly.”

  Sardine Can was actually a pretty good term for my beloved black Rabbit, now that I thought of it. I nodded as we passed metal-clad beans, peas, carrots, all stacked neatly and facing forward like good soldiers. “What about an oil drum?”

  “A wot?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “A big metal canister for oil.” They weren’t likely to have drums in the back rooms, but a couple freight boxes wouldn’t be to much of a burden, right? Best would be a whole pallet, but then I’d have to take a delivery truck to go with it.

  “Petrol, y’mean? Like a jerrycan, twenty liter?”

  I know he’s speaking English, but goddammit, it doesn’t feel like it. I got to the end of the aisle and took a hard left; he scurried after me, his boots making an inordinate amount of noise.

  Subtle, this fellow was not. He would make a great distraction while I snuck around to smack a warlock upside the head, I decided. If he felt the need to come along while I saved the world, and further assuming I didn’t mind having him bumbling around in a dangerous situation. “Never mind. Look, I’m just going to take it that you’re strong, being a shifter. Right?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Yes, Miss. Next he was going to ask where the crumpets were. The arctic glare of the dairy wall unreeled on our right, and I ran a practiced eye over the facing, examining the dates on the milk. Whatever god loo
ks out for hungover kangaroo shifters and witches coerced into helping them was at least at home if not precisely kind, because it looked like delivery day.

  “Okay, so—” I turned to tell him the plan, but he wasn’t at my shoulder anymore.

  Instead, he’d drifted past me towards a wonderland of glass bottles containing ethanol of every description. His head tipped back, he stared, and the look on his scruffy, altogether raffishly handsome face was that of a child on Christmas morning realizing every present under the tree has his name on it.

  “Oh hell no.” I stalked in his direction, my hair snapping with static electricity and growing irritation. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “It’s beautiful,” he said in an awed whisper. “There’s everything, there is.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the benefit of living in good old Cali. Haven’t you had enough drinking, for God’s sake?”

  A slump-shouldered man in a slouch hat turned his head slowly, peering at bottles of Stoli on the shelf like they had hieroglyphs. He bristled with ruddy whiskers, and his outline was a bit wrong, lumpy in a few odd places. Still, there was no hint of other on him. Just a regular old day-drinker coming along to make his choices, or stuff a bottle under that far-too-heavy coat before he waltzed out into the parking lot.

  I might even have popped a teensy spell of my fingernails to give him luck with it, if I’d been in a better mood.

  “Well, I mean…” Jozzie scratched at his neck, grinning pacifically. “I could carry away a fair bit o’ this, Miss, if that’s what yer askin.”

  “That’s not what we’re here for. Come on.” I pulled at Joz’s elbow. His skin was a lot warmer than a normal’s would be—shifter metabolisms run hot. Standing next to him was like feeling the haze off pavement out in the parking lot, only pleasant.