Jozzie & Sugar Belle

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Bloody hell. He hadn’t been gone that long. “Mum, for God’s sake—”

  “You owe Gazza, Joz. You owe him a lot.”

  Uh-oh. What had Gary done now? “He’s my brother, Mum.”

  “Oh yeh? And I’m your mother, and we got rid of the bodies.”

  Oh, shit. The world screeched to a halt. “You, uh…”

  “Well, Gazza did, then he came and told me because he’s not a complete sodding idiot. He cleaned up your Ute too.”

  Gary touched my car? Jozzie’s mouth hung open. Oh, shit.

  “So, you tell me it’s complicated, you little fart, I figure nothing like a drunk roo slicing a couple poachers is that terribly complex. Do you understand me, Joseph Irwin Shale?”

  All three names. He was in deep, deep shit, and there was no life raft in sight. “I can explain,” he began, knowing he was going to spill the whole story as soon as she let him.

  But no, that would be too easy for the likes of him. Far, far too easy.

  “Oh, yes you can. And you will when you come back home, because if you don’t, I’m going to get on a plane and come see you—and this girl—and you will be explaining everything and then you will hold still while I give you the biggest tanning your dumbshit arse has ever received. And when I’m done your father will start, and when he’s done I might take another go if me arm’s not lame and if it is, I’ll find me a paddle.”

  “Sorry, Mum.” Oh, Lord. Sugar thought the world would end with some idiot warlock reading from a magical book. The way this was looking, Joz might welcome the event. “I really am sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “No you were not.” Each word a crisp little soldier. “Are you sure you don’t need money? Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve about had me heart out with worry, Joz.”

  “I know, Mum. I’m sorry. I’ll stand still for the tanning and all, Mum, I really will.”

  She was only partly convinced. “Damn right you will.”

  “I’ll call again when I have a flight home,” he mumbled.

  “No, you’ll call me in the morning, so I don’t worry my fool head off about you. And you will call me the morning after that, and after that—do you understand me, Joseph?”

  “Yesmum,” he mumbled. Repeated it louder, in case she hadn’t heard. “Yesmum.”

  “And you will never, ever, ever worry me like this again, do you understand me?”

  “Yesmum. I’m sorry, Mum. I really am.”

  “I love you, Jozzie. You had me worried.“

  “I’m so sorry, Mum.” Now his eyes prickled. He could see her, short and blonde, leaning against her kitchen counter, the phone tucked against her ear and her eyes reddened. “I love you too.”

  “All right. Well, go inside, I can hear traffic where you are. You have someplace to stay?”

  I did. But he was going to find a hotel. And this being the big city and all, he could also find some fresh clothes. “I do, Mum. I’ll call in the morning.”

  “See that you do. I mean it, Joz. I will get on a plane if I have to. Don’t you ever do this to me again.”

  “No, Mum. I love you. I gotta go.”

  “All right. I love you too.”

  He rang off and stood staring at the lights for a little while. Go to this address, Sue the Rat had said. Tomorrow night, ten-thirty PM.

  Well, after he got his bits back he could find Sugar—his nose would lead him right to her, and probably other parts of him would perk up and do some leading as well. He’d help her with whatever she was doing, and then he’d ask her to come home with him. A vacation, like, to thank her for hospitality, and that.

  She’d even put her hand on his knee. It was probably a good thing he didn’t have his stones, because he might have embarrassed himself in the front seat of her car.

  Well, at the very least, Mum couldn’t tan him with a guest around, though she would probably bring out the baby books. And Gary would be a complete jackass about it, but then…he’d also cleaned up the bodies, huh?

  Poor Gazza. Must’ve thought I was dead.

  One thing was for certain, Jozzie Shale thought as he pocketed the temporary phone and glanced over the back of the shops, looking for a convenient dustbin to land on.

  If this was what drinking got you, he might as well stay dry.

  Eighteen

  Necromancy

  * * *

  Mel was doing a last-minute supply run in her van, so it was Tiger Lola who met me at the gate at eight sharp, her clipboard at the ready, her hair in a braided coronet, and her shoulders tight. “Oh, thank God,” she said. “What happened to your car?”

  “Don’t ask.” Go figure, nobody had stolen my Rabbit after all. I’d zonked out and slept for a good eighteen hours, too, probably to make up for the strain of holding a chupacabra in midair with no preparation. The rest of the time was spent packing my working bag—and, every once in a while, checking the front door.

  Just in case.

  But right now, it was time to get to brass tacks and the bazooka, as my dead great-grandfather used to say. All the time, while pacing upstairs at Belle Reve, insubstantial feet doing their best to make the hallway squeak and clichés falling from his smoke-thin lips like rain.

  Kind of hard to sleep with him pacing all the time, but after I’d left, I sometimes sort of missed the metronome mumble. “How many we got?”

  “About thirty plus incidentals, and about eight of us.”

  “Shiiiit.” No wonder Mel had called me. “Where do I park?”

  Tiger showed her teeth. She rarely smiles without looking like she’s going to bite someone, even when she’s happy. “There’s a dirt lot down an access road, just turn right. It’s a bit of a hike to the house, though.”

  “Cheapskates.” Par for the fucking course.

  “Yeah, well, you won’t believe this place.” She waved me through, the thick silver cuff bracelet on her right wrist winking. “Goddamn it’s good to see you.”

  “Likewise.”

  Quentin Wheddon’s house was a massive faux-adobe pile in the heart of the Hills, on a slight rise overlooking grounds choked with a blue-jewel swimming pool and two hot tubs, palm trees strung with red Christmas lights, and a full-length portrait of the jowly, paunchy, self-satisfied director hanging above the gas-insert fireplace in the biggest living room. He had a long nose with a bulb at the tip, the pink-rimmed eyes some redheads are cursed with, and the painter had obviously told him he had great light.

  I hope that painter laughed all the way to the bank.

  I hiked up the hill and found setup already well underway. Mel runs a tight ship, and God help you if you goof off during an in or out. With everyone’s hair pulled back and the uniform of white shirt, black vest, and black slacks, we were as fungible as possible. The kitchen crew, in jeans, T-shirts, and white aprons, was already going full-bore. No huge entrees, but trays and racks of hors d’oeuvres, as well as enough booze to drown a small nation.

  Tiger took me on a walk-through. The rest of the front staff was recent hires, but they all knew their stuff, except for the wide-eyed kid Simon whose slacks were unhemmed and whose curly hair threatened to escape any confinement he could think up for it. “Mel got him at the exchange, he prefers back end,” Tiger said, dropping the kid a wink from one gem-green eye. “Not the brightest out front, but he does what you tell him. Just don’t overload him, and we’ll do fine.”

  “Duly noted.” I gave the super-sized dining room, in the process of being set up for buffet and canapés, a long critical look. “What furniture can’t we move?”

  “Living rooms. He wants people to mingle.” She didn’t roll her eyes, but it was probably close.

  “And plenty of couches for auditioning.” I was only moderately snarky; Tiger’s laugh was only halfway pained. “Hey, which bathrooms are ours, and which ones are guest-only?”

  She pointed them out, told me the head of Security was a guy named Brock—of course—and then we got down to business.

&
nbsp; After I took a look around, of course.

  My back was running with gooseflesh the entire time. It wasn’t the shock of sudden death lingering over the accident on the freeway crouching in corners and robbing my air of warmth. No, here it was just the chill of evil gathering under expensive chairs, behind thick curtains, exhaling from the temperature-controlled wine cellar full of bottles carefully selected for aesthetics instead of quality, tiptoeing around the second floor—bedrooms, bathrooms, an exercise room with a flatscreen TV the size of a closet door—and dripping softly from the studio attic I crept into with my heart in my mouth and every inch of me cringing from the oilslick feeling of sheer nastiness.

  The attic was apparently where Quentin Wheddon did his dirty work, and no expense was spared. There were the triple pentagrams, drawn in thick reddish smears—chalk, iron, dragonsblood resin, and blood from unwilling victims worked into a paste, spread and dried. There was a lectern and an altar throbbing with dozing, hurtful power. Physically, it was stuffy up here, but energetically, it felt like a wide Arctic wasteland.

  So he’d been playing around with dimensional bullshit. Great.

  There was a massive rectangular shape on the lectern with a cover of tanned, fine-grained hide, buckles crusted with verdigris, and black ooze dripping from its creamy pages. That ooze was partly physical, sliding down the lectern’s sides in thick tendrils, digging in.

  Yep. Looked like necromancy to me.

  I dug in my working bag—the leather messenger number hauled all the way from my busted car—and came up with a blue container of salt. The original, and still the best, way of disrupting all sorts of bullshit. I also had a canister of dried wormwood, a few stoppered bottles of holy water from Our Lady of the Angels—and a precious double handful of asfoetida, mixed in a base of sea salt. A few pinches of that will disrupt anything short of a greater demon in a hurry. I didn’t precisely need the last, but I packed it just in case, along with the usual kit of cover-your-ass-and-cast-your-spells.

  You can never tell when someone reading a necromancy book has gathered disciples.

  After about ten minutes I’d done all the groundwork I could, so I capped my bottles, sheathed my knife, took a deep, frigid breath, and hurried to get back downstairs.

  Mel paid well, and I didn’t want to stiff her.

  Nineteen

  Gracefully

  * * *

  He should have stayed with the witch.

  Joz had expected the city to be just like Sydney, or even Perth. Instead, the bloody Americans hadn’t bothered to plan out anything correctly, and he had the sneaking feeling several of the streets rearranged themselves when they heard he was coming. So, instead of ten-thirty, it was bloody midnight before he found the place.

  Or at least, he found the address, which belonged to a very big wrought-iron gate clustered by thickset blokes in dark suits and those funny earpieces that didn’t do a damn thing except in the movies. Whoever lived here was relying on them to keep trespassers out, but the steady stream of cars heading through meant the gates stood open. Still, Joz followed the wall for a while before hopping over, catching sight of a couple cameras that were too slow to see him.

  Even without the shift, a ’roo could still jump. He just couldn’t land as gracefully.

  Or gracefully at all, really.

  In fact, Jozzie landed with a thud face-first in some overwatered eucalyptus and thorny burglar-proof bushes, tearing up his new jeans and T-shirt thrashing out of the tangle before what he was smelling hit home and he stopped, stretched out at the edge of a sprinkler-dewed lawn and blinking at rolling grounds sloping up to a massive white house full of bright lights, murmurs, and a terrifying stench.

  Ew. What the hell is that?

  It smelled like death, old ash, and something he couldn’t quite put a finger on but threatened to empty his stomach all over the lawn. Joz lay, blinking and stunned, and his eyes watered.

  Then, through the reek, came a single thread of strawberry, chocolate, and caramel, underlaid with the musky note of witch that had permeated Joz’s restless dreams the night before in a wide, very empty hotel bed.

  “Sugar?” he mumbled.

  Just then, every window in the house shattered outward, and screams ribboned into the California night.

  Twenty

  Skin Suit

  * * *

  It would have been fine. There would have been broken windows and light fixtures, yes, but it would have been just fine. Except for two things.

  One, I’d done better short-circuiting the crap up in the attic than even I had any right to, which accounted for the blowout and the sudden chilly darkness. On its own, that would have been great. But there was Number Two, the big thing, the thing I hadn’t realized.

  Quentin Wheddon, always scruffy-looking and puffy even in a tailored suit, with his pursed lips and his habit of talking while waving his limp hands starred with ginger fur, didn’t look put together out of spare parts because he was a tubby middle-aged white man used to ordering club sandwiches and ensnaring teenage starlets hungry for a real, starring role.

  No, he looked like that because he was wearing a skin suit.

  Literally.

  At some point before he hit it big, the director had made a deal with a citizen of the Eternal Dark, and I wasn’t dealing with a necromancer. I was dealing with a big, hairy, horned, vomiting-hellfire demon who had wanted to get his afterparty started with sacrificing Mel’s catering crew and those of Wheddon’s guests who weren’t in on the joke.

  I might not have cared much, having successfully short-circuited the whole end of the world thing, but nobody eats my friends, dammit.

  Which explained why I was blocking the kitchen door, my hands outstretched like I’d just thrown a dodgeball, trawling desperately through memory to find something, anything, that would hold off the ravening beast made of darkness, horns, and appetite that had shed its skin suit on the way down from the attic, eaten three guests, and stamped into the living rooms amid a horde of milling, screaming A-listers and their sycophants in search of the witch who had spiked his nice little plan.

  I really should have called Juan and his fellow coyotes, but I’d figured a necromancer who was probably too selfish to share anything with a coven was small potatoes if I could get in on the ground floor and besides, Juan owing me a surfeit of favors was a habit.

  A habit that would probably end up biting me in the ass, bigtime, in the next five minutes.

  Parquet flooring heaved and buckled as the thing spat a whip of hellfire down the hall, and I deflected the oily, ultraviolet burning with a shout and a sweat-popping effort that was interrupted halfway by someone trying to shove the swinging kitchen door out. “Go out the back door!” I yelled. “Goddammit Mel just do it!”

  “I’m not leaving you!” she yelled back, and I heard Tiger shouting something like you heard her, out the back door, motherfuckers, or I’ll shoot you myself.

  I knew better than to think either Mel or Tiger would leave without me, which meant I had to keep them bottlenecked and figure out how to kill a goddamn demon without my bag.

  Oh, yeah. My bag? Was in the bank of “employee lockers” in the utility room off the kitchen. Because I, like an idiot, had assumed a purely human foe wouldn’t know quite why his reading of the Book was garbled and the power it raised had smacked him upside the head instead of eating his sacrifices.

  “Then get my bag!” I yelled, just as the demon turned at the end of the hall and made a quick lunge for another hapless guest. Drywall and flooring crumpled, wiring torn free of the walls showered sparks, and the demon bit the head off a brunette actress famous for a series of action movies in which she played either the distressed damsel or a kickass bitch in heels too high to be reasonable. “My bag, Mel! Get my bag!”

  “What the fuck?” she yelled back.

  Great. I risked a look over my shoulder, through the porthole of broken glass that had been a window into the kitchen’s well-ordered act
ivity ten minutes before. I was running out of ideas and power. “My BAG!” I roared. “My purse, my bag, my motherfucking bag!”

  The demon turned back. Liquid hellfire smoked and bubbled off its high, plated shoulders. It lunged, and its wide-spreading horns smacked on either side of the doorway to the short hallway with a solid chucking sound. I gathered myself and jabbed forked fingers at it, hissing a curse my grandmother had told me to save for big occasions. The curse looked like a dirty, bedraggled chicken, and it scurried down the hall and flung itself on the demon’s face.

  The demon, howling, promptly barfed a long string of blood, ground-up human meat, snapped bone, and more hellfire.

  Great.

  Twenty-One

  Hellfire Ultraviolet

  * * *

  A number of things became clear to Jozzie Shale.

  First, Sugar Belle was nearby.

  Second, whoever was trying to start an apocalypse probably wouldn’t take kindly to her mucking about with the works, and Jozzie shouldn’t have let her try to stop something like that alone. It was downright ungentlemanly, when he thought about it.

  And third, someone in that house had Jozzie’s hanging baskets. Maybe on a keychain or a bottle opener, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, he’d come all the way across the ocean and was going to get a gigantic bollocking from his mum, and he would prefer to have it with all parts of him attached in their proper places no matter what was happening in that damn house.

  So he scrambled up the damp hill, off-balance because his tail wouldn’t shift out, his claws tearing gouges in the turf and his boots throwing up giant clods. It was a good thing the windows were broken, because otherwise he would have sailed through one in action-hero style.