“You tell me.”
“What’d you mean?”
“Who’s the lucky guy?” At her blank look, I added, “The guy who broke your curse. The one who now owns my palace, my cars, and a couple bazillion dollars, not to mention a pair of handmade leather boots from Italy.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “Your most prized possession. I should’ve guessed.”
Karl cleared his throat. “In his lordship’s defense, they’re a really nice pair of boots.”
I beamed at Karl. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Lollie huffed. “Can we please get back to the subject at hand?”
“Of course, my lady. I’m a pauper, and some other dude is your happily-ever-after. Why wouldn’t I want to discuss this in greater detail?” I said, bowing low.
“You’re not.”
“Not what?”
“A pauper.”
“I don’t understand.” The full weight of my actions settled in my brain. For the first time in my life I was totally broke. Not a frog prince cent to my name. “I gave away my fortune to whoever broke your curse. You’re awake, so, follow my logic here, I’m now flat broke.”
“No, you’re an idiot.” She held out the ring I’d left in her hands the night before. “This broke my curse. The ring made from the golden ball I dropped in the pond twenty-two years ago. The ball found and returned to me by the man with the letter ‘B’ over his heart.” She pointed at her chest. “You, Kermit.” She then lifted her hand to the sky. “With a little help from the sun. Apparently you missed the fine print where I would awake at first morning light.” She frowned. “Perhaps you should invest in a pair of reading glasses?”
Ignoring her last comment, I considered her curse: Until his true heart Be. I rubbed at the B-shaped birthmark and smiled. “My doctor worried it might be skin cancer,” I said. “He wanted to remove it, but I refused.”
“Only because you’re afraid of needles, not to mention you’re a really big chicken,” Lollie said with a grin.
She knew me so well. “Lollie, pay attention,” I said, crossing the short distance between us, and pulled her against me. “I like my boots.”
Her lips curved into a frown. “A lot, apparently.”
“But I love you,” I said as I covered her mouth with mine. The kiss lasted for a few seconds before I pulled back. “You, Lollipop, are my One. The only One for me, and that’s what broke my curse. You are my most prized possession.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Not possession,” I quickly amended. “Object?”
Her eyebrow climbed higher.
“Asset? Accessory? Acquisition?”
She pressed her finger to my lips, halting my diatribe. “And don’t you forget it. Now shut up and kiss me.”
And they lived happily ever after.
For the most part.
Or so the rest of the tale goes.
Miss the first F***ed-Up Fairytale, Curses!,
and didn’t see how RJ wound up with Asia?
Buy it now in paperback or e-book before
it turns back into a pumpkin!
I’m no hero. In fact, up until a couple of days ago, I was the villain. Kidnapped maidens, scared kids, stole magic tchotchkes—until I got into a little scrape with the union. Now I’m cursed with the worst fate in New Never City—no matter what I do, I gotta be nice.
So when a head-case princess named Asia barges into my apartment and asks me to find out who whacked her stepsister, Cinderella, I have no choice but to help her. And I’m more than willing to head back to her parents’ castle and do some investigating if it means I can get into her black leather catsuit. Except this twisted sister has a family nutty enough to send the Biggest Baddest Wolf running for the hills—and a freaky little curse of her own....
“More than f***ed-up. Demented. Hilarious.”
—Mario Acevedo, author of Werewolf Smackdown
“Forget everything you know about Cinderella.
J. A. Kazimer sets the record straight with
humor and a hell of an imagination!”
—Jeanne C. Stein, national bestselling author
“A thoroughly fun read.”
—Nicole Peeler, author of the Jane True series
Prologue
Once upon a time (about nine minutes and forty-seven seconds ago) in a land far, far away (the corner of West Fairy-Second Street and Sugar Plum Lane, to be precise) stood a beautiful princess, a woman without compare in beauty or sweetness. Every man, woman, and child in the land loved her, from the most villainous villain to the wickedest of witches.
“Hello there.” The princess smiled at the bluebird pecking at a bit of cocoa on the sidewalk. “Aren’t you a pretty bird?”
The bluebird chirped, dancing around the beautiful princess. Its tiny claws scratched against the pavement as it bopped figure-eights around her trim ankles.
The princess laughed a high feminine laugh of pure delight. The bird paused, and then continued its acrobatic tricks. The princess bent down to run her manicured hand over the brightly plumed bird. The bird fluttered its wings, edging closer to the busy avenue. A taxicab blaring a bibbity-bop version of “Some Day My Prince Will Come” whizzed by, a little pig at the wheel.
What a lovely day, the princess thought, watching the bird rise into the cloudless sky as it chirped a familiar tune.
Yes, it was a lovely day.
Too bad it was also her last.
Sadly, the princess never saw the crosstown Fairy-Second Street bus.
Chapter 1
A delivery kid stood in front of me in the pastel hallway of my four-story walk-up on the edge of the Easter Village. His hands juggled a grease-stained bag. My own arms juggled a week’s worth of junk mail. I shoved an official-looking paper toward the kid. “This is bollocks.”
The kid shrugged.
I waved the paper under his nose. “The union thinks I need a vacation. That I’m suffering from some kind of post-villainous-related stress.” My eyes bulged and spit flew from my lips. “What kind of crap is that?”
“Whatever,” the delivery kid said. His spiked green hair and facial piercings gave him a clownish appeal. The aroma of red curry noodles from Villainous Van’s Corner Bistro wafted in the air between us.
“What are they thinking?” I shook my head, counted to ten, and ran a hand through my already rumpled black hair. “Mandatory mental health leave? Are they afraid I’ll go postal or something?” This made little sense since I didn’t even work at the post office. “Come on. I’ve suffered greater defeats and managed to pull through.”
“Listen, Mac,” the teen said to me. My name wasn’t Mac, or anything that resembled Mac. Some people called me RJ, at least to my face.
“The total’s ten bucks,” the kid said. “Either pay me or I’ll feed your dinner to the rats.” The kid motioned from my dinner to the furry creatures dressed in tiny felt hats that roamed my darkened hallway like a demented version of Dancing with the Villains rejects. I rolled my eyes, muttered something about kids today, and dug into my jeans for some cash.
“Don’t forget my tip,” the kid added.
I’ll give the little shit a tip. I smashed two fives into his palm and snatched the bag from his hand. My boot kicked the door closed with a loud bang. The kid yelped, sending me into a fit of villainous laughter.
A few seconds later, the kid said, “Thanks, mister.”
He sounded happy, which made me unhappy.
Shit.
Yanking a wad of bills from my pocket, a wad considerably smaller than it had been a minute ago, I pulled open the door and watched the teen practically tap-dance down the hallway, a hundred-dollar bill clutched in his hands.
My crisp hundred-dollar bill.
“Darn it,” I yelled, booting the door closed again. “I can’t take much more.” I’d been out of work, suspended without pay, for six days. Six long days. Six days of fluffy bunnies and happy thoughts. All due
to one little slipup and the union’s subsequent curse. The worst part was, now, no matter what I did, it turned out . . . good . . . nice.
Take yesterday, for example. I’m walking down the avenue, minding my own business, when a little old lady calls out, “Son, would you mind helping me carry this package? It’s a basket of cookies for my granddaughter. She’s five. . . .”
On and on she went.
Rather than telling her to shut up and snatching her cookie basket, I found myself lugging twenty pounds of pastries four blocks up Avenue XYZ while exchanging recipes with the demented old dame.
What kind of villain does that?
I hated being nice, even more than I hated helping people. And I hated that more than curds and whey. But the union had voted, and I would remain cursed, forced to be nice to any idiot around, until they deemed me mentally stable enough for bad-guy duty.
Feeling sorry for myself and hungry to boot, I stalked across my living room and dropped down in my favorite chair.
My favorite chair screamed in response.
“Wha—?” I jumped up and flicked on my lamp.
A redhead in tight black leather glared at me from my seat. Her vivid emerald eyes sparkled with anger, and just a hint of something else. Something not very nice, but infinitely more interesting than a basket of cookies.
“Don’t you look before you sit?” The redhead’s lips curved into a frown, which only added to her beauty. She looked like sin, the dirty kind with plenty of sweat and saliva. Long copper hair curled down her shoulders, clinging to the outline of her C-cup breasts. The rest of her body was smoking with long, toned limbs and lots of pale skin.
“Who the heck are you?” I pointed the greasy bag in her direction. Before I could stop her, she snatched it from my fingers. I watched in amazement as the interloper dove into my curry noodles with the gusto of Goldilocks during a bout of bulimia.
“Hey.” I stabbed my hand in her direction. “That’s my dinner.” I would’ve snatched the carton back, but I was afraid of losing a finger.
After a few minutes of gluttony, she paused to glance my way. “Sorry, but I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since five.”
I glanced at my watch and frowned. “That was like forty-five minutes ago.”
“Really?” She cocked her head to the side, showing off the pale skin of her throat. “It feels like an hour at least.”
“While I’d love to chat more about the relativity of time, I’d prefer you tell me exactly who you are and how you got into my apartment.” With each word, my voice grew louder and my tone grew more dangerous. While I might have lost my villainous powers, I could still make one little redhead cry.
Or not.
“Do you have any soda?” She smiled up at me. “Maybe a Diet Pepsi? All that MSG makes me thirsty.”
With an eye roll I started for the kitchen, pausing to berate my treacherous legs for obeying her command. But I couldn’t help it.
Literally.
I did whatever anyone asked, my own will completely ignored, as long as the requestor’s intent was pure. Twenty-eight years of bad luck guaranteed any request made by a knockout redhead in black leather was as pure as Sleeping Beauty. Damn it.
Reluctantly, I opened my refrigerator and popped open the last can of mead. A rush of bubbles rose to the surface, foaming over the can and dribbling down my fingers. I sucked the foamy goodness from my thumb and grinned. The mead would have to appease my uninvited dinner thief. I returned from the kitchen, sat down on the edge of my coffee table, and handed her the can.
She glanced at my saliva-soaked fingers and then at the can. “Thanks,” she said after taking a long drink. Tilting her head, she studied me for a moment. Her eyes examined every inch, from my scuffed boots to the top of my hair. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Oh, and what exactly did you expect?”
“Someone a bit shorter.” She frowned. “What are you? Six foot?”
I nodded.
“What do you weigh? Sixteen stone?”
Again, I nodded.
She shook her head. “Puny.”
“Hey—” Six foot, two hundred pounds was not puny, not by a long shot. Moreover, I was as fit as Hey Diddle Diddle’s fiddle. In my line of work, it paid to be, with all that running from angry mobs with pitchforks and such.
“No offense.” Her lips lifted into a smirk. “Maybe you could bulk up for the job? Eat more.”
Rage flashed through my bloodstream like a boiling cauldron. “Eat more?” I strangled out, my eyes burning into my nearly empty carton of curry noodles and back at the redhead with a dollop of curry on her upper lip. What I should’ve said was, “Job? What job?” But I didn’t. I blamed my dropping blood sugar for the mistake.
The redhead grinned, lifting the nearly empty carton my way. “Oh, was this your dinner? There’s an egg roll left.” As she said those words, her eyes locked onto the greasy cabbage roll, as if debating eating it.
I grabbed the egg roll, crammed it in my mouth, and spewed leafy green strands at her as I repeated my earlier question. “Who the heck are you? And why are you here?”
“My name’s Asia.” She paused, her eyes boring into mine. Don’t say it, my brain begged, but just like a woman, she said it anyway. “I need your help.”
Chapter 2
“Asia . . .” I tapped my finger to my chin. The vaguest of memories flickered at the edge of my mind. “Your name’s familiar somehow. Have we met before?” I doubted it. She wasn’t a Villain Vamp, as we called the girls who lowered their standards enough to date my kind. So how did I know her?
She blew out a long sigh. “My full name is Asia Elizabeth Maledetto.” At my blank look, she added, “My stepdad’s King Maledetto.” She paused long enough to roll her eyes. “King of the land of Maledetto. You know, the kingdom that borders the northeastern part of New Never City?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” I shrugged. What the fuck was with the geography lesson? If I wanted to learn, I would’ve stayed in Charming School.
“Fine.” Her hands lifted to her round hips and she glared at me. “My stepsister’s Cinderella. Striking midnight now?”
Holy crap. I leapt from my seat on the table and paced around the room. Not that there was much room to pace. In fact, my whole apartment could fit into one of the three kittens’ missing mittens. “You’re the ugly stepsister!” I said with a frown. Yet this chick wasn’t ugly, not by a long shot.
“I’m one of them.” She shrugged as if the nickname didn’t bother her, but the look of hurt in her eyes spoke more than words could. The villainous, still hungry part of me took satisfaction in her pain. It served her and her princess-stuck-in-an-ivory-tower kind right.
“I’m sorry about,” I winced, “your sister’s accident.” Smashed under a bus was a bad way to go. I should know. I’d run over quite a few jesters and even a prince or two in my time.
“Thanks,” she said. “But it wasn’t an accident.”
I scratched my chin, not liking where this was going. “I have an alibi. I was at my mother’s in Queens of Hearts.”
Asia arched a flame-colored eyebrow. “Why would you need an alibi?”
“No reason.” I tried to smile, but it came off more like a grimace. “You were saying?”
“My sister’s death wasn’t an accident.” Her eyes met mine. “She was murdered. And I need your help to prove it.”
Damn. There was that word again. I started to say fuck no, but instead, the following string of words flew from my stupid lips: “Of course. Whatever you need.”
God, I hated myself. In an act of revenge, I chomped down on my treacherous tongue until it bled. Served it right.
“Are you eating your tongue?” For a brief second Asia appeared terrified at the prospect. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were that hungry.” She shoved her hand into the pocket of her leather pants and removed a lint-covered breath mint. “Here. Take this.”
Before I could stop her, she shoved
the mint into my mouth. I wanted to yell “Are you fucking nuts,” but it came out more like, “Thanks.”
Damn it.
She smiled. “So you’ll help me track down her killer?”
“Why the heck not?” I stared into her green eyes, losing myself in their beauty. If a woman’s eyes were a window to her soul, I was in big trouble. Because the only image inside Asia Elizabeth Maledetto’s eyes was my own evil reflection.
“I’ll come back in the morning,” she said, “and we can begin our investigation.”
I nodded, watching her heart-shaped butt walk out my door and disappear down the hallway. Ugly stepsister, my ass. Hell, even the gayest of the rats surveyed her strut down the corridor.
“I’d do her,” said Tate, a pink felt hat-wearing rat with a lisp and a pronounced swish. The other, straighter rats rolled their beady eyes. To which Tate replied: “What?”
I closed the door before things got ugly and dropped into my favorite, now-empty chair. A cloud of dust exploded from the fabric and the sweet scent of pumpkin pie floated around me. I picked up the remnants of my dinner, surprised to see Asia had left a fortune cookie. I smiled at the plastic-wrapped goodie, picturing Asia’s emerald eyes.
Peeling the cookie open, I licked my lips in anticipation of its sugary goodness and informative, if not valuable, summation of my future. The cookie read:
THE DELIVERY KID LICKED YOUR EGG ROLL.
HAVE A NICE DAY!
Damn! Foiled again by a teen with more metal in his head than Snow White had sugar midgets.
Hi Ho, Hi Ho . . .
Off to scrub delivery-kid spit out of my mouth I go.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Froggy Style Page 26