Curses!

by J. A. Kazimer

  Asia must’ve felt the same. She shifted her body closer to mine, our naughty parts melding through layers of fabric. One of my hands cupped her backside, digging into the soft flesh like a drowning man. Baby sure did have back. And I didn’t mind one little bit.

  Groaning, Asia reached for my belt buckle, her nimble fingers working some kind of magic, and before I knew it, my Levi’s were around my ankles. A draft tickled the hair on my legs.

  “Oh God,” Asia said, pulling away.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” she said and promptly threw up. Gingerbread-frosted puke splattered over my boots with a splat. She heaved again, and I jumped back. The sound of her retching echoed through the forest.

  I hoisted my jeans, wincing at the replica of Hansel’s gingerbread house splashed over my shoes. To be honest, Asia wasn’t the first chick to vomit at my feet. It actually happened more than I cared to admit.

  When her heaves subsided, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and straightened. “Sorry.” She pointed at my boots. “I must’ve eaten a bad gummy bear.”

  Or ten. But who’s counting? “Feel better now?”

  She nodded. “What did you find out from Hansel? Did he kill Cindi?”

  I shook my head at the sad change in topic. Less than two minutes ago, Asia had her hands down my pants, and now, we stood in the middle of a dark forest, me smelling like the Gingerbread Man after a sugar binge, discussing murder. Who said villains don’t know how to show a girl a good time?

  Rather than answer, I asked my own question. “Why do you care?”

  “What?!” Her eyes widened with shock. “She’s my sister. Of course I care who murdered her.”

  “No one else seems to.” I tilted my head and examined my ugly princess. Something was definitely rotten in Maledetto, and it wasn’t the leftover vomit on my boots. Even though that smelled nearly as bad. “The king and queen certainly weren’t devastated by her death. And neither was Hansel, who claimed to love Cinderella like a sister. So why do you?”

  Asia pursed her lips, which I found oddly sexy. Images of her wearing nothing but small, round librarian glasses and wielding a black leather whip flashed in my head. I shook the wayward thought away and focused on a speck of leftover gingerbread clinging to her cheek.

  “Hansel loved Cinderella like a sister, huh?” She laughed. “In my book that makes him our number one suspect.”

  “Why?”

  “You saw the feet sticking out from Missy’s cauldron, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, picturing the bright red slippers and fishnet stockings. “So?”

  “Meet Greta.”

  “The killer bluebird?”

  “No. Hansel’s very own sister. I do believe they planned to make Greta-flavored pie.” She licked her lips and patted her tummy. “I do like pie ...”

  I swallowed hard. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Listen ... Inspector,” she said. “Cindi had her faults. She could be selfish,” she paused, as if weighing her words, “and more than once I wanted to—”

  Gong.

  The palace clock rang, cutting off whatever juicy nugget Asia was about to reveal about her stepsister.

  “What time is it?” Asia’s hand flew to her throat.

  The clock gonged again.

  I glanced at my watch. “A few seconds to mid—”

  Before I finished my sentence, Asia took off, running full speed toward the palace. Her legs ate up the distance to the castle, like her mouth had done to the gingerbread house. I stood frowning after her.

  For a gingerbread-sick princess dressed in a leather miniskirt, she was surprisingly fast. She leapt over a fallen log and disappeared from my view. What the hell was that about?

  The clock tower gonged yet again.

  At a much more sedate pace, I started after Asia. My boot caught the edge of something and I fell face-first into a pile of moss. It smelled faintly of dirt and Earth, two scents I disliked on city-kid principle.

  “Ow!” I rubbed the end of my scraped nose and then glanced around for whatever had tripped me. Something shiny and plastic winked out at me from beneath a dead log.

  I peered closer. Damn if I hadn’t tripped over a glass shoe. Red ribbons circled the shiny surface. I picked up the slipper and rubbed at a crack in the heel for inspiration like one would a magic lamp. (Word of advice to all non-villains: When asked, avoid rubbing Aladdin’s lamp. No good will come of it.)

  The clock tower gonged again.

  I stood, brushing off my jeans, as my eyes examined the fragile slipper. Damn thing was a menace, much like my princess. With a sigh, I chucked it into the night.

  Chapter 10

  Seven minutes later, I staggered up the palace steps, bruised and confused. On my way I accidentally knocked over a perfectly round pumpkin sitting on the edge of the stoop. What was wrong with this place? Halloween wasn’t for weeks yet. Something was definitely rotten in Maledetto, and I doubted it was the cheesy doodles. The sooner I got away from here, the better. That went triple for my meeting with Natasha tomorrow.

  I opened the front door of the palace. A cold wind swept in behind me. The candles lighting the entryway flickered and then went dark. “Hello?” I called into the blackness.

  No one answered.

  “Anyone home?” Slowly my eyes adjusted to the dim light. The palace appeared as ornate and sparkly as it had earlier that afternoon, but that did little to reassure me. The stench of wealth couldn’t hide the stink of decay under the surface.

  Always the Villain Scout, I lifted a lighter from my pocket, flicked it, and yelped. Winslow, the butler, stood in front of me. I mean directly in front of me, his troll-like breath hot on my cheek.

  “Care for a mint?” I offered him a red-and-white tin of Altoids. Fresh villain flavor. He declined with a slight shake of his overly large head. The tuft of white hair atop his head bounced in agreement.

  Somewhere in the palace, a door slammed and a loud grunt followed, sounding much like Asia. Was she in some kind of danger? Was Cinderella’s killer here, at this very moment, attacking my princess? I started forward, intent on rescuing Asia from whatever evil lay within the castle walls. Winslow stepped in front of me, blocking my way.

  I raised an eyebrow, as if to say, “Do you really want to do this?” Too bad my intimidating glare worked better in the light.

  “Sir,” Winslow sneered, “Lady Asia requests you sleep in the Pink Room this evening. If you will follow me.” His hand motioned toward the long, perhaps a mile or so, winding stairs off to the right. Long pewter rails lined the staircase, twisting upward into the sky.

  I debated knocking the troll-like butler out of my way and charging after Asia, but the sound of laughter stopped me. It sounded somewhere between a giggle of pleasure and a cackle. Not the kind of laughter associated with being brutally bludgeoned to death with a bluebird. So much for my playing the hero to Asia’s damsel.

  “Lead the way.” I motioned to the staircase.

  Winslow nodded and did as I ordered. Slowly we climbed the winding staircase, floor after floor, until my lungs threatened to explode. If I die I am taking Winslow with me, was my last coherent thought.

  By the time we reached the last flight, my total focus was on restoring a sliver of oxygen to my bloodstream. As much as I hate to admit it, three stairs from the top, I collapsed, sucking air like Goldie, the eighth dwarf, the one with gills.

  “After your rest,” Winslow said, looking down at me from the top step, “if you’ll follow me down the hallway, I’ll finish showing you to your room.” He adjusted his tie and started to whistle. The troll-face bastard.

  Three minutes later, I heaved out a reply that sounded like, “Thh ... aaa ... nnn ... kkks.” A few minutes after that, I crawled to my knees, begged for death, and when that didn’t happen, I followed Winslow down the hall.

  Framed photographs and paintings of the Maledetto family tree lined the wal
ls. I paused in front of one picture in particular. A young boy, perhaps nine or ten years old, dressed in a fur coat and hat stood next to the king. The kid looked unsure, his mouth a flat line, while the clueless king beamed into the camera. A part of me felt sorry for the lad, like one feels for a puppy at the pound. I shook my head, ridding myself of my girlish sympathy for the unknown boy, and jogged to catch up to Winslow. Stupid union.

  At the end of the corridor, in front of a twelve-foot pink door, Winslow stopped dead. I smacked into the back of him and dropped to my knees. Damn troll-butler was built like Little Pig #3’s brick house.

  He sniffled.

  “You okay?” I asked, stumbling to my feet.

  He nodded and swiped at a tear sliding down his cheek. “Allergies,” he said.

  “Uh-huh,” I said but didn’t press him. Instead, I opened the pink door and peered into the darkened bedroom. The sugary scent of ginger and something else, something really nice, filled my nostrils. My hand fumbled along the wall searching for the light switch without any luck.

  Winslow stepped inside the room, sniffed again, and clapped his hands. A sudden and intense glare of light exploded around us. I glanced his way and he nodded to the hundreds of tiny glass bulbs lining the walls like track lighting. “Fairies,” he said. “Damn things love applause.”

  I looked up and damn if there weren’t itty-bitty blondes locked inside each bulb, their tiny fairy butts glowing like floodlights. The aura surrounding each fairy nearly blinded me with its intensity. Sort of like the lights of Cin City without the noise or hookers.

  Shielding my eyes from the retina-burning glow, I glanced around the Pink Room. Pink wasn’t a strong enough adjective to describe the horror around me. Everywhere I looked, from the neon bedspread to the Pepto-Bismol-colored curtains, the vomit-inducing pinkness surrounded me. I hated pink. As did any villain worth his salt.

  “I can’t sleep here.” I motioned to the pink stuffed teddy bear on the four-poster princess bed. Its black, blank eyes followed me around the room. “It’s so ... ,” I paused, “girly.” I feared that every second I spent inside would shrink my manhood by a millimeter. A nightmare for any villain not so well endowed. Still, I didn’t want to risk an inch.

  “This was Lady Cinderella’s room,” Winslow said, as if reading my mind or more likely the look of horror on my face. “She spent hours decorating it.” He wiped at his eyes, apologized again for his “allergies,” and started for the door, but I stopped him.

  “You loved her,” I said, more of a statement than a question.

  Winslow’s head jerked up. His eyes filled with more than tears. Rage burned within the troll-like butler. The kind of rage any true villain could appreciate. Damn. This detective business wasn’t as easy as I thought.

  Winslow all but growled, “Love? Ha. I hated that spoiled brat. She got everything she ever wanted. Clothes. Furs. Jewels. The prince. Everything. Why? Because she was ‘beautiful.’ She was far from beautiful. Not like her.” He stopped, horror washing over his tear-stained face.

  “Her?”

  “Lady Dru, of course.” His face lit up. “She is the most enchanting princess in all the land.” He added, “Any land,” in case I missed the point.

  If Dru was half as beautiful as Asia, I understood Winslow’s preoccupation. Hell, in another day or two, I might be mooning over Asia the same way, spouting poetry and cheesy eighties song lyrics.

  “Lady Cinderella treated Lady Dru and Lady Asia like they were ... ,” Winslow halted, “diseased. Now Cinderella’s dead, struck by a commoner’s bus, which is fitting. Don’t you think?”

  My villain sense started to tingle. It looked like the butler might’ve done it after all. What were the odds? 100 to 1? Maybe I should give up detecting and head to Cin City. It probably paid better. So far, the only form of payment I’d received from Asia was puke-splattered footwear and a pair of bluish bollocks. But I hoped for more. Much naked more. I grinned and returned to the job at hand. “You killed her, didn’t you?” I stabbed an accusatory finger in Winslow’s direction.

  Winslow’s thick black eyebrows rose. “Certainly not!”

  So much for my interrogating technique. “Then who did?”

  “Impossible to say. A better question is,” the butler pulled at the knot in his tie, “who didn’t want to see the princess dead?”

  Good point.

  One day into my investigation and I had more suspects than I could count, not to mention a date with my ex-wife. On the bright side, no one had tried to kill me.

  Yet.

  After Winslow left I paced around Cinderella’s room. I needed a clue. Not in the vague, general sense either. I needed a clue that pointed to Cinderella’s killer. A blood-soaked bluebird would be nice. Maybe a matchbook with the killer’s name and v-mail address. A part of me feared that name on the matchbook just might be Asia’s. Of course, the prospect of a villainous princess excited me much more than it should. Hell, I already knew she looked damn good in black leather. I glanced at the pink bear for help. But the damn thing appeared as clueless as me.

  Taking a deep breath, I crossed the bedroom and opened the top dresser drawer. Six pairs of pink panties stared back, all neatly arranged by the day of the week. Princess OCD.

  My fingers brushed the first three pairs, pausing on an empty space. I counted again. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. All lay freshly laundered and returned to the drawer. Thursday was missing. The same day Cindi ended up smashed under a bus. Yet Friday’s pair lay neatly folded, as if awaiting Cindi’s return. Which brought up an interesting point.

  Cinderella didn’t plan to stick around New Never City. According to Asia, if I could in fact believe my demented princess, Cinderella had something to tell Asia, something so important that she traveled four hours to the city without a change of panties.

  That meant one of two things. Either Cinderella planned to return to Maledetto that night, or more likely, Cinderella had left the kingdom in a rush. But why? What was so important?

  Scanning the rest of the room, my eyes fell on a small pink book with a gold lock on the front. I lifted the book up. A pink piece of paper fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and squinted at the loopy, girlish handwriting. Over and over the word “Charming” was repeated, a little heart dotting each i.

  Interesting. Apparently Cinderella was a wee bit obsessed with a certain prince. The question was, how had her obsession caused her to become flat as a princess cake?

  I smiled at the pink bear. “Elementary, my dear teddy.”

  I was one hell of a detective.

  Chapter 11

  In retrospect, my optimism was a bit premature, but that wasn’t my first thought upon waking. Nope. My first thoughts incorporated a naked Asia and a vat of cotton candy. Weird, but understandable when one considered the fluffy pink bedspread wound tightly around my thighs.

  The heady scent of “this little piggy” frying and coffee tickled my nostrils, forcing my eyes open. It smelled much like heaven. Or how I imagined heaven smelled, since bacon would be as close to heaven as a villain like me could get. Who needed wings and a harp anyway? Not me. Not when I had a redheaded not-so-ugly princess.

  Speaking of my princess. I rolled out from under my cotton candy tomb, stood, and stretched the kinks from my back. The damn pink bed was at least a foot too short. I’d spent much of the night in the fetal position, which wasn’t one of my top ten favorite positions.

  After showering and dressing in my finest villainous uniform of black T-shirt and jeans, I descended the miles of palace stairs. Down and down I went. My legs burned from the trek, but my mind was focused on obtaining two goals.

  Coffee and killing my ex-wife.

  Not in that order, necessarily.

  I wasn’t unreasonable, though; I’d settle for tea if I had to.

  Twenty minutes later, I accomplished my first goal. I found a cup of coffee. Literally. It sat at the head of a very long table, in what I assumed from the boar’s head
on the wall was the dining room. I lifted the cup and sniffed the fresh aroma of scalding water infused with roasted beans. My mouth started to water at its rich caffeinated goodness. Heat warmed my chilled fingers. I brought the cup to my lips.

  “Don’t touch that!” The queen knocked the cup from my hands with the back of hers. It flew into the air and landed on the green plush carpet, unbroken. Unlike my ears, which rang from the queen’s squeals of rage. She raced to the fallen cup and bent down to inspect the damage. “Look what you’ve done.”

  I glanced down, surprised to see a hole burned in the carpet where the coffee soaked into its fibers. Peering closer, I noticed a thin trail of smoke wafting from the shag. “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll get you another cup.”

  “That wasn’t for me. It was for the king.” She shook her head at the stain. Her sigh was loud enough to rattle the china in the teak cabinet next to us.

  “I ...”

  “Just go away,” she said, waving a regal hand my way.

  Looking down at the still-smoldering carpet and then back at the queen, I was only too happy to oblige. As I quickly walked toward the kitchen, I prayed the old adage that all women eventually turn into their mothers was a twisted joke. If not, when I did finally lock Asia in a tower I’d damn well better learn to make my own coffee.

  Or develop a tolerance to poison.

  Unfortunately the latter seemed far more likely.

  I opened the kitchen door and ran into a large woman holding a meat cleaver. Her white hair was tied back in a bun and blood drenched her apron. I, of course, assumed she was the cook. I was wrong. Very, very wrong, I soon learned when she screeched, “Make your own damn breakfast!” and tried to stab me with the cleaver.

  So much for my powers of deduction.

  After proper introductions, I bowed deeply to Asia’s elderly aunt, Lizzie. “My apologies, my lady,” I said. “Have you seen your niece?”