The Cursed Prince: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Fated by Magic) (Volume 1)

by Taylor Fray

  She couldn’t take it. How could she feel fear and desire at the same time? She was supposed to hate this man, this freak who killed her sister. She stepped into the bathroom of her motel room. Splashed freezing water on her face. God it was cold. The hot water in the sink wasn’t working. Growing up hot water had been a luxury. Apparently living in her Brooklyn apartment had made her soft in ways she didn’t realize. Brooklyn, of all places, seemed urbane compared to these backwood towns.

  It would have been nice to accept the help from Sheriff Albhanz. It would have been nice to be able to trust a guy. But starting with her father and ending with her last shitty boyfriend, every man who had ever been in her life had abandoned her, disappointed her, betrayed her, or some combination of the three. In the end, they had always been essentially weak. She didn’t want anything to do with men, didn’t want or need their help. It was part of what made her as tough as she was, having to learn how to live on her own. She had learned to do everything herself over the years, car maintenance, house repairs. Hell, one time she moved all her furniture into a new apartment all by herself. Moving your couch by yourself, that was the real sign you were alone in the world. Over the years her desire for a man of any kind had vanished, so it was all the more startling to be all hot and bothered over this psychopath she had encountered in the forest.

  She poured herself a shot of whiskey and went to the one thing that could get her mind off anything: working a case.

  She spread her sister’s case file on her desk. Dressed herself haphazardly. The single desk lamp made it so she worked within a balloon of light in a pitch-black room. White paper rustled as she poured over eye-witness testimonies, police records, autopsy reports. She had seen these same documents dozens of times now, and yet every time the photograph of her dead sister still made her chest tighten. In the photograph, Harley was lying on her kitchen floor, wearing only the shredded remains of a shirt. Wedges of her flesh gaped open; blood caked around them. She had been slashed in the throat, and along her abdomen, multiple times, a brutal way to die. The murder weapon was never found. If it had been a knife, it would have taken enormous strength to kill like that. But Morgan didn’t think it was. Knives slashed. These were more tears, the flesh savagely split open. Whoever had done this had used some deranged tool: an ax, a saw, a hook of some kind.

  She had already questioned the few people who knew Harley: the workers at the diner she worked at sporadically, Paige, the distant cousin they shared, the neighbors who had seen Zak leaving her house. He had been so strange, talking about clans—was that some kind of new slang for gangs? His territory? What had all that been about? Even though she had only been around him for a few moments, it had been the most strange, intense moment of her life. There was something about him that had been completely different. Whereas whenever she was around men she became immediately aware of their annoying habits, their inner flaws, their very human natures, Zak had been completely different. He had been like a wild creature, and a wild creature could have no human foibles, only instinct, strength and predatory grace.

  Suddenly something began stirring in her. The memory of Zak’s emanating growl. It was somewhere between the guttural purr of a cat and the menacing growl of a wolf. She thought for a moment that she might be losing her mind; a sound couldn’t be so clear in her memory like that. A sensation came with the sound, one of expanding heat, a cold trembling. It made her entire body burn with desire, with excitement. She ran her hand through her hair, telling herself that it was all in her head. But the fever-like feeling all over her body wouldn’t go away.

  Images of her meeting with Zak began flashing in her mind. His ice blue eyes had been branded into her mind. She couldn’t help but throw herself on her bed, exhausted from holding off these thoughts. She ran her fingers along her neck. What was happening to her? She imagined how he would undress her frantically, how she would feel his biceps as he pressed her close to him and squeeze his lips on her neck. She bit her lip as she found herself running her own hands on her breasts, squeezing, her nipples hardening. Her hand slid down her pants—what was she doing? She blinked, shook her head. Tried to snap out of it. How could she be having these thoughts about her sister’s killer? And who was he, really? How could he have been that fast, that strong? Was it some kind of drug he was on? …Who has silver hair that young?

  She stood up and paced, but the growling kept ringing in her mind. Then she realized: it wasn’t in her head, wasn’t a memory, there really was a growling ringing in the air, as if it was calling to her, but it was just a sound that was different that any other, like it was happening inside her mind and nowhere else. She had been hearing it as if from far away somehow, and it had been getting closer and closer. Almost against her will, she walked to the front door.

  She cracked it open.

  An empty second floor walkway. The motel was built so that the room doors faced the parking lot and the open air. Just a drab gray building with green awnings and a cheap glowing sign in front.

  “Ah!” she screamed as she caught a glimpse of Zak in the walkway. She slammed the door shut. Pulled the lock.

  Her hands groped the desk drawers, looking for her gun. She scrambled. Remembered she had set it on the nightstand.

  The cool metal, the weight of it in her hands reassured her, just enough not to scream.

  She aimed at the door.

  Her hands trembled.

  She could feel the adrenaline.

  The shadow of a tall man slowly drifted across the window.

  She didn’t dare blink.

  Could barely breath she was so tense.

  “I’ve called the police!” she lied.

  “You’re in danger,” Zak’s voice replied through the window. “You need to leave town. Let me help you.”

  “Get the hell away from here. I swear I’ll shoot.” Her voice cracked as she threatened.

  “Meet me in the parking lot. I won’t hurt you. There is too much you don’t know.”

  The shadow disappeared. She watched the window for a long moment, indecisive.

  She breathed deep and walked to the door. Pressed her shoulder against it, gun ready. She peered out the peep hole: the walkway was clear.

  Easing out of the doorway, she quickly glanced in both directions.

  Nothing.

  She peered over the railing and almost cried out: Zak was standing in the courtyard, staring up at her. He made his way to the other side of the parking lot. Looked up at her once more, then turned the corner and she lost sight of him.

  She ran back inside her room, slid down leaning against the door. The thought of calling the cops ran across her mind, but what good would it do—he could be gone long before they arrived. Damn it, she was acting like a pussy. Her brow furrowed as she stood up, slipped shoes on and gripped her gun tight.

  She ran out of the door, gun hoisted up. Her arms held her gun out with a life or death precision as she scanned the walkway and made her way down the stairs. Inside she was working up the nerve to be ready to shoot, to be ready to kill. She kept the building to her back, stalked to where Zak had stood. If she could get a glimpse of the car he used to get there, or any other information—she had to try.

  She used the cars of the parking lot as cover. Turned the corner of the building—nothing. She didn’t see him.

  “I didn’t kill your sister,” Zak said.

  Morgan whipped around—blam! She shot him. She was as shocked as he was. Her adrenaline had just been at a boiling point. She had nailed him in the left side of his chest. His surprise turned to fury, his eyes reflecting the yellow streetlight, fangs protruding from his mouth.

  “But I should kill you for that,” he said. He seemed more insulted than injured though blood was slowly trickling down his jacket.

  “I swear to god I’ll shoot again,” she said as adrenaline pumped in her veins.

  “I tried. Your blood won’t be on me!” He ran off so fast he actually kicked up debris in the street.


  She had run track, knew the range of human speed, and he was beyond it.

  Her mind was reeling. She noticed a couple of windows lit up—people in the motel must have heard the gunshot. She pocketed the gun and rushed inside her room.

  She almost wanted to call a psych ward and turn herself in. To make sure this wasn’t some kind of delusion resulting from repressed grief. But no, this was real, stone cold real. Morgan had seen a lot of strange things in her life. As a P.I. she ran into drug addicts, serial killers, human traffickers, everything under the sun. But whatever Zak was, whatever had happened with him and Harley, she realized it was something beyond the mundane, and once again, she was on her own.

  3

  Pete’s Grill was on the main road between Gilbert and the town of Barham Springs. Surrounding it were a gas station, a handful of country houses and a mile-wide swath of Southern Oaks. Its huge decaying sign was missing the last “e” so that it looked like its name was “Pet’ s Grill.”

  Morgan stepped into the smoky air of the diner, a bell jingling as she closed the door behind her. The patrons were a man sitting alone, his head hanging with tiredness, and two girlfriends who sat chatting in a corner booth.

  The sound and aroma of sizzling bacon drifted from the kitchen. Morgan walked up to the counter, recognized one of the waitresses: Janice, a stocky woman with calloused hands from working in a kitchen her whole life. She had talked to her before, and Janice immediately recognized her.

  “Look, if you’re going to bother me again, you’re going to have to come back another time. We’re busy,” she said.

  Morgan looked around the diner. There were literally three customers in the whole place. “This is busy? No wonder you can’t afford a new sign.” Janice only leered at her sarcasm. “I hear that you make good pancakes here,” Morgan said, doing her best to be diplomatic. “Let me get a stack.”

  “Doesn’t mean you can interrogate me.” Janice wrote up the order on a ticket.

  “Look, you worked with Harley, you really don’t care about what happened to her?”

  “It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I don’t get into other people’s business. I already told the police all I know.” Janice’s mouth was a wrinkled slit of seriousness, the bags under her eyes thundering her hostility as she stabbed the order slip onto the cook’s ticket wheel.

  “Bitch,” Morgan murmured under her breath as Janice walked away. She studied Janice as she talked with some of the workers in the back. People always pictured murderers as some deranged monsters, but in Morgan’s experience, it was almost always someone the victim knew. That’s why she was giving Harley’s place of work another shot. She didn’t know how to make sense of what had happened last night, so perhaps if she went over the case again with an eye for the uncanny, she might spot something she had missed. It was either that, or spread her arms for a chlorine-white straitjacket.

  A plate of blueberry pancakes was soon smacked down in front of her. She wolfed them down. She had to admit that even though this place’s customer service was only slightly better than a Siberian prison, damn their pancakes were good.

  As she finished the last of her stack, the head cook sauntered over to the counter, cleaning his hands with a rag.

  “Hey there, pretty lady,” he said, resting his hands on the counter. “I hear you’ve been badgering my workers, asking for accounts of some murder like you were police. Well I’m Pete—you know, my name’s on the sign—and if you don’t mind I’d like to keep my workers out of any trouble. You know, with no distractions. They’re on the clock. And we don’t want no trouble.”

  Morgan looked back at Pete, a stocky guy with a goatee and spiky, bleached hair, in his mid forties, and a jagged scar along his forearm. “I’m a paying customer. What happened to Southern Hospitality?” she said, hating herself for turning on a drop of charm for this guy. She studied him as he considered his next words, and she realized there was something wrong with his right eye. It was frozen, locked in position, constantly aimed upward like a dead roach.

  “Well look, I’m glad to answer all your questions, you know, outside business hours when I don’t have the pressure of this here fine establishment riding me.” He jotted his phone number down on an order ticket and handed it to her. “I’d be glad to help you out with your situation. Anytime. You just holler.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said, holding back some vomit. As he walked away, she noticed the scar on his forearm again. It looked so big it was a surprise he still had use of his hand. There was something strange about him—several things, actually—and so she might be calling on him after all.

  She lingered over her coffee, observing. There was one waitress who seemed like an actual sensible person. A busty blonde. Her name was Betty, if she remembered correctly from her visit a week ago. Morgan had described Zak to her. She hadn’t recalled seeing anyone like that, but now Morgan had something else she could show Betty and hopefully get more answers. Morgan left a few bills for the pancakes and walked to her car.

  She sat in the leathery seat of her mustang, watching the front door through the windshield. She wriggled in the seat—the leather was turning blindingly hot in the sunlight. She flicked the AC to full blast, only to get too cold. The insurmountable problems of life. Eventually, Betty emerged from the diner wearing a jacket over her work dress and her purse strung on her shoulder: the universal sign of waitresses leaving for home at the end of their shift.

  Morgan stepped out of the car and intercepted her. “Hi Betty, it’s me Morgan, Harley’s sister.”

  Betty responded with reserved outrage. “My name’s not Betty, it’s Betty Jo!” Morgan smiled. She liked her already.

  They sat in Morgan’s car, which was parked in front of Betty Jo’s house. Morgan had given her a ride home, about six miles down the road. The houses out here were in clusters, all surrounded by patches of woods.

  “I know me describing the man I’m looking for wasn’t much to go by,” Morgan said as she pulled out her phone. “But I got a video this time.” She pulled up the video on her phone. She had gotten it from the motel manager. It was of Zak walking down the motel walkway. Thank God she hadn’t been videotaped shooting him, or it would have been a lot more complicated to get it. But since that part wasn’t caught on tape, it was a straightforward bribe. Motel owners were the easiest people to bribe, she had discovered over the years, easier than drug dealers, homeless people, cops, even easier than politicians.

  Betty Jo watched the video playing on Morgan’s phone.

  “You recognize him?” Morgan asked.

  Betty Jo’s lips parted in earnest concentration, then she seemed disappointed. “No. Sorry, I wish I did.”

  “Think hard, have you seen him anywhere? Around town. Out in the forest preserve?” Morgan pressed her. Betty Jo shook her head. “Alright,” Morgan said. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Thank you for the ride. I wish I could have helped.” Betty Jo motioned to step out of the car.

  “Wait,” Morgan interrupted. She had been holding it all in, and strong as she was, she had to ask someone. “This is gonna sound crazy, but have you ever heard of any strange things around these parts. Things that weren’t… natural?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Morgan really had to work up to say it out loud. “You know, eerie things, like… ghosts… aliens… werewolves.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “But crazy doesn’t mean it’s not true.” Morgan raised her eyebrows as Betty Jo went on, “I grew up in Telusah county, so not that far, and my grandma always said that there used to be werewolves all along these mountains.”

  “Used to be?” Morgan asked.

  “Yeah. Actually, please don’t tell nobody, not that there’s anyone to tell, but she fell in love with one. With a wolf man. Actually, he was a teenager, so a boy really. A boy named Carter. It really broke her heart, that they couldn’t be toge
ther. I guess his wolf family didn’t allow it. Actually, they almost killed him because of it. And my grandma, she was lucky to be alive. The last time she saw him, he was dragged off by a pack of wolf monsters. I don’t mean regular wolves either. I mean monsters. I guess they were moving the whole herd… or pack I should say. It was all their fault, because Carter had told my grandma about what he was. They told her to never say anything about it, or they’d come for her too. I guess they spooked her enough that she didn’t say anything for 50 years.”

  “Was he… killed?”

  “I don’t know. She only told me those bits, and then she never wanted to talk about it again till she passed.”

  “How sad. I’m glad, at least, that your grandma survived. She must have been really brave not to go crazy after that experience.”

  “After that, I think she realized how valuable her life was. It’s what kept her going.”

  “I don’t know what to make of it all, but thanks for telling me. It means a lot.”

  “Is the man in the video,” Betty Jo asked. “Is he one of them? Is he a wolf man?”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying it. He might be. He moves faster than he should, he’s stronger than any man should be. And each time he’s around it’s like there’s a growling dog inside him.” Morgan had considered vampire, but going by her admittedly poor knowledge of all this—mostly based on movies and such—Zak sure didn’t act like a pale, sun-avoiding, brooding vampire.

  “Sounds about right. You really think he did it? … Your sister I mean... did he kill her?”

  “Two eyewitnesses saw him leaving Harley’s house the day of the murder.”