Serial Killer Princess

by RJ Blain

  “We surmised as much, as the neighbors claim you have a rather piercing scream.”

  “Anything else I can do for you nice officers?”

  Mr. Dreamy scowled and asked a few questions that covered the basics again just to annoy me. We did the same dance a few times, and I gave him variations of the same answer so he wouldn’t think I was reading from a script. As the conversation progressed, the pain in my skull eased to be replaced with a rather leisurely spinning and lightheadedness, the kind I associated with the truly strong painkillers.

  When he finished, he sighed. “That’s all. If we have more questions, we’ll contact you. And Miss Flandersmythe?”

  “Yes?”

  “In the future, please be aware that kissing people without their permission counts as sexual assault.”

  “You grabbed my ass, so I think we’re even.”

  His scowl deepened. “Fine.”

  He spun on his heel and let himself out of my apartment, his partner a step behind him. Once they were gone, I shut the door and locked it. “I don’t think he likes me for some reason.”

  Everyone sighed, even my father and his bodyguard.

  I turned my best glare onto my mother and pointed at her. “This is all your fault.”

  “My fault? How do you figure that?” My mother cocked her head and arched an elegant, perfect brow. “You were the one who decided to stick your tongue down his throat without his permission.”

  “And he grabbed my ass without my permission. We’re even.”

  “It’s true,” Terrance muttered, his head still bowed. “He definitely got a good grip on Her Highness before she gave us the slip. I do believe, however, he intended to keep you from running away, Princess Tulip.”

  Whirling around to give him a scolding proved my undoing. I turned to face my mother’s bodyguard. The tiny white pill and my head conspired for some pretty lousy karmic revenge, sending me on a one-way trip to the carpet.

  I would’ve felt a whole lot better about things if I’d woken up in my own bed. While I liked satin sheets, I preferred mine. I also preferred sleeping in beds meant for one person, not four or five. I thought my double sufficed. Queens seemed huge to me.

  When I needed to crawl to reach the edge, the bed was too damned big.

  It was also too high.

  Scowling, I leaned over, stretching down to touch the rug with my fingertips, a few inches shy from reaching it. Green, red, and gold swirled over a blue field, pretty in a chaotic sort of way.

  On the up side, my head no longer hurt, so I’d forgive the relocation likely engineered by my queen mother and executed by my father with the help of their security. Waging war against four at once would put my skills to the test. I’d have to conquer Justin Brandywine first; his bacon-making skills ranked him as my top priority. I supposed I’d have to go for my father next, as I had questions for him.

  All I had to do to get rid of my mother was show even a hint of interest in an island in a specific location. Given five minutes and a few phone calls, she’d be out of my hair for a while. It wouldn’t take much to convince her to take Terrance with her, especially if I made a point of visiting one of the islands she’d already taken over.

  Promising to visit Madagascar to convince the locals the mer wouldn’t eat them would suffice. A lot of feather smoothing had been required at my resort. What would calming an entire nation take?

  I’d lose at least three to four weeks doing basic research on Madagascar, its people, and my inevitable responsibilities—responsibilities I’d need to delegate as much as possible while praying I wouldn’t get sucked into whatever it was someone did when a nation was dumped on their lap.

  My mother really needed to stop conquering islands before I participated in regicide to go along with serial killing serial killers.

  That left me with the issue of who had killed my serial killer. I could think of a lot of reasons why someone would murder the bastard, although my professional pride demanded satisfaction. Once I found out who’d done it, I’d leave him—or her—a little note suggesting they kill with better style. If the killer was a woman, I’d even consider teaching her the tricks of the trade.

  If a man, I’d consider teaching him the tricks of the trade after convincing him to scratch a few of my itches. Maybe throat slashing lacked style and finesse, but the job had gotten done and the killer had beaten me to the chase. That deserved reward.

  Then there was the issue of the mail bomber. I wanted a piece of that pie, and I wouldn’t be leaving a note. That victim would be arriving to the morgue in teeny tiny little pieces, a reflection of my opinion of their bomb. Going to a murdering rapist’s house and slitting his throat was one thing, but mail bombs were another entirely.

  I’d make an exception to my rule about killing only serial killers, assuming I could find the bastard. Taking out a mail bomber involved more work than my normal hits; serial killers used patterns, which made them easier to track down. In reality, the mail bomber was likely someone out for revenge, which made him or her a one off, something that made hunting them difficult at best.

  If I got bored, I’d try.

  For the moment, I’d concentrate my efforts on finding a new serial killer to slaughter.

  Satisfied with my tentative plan, I slid off the bed onto the rug to discover it was far plusher than I expected. I stretched out, contemplating if I had anywhere in my apartment big enough for it. If I removed everything out of my living room and treated it like a wall to wall carpet, maybe.

  Obviously, I needed to explore and find a smaller but equally lovely rug to take home with me. Then I would get to the serious work of picking a new serial killer to murder—and the killer of my serial killer. I really hoped he was a man, a delicious American one I could take home and groom into a proper accomplice in crime.

  Chapter Five

  The next time I explored someone’s home uninvited, I’d take some string and tie it to a door knob so I wouldn’t get lost. What sort of house had more passages than the Bible? At least they weren’t dark passages, although I couldn’t tell where the pale light came from. At first, I thought the ceiling was the source, but my shadow clung to me. I scowled, leveling my glare at the smooth stone walls. I should’ve known not to wander when I’d left the nice wood paneled halls, gone down a flight of stairs, and ended up in a labyrinth.

  My mother would love the place. Much to Terrance’s dismay, she enjoyed nothing more than getting lost in maze-like underwater grottos, disappearing for days at a time, and panicking her loyal servants so much they hunted me down, ready to stuff a crown on my head if she didn’t turn up.

  Ah hell, I was my mother’s daughter. I pitied the mer; my mother was bad enough, but unless she got her act together, they ran the risk of being stuck with me. Then again, maybe I counted as an upgrade for them. I limited getting lost to on land, giving eager mer a chance to stretch their legs, ran a resort the mer loved almost as much as their temporary human partners did, and could take care of myself.

  Except when it came to mail bombs. My close brushes with explosives worried everyone, myself included. One was bad luck. Five was luck of the worst sort. Of course, it didn’t help I deliberately put myself as close to serial killers as possible so I could rid the Earth of them. Since I could find them, others could, too.

  In a way, I made my own bad luck. Maybe my mother was right. Maybe it was time to hang up the mail courier hat and pick a new method of getting close to my targets. I didn’t always work as a mail courier to gain access to my victims, but I’d done it a few too many times. Next time, I’d aim for a six-month stint as some serial killer’s secretary before getting lured into his basement dungeon, where I’d shift and bite the shit out of him before spending the final hours of his life lecturing him about the errors of his ways.

  That would point evidence in my direction, as black mamba venom wasn’t easy to get.

  Then again, where would someone like me get black mamba venom? Current belief
stated shifters of all stripes came in one variant: mammals. While there were reptilian supernatural, including gorgons, people like me didn’t exist. It had gotten me into and out of trouble, often. Since people couldn’t shift into serpents, law enforcement investigators didn’t consider the cracks and crevices a snake could get into as an actual possibility.

  Smaller mammals, including mice, were so rare they were brushed aside as possibilities, too.

  I found another staircase leading down, and instead of turning back and trying to find my way up like a sane person, I took the adventurous route. The air chilled, and a musty odor lingered in the air, strong enough to make me sneeze. A thin layer of dust billowed beneath my feet with every step, deepening as I descended. By the time I reached the bottom, several inches of pale dust covered everything.

  The rotten ruins of a door hung on one hinge, which was so rusted I expected the whole thing to topple when I touched it. I pressed my palm to the decaying wood and shoved, and the hinge broke away with a creak. The door smacked to the floor, a gray cloud billowing up. Covering my mouth and nose with my sleeve, I backed to the steps and waited for the dust to settle.

  Beyond, a soft glow illuminated everything and chased away the shadows. A ledge overlooked crumbling ruins, the empty shells of buildings stretching out into a haze wafting from a river cutting through the skeleton of a town. The steps carved into the wall were lined with statues of gorgons, their serpents reared and ready to strike. Each seemed poised to jump out of the stone at me, although a second, closer look revealed most of the statues were only of the upper chest, shoulders, and head, the rest waiting to be carved. Some even bore chisel marks where the work had been started but abandoned.

  What was finished seemed so real I couldn’t help but reach out and trail my fingers across the smooth stone.

  A hand touched my shoulder, startling me so much I shoved away from the statue and spun, balling my hand into a fist, ready to break my assailant’s nose to buy myself time to escape. Conventional wisdom suggested avoiding goofing around on staircases, as taking a tumble down the steps could lead to a very early death. Jumping on one without benefit of a railing while fifty feet above the ground was tantamount to suicide.

  Instead of plummeting to the stone below, I got yanked as though I were a rag doll. Colliding with a solid, hard chest beat splattering, although I needed to chase down my heart, as I was pretty sure it had galloped away. It amazed me the fright hadn’t made me piss my pants.

  “You seem to have difficulties with staircases,” my father, one Mr. Shiny Shoes, muttered.

  Lucky me, embarrassing myself in front of the father I hadn’t even formally met yet. I straightened, going through the motions of dusting myself off, well aware it was a futile effort. I’d probably be washing dust and grime out of my hair for weeks. “That was payback for the dart, wasn’t it?”

  “When I get payback for the dart, it’ll be something far more elaborate than sneaking up on you. I’m merely an opportunist, and you seemed rather enamored with the carvings. How could I resist?”

  Since I would’ve done the exact same thing given half a chance, I acknowledged his victory with a nod. “That’s fair.”

  “I certainly thought so. Your mother’s rather annoyed you gave her the slip this morning.”

  Maybe I didn’t have a whole lot of experience with having a father, but even I recognized trouble on the horizon. “Mother recruited you to drag me back in chains because you bought me for a dollar, so I’m your responsibility. Also, if you were actually involved in the process of picking my mother as a participant in your evening activities, I question your sanity, although I do rather like existence.”

  “I see someone was snooping in my wallet and found her birth certificate.”

  I checked his feet, and while layered with dust, he still wore shiny oxfords. “I may call you Mr. Shiny Shoes for the rest of my life.”

  “It could be worse, I suppose. I do have a name.”

  “I saw while snooping in your wallet. It’s almost as bad as mine.”

  “I hadn’t known you’d been born or named until your birth certificate arrived in the mail, so you only have your mother to blame for that.”

  “Oh, that was harsh. Didn’t even call you?”

  “She preferred taunting me with pictures sent every few months and thorough descriptions of all the trouble you’ve caused her.”

  “That sounds like something she would do. Have you considered posting maps of this place in your guest rooms? I might not have gotten lost with a map.”

  “Most people would’ve had the common sense to turn back when discovering they’d found a maze of tunnels.”

  I lifted my chin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “For the record, had I been responsible for naming you, you would’ve been named Stephanie.”

  Stephanie was so, so much better than Tulip. I sighed. “Is it too late to have my name changed?”

  “I sent your mother a letter asking something along those lines. She told me to deal with it, and if I’d cared enough to name you, I should’ve stipulated it in our agreement. Your mother’s truly frightening. For the record, she paid me a dollar to track you down and keep an eye for you rather than sell you into slavery or something nefarious like that. She seemed concerned, and rightfully so, you would escape the hospital again. I’ve also been informed this is the fifth time you’ve been to the hospital due to something exploding on your mail routes.”

  “I’m still worth more than a dollar,” I muttered. “Anyway, I am, as of yesterday, never delivering mail for anyone ever again. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll find something safer, like being a secretary. I can’t get into too much trouble being a secretary.”

  My father’s black mambas stirred, hissing softly, and regarding me with their small eyes. “I believe your mother’s hoping you’ll begin handling some of your duties as her heir.”

  “She conquered Madagascar, so she gets to rule it. When I want to rule an island, I’ll conquer it myself, thank you. Unless she’s conquering America. I’d consider taking over America.”

  My father didn’t seem very impressed with my declaration. “Why?”

  “High selection of good looking men to choose from, for starters.” That America had a rather high population of serial killers didn’t bother me, either. I really needed to start doing research on my next target—and find a new state to live in for a while. “And no, I’m not allowing either one of you to marry me off or dictate how I spend my evenings. If I want to bang your bodyguard, I will.”

  My father stared at me, both brows raised. “Shouldn’t my bodyguard have a say in that?”

  “Is he married?”

  “Well, no.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “He’s a lycanthrope.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Wolf?”

  “No, something far more interesting than a wolf.”

  “So, he’s a couple of hundred years old then, infected with a disease, and what else?”

  “He’s thirty-two, yes, lycanthropy is a disease, and nothing else. I recommend against, as you say, banging my bodyguard.”

  I crossed my arms and turned away, regarding the gorgon statues while I mulled over his reply. “Elaborate. I want him for his bacon.”

  “You want Justin for his bacon.”

  “I am highly motivated by good bacon.”

  I could feel my father’s eyes on me, and if he wasn’t questioning my sanity, I’d be very disappointed. “Lycanthropes of all species pick one partner for life. Should you pick him, you’re stuck with him, permanently. And then you’d be infected with lycanthropy. Then I’d have to explain to my parents why my eldest child and potential heir ran off with my bodyguard.”

  “Why would I run off with him? If I’m picking him, I’m not going to hide from anyone. I can take responsibility for my actions. His bacon is that good.”

  “If you want bacon, hire a chef. Also, there’s the issue of contrac
ting lycanthropy.”

  “Immune,” I sang out, waving my hand dismissively. “Mom genes and Dad genes—those are yours, by the way—equal no lycanthropy for me. Drives the doctors nuts, since they preach ‘what looks like a human, acts like a human, and walks like a human must be a human, and humans contract lycanthropy.’ It’s really annoying. It could just be a fluke, but I’ve been exposed several times without any sign of lycanthropy.”

  Shapeshifting prevented the lycanthropy virus from taking hold, but I preferred brushing it off as some weirdo talent. I’d even undergone some rather amusing tests for the CDC while preventing them from realizing I could shift into a glorious black mamba. I’d even signed several wavers to consent to being exposed to lycanthropy. I’d picked a cougar with all three forms as the disease donor, too. Sadly, I didn’t end up becoming a super awesome cat-snake shifter, much to my eternal disappointment.

  Black mamba by day, cougar by night. I would’ve been amazing had I contracted lycanthropy.

  My father chuckled. “I seem to have created a freak of nature. Interesting.”

  “Freak?” I spun to face him, planting my hands on my hips. “Look who’s talking. You have snakes for hair.”

  The snakes hissed their displeasure at me.

  “I can also turn you to stone if I want, missy.”

  Right. I gestured to his pissed off snakes. “Why haven’t I been turned to stone yet, anyway? I thought the whole eye contact thing equaled petrification.”

  “Gorgon males with the proper pedigree only petrify people intentionally. I suppose I should take you upstairs and subject you to petrification, as it’s important to note your petrification and reversal times.”

  I decided to ignore my father’s interest into turning me into a statue. “And the gorgon girls with the pedigree? What about them?”

  “There are no gorgon girls with the appropriate pedigree.”

  “Well, that’s pretty sexist.”

  “It’s an issue of biology. Of course, some gorgon females are so weak they can’t petrify someone unless they put a lot of effort into it, but the magic that prevents me from petrifying someone unintentionally only shows up in gorgon princes and kings. Of course, should a harem queen have the ability, she likely wouldn’t use it, as her job is to defend the hive along with her sisters. Petrification is our first line of defense.”