Emergency sirens wailed in the distance. With the pretty lights still bubbling through my vision, something smoking nearby—probably my damned delivery truck—and a whopper of a headache, playing victim seemed like a good idea. I even liked ambulance rides. They amused the hell out of me, especially with a concussion, where I could get away with breaking even more of my mother’s rules.
Princesses didn’t whine, so I’d practice my best pout while I kept my eyes open long enough to make them water and blur. Princesses didn’t cry, the one rule I agreed with, so while I’d play the dewy-eyed maiden in distress for shits and giggles, not a single damned one would fall. I’d totally angle for a lollipop from the triage nurse, though.
They laced the damned things with pixie dust, and riding on a cloud-nine high might dull the edge of my disgust over having been robbed of my kill. Who the hell wasted a serial killer’s death slitting his throat? I needed to find the murderer and show him a thing or two about how to kill somebody.
While I waited for the ambulance, I considered getting up. Lying in a pool of blood wasn’t exactly comfortable, especially since I had no idea what sort of nasty contagions my dead mark had contracted over the years. With my luck, he probably had lycanthropy, then the damned doctors would start poking me to find out if I’d contracted the infection. Telling the doctor to go back to medical school because neither gorgons nor mermaids could contract lycanthropy wouldn’t do me any good. What looked like a human, walked like a human, and talked like a human was obviously human, and humans contracted lycanthropy.
Stupid doctors liked poking holes in my arguments. If I was a gorgon’s whelp, why didn’t I have snakes for hair? If I was a mermaid, why didn’t I grow fins when I got wet?
Of course, the real idiot was me for not even bothering trying to get up, waiting with princess-perfect patience for my lovely ride in an ambulance so I could get a pixie dust lollipop. Where else was I going to get my damned lollipop?
Princesses did not, under any circumstance, resort to recreational drugs to turn a bad day around.
I really needed my damned lollipop. The instant my mother found out I was in the United States working as a mail courier again, she’d take her royal scepter and shove it up my ass. The first four or five times had been bad enough. I could already hear her questioning what sort of princess worked as a mail courier.
‘The best kind’ was not the answer she wanted.
One day I would learn. When I did, I would suggest my mother should add a chapter to her precious little handbook. It would be very short. It would instruct princesses there was nothing dumber in life than pissing off Queen Mother, AKA Megabitch Supreme.
I’d need two lollipops to get through the rest of my day, because there was no way in hell I was picking myself off the sidewalk and making my grand escape before the cops showed up. Considering the sirens blared at ear-throbbing volume, they’d already arrived. The slap of shoes on concrete confirmed my belief, and I squinted in my effort to make my eyes cooperate with me.
Two men in the dark blue uniforms of American police officers leaned over me. The old bald one, a black dude with more dark splotches on his cheeks than the average ladybug, looked rather concerned. The other one, a nice little chestnut number with wide blue eyes and the kind of tan I dreamed about having, looked like he needed me to rip him out of his uniform and show him a good time.
Fortunately for me, there was nothing in the Modern Guide to Being a Princess banning the admiration of a fine law enforcement officer. There were many rules about not touching them for some reason, though.
Stupid rules. I needed to burn that handbook the next time my mother gave me a copy, which I expected to be by tomorrow morning. In person.
Joyous day. Absolutely stupendous.
“I think the guy I was delivering a package to died and then his package blew up,” I slurred.
Huh. Maybe the bomb had packed a bit more punch than I thought—or my head wasn’t nearly as hard as my mother made it out to be. Either way, slurring was firmly in the ‘not good’ column. Then again, there were pretty lights still dancing around my vision, the pesky things. Ah, concussions. I gave it an hour before my brain tried to dribble out of my ears.
The hot cop frowned, stepped around me, and gave me a good look at his back. Nice. America truly did have some lovely scenery. He unhooked some doohickey from his vest and talked to someone on it before turning to face me. “An ambulance has been dispatched, ma’am.”
I admired how he gave a statement and asked a question at the same time, subtle enough I could ignore his request for my name if I wanted. In all honesty, I wanted to do a legal name change, but if I did, my mother would hunt me down and make me wish she’d actually murder me.
All delaying would do was prolong my suffering. The sooner I said it, the sooner they’d quit laughing. “Tulip Flandersmythe.”
My mother needed to explain why she’d named me after a bunch of flowers. Tulip was bad enough, but if anyone found out my middle names were Daisy Lilac Petunia, I’d never live it down. Why had she given me three middle names, anyway? I bet it was because she hated me from the moment of my birth and wanted me to know it. Then, because expressing eternal hatred wasn’t sufficient, she insisted on doting on me whenever absolutely possible. If she couldn’t get rid of me through giving me the worst name on the planet, she’d love me to death.
My queen mother needed her scepter shoved up her ass for inflicting such a horrible name on me. I was no wilting lily. I killed serial killers because I could, and I got away with it because I was good at it.
Killing people was definitely not allowed according to the Modern Guide to Being a Princess. Absolutely not allowed. Princesses had servants and bodyguards for that.
The old cop’s eyes widened, a huffy little snort bursting out of him.
“Go ahead and laugh. Wouldn’t want to give you a stroke or something. The rest of my name’s even worse.”
“I’m not sure how that’s even possible,” Mr. Dreamy muttered and crouched beside me, careful to keep his shiny shoes out of Matthew Henders’s blood. He held up a single finger. “Miss Flandersmythe, can you please tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?”
I showed him my middle finger, a rather accurate portrayal of what I thought of his tone. “I’m aware I hit my head, you’re holding up one finger, yes, my vision is blurry, I realize I’m slurring, and even a dainty mail carrier like me can identify a concussion. Really. Also, my mail blew up, and I’m lying in some dead guy’s blood.”
Ignoring my rude gesture, Mr. Dreamy grabbed hold of my arm and pressed his fingertips to my wrist, his gaze shifting away from me to his watch. With a frown, he released my hand, leaned forward, and touched my throat.
Not only was he handsome, he was hot, too—uncomfortably so. I sighed.
Of course, I suffered from shock. I just couldn’t catch a break, could I? Then again, I hadn’t actually broken anything. Concussions and shock I could deal with. Broken bones sucked. Shock was a step up from breaking something. Resigned to the inevitable, I moved my arm enough to dig out my wallet from my pocket and offered it to the cop. “ID and health insurance card are in front lower slot.”
Mr. Dreamy took my wallet, opened it, and pulled out the two cards. “Thank you. This’ll simplify things. While we wait for the ambulance to arrive, why don’t you tell me about your day?”
I did, although I left out the part about having come to Matthew Henders’s house to kill him. That would put a damper on our relationship.
Instead of a lollipop, I got an MRI and a hard time from a cute doctor. He wasn’t quite up to the standards of Mr. Dreamy, but he put up a good fight. I wanted a damned lollipop, he refused to give me one, and apparently since he was a damned doctor, he won by default.
“What do you have against lollipops?” I complained, swinging my legs while sitting on the examination table. “Come on, doc. Just one.”
“Only good patients or children get lollipops, an
d you are neither.” The doc stared at his clipboard, clicking his pen.
“What’s got your panties in a bunch, doc? Is my brain going to take a hike?”
“Your skull isn’t cracked and swelling appears minimal, but there’s minor bleeding.” The doc approached me and touched my neck near the base of my skull. “Here. I suspect it happened when you fell. I doubt there’s reason for concern, but observation for the next twenty-four hours is mandatory. I’ll have another MRI done in twelve hours to confirm your condition. While your slurring has improved, it’s a potential cause for concern.”
Why did American hospitals take so many unnecessary precautions? While I scowled, I waved my hand in acceptance of his decree. “Fine. Twenty-four hours. I think it’s unnecessary, but you’re the doc.”
“There’s just an issue of your room assignment.”
“Whoever is stuck with me should probably get two lollipops.”
“So you can steal one?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s fortunate, since this hospital doesn’t have private rooms.” The doc slipped a sheet of paper from the bottom of his stack and waved it around in my face. “Nor do we use titles.”
If I pretended the problem of my birth didn’t exist, maybe no one would attempt to saddle me with a title. Who needed a damned title, anyway? Not me. I averted my gaze, lifted my chin, and gave a dainty sniff. “What title?”
“Your Highness,” a man’s pleasant tenor announced from the door. I recognized the voice, and despite the pounding in my head, I comprehended two things at once.
Wherever Terrance the Grumpy went, my mother was never far behind. By not far behind, she was usually within twenty feet, which gave me less than a minute to jump out the nearest window. I scrambled off the examination table and darted for freedom, making it four whole steps before my mother’s bodyguard clotheslined me.
For a merman at least five times my age, the bastard packed a punch. Instead of smacking into the floor like I deserved, my back slammed into his chest. Terrance even managed to pin both my elbows to my side with one arm. “Have I told you how much you suck, Terrance?”
“My life wouldn’t be complete without being graced with the showering of your affections, Your Highness.”
“You don’t have to sound so grumpy about it.” Actually, Terrance sounded far more amused than grumpy, and I wasn’t sure what I thought about that.
“Do be careful with my patient, sir. If you’d like to restrain her, please do so on the examination table.”
Instead of letting me walk like the capable woman I was, Terrance tightened his hold on me, straightened, and carried me to the table as though I weighed nothing. He released me long enough to set his hands on my waist, lift me up, and set me exactly where I’d been when he’d entered the room. To add insult to injury, he patted me on the head like he’d done since I’d been old enough to walk.
Death was too good of a fate for Terrance the Grumpy. “Terrance,” I grumbled.
“Yes, Your Highness?”
I pointed at the cute doctor. “No titles are permitted at this hospital.”
“There’ll also be no bodyguards terrorizing my patients,” my doctor helpfully contributed.
Despite his refusal to give me a lollipop, I decided I liked the American. “You should listen to him, Terrance.” Preparing myself for the inevitable, I shot a glare at the door. “Is she here?”
“No, Your—”
Shifting my glare back the head of my mother’s security, I crossed my arms over my chest, the hospital gown rustling, proving it wasn’t actually made of fabric despite its best efforts to disguise itself. “What do you mean she isn’t here?”
“Her Royal Majesty is at home discussing with His Royal Majesty about securing a less troublesome replacement.”
Okay, I had missed a very important memo. “His Royal Majesty?”
It drove the entire mer kingdom to utter distraction my mother didn’t have a His Royal Majesty.
“Your father, of course. Much to the eternal disappointment of princes around the world, I’m sure.” Terrance dipped a bow to me, smirked, and turned to the doctor. “My apologies, sir. I’m Terrance Marianas. Her Royal Majesty sent me to deal with any matters regarding her daughter.” With a flick of his wrist, Terrance produced a small envelope sealed with the Flandersmythe royal seal, an albatross battling an osprey.
Most in the family favored the osprey for its tendency to crack open bones to get to the tasty marrow within, where I much preferred the albatross for its ability to fly without tiring. Then again, I was probably the only one in my family who longed to grow wings and fly.
Instead, I donned scales and slithered, not that my queen mother—or anyone—knew my little secret. There was an entire ten-page chapter in the Modern Guide to Being a Princess discussing why members of a royal family didn’t indulge in weird magic. Destructive magic was one thing. A princess was encouraged to destroy invading armies with a sweep of her perfect, manicured hand.
Transforming into a serpent crossed a line, similar to the one firmly wedged between shrieking and pants pissing.
“Dr. Hausten.” The doctor took the note, cracked the seal, and clucked his tongue a few times. “Very well, Mr. Marianas. These arrangements can be made. I can give you this room in the meantime. I’ll ask one of the nurses to see to Miss Flandersmythe’s clothing. While I’m afraid they’re stained, they’ll be clean.”
Oh, nice. I marked the Minnesota hospital as my favorite of the American hospitals I’d been to. None of the other ones had bothered trying to clean the blood out of my clothes.
“Just give her a lollipop,” Terrance replied, a smile ghosting across his lips. “That should keep her occupied for at least ten minutes. Should the lollipop be, ah, tainted per the American way, accidents do happen. I’m a very understanding gentleman.”
Terrance? Understanding? A gentleman?
The head of my mother’s security had been the first to show me how men died, although it’d been an accidental lesson thanks to the scheming of a greedy human hoping to capitalize on my existence. As my mother’s sole child, she wasn’t the only one who saw some odd value to my life.
Damned royal blood, always complicating matters for me.
“Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to lie, Terrance?” I smacked my palms to the paper-covered examination table and drummed my fingers. “Apparently, the doc here only gives lollipops to good patients and children.”
“Of which you’re neither. I suppose you’ll just have to suffer without your American lollipop.”
“Heartless, that’s what you are.”
Dr. Hausten didn’t seem amused. “Should I be concerned about addiction, Mr. Marianas?”
My mother’s head of security frowned, glancing in the doctor’s direction. “Oh, no. Of course not. Pixies don’t live where we’re from, so Her Highness finds their dust and America’s reliance on it fascinating, doctor.”
“I see.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience, but until the investigation is completed, I insist either myself or someone from my team remain with Her Highness.”
My day went from bad to worse. While I longed to indulge in several good sighs, I kept quiet. All sighing would do is ensure Grumpy Head of Security stuck around even longer. At least I wouldn’t have to try to hide a murder. Hiding a murder with Terrance around ranked as my least favorite activity ever.
Was there anything worse than mermen, always getting underfoot and making nuisances of themselves? No wonder my mother hadn’t married despite having fulfilled her obligations to my father. I frowned, and comprehension struck me like a hammer right between the eyes. “Terrance? Did you say my mother was talking to my father?”
Since when did my parents speak? I didn’t even know my father’s name. My mother refused to talk about him, so I’d always assumed he was a rat bastard—or, well, a gorgon.
I’d never actually met a gorgon before.
Terranc
e checked his watch. “Indeed. The last I heard, she had offered him an American dollar if he’d take you off her hands. I think he’s in progress of paying for you. When I was evicted and ordered to come to America, she’d moved on to negotiating for a replacement heir, one who won’t continually insist on giving her gray hairs.”
While my mother, Her Most Royal Majesty, had threatened to sell me to a circus a few times, I hadn’t believed she’d actually do it. “Seriously? One dollar? That’s it?”
“Her starting offer was a penny.”
Maybe my name was Tulip Daisy Lilac Petunia Flandersmythe, but even I had some pride. Okay, I had a lot of pride, and I teetered on the edge of murderous fury and despair. “A penny!”
“She also thanks you for investing in your own medical insurance so she won’t have to pay even more for you,” Terrance the Grumpy announced.
The first thing I’d do the instant I got out of the hospital would be to find a copy of the Modern Guide to Being a Princess and burn the damned thing. In the next ten minutes, I planned on breaking every rule in the fucking handbook, and I’d start on page one. A princess didn’t run from her security or put her life at risk. Making a break for the door at a sprint counted, especially since the slap of my bare feet on the shiny white tiles drove spikes through my head.
I ran for the hills.
2
I collided into Mr. Dreamy halfway down the hallway, my breath leaving me in a rush. Whether by design or accident, we went down in a heap, and he took the brunt of our fall. The clap of Terrance’s shoes on the floor promised hell in about ten seconds.
Damn it, I really couldn’t catch a break, could I?
Since I was out to trash every rule in the book anyway, I did the first thing I could think of guaranteed to buy me a few seconds. I smacked both my hands to Mr. Dreamy’s cheeks, planted a kiss on his lips using just enough tongue to make it indecent, and launched off him to implement the next phase of my escape.
American cops had nice mouths. He had big hands, too, which landed right on my ass in his attempt to catch me so I couldn’t continue my mad dash for freedom. I wouldn’t begrudge him copping a feel, and I’d send the hospital a note later thanking them for their slippery hospital gowns, as I slid right through his fingers.
Sirens and Scales Page 31
