Damn. Someone had woken him, and he was answering my phone. Since turnabout was fair play, I’d let it slide. The presence of bacon in my apartment probably had something to do with my willingness to forgive the merman for answering my phone. With a headache already brewing behind my eyes, I rolled out of bed, grumbled curses, and stepped into the hall and came nose to breasts with my mother.
Nothing soured my morning quite like making close acquaintances with my mother’s cleavage.
I took two steps back, the first to escape the cavernous depths of her breasts, and the second so I could tilt my head back and have half a hope of looking her in the eyes. “If you’re going to kill me, make it quick, but I’d prefer if you let me have breakfast first.”
My mother flicked her bright orange hair over her shoulder, revealing a darker red layer beneath, a reflection of her aquatic half, the red lion fish. When she prepared for battle, she braided her hair so it striped. Planting her hands on her hips, she looked me over head to toe. “You’re in your pajamas.”
“My house, my rules, and my rules state I wear my pajamas whenever the fuck I want.”
“Language.”
“That was English, ahou.”
“Tulip,” she warned.
“That little gem was Japanese.” I smiled my sweetest smile. Compared to my mother, who managed to look regal, sophisticated, and beautiful no matter the terrain, I was a newly hatched duck to her peacock. “When did you get here?”
“I came with Mr. Brandywine. Was there any reason you left Terrance tied up in your living room?”
“There is, actually. It’s the same reason I left my other guest tied up in my living room.” Sliding past my mother, I headed for the kitchen, pausing at the end of the hallway near the living room. Terrance and my father sat on the couch, and both looked rather queasy. The stranger in the kitchen caught my attention, and I whistled, looking him over.
I needed to tip his tailor, because those slacks did amazing things for his ass. Mr. Dreamy had been nice, but I wanted to jump the pretty, pretty dark-haired man in front of my stove. “Hey, Mother?”
“I don’t want to know.” Strolling into the living room, my mother sank onto my armchair with her usual grace, and from all appearances, she showed no sign of noticing I’d picked it up from a flea market for fifty bucks. It had taken me a month to get all the stains out, but I liked how comfortable it was.
“North America is technically an island, right?”
“A rather large one, I suppose.”
“If you feel any urges to conquer landmasses, consider America. They sure do grow pretty men here.”
“I just conquered an island, so I don’t feel any urges to take over America at the moment.”
“Mother, you didn’t.” Despite my protest, I knew she had. Damn it. I turned to her, leaned against the wall, and crossed my arms over my chest. “Which island this time?”
“Madagascar.”
“You conquered Madagascar.”
“I was bored.”
So many of my queen mother’s life choices began with that little three-word statement. Sighing, I shook my head, returned to my kitchen, and rummaged through my fridge for a soda. If I made the assumption the pretty man cooking bacon was my father’s bodyguard, he would also provide an escape from my pounding head. “You promised me painkillers.”
Without looking away from his work, he dipped his hand into his pocket and held out an orange prescription pill bottle. “Take one.”
I snatched it, waged a brief but fierce battle with the cap, and fished out a tiny white pill. I washed it down with soda and returned to the living room. “What are you doing here, Mom?”
“It’s traditional.”
“What’s traditional? Is visiting a foreign nation to get nookie from a gorgon traditional? I’m pretty sure you’re just here for the nookie with a gorgon.” I cocked an eyebrow and took another sip of my drink. “As far as gorgons go, I guess he’s not bad. Nice black mambas. Do you milk them for their venom? If not, you should.”
My father’s snakes rose from his shoulders and hissed at me.
“Tulip.”
“Yes, Mother?”
“I didn’t come to America to get nookie.”
“Why the hell not? Have you looked at the offerings? America’s got lollipops and hot men. Come for the nookie, visit the daughter post coitus. If you’re not going to bang His Royal Majesty, at least pick someone and procure a proper heir. It’s for the sake of the kingdom. Take a look at me. The only thing I’m fit to rule is my wardrobe, and I’m pretty sure my clothes want to wage a civil war and get the hell out of the union. If you really think I’m going scuba diving to monitor the mer, you’re off your rocker, woman. And anyway, you sold me for a dollar, so I’m off the hook.”
“You could build a lovely castle on that island I just conquered for you. Give yourself a throne and make the petitioners come to shore for your wisdom. Also, you’re not off the hook. You better hope I live a damned long time, little girl. The start of your punishment for working as a mail courier again is remaining my heir. Madagascar, starting in the near future, is your responsibility.”
Terrance leaned forward, his face cradled in his hands. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
I helpfully pointed at the trashcan beside him. “There’s a can right beside you, Terrance. Try not to upchuck on my carpet. It’s a bitch to clean. Drink some water and treat it like a hangover. You’ll be fine in a few hours.” I turned my attention to my father. “Same applies to you. I still like the shoes. Nice oxfords, good polish. Anyway, you’re dehydrated, not dying. You should be ashamed of yourselves, letting a dainty little girl like me get the jump on you. You deserved it. First, you let me escape from the hospital, then you let me shoot you in the back. Mother, please consider this my application for independence. Go spawn a proper heir and inflict that awful handbook on them.”
“Where did I go wrong with you?” my mother complained.
“You gave me an easy-to-follow guide with directions. Shouldn’t you be overseeing Madagascar right now?”
“I conquered it for you. I’d much prefer to conquer England, but the queen asked me not to. She was pretty polite about it. She sent me a lovely pearl necklace as a gift. Pink pearls. You know how much I like good pink pearls.”
A knock at my door drew a sigh out of me, and I headed over, jerking it open. “What?”
Mr. Dreamy stared at me, his eyebrows rising. “Miss Flandersmythe.” He showed me his badge. “I need a few minutes of your time.”
His old man partner was with him, and I waved at him. “Hey, Grandpa. How’s it hanging?”
“I’m doing fine, Miss Flandersmythe. How are you feeling?”
“You tell me. My apartment has been taken over by several invasive species. Come on in. Don’t mind the clutter.” I backed away from the door and let the two cops figure the rest out from there. Returning to the kitchen, I caught my father’s delicious bodyguard placing bacon on a paper towel. I snatched a sizzling piece, ignored the burn, and chomped on it.
Heaven truly was a piece of bacon. “I’m taking you home with me,” I informed my newly elected chef, grabbing a second piece. “I don’t even care what species you are. Your job, from this day forward, is to make me bacon every morning.”
“No,” my mother, my father, and Terrance snapped.
“Why the hell not?” I shoved the second piece of bacon into my mouth, grabbed two more pieces, and wandered back into the living room. “We’re talking about bacon here.”
My father’s snakes hissed at me, and breaking off a piece of bacon, I headed over, leaned over the coffee table, and jammed a piece into the largest one’s mouth while my father blinked and stared at me with a rather stunned expression. “Bacon,” I informed it.
Twelve more pieces of bacon later, and I suspected I ruled over my father’s serpents more than he did. Unfortunately, it took all of my bacon to feed the damned things, and I licked my fingers, mut
tering curses I hadn’t gotten enough extra for me, too.
“Miss Flandersmythe, about yesterday,” Mr. Dreamy began.
I flashed the American my best smile. “What about it? I was on my usual route handling deliveries, although I’d started on the backend first to switch things up a bit—a lot of heavy packages yesterday.”
“Did you see anything or anyone suspicious?”
I shook my head and regretted it. Why did headaches have to throb so bloody much? “It was a run of the mill day for me, sir. I didn’t notice his body until I was near his door.”
“And the bomb?”
“I tossed his package when I found him. I think it landed behind me. That was when it exploded. I didn’t see anyone around the house, didn’t see anyone who wasn’t supposed to be there. Nothing unusual at all.”
“What time did you reach the victim’s house?”
I thought about it. In order to get the timing just right, I’d planned for thirty minutes with him—a lot less time than I liked for a job like his. The gruesome murder of a serial killing rapist deserved hours. If I could’ve, I would’ve spent days torturing Matthew Henders before finishing him off. “I guess around noon? I was doing my route backwards, and I don’t normally pay a lot of attention to the time. Call it five after, and that’d be pretty close.”
By ‘pretty close’ I actually meant ‘exactly.’
A good murder needed to be precisely timed. I’d even planned a rather embarrassing claim of needing to use the bathroom to get into his house. Of course, I’d expected—no, planned on—him to try to take me as a victim, as I fit his profile. He’d targeted a lot of people, but he liked the ones with haughty expressions—the eternal snob, no matter their actual personality. From my research, he’d been bullied as a child and wanted revenge on everyone who resembled those who’d tormented him in his youth.
“Have you ever spoken to him before?”
“Mr. Henders? Sure. He usually gets a package or two every week requiring signature. Seemed like a nice enough fellow.”
“Were you aware he has a criminal record?”
I feigned my best wide-eyed interest. “I’m just the delivery girl. Why would I care if he had a criminal record? He never left me waiting long when I knocked, signed without a fuss, and shoveled his sidewalk in the winter. That made him one of the nicer customers.”
The cops exchanged looks, and Mr. Dreamy frowned before his gaze returned to me. “Why did you leave the hospital?”
“You’re joking, right? Have you ever had hospital food? Awful. They’ll mail the papers, and since I made my break, they aren’t even responsible for me. Trust me when I say that’s a good thing.” I took another sip of my soda. “I’ll tell you one thing, I definitely wasn’t expecting to find a body on my route yesterday.”
“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 eff
orts 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.
5
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.
Sirens and Scales Page 34
