Curses!

by J. A. Kazimer

“That was the favor you asked Miss Muffet for? To return me to my villainous self?” Tears welled in my eyes. Asia really did truly love me. She’d given me the ultimate gift of evilness. When you cared to send your very best. I grabbed Asia’s arm and pulled her to me. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Enough!” Miss Muffet smacked me in the back of the head. “So, my boy, how’s it feel to be an honest-to-goodness hero?”

  “To be honest,” I paused, “it burns.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  I glanced up at Asia, who was trying to conceal her grin. “You knew all this time that I wasn’t cursed anymore?”

  “I knew.”

  I shook my head. “When I think of all the nice things I did ... Jesus, I threw Prince Rotten a bachelor party, for fuck sakes.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did.” Asia snorted with laughter, and then quickly sobered. “You also told my parents they were welcome here. Any time.”

  The doorbell rang.

  My eyes met Asia’s.

  “I’ll get it,” Miss Muffet said.

  And we lived Happily Ever After.

  Or not.

  Keep reading for a special sneak preview

  of j. a. kazimer’s next f***ed-up fairytale,

  coming soon from Kensington Books!

  Prologue

  Once upon a time (about twenty-two years, seven days, twelve hours, twenty-one minutes, and forty-seven seconds ago) in a land not so far away sat a forlorn frog, his lime-colored skin pale under his frogger’s tan.

  “Ribbit,” he croaked halfheartedly, and then sighed, bored by his unending amphibianness. Days passed in a jaded blur of flies, hopping, and the occasional real-life game of Frogger. The most excitement he’d experienced in his seven and a half years of frogitude was a questionable wart. He groaned again, closing his bug eyes against the burning afternoon sun. Hours passed. The sun sank lower in the sky, shading it a princess-pink color.

  The frog’s nose twitched. Something approached. Something that smelled a lot like sugar and spice with just a hint of wet dog.

  From the enchanted underbrush a child tumbled, a girl-child, clutching a tattered blanket coated with dirt and chocolate. The frog, surprised by his stubby visitor, did what frogs do. He croaked once and dove into the pond, sinking below the surface to avoid a confrontation with the seemingly sticky child. Frogs and their toadish counterparts were known for two things: double-sided sticky tongues and the ability to avoid any conflict. With the exception of the horny toad.

  Those guys jumped anything.

  The child bumbled her way toward the pond, nearing the hiding frog. Her blond hair burst from her head like a deranged troll, sticking up at odd and geometrically impossible angles.

  The closer she got to the water, the more nervous the frog became. What if she fell in, he pondered in his pea-sized brain. Or worse, what if she didn’t, and the frog was once again left all alone to live his fly-eating existence?

  The question turned moot when the girl-child stopped at the edge of the pond, her purple lollipop eyes searching the watery depths. For what, the frog couldn’t say, but his interest was piqued. Could she be the One?

  Apparently finding what she desired, the child let out a small squeal, dropped her blankie, and jammed her hand into the murky water. The frog shook his head in disgust. If she was indeed the One, he was in trouble.

  The girl shrieked again, yanking her arm from the water. A small golden ball emerged in her mud-coated hand. She smiled at the ball and stuffed it into her mouth.

  Ew. The frog shivered with repulsion, and he was a frog who ate flies for three meals a day.

  What was wrong with this kid?

  No sooner had the golden ball passed the girl’s lips than she began to choke. Great racking, silent coughs. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her lips turned the brightest shade of blue the frog had ever seen outside the reflection of his own eyes in the pond.

  Panic set into the frog’s tiny brain. Was the blanket-carrying, golden-ball-eating, sticky girl about to drop dead in front of his very eyes? What if she was the One and she died? What would happen to him then?

  Blinded with terror, the frog did the only thing his frog brain could think of. He jumped on the little girl, connecting with enough force to knock them both to the swampy ground in a heap of child and amphibian parts.

  The golden ball popped free from the girl’s mouth. It rolled down the embankment and into the murky water once again. The child watched it with a frown, which she then turned on her frog savior. Her fat fingers pointed at the pond. “Ball,” she muttered with a yawn.

  The frog responded with a ribbit.

  The child frowned harder, her brow wrinkling under the curls of her hair. The frog paused to watch the child. There was something about her. Something that he wasn’t sure boded well for either of them.

  A second later, without warning, the girl scooped up her guardian-froggy-angel and stuffed his slimy body into her drool-coated mouth.

  As soon as the frog touched her lips, thunder rumbled overhead. A flash of lightning lit the sky. With a shriek, the child abruptly dropped the frog. Her violet eyes widened two times their already bug-eyed size. Blackness quickly descended, turning day to night in the blink of a milky toad’s eye.

  As quickly as it came the storm vanished, leaving the little girl standing at the edge of the pond, a confused look upon her chubby face. She glanced down at the eight-year-old boy in front of her. A very naked, slightly greenish eight-year-old boy, who was standing in three feet of stagnant pond water where the frog had crouched only moments before.

  The boy gazed down at his naked arms, legs, and boyish parts with surprise. Free, free at last from the dreaded curse, he thought with a grin. A grin that quickly faded under the little girl’s gaze. She slowly looked him up and down, and shook her head, nearly poking out her own eye with the point of her dirty, clumped hair in the process.

  The boy’s face flamed red and he quickly covered himself with a lily pad. “The water’s cold,” he said like a million men before him.

  The little girl smiled.

  The Frog Prince frowned.

  And they lived happily ever after.

  Chapter 1

  “Bullshit,” I said to the gin-soaked fairy godmother standing next to me in the Royal Tux-We-R Shoppe. She shrugged her massive shoulders swaddled in pink chiffon. “Come on, Elly,” I added. “No one lives happily ever after.”

  Whack! Elly smacked me in the back of the head with her wand and frowned. “Hush your mouth. I happen to know for a fact that fairytales do come true.”

  I rubbed my neck. “Not this one. I don’t love her. I never will.” The wand rose again, but I danced away, nearly colliding with an overly well-endowed mannequin.

  “Then why do you want to marry her, Johnny?” She paused to look down her long, pointed nose. “In a week.”

  “Ten days!” Ten days. Ten frogging days. “And you damn well know why. And don’t call me Johnny. My name’s Jean-Michel. Jean-Michel. How many times do I have to say it?” I paused to consider my fairy godmother, a woman who’d spent the last twenty-one years of my life annoying me as much as fairyly possible. “Never mind. Are you sure she’s the One?”

  “What do you think of this? For your wedding tux?” Elly picked up a baby blue boutonnière from a rack of rainbow-colored boutonnières. “It matches your eyes.”

  Baby blue? Was she kidding me? If anything, my eyes were a manly indigo, maybe even sapphire in the right light, with enough beer. I shook my head. “Don’t change the subject. Are you sure Lazy Beauty is the princess from the pond?” I shuddered, remembering my meeting with the sticky, drool-coated child twenty-one years before. She’d broken my curse, sure, but what eight-year-old boy wanted his first kiss to be with a drooling four-year-old? And it wasn’t even a real kiss. The girl had tried to eat me!

  Elly’s voice drew me back to the present. “Of course I’m sure, Johnny.” At my evil look she amen
ded her words, “Jean-Michel.”

  “Okay then.”

  “I mean, really, how many twenty-five-year-old blond princesses with a frog fetish could there be in the city?”

  “What?!” I snatched the matching baby blue bow tie from her large, almost manly hands. “Are you saying that you don’t know if this is my princess? Are you crazy!”

  Elly patted my arm, leaving red welts on my olive skin. “Relax. I’m ninety-five percent sure.” She paused, her head tilting to one side. I wasn’t sure if she’d stroked out or was thinking. Either way, I didn’t want to interrupt. “Eighty-seven percent if we factor in her ... affliction.”

  Affliction my ass. Medical textbooks had a term for the affliction where a seemingly healthy princess suddenly fell asleep at the drop of a tiara, not that I cared enough to remember it. In fact, to me, it was just plain laziness. Ah, poor tired princess needed a nap. What a hard burden to bear.

  Her “affliction” didn’t bother me much though. After all, I also spent the last twenty years of my life doing absolutely nothing worthwhile, or even a tad bit noble.

  Just the way I liked it.

  “We’ll know for sure if she’s the One after we meet with her this afternoon,” Elly said with a smile. “Now try this on.” She handed me a black tuxedo made by none other than Geppetto. The fabric felt stiff, almost wooden under my fingers, but I nodded and did as Elly ordered. Mainly out of fear. That godmother packed one hell of a curse.

  “I’ll be waiting right here,” she said, motioning to a tuffet next to the dressing room. Oh goody, I wanted to reply, but again, my survival skills kicked in.

  I was in bad enough shape without adding another curse. The one I already had was plenty. It went something like: Poof, you’re a frog. Shazam, a princess, albeit a slight one, gave you a kiss. Then whammo, if you haven’t lived “happily ever after” with said princess by the time you turn thirty (which I will do in ten days and six hours) you’ll be turned right back into a frog.

  Forever.

  Hence my hasty marriage to a sleepy princess. I sighed and adjusted the sleeve of the fashionable tuxedo jacket. The blackness of the tux suited my olive skin tone and jet-black hair that I wore longer than was in vogue. But what the hell. I was going to be hairless and a lot greener in a few days. I brushed back a wayward lock of hair and smirked at the man in the mirror. He glared back.

  “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” I began. “Who is the finest damn prince of them all?” I didn’t expect an answer, and was pleasantly surprised to hear:

  “You are, sir.”

  I turned around, narrowly avoiding my servant, Karl, standing a hairsbreadth away. I stepped back and stifled a grin. Karl was dressed like a jester in my royal colors of green and white. He wore a jewel-encrusted hat and bells on his slippers. The poor guy looked ridiculous, but by the pride on his face the dope was clueless as to how much. A standard state for Karl. Eagerness, loyalty, and stupidity were all traits to admire, especially in a servant like Karl. He kept all my secrets, large and small, green and slimy.

  “I have your tunic and leggings, sir,” Karl said, holding up a pair of green leggings and an off-white tunic with a large letter P for “Prince” across the chest. As if the tights weren’t bad enough.

  I shook my head. “I’m not wearing that.”

  “But, sir, it’s for your meeting with,” he lowered his voice, “the One. You have to look your best.”

  “I’m still not wearing it.” I gave a small laugh. “I don’t care who I’m meeting. No man looks good in tights.” Even a male specimen as perfect as myself. Poets wrote sonnets in my name. Women swooned at the mention of my manliness. What could one lazy princess possibly take exception to?

  “But, sir—”

  “Forget it.” I motioned to a rack of dinner jackets hanging like the three little pigs on a rotisserie. “We’ll compromise. Go pick out a jacket and I’ll wear it to meet the princess.” I grabbed his arm as he turned to go. “Nothing green,” I reminded him for the thousandth time.

  He nodded and practically danced across the room. I sighed and shook my head. Marrying Beauty was becoming quite tedious. First, I had to beg her father, the king, for her hand, then I had to submit proof of princelyship, in the form of three picture IDs and a birth certificate. Hell, it was almost easier to hop the New Never City border than spend five minutes with the tired chick.

  I hoped all my trouble was worth it. If Beauty proved not to be the One, I was out of options. Still, the thought of marrying her—or anyone for that matter—grated on me. I should choose who to love. Who to marry. Who to bang for the rest of my days. Not some damn curse.

  “Oh, suck it up.” Elly swatted me with the edge of her wand. “You’ll get married. Settle down. Have some babies. And forget all this ‘I don’t want to marry her’ nonsense. You’ll see. She is the One, Johnny.”

  “Excuse me,” said a woman standing next to Elly. She was young, maybe twenty, with auburn hair and a sweet smile. I returned her smile, adding a wink for good measure. “Yes, luv?” I asked. “What can I do you for?”

  She giggled prettily. Elly rolled her eyes. I waved off the annoying fairy godmother and took the young lady’s hand.

  “Is it true?” she asked. “Are you really him?”

  I nodded, bowing low. “Indeed. I am Jean-Michel La Grenouille.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  I rolled my eyes. “The Frog Prince, Mademoiselle,” I said in a perfectly affected French accent. “The Frog Pr—”

  Before the last syllable left my mouth, the girl grabbed my neck and planted a kiss on my lips. Her lips tasted of sugar and spice, but not a hint of wet dog or drool presented itself. A pity since my body reacted instantly, wanting more.

  But she wasn’t the One, so after five hot minutes of saliva and groping, I gently pushed her away, damning the hack reporter from the New Never News who first reported on my “quest” for love’s eternal kiss.

  Ever since that story hit the airwaves, women practically attacked me in the street, longing to be my One. I’d like to think that it was due to my winning personality and stunning good looks, but the curse’s promise of riches beyond compare might have had something to do with their interest.

  “Sorry,” I said to the girl as I wiped a string of drool from my lips. She promptly burst into tears and ran from the shop, the imprint of my hand on the back of her skirt. I stared after her, thinking “what if.”

  Feelings I rarely allowed to surface did just that. My life wasn’t my own. It never had been, nor would it ever be. Not until I was finally free once and for all from this curse.

  Chapter 2

  A half an hour later, Karl, Elly, and I arrived outside Princess Beauty’s bedroom. I fingered the tie around my neck and frowned. This was it. I was about to meet my future bride, a woman who’d either ultimately save or destroy me. With the way my luck was running, my money was on the latter.

  “Prince Jean-Michel La Grenouille.” Karl announced my arrival in a shout.

  “Who?” asked the crusty-faced butler.

  Karl sighed. “The Frog Prince. Not that he’s a frog. Or ever was a frog. He’s just French. Not a frog!”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. Sometimes Karl went overboard in his quest to keep my past a secret. I couldn’t blame him. Even my own father refused to accept my early tadpole-hood. Instead of admitting it, he’d concocted a French ancestry complete with noble crest. In his mind, insulting an entire culture beat his only son’s greenish past. I played along. Mostly.

  “I repeat, he’s not a frog.” Karl bowed low and motioned me into the room. “Never was.”

  I stepped through the ornate doors of Lazy Beauty’s bedroom and frowned. Not at the wasted opulence of the gold-plated ceiling or even the pink shag carpeting thick enough to drown a blind mouse, but at the blond woman sleeping on the silk sheets of a four-poster bed. The woman wore enough flannel to make a lesbian jealous, not to mention a pink-colored bicycle helmet f
it for a child.

  This was the One?

  Shit.

  Plotting my escape, I gauged the distance from myself to the door. Window or door? I considered each. The door held the most appeal, since the risk of fracturing my leg as I flew through it was considerably less than option number two. I decided to keep my options—and the window—open, though.

  One never knew.

  Elly must’ve read my mind because she grabbed my arm and tugged me deeper into the room. “Well hello,” Elly called to the princess. The princess didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, she let out a loud snore. “My lady,” Elly tried again, adding a finger wave. “Yoo hoooo.”

  When we reached the edge of the bed the princess shot up and screeched like the Wicked Witch of the East after the fall of the housing market. I jumped back, nearly toppling over Elly, who now lay sprawled on the floor, her wings twisted underneath her body.

  “Wrong. Wrong. Wrong,” Beauty shouted. “He did it all wrong.”

  I glanced around, unsure. Was Beauty sleepy and a wee bit crazy? The helmet was a pretty clear indication, but still.

  Helping Elly to her feet, I raised a hand for quiet. Of course, Beauty continued to scream, her pale face growing red. The screeching sounded familiar, like that of the four-year-old girl. That made me less than pleased. I didn’t want to marry this helmet-wearing crazy woman.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I yelped after a particularly loud burst of squealing. Elly shushed me, and when that didn’t work, she smacked me in the head with the sharp edge of her wand. I glared at her, but said no more.

  “He did it wrong,” Beauty sobbed again.

  “Hush,” an arrogant voice from across the room chirped. “It will be all right.”

  Squinting into the harsh glare of sunlight drifting through the windows, I tried to place the voice. There, in the corner by the bookcase, stood a cockroach wearing a top hat and a monocle. He twirled an umbrella and grinned.

  “Jimmy?” Elly said in a whisper. “Is that you?”

  “You know that ... thing?” I asked, nodding to the roach. Elly got around, sure, but a cockroach? Then again, who was I to judge? I was about to marry a cranky lesbian in a helmet. Did they make white flannel wedding gowns?