Prince Marrok shivered as a calm breeze tittered down his spine. It had been constant that day, a gentle stream of air spread through Artemisia by small fans embedded beneath the ground at several choice locations. The main street was moderately busy, young ladies and lords shuffling about from bars and parties to find their next thrill. James had invited Marrok out for an incognito drink, a toast of sorts to the crown prince's nineteenth birthday; even though it had celebrated with much pomp and circumstance nearly three weeks before, James preferred to hang around where they couldn't be held back by their titles.
Thus, Marrok found himself walking back to the palace, sans escort, alone with the Earth looming overhead. James was already lost to booze and a young woman had kindly offered to let him stay at her place for the night. Marrok himself felt a slight buzz in his head, but aside from flushed cheeks hidden by his handsome dark glamour, he was one hundred percent sober.
Although, he wished he were drunk. By then, his parents must have noticed his disappearance; he would come home to a slap upside the head and a good lecture. He frowned, shoving his hands in his pockets. Tonight, as a pleasant break from court dress and coquetry, he wore a simple tunic and black pants—although his dark-skinned glamour prevented him from looking like a complete peasant. James had neglected to mention that they would be going to the Clair de Lune, a high-end club built by nobles for nobles. Marrok had groaned in irritation; he could've at least warned him to dress up a little.
He shivered again. Marrok had always had a certain sensitivity to the cold. As he walked further, the streets narrowed and became obscure and untrustworthy. The prince knew that he was going the opposite way from the palace, but his detour was intentional—he wanted to avoid the noisy and lewd plaza and instead clear his head through the tranquility of the back roads.
With nothing more than a whisper, said tranquility was broken.
Marrok turned his head. The energy that poked him from behind protruded into his thoughts, taking centre-stage in his mind. Footsteps quietly approached. He felt a hand brush on his shoulder, and he spun around, his heart hammering in his chest.
"What business do you have with me?" Marrok demanded, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of the intruder. After a few moments of silence, he smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. "I know you're here. Aren't you aware that you've just breached my personal space?"
Through the light, Marrok could pick out a woman—her face shrouded in darkness, it mirrored the prince's grin. "Those are some pretty big words for such a scrawny thing," she mused.
Marrok swallowed down his contempt with a chuckle. It was routine for him, pretending not be insulted; his father would often point out how lacking he was in the size department, as if it somehow reduced his worth as a man. In the back of his mind, through the anger and alcohol, he wondered if he had let his glamour down.
So be it. What does it matter if this random woman sees you as a scrawny beanpole?
His heart skipped a beat. The thought wasn't his own, that he knew immediately. He shivered as the woman took a step closer to him. She was glamouring the thought for him, the bitch.
"Who are you?" He growled, quietly slipping his hand towards his back pocket, where a small hand gun waited to be fired. He wasn't so stupid as to go out unescorted without at least one means of defence should his glamour ever fail. Marrok frowned. He had every ability to reduce this fool to a bumbling mess on the ground, but something told him to hold back—
His hand froze.
As she stepped closer, Marrok noticed that she wasn't a woman, but a girl of around sixteen, nearly a head shorter than him. He grit his teeth, warding off her own control. The gun fit perfectly into his hand as he loaded the magazine. "I will shoot," he hissed.
Ugly J, the voice in his head whispered. I'm Ugly J.
She forced his fingers loose and the gun fell to the ground. Marrok, stunned, glanced up at her with glazed eyes. What kind of sick joke was this?
"Now that I've introduced myself," said the girl, pulling a cruel-looking knife from the pouch on her hips, "Who might you be? I've never seen you around here before. I do love meeting new people." She tilted her head. "New fish."
Marrok swallowed the lump of bile in his throat. His fingers itched to pick up the discarded gun and lodge a round of bullets in her brain. He didn't want to die. He couldn't die.
For if this woman truly was Ugly J, he knew that he wouldn't be leaving that back street in one piece. He shivered, staring down at his shoes, anything to avoid looking at Ugly J, Luna's most famous serial killer. It was said that at least forty deaths had been traced directly back to her, every corpse branded with a crude 'J' around the ankles. She has been evading capture for the whole five years of her recorded career, and even the most powerful nobles found themselves double-checking their locked doors at night. From the palace, after every discovery of her new victim, Marrok would stare out the window of his father's study and wonder if she planned to kill him in his sleep. She had a preference for young men, as the reports quickly began to show, and Marrok could imagine that the crown prince would be a nice trophy. But now, in his plain clothes, unescorted, there was no way that she could tell who he was. No, he must've just been a leisurely find to her, a little distraction in search of more impressive targets.
He felt her bend his bioelectricity once again. He was forced to take a good look at her as she stepped in the earthlight. Ugly J was unlike her namesake—her chestnut hair swayed in the breeze, and Marrok could feel himself getting lost in her eyes, the darkest pitch. What little he could see of her sun-kissed skin stirred something within him, and he couldn't decide whether the feeling was his own or if Ugly J planned to have a bit fun with him before slitting his throat.
She smiled. "You've not answered my question, New Fish."
Marrok felt a scream tear its way from his throat, but it was quickly stamped down as Ugly J slammed her lips against his in a bruising kiss. The prince stumbled back, landing on the ground as she straddled him. In doing so, she effectively prevented his escape, and with a hiss, she bit his lip and ran her hands through his flaming orange hair, bright compared to the jet-black of his glamour. "What is your name?" she growled in his ear.
"Marrok," he managed to gasp, pushing her face away. "My name is Marrok Blackburn!"
Ugly J's eyes widened, in what seemed like genuine surprise. Which was quickly replaced with a mocking sneer. She stood, and with exceptional grace, she lowered into a curtsey, one hand in the air as if she were bunching the fabric of her imaginary gown. "Your Highness," she cooed, and her voice made heat pool in his belly, despite how outright condescending she was. "It is an honour to meet you, truly."
Marrok somehow managed to stand on his shaking legs, fear urging him to run, but rooted on the spot by her glamour. The prince was gifted in the art of manipulation, of course, being the offspring of the king, but his ability to defend his own mind had always been disappointingly weak. Hence why this woman kept him trapped—he would die here, and his parents would have to produce a new heir.
"You shouldn't be leaving the palace alone, My Prince." Ugly J slipped the knife back in its holster. "There might be murderers about."
Marrok finally let out a bellowing cry as she let go of his mind, and not a second later, he felt a damp cloth being held over his nose and mouth. He shut up instantly, and the world began to flip and spin in a dizzying display. He came to lie on the cool cobblestone, a dopey grin on his face, as the killer slipped back into the shadows.
It was not the last time that he would encounter Ugly J.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Of My Blood
Fanfiction"Her parents were married, but that had seemed to create no great affection between them, and what was a wife in a world in which mistresses were as common as servants, and monogamy as rare as an Earthen eclipse?" Between a throne, two children, and...
