—Chapter One: Pastime With Good Company―

Prince Marrok shivered, a calm breeze tittering down his spine as he walked sullenly through Artemisia. 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 incognito for a drink, a toast of sorts to the crown prince's nineteenth birthday; even though his birthday had been 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.

This resulted in Marrok walking back to the palace, sans escort, with the Earth looming overhead and the large clock tower striking one o'clock in the morning. 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 glamour, he was one hundred percent sober.

He wished he was drunk. By that hour, his parents must have noticed his disappearance; he knew well that he would come home to a slap upside the head and a good lecture. The prince 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 the jewelled bracelet on his wrist made it clear that he dressed simply by choice. James had neglected to mention that they would be going to the Clair de Lune, a high-end club built in the heart of the city.

He shivered again. 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 plaza and instead clear his head through the tranquillity of the back roads.

With nothing more than a whisper, said tranquillity was broken.

Marrok stopped walking and turned his head. The energy that poked him from behind protruded into his thoughts, taking centre-stage in his mind. Footsteps approached quietly. 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. "Show yourself, or I'll kill you."

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. Brushing off insults was a pastime for him; 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 insignificant 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 he kept a small handgun. 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. He was left unable to move it. This stranger's glamour was stronger than he first thought.

As she stepped closer, Marrok noticed that she wasn't a woman, but a girl, no older than twenty. She stood 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 warned.

Ugly J, the voice in his head whispered. I'm Ugly J.

A moment of silence. She forced his fingers loose and the gun fell to the ground. Stunned, Marrok 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 street alive. Her name inspired fear in every heart on Luna. It was said that at least forty deaths had been traced directly back to her, every corpse branded with a crude 'J' around the left ankle. She had 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. When he read the crime reports, after another victim was found bearing her mark, Marrok would stare out the window of his father's study and wonder if she could 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 perfect face was framed by luscious brown hair, long and ethereal as it swayed in the breeze. Her eyes were black as pitch, a reflection into the very image of malevolence. 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 didn't answer 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. He was left staring at her face, her eyes closed and cheeks flushed with pleasure. Her scent was mouthwatering.

"You're one sweet piece of ass," she growled in his ear. "What is your name?"

"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. It 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 an imaginary gown. "Your Highness," she cooed, and her voice made heat pool in his belly. "It is an honour to meet you, truly."

Marrok somehow managed to stand on his shaking legs, fear urging him to run, but he remained rooted to the spot by her glamour. Being the offspring of the king, the prince was gifted in the art of manipulation but his ability to defend his own mind had always been disappointingly weak. He cursed his inability to push her away, to put her in her place. He knew that 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 blinding pain in the back of his head. He was instantly unconscious. Ugly J let her axe fall from her grip and caught his limp body in her arms. She then lowered him gently to the ground. His blood covered her hands. As a final farewell, she kissed his forehead, leaving behind a smear of crimson lipstick.

It was not the last time that Marrok Blackburn would encounter Ugly J.