Copycat Killer

by Hermione Stark

  After meeting with Smithers, the little voice had relinquished control without a fight, seeming content to let me take over to do the menial labor. I can feel her pleasantly snoozing at the back of my mind, with an ear alert to any moments she might want to interfere in my life. I know her moods as well as I know my own now. I half wish the little voice was still in charge, because I am fairly certain the little voice would have found an effortless way to get out of the hard work.

  No doubt she’d be chatting to the chefs and have offered her services as a taster by now. I am hungry. Breakfast at Storm’s and the overpriced thin sandwich that I grabbed at a nearby store for an early lunch already feel like yesterday’s memory. I’d topped up my phone credit too, with the last ten pounds in my worldly possession.

  Want me to go to the kitchens to snitch you something tasty? the little voice offers sleepily.

  No thanks, I say.

  She shrugs. Your loss.

  Five o’ clock arrives and I hurry to change into a fresh uniform. I have been assigned to table service. I have been so swept off my feet that I haven’t even had a chance to take a look at the seating charts. I rush to take a quick peek before the banquet starts and, seeing the guest list, my heart sinks. Princess Caroline and Xander Daxx have pride of place at the ambassador’s table.

  The last time I had worked for the Princess Caroline she’d been furious to find me alone with her fiancé Xander. Later she had cornered me and threatened to have me entertain her guests naked. The thought that I am going to be waiting tables under her eye today irks me. I had planned to rise in the world, not go down in it. God, I feel pathetic.

  The only saving grace is that I will not be serving at the head table. I glance at the rota and to my shock see the arrangements are not what I expected. Rosalie must have changed them! Somehow she has wrangled herself a spot at the head table, and now it is me that is going to have to cover it!

  I rush to find Ben to beg him to take my spot, but he gives a nervous glance at Smithers and shakes his head. And so when it comes time to serving the food, I take a deep breath and march in, fully preparing myself for a small nightmare.

  Xander Daxx is the guest I have been allocated to look after. When I arrive with his first course, a ramekin of Otherworld legumes and Earthly salmon, Princess Caroline does a double-take, which swiftly changes to a sneer, especially when Xander greets me with pleasant surprise. She is sitting on the ambassador’s right hand side, and Beatrice Grictor is at the ambassador’s left.

  The ambassador, a stout incubus who looks in his fifties but is no doubt much older, spots the subtle expression of distaste on Princess Caroline’s face and pats her hand. “We have different customs in Otherland, my dear, though I can’t say greeting one’s serving staff is often among them.” He laughs uproariously.

  Xander gives the ambassador a cool look. “I greet my friends wherever I find them. You ought to try it sometime.”

  Beatrice Grictor had seemed mildly surprised to see me, but recovered quickly. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but she does comment on Xander’s ‘lovely sentiment’ and ask him how he and I know each other.

  I ignore their conversation. I pour the required wine into Xander’s glass in silence, pretending I am deaf and mute, as I have been instructed to do in my training. When that is done I leave them to their conversation.

  Seeing Beatrice with the ambassador has been more unsettling than I expected. The fact that he provided her with an alibi didn’t seem real to me until now. What if Storm has a point? It seems impossible that the ambassador would provide a false alibi. If so, then perhaps I ought to be looking for an accomplice. She can’t be innocent. Not after all this.

  Princess Caroline does not let up on me so easily. Her expression sours every time I bring a new course to the table. When I arrive with the ‘Langue de boeuf’ — an artfully arranged cut of still-bleeding meat and some sort of frothy greens from Otherworld — she comments loudly how disappointed she is to see people sliding in life rather than improving themselves, and how she intends to improve educational opportunities in the country. And then, to everyone’s shock, she asks me what my educational experience has been.

  She is supposed to pretend I don’t exist. I don’t know whether to answer or pretend I did not hear. I am not supposed to speak. I have a feeling that she full well knows that I have no higher education to speak of.

  Tell the bitch to shove it, snaps the little voice in my head.

  “I’m American, Your Highness,” I tell her politely.

  She gives a condescending laugh. “One wouldn’t think that affects your ability to answer my question,” she says in her cut-glass accent.

  Xander interrupts. “I think what she means, my dear, is that as her educational experience has been American, it has no relevance to your desire to make improvements in the British educational system.”

  Caroline glowers at him.

  Making no comment, I swiftly make my exit. By the time I have returned with the final course, ‘Couronne de framboises’ — a delectable little raspberry tart that makes my mouth water — the Princess Caroline is stewing. Clearly my presence here has ruined her evening.

  I serve Xander his tart and am about to leave when the ambassador booms that Xander ought to try it with custard.

  He tells the table at large that custard apparently is his favorite culinary discovery in this world. “Simply the most moreish yellow sauce you’ll ever taste,” he reassures his American guests.

  Beatrice tries to dissuade him, but the ambassador is most insistent. “Have you tried it with this tart yet, Xander?” he demands, as if this is a challenge.

  “I can’t say that I have,” says Xander.

  “Then you must! Just a dollop!” booms the ambassador.

  I am forced to return to the kitchens to fetch a dainty little jug of custard. When I return to the table, Xander motions amiably for me to pour a little onto his plate. I do so, and Princess Caroline insists that she will try some too.

  I move to her side to carefully pour a small drizzle. She swings her elbow at me, knocking my hand. The jug of hot custard flies into my shirt, getting in through the collar and dripping down my front. Princess Caroline gives a dainty shriek and hastily pushes her chair away from mine.

  Not that there was any chance of the custard hitting her or anyone else. She had expressly delivered her blow to humiliate only me.

  Only the merest glint in her eyes tells me she is reveling in this little victory. “Oh dear,” she says. “One hopes the poor girl won’t lose her job over this. Then again, clumsiness never did befit a waitress.”

  I see a fleeting expression of distaste cross Xander’s face, but he does not chastise her in front of everyone else. A few of the nearest guests at the table are aware that Caroline has done this on purpose and they ignore it. The others clearly think it must be my fault.

  Refusing to make a fuss, I hastily mop up the couple of drops that have landed at the table, and make a swift exit, my shoulders stiff but refusing to reveal my humiliation to any of the people watching me.

  I am baffled and silently stewing. The coolheaded princess had always been so careful to hide her animosity in public in the past. Perhaps it means all is not well in her relationship with Xander. I don’t care. I am furious that I didn’t see it coming. That I had not knocked it onto her lap. That would have been awesome.

  And silly, says the little voice. We have work to do.

  Since when did you err on the side of caution? I retort.

  Fortunately the banquet is done, and I don’t have to return to the tables to clear them until after the guests are gone. Which I have no intention of doing. I head to a guest bathroom to wash off the sticky custard from my hands and neck, and to put on my glitzy gold dress that the little voice had chosen for me.

  I take my time, enjoying the respite of being in this bathroom which is fancier than a bathroom has a right to be. Against one wall is an elegant chaise longue, the hand-painted wa
ll paper behind it depicting an Otherworld lush jungle with fabulous birds. A series of small oil paintings are lit by silk-canopied lamps. The half-lit quiet in here is calming.

  Among the lotions and potions near the sink is a spritzer of exotic perfume. I use some after emerging from one of the two toilet cubicles. I take a look at my dress in the large gilt-framed mirror.

  It’s showtime, the little voice says delightedly as she catches sight of me.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I ask her.

  Don’t worry. I’ll be in charge. And I’ll deal with anyone who makes trouble about you shirking off work. It’s not like you want to keep this job anyway.

  I turn to leave, pushing open the door, when the sound of an approaching voice startles me. It is lowered and furtive.

  Instantly I recognize Beatrice Grictor’s breathy tones. “Through here,” she is saying to someone. The person she is with groans in discomfort.

  I retreat swiftly back into the last of the two toilet cubicles, and quietly lock the door. I stand there in silence as Beatrice comes into the bathroom.

  It sounds like she’s helping someone else into the room. Someone heavy with a shuffling gait. I hear the person groan deeply as they collapse heavily onto the soft velvet chaise longue. I hear Beatrice’s heels click-click over to the outer door and lock it shut. She heaves an audible sigh of relief.

  The man she is with clears his throat, and mumbles, “It should’ve been fine. I must have forgotten to take a dose.” It is the ambassador. His jovial booming manner is gone. He sounds querulous and old.

  “You really should have taken my advice, my dear,” says Beatrice, her breathy little voice displaying only the tiniest hint of distemper. “I can recommend a very discreet young girl who can take care of your needs. We can say she is your new junior assistant.”

  “Why would I want that, when I have you?” the ambassador says. I hear him grab her, and her squeal of dismay.

  “No, no, don’t do that! You’ll spoil my dress.”

  “But darling, I need you,” he moans.

  “I know. That’s why brought you here,” she complains, still in that sweet voice. “But only take a little. Just enough to get you through the next few hours. Not too much.”

  “But darling you’re so delicious,” he wheedles.

  “No, don’t kiss me,” she cries out. “Not like that. You’ll ruin my makeup!”

  “But I like it like that,” he says.

  “Not now, Griggori!” she finally snaps. Her voice swiftly returns to beguiling and soft. “If you take too much at once you’ll fall asleep. You know how you are. And we can’t afford for that to happen tonight. Imagine if it got out that you were unwell. The press might take it upon themselves to investigate. And we don’t want them finding out about your little problem.”

  “No, not that. I couldn’t bear it,” says the ambassador. “The shame. I’d be hounded out of my position, forced to retire.”

  “Yes dear,” she soothes. “And you’d find it most discomfiting to return to Otherworld once it was known you can’t regulate your energies. It’s so unseemly.”

  “But I’m not dangerous,” the ambassador sulks, sounding like a petulant boy.

  “No, you're just my sleepy teddy bear,” she says. “But your kin wouldn't understand that. You know how they think.”

  In my head the little voice is squirming with glee. That explains it,, she crows.

  What? I ask, not fully grasping what is going on with him.

  She has to feed his Hunger like a baby, is why, she says. At indecently frequent intervals because he can’t regulate his energy levels and consumption. They call them leeches in otherworld, incubae who have to have a feeding mate wherever they go, and sometimes even needing to feed in public. It’s obscene.

  Is he feeding right now? I ask, grimacing at the moaning whimpering sounds of pleasure that the ambassador is making. Intermittent impatient sighs and noises of discomfort are coming from Beatrice.

  Yep, he’s feeding. The gluttonous boor.

  There’s no need to be mean, I say. It sounds a bit like diabetes to me. Like an illness.

  Incubae don't tolerate these sorts of physical weaknesses in their kind. And there’s every need to be mean. The night of the murder he clearly fell asleep after an overindulgent feeding. He doesn't know if she stayed with him or not, and he’s given her a false alibi because he’s too ashamed to admit to his sickness!

  Chapter 20

  STORM

  Knowing the embassy will never admit access to his team, Storm calls his one hope, Beatrice Grictor.

  She answers within a couple of rings. “Agent Storm,” she says in her familiar soft voice. “Is everything all right?”

  “Are you able to talk freely?”

  “Just give me a moment,” she says. He can hear her heels clicking on the flooring underfoot as she hurries to find a more private spot. “I can speak now.”

  “Beatrice, I could do with your help. We think one of our suspects is hiding out at the embassy. We need him for questioning.”

  “And you want me to seek the ambassador’s help to get him out?” she says.

  “Something like that.”

  “May I ask who it is?”

  “Kris Caprio. You mentioned that he is one of the patients at your practice. Raif Silverstone was his doctor.”

  “I see.” There’s already a tone in her voice which tells him that the answer is no. “I’m afraid I can’t confirm whether Mr Caprio is here or not, and I don’t think I can persuade the ambassador to help in this matter.”

  “Because Caprio’s father has many business ties to Otherworld?” Storm asks.

  “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do. Unless…” She hesitates.

  “I’m willing to consider any idea.”

  “You really think Kris Caprio was involved?”

  “We need to question him, Beatrice. Urgently.”

  “I see. I shouldn’t really do this, but if he has anything to do with what happened with Raif, I don’t think I could live with myself. I have a couple of spare tickets to the ball that the ambassador donated to my charity. Perhaps you want to make use of them?”

  “Thank you, Beatrice. I owe you one.”

  She gives a gentle laugh. “You can take me to dinner some time. You’re an interesting man, Mr Storm.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “But please,” she adds. “You understand that I’m expecting your team to avoid any fuss inside the embassy itself? Tonight’s a big night for the ambassador. You’ll have to do your best to persuade Mr Caprio to leave the embassy of his own free will.”

  “Of course,” Storm says. “You have my assurance. We will make sure to behave as guests at all times inside the embassy.”

  He hangs up the phone and calls Remi, telling her and Monroe to head back to meet him and Leo at the office.

  “So what are you thinking?” says Leo. “You and I head in there and persuade him it’s in his best interests to come with us?” Leo gives a sarcastic grin, fully aware that this is highly unlikely to work. Especially if his intent is to escape into Otherworld via the embassy’s portal, if he hasn’t done already.

  “I bet he’s still in there,” says Storm. “He didn’t strike me as the type to miss a good party. He’ll want one last chance to live it up with his friends before he goes into hiding.”

  He and Leo drive back in their separate cars. They arrive to find Remi and Monroe already waiting in Storm’s office.

  “What’s the plan?” says Remi eagerly. “Honey trap right? Me and Monroe head into there, and I’ll lure him out?”

  Monroe looks confused. “But he knows what you look like. You’ve questioned him, right?”

  “Yeah, he knows what I look like,” she says. “But he doesn’t know what I’ll look like tonight.”

  “Are you sure you can pull it off?” says Storm. “All the magic inside the embassy tonight will interfere with a glamour. Y
ou’ll have to go old-school.”

  “You betcha,” she says, winking. She disappears off to the undercover stores to get ready.

  Forty minutes later she returns, dressed in a full-length scarlet ball gown that drapes lovingly to her curves. A mink is clasped around her elegant shoulders with a glinting diamond brooch. Faux mink no doubt, knowing Remi. The mink conceals the bullet-proof protection bracelets on her upper arms.

  Most striking are the changes to her hair and face. Her normally bright red hair is now a gleaming deep brunette, styled in elegant waves around her face, which itself is markedly different. Her jawline looks more pointed, her forehead broader, her nose softer and given an up-tilted effect. All with the expert application of make up and shading and a hint of magic. Thick false lashes make her eyes look huge and almond-shaped, and they are now a striking crystal blue rather than her usual hazel-green.