Was I using my personae too often? It was hard to tell, since the only people who share my power to switch bodies at will belong to my own family, and they’re all too weird to act as role models. I used my gift more responsibly that the rest of them—my twin sister was legendary for her abuse of it, once spending a whole year as Agatha the elephant-rider, only to discover when she finally reverted to Theta Void that I was four inches taller than her, and a year ahead at school. She’s never quite forgiven me.
Maybe I should lay off the switching for a while. It was my day off.
The next two hours passed in a blur of spangly fabric and plunging necklines. Aimee conspired with various beautifully groomed frock merchants to criticise my posture, the length of my legs (both too long and too short, apparently), the width of my waist, the angle of my hips, the shape of my shoulders (don’t ask me what shape shoulders are supposed to be) and my inability to wear pink.
I was half-out of a cranberry crinoline and half-into a primrose petticoat when a tall, distinguished silver-haired gentleman in a long grey robe and matching top hat wandered into the changing-tent.
I knew who he was. He’d been on a few Wanted posters in his time, and a few Commended by the Imperial Crown posters too. A whole generation of adolescent girls (the generation before mine, thankfully) swooned over miniature replicas of his image, which they concealed lovingly under their pillows. I would have recognised him without all that, since my childhood home was dwarfed by a massive oil portrait depicting my parents with silly grins on their faces, one arm each slung around the shoulder of the Silver Warlock.
“Delta Void?” he said politely. “I have an offer of employment for you.”
I froze. “Um, it’s my day off. Have a word with my manager, Claddius in Chartreuse Street?”
“Of course,” said the most renowned magic-wielder in the history of Mocklore. “My apologies for disturbing you.” He tipped his hat to me, and vanished. Not vanished into the milling crowd vanished, but poof! Vanished in a shower of sparkling silver lights.
“Right,” I said to myself. A horrible thought struck me, and I stared down to check that all relevant bits of my body were covered up, whether by cranberry crinoline, primrose petticoat or boysenberry bodice.
Aimee rounded the corner with another outrageously frou-frou garment.
“No feathers!” I yelled.
–§–§–§–§–§–
When I met Chas outside the Gilded Showpony, I was suitably sleek and fashionable, my wrong-shaped shoulders concealed by the flattering cut of a green satin gown with a wide enough skirt to disguise my peculiarly long/short legs. Under the relentless influence of Aimee, I had acquired new shoes, a tiny handbag and antique pearl ear bobs. My hair was pinned up, and my scruffy nails had beautiful fake ones glued over the top of them. Transforming yourself the way ordinary people do is a lot of work.
“Nice,” was what Chas said when he saw of me. He was wearing one of his usual all-black suits, with slightly fancier buttons than usual.
“You’d better come up with something better than that when Aimee asks,” I warned him. “She put in a lot of effort to squeeze an insincere comment out of you.”
He took my arm. “Stupendous?”
“Keep working on it, she’ll expect at least three adjectives.”
“Bedazzling.”
“It had better be a bloody good play,” I muttered.
It was. The local Wagstaffians were putting on Orthandro, the story of a cross-dressing monk who has an affair with his alternate personality and strangles himself in a fit of jealousy. It was a classic production with full period costume and all the original song-and-dance numbers.
Chas had a private box, which meant we could look straight into the other box across the theatre. It contained several members of minor royalty (I counted at least four tiaras), their hanger-on friends and a bunch of uncomfortable-looking bodyguards. Watching them bicker and flirt was almost as much fun as the first act, so I switched my attention regularly between the two.
During the interval, I sipped champagne and watched the people in the twelve-copper seats file out to queue for their chocolate bits and cups of flat beer. When I glanced over at Chas, I noticed him fitting several small pieces of ivory tubing together.
It was a blowpipe. “What are you doing?”
“It’s your day off, Delta, not mine.” Chas pulled a tiny dart out of his pocket, handling it carefully.
I felt cold all over. I’d never seen him working and didn’t want to start now. “You can’t do this here.”
“It won’t take a minute.”
“That’s hardly the point!”
He held the blowpipe steadily in his lap, the dart already nestled inside. “I thought you’d be okay with it.”
“How can you possibly have thought I would be okay with this?”
There was a scream from the royal box. A gentleman in a puffed red velvet hat slumped over the gilded railings at the side. Before anyone could grab him, he slid horribly over the edge. The crowd below lunged out of the way, and he hit the ground with a thump.
I shot an accusing look at Chas. He rolled his eyes and indicated the blowpipe, which still lay in his lap. “I’m good, but not that good. That was someone else.”
“Was that your target?”
He made the blowpipe disappear into his sleeve. “Act natural. Scream a bit and look shocked.”
“But—”
“We’ve done nothing wrong, Delta,” he said urgently. “Act like it.”
“Assassin!” screeched a voice from the royal box. “Assassin!” A plump red-haired girl in a tiara (who shared my inability to wear pink but seemed blithely unaware of that fact) bounced up and down, screaming and pointing straight across the theatre at Chas. “Assss-assss-innnn!”
“Are you wearing a badge?” I demanded. “Why can’t you wear colours like a normal person?”
“Don’t panic,” said Chas.
“You have a murder weapon in your sleeve!”
“I didn’t kill anyone with it!”
“Today!”
“DV, calm down. Take a deep breath.”
“Then what?”
“Then we run away. Very fast.”
You’d think it would be simple enough to leave the box and hide ourselves among the panicking crowd. Not a chance. For a start, the crowd didn’t panic. The theatrical patrons of Skullcap have strong stomachs and nerves of steel. They sat in their seats, politely waiting for someone to clear away the dead body so they could get on with watching the second act.
A corpse was a corpse, but Wagstaff was Wagstaff.
Chas and I felt extremely visible as we tore out of our box and squeezed past many rows of people in the balcony seats. It didn’t help that redhead was still shrieking “Assassin!” and constantly stabbing her finger in our direction.
Would you believe, there was actually a whole troop of uniformed constabulary in the back row? They regarded us with some interest, but the redhead’s accusation had worked in our favour—assassination is not a crime in Mocklore, so the constables had no reason to pursue us.
Not so the half-dozen armed bodyguards whose job it was to protect the royal family of Skullcap. Letting one of their charges die was a bit of an embarrassment, so they had swords at the ready as they pursued us. Luckily, their attempt to clamber over a row of elderly women in wombat-fur stoles slowed them down when the old dames started whacking them with their programmes and telling them what rude boys they were.
Chas and I made it out into the foyer. “Hide somewhere and switch,” he ordered me as we flew down the staircase.
“What about you?”
He shot an icy look over his shoulder.
“I’ll get out of your way, shall I?” As we reached the ground floor, I hurled myself into the privacy of the Ladies Room and took several long, slow breaths before switching into Benedetta, my pert flirt in a polka-dot dress.
Everything was instantly better. Benede
tta has a rose-tinted brain. Everything is fluffy and adorable in her world. I peeked out of the Ladies Room to see Chas (armed with a sword I was pretty sure he hadn’t brought in with him) fighting for his life against the royal bodyguards. He got to the front doors and away, the bodyguards hot on his heels.
I straightened my polka-dot dress and stepped out into the foyer, prepared to pass myself off as a stray audience member. Benedetta was a foot shorter than DV, with shinier hair and bouncier cleavage. There was no way anyone would recognise me. I still felt like I had ‘Assassin’s Accomplice’ engraved on my forehead.
The bodyguards returned grumpily through the front doors. “Can’t believe he gave us the slip,” complained one. “Bloody assassins.”
“Gave him something to think about,” drawled another, and they all laughed and patted him on the back as he brandished his sword, which was wet with blood.
It was all too much for Benedetta, who squeaked and fainted.
–§–§–§–§–§–
I regained consciousness in the ticket office, hemmed in by all six bodyguards, three concerned male ushers and several constables, all of whom were arguing over who would bring me tea and biscuits, and who would walk me home to make sure I was all right. Being Benedetta, I couldn’t help fluttering my eyelashes at each of them, giggling at everything they said and dutifully writing their names and contact details down in my glittery heart-shaped address book (each persona comes with her own props). I only escaped when one of them suggested they wrap me up warm to prevent me suffering shock or coming down with a cold. They all raced off to fetch blankets.
It’s embarrassing, being this adorable. I’m glad I hardly ever have to resort to it. I trip-trapped out of the theatre as fast as my strappy stiletto sandals would carry me, and switched as soon as I was a block away. I didn’t feel like taking the risk of appearing as myself, so I settled on Flavia, a brisk school teacher who was a dab hand at knitting and crossword puzzles. At least she wore sensible low-heeled shoes and didn’t faint at the sight of blood.
Even with calm Flavia at the helm, I was so steamed up I couldn’t think straight. I could not believe Chas had done that to me on the one day I had counted on not having to deal with dead bodies, run away from things and switch personalities. He had invited me along to divert suspicion, I suppose—a young man booking a whole theatre box without a female companion might have looked suspicious. Bloody men.
I could have gone back to the house and waited for him to limp home and apologise, but I wasn’t in the mood. Let Aimee and Kait bandage him up and kiss him better. They’d do a better job of it.
Flavia’s feet automatically turned towards Chartreuse Street. That wasn’t a bad idea. My day off was officially a disaster. I couldn’t go home without running into Chas, which left me with one option to redeem the afternoon—work.
Claddius’s secretary was absent from her desk again. Too much to hope he had fired her? I switched back to DV and strolled through to the back office. “Hey, Claddius, it’s your lucky day!”
It really wasn’t.
Claddius was dead. I’ve never seen anyone deader. Several spiky weapons protruded from his limp, toga-clad body. Blood stained his clothes, the floor, the papers on his desk and all four of the walls.
This wasn’t just murder. Someone had enjoyed killing him.
I backed out of the room, slamming the door on the horrible sight. I stared at the polished panels of the door, muttering under my breath. “You are not Benedetta, you do not faint at the sight of blood, you are not Benedetta—”
“Delta Void?”
I screamed and spun around to face my attacker. It was the Silver Warlock. He wore the same elegant attire as before, including the grey top hat that he tipped politely in my direction.
“Isn’t it your day off?”
“He’s dead!” I squawked. It was horrible to see someone whom I argued with on a regular basis, reduced to an empty-eyed lump of meat in a toga.
The Silver Warlock calmly opened the office door and then closed it again. “Indeed he is. Shall I call a constable?”
“Yes please,” I said, then had a sudden attack of paranoia. I couldn’t afford to be identified as one of Claddius’s employees—everyone knew he ran mercenaries. “Hang on a minute.” I switched to Flavia. Respectable client enquiring about the private investigation service Claddius used as a front for his real business dealings. Much better. “Okay, now fetch a constable.”
The Silver Warlock grinned boyishly at me, letting the dignified facade slip for a moment. “I never did get used to your father doing that. Wait here.” He vanished in another shower of sparkly lights, these ones green.
I sat on the secretary’s desk and calmed myself by allowing Flavia’s personality to swamp my own. She had never had direct dealings with Claddius, so she was able to view his gruesome death with a dispassionate attitude I desperately needed.
She also fancied the Silver Warlock, which I found highly disturbing. He had to be getting on for sixty (although he doesn’t look it, Flavia insisted, more like a young forty, one of the benefits of being a powerful warlock, I suppose, and what’s wrong with older men, anyway?) and I drew the line at fancying men who were friends with my Dad.
Flavia was obviously deranged, so I switched instead to Kally, a gum-chewing chick with a rebellious attitude and several piercings in uncomfortable places.
The Silver Warlock reappeared in a shower of purple sparks, accompanied by a senior constable (higher in rank than a junior, ordinary or medium constable, lower than a super, extra, chief or major chief constable) who looked queasy at the method of travelling. “Bloody hell,” he groaned, grabbing a desk for support. “You didn’t have to do that, mate. Our precinct is only three doors down.”
“You know this office, then,” said the Silver Warlock.
“Yeah, this is Claddius’s joint. We’ve been trying to nab him for years. Slippery little bastard makes a fortune hiring out mercenaries. Never been able to prove it, though, he’s canny with his job descriptions.” He looked hard at me. “Work for him, do you?”
“Messenger,” snapped Kally, bristling at his tone. Not the best choice for dealing with authority figures, but at least she didn’t look like a mercenary. “It’s my first day at work, right, and the boss is all blood and guts all over the floor. Don’t reckon I’ll get paid now.”
“I’ll need your name and address,” said the senior constable.
“I will vouch for the young lady,” said the Silver Warlock, passing over a business card that glowed faintly.
“Right you are, sir.” The senior constable opened the door into the back office, shuddered slightly and closed it again. “You two had better get out of here. I’ll need to get a team in. I’ll call on you if we need your statements.”
The Silver Warlock extended a hand to Kally, but I sidestepped it neatly and headed for the door. “None of that sparkly stuff, grand-dad. I like to walk with my own two feet.”
“Don’t blame you, miss,” grunted the senior constable.
Outside the office, the Silver Warlock and I walked for a few blocks in silence. “Could I speak to Delta for a while?” he asked finally. “I’d like to buy her a cup of coffee.”
“I know a place we can go.” I’d had enough of the respectable half of Skullcap for one day.
–§–§–§–§–§–
In a seedy coffee house near the docks, I switched from Kally to DV with some relief. I now had to deal with the stress of finding Claddius dead, but at least I didn’t have a safety pin in my eyebrow.
“What will you do now?” asked the Silver Warlock. “Sign on with another manager?”
“There aren’t that many around,” I admitted. “They don’t advertise. I suppose I’ll go freelance and hope to be headhunted again.” Yikes. My pre-Claddius years had been difficult, roaming from job to job with long, impoverished months in between. Okay, my post-Claddius years hadn’t been much better, but at least someone else had h
andled the paperwork.
“I have a proposition for you,” said the Silver Warlock. “I would like you to work for me.”
“Full time?” I said in surprise. “I tend to prefer a… varied work environment.”
“I had something flexible in mind,” he assured me. “Odd jobs, unusual errands, the same sort of work Claddius set up for you. I’d have you on retainer, available whenever I request your services. You’d be free the rest of the time to handle any work you arrange for yourself.”
It didn’t sound like a bad idea. A retainer could ease the burden of being freelance. “What kind of fee are we talking about?”
“Your rent paid all year around, plus a small bonus for each job you actually do. I’d only need you half a dozen times a year at the most.”
Hmm. It could be a really good idea or the worst decision of my life. Hard to tell. “Contract?”
“For ten years.”
Ouch. That could get nasty. “There are some things I won’t do,” I warned. “Killing people, for a start.”
“Of course not. If I ever ask you to perform anything that is beyond your capacity, or which you find morally insupportable, our contract will be terminated.” He handed me several pages of parchment. “Look this over and let me know what you think.” He vanished, not in a shower of sparkles this time, but in a cloud of fuzzy blue bubbles.
I read the contract carefully. He had given me something to think about. But if he was so keen for me to work for him, he had a good motive for putting Claddius out of the way.
Nasty suspicious mind I have, don’t I?
I headed home. It looked like the rest of my day would have to be devoted to finding out who killed Claddius, so I could be certain my potential new boss was not responsible. First things first. I needed a change of clothes and a bath.
–§–§–§–§–§–
The trouble with sharing a house with lovable housemates who look after my attic room when I’m away is that they get into the habit of using my attic as a general living room. All four of them were in residence when I got home.
Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles) Page 100
