The music droned on in my right ear. My left ear still throbbed from the kick, and I was not about to abuse it further with this ordeal.
At least the hotel room was luxurious—clean and modern: gray curtains, a sleek red armchair, and hanging ceiling lamps that cast buttery light over the room. From the enormous bed, I stared into a mirror, slightly horrified at my mud-spattered appearance and messy tangle of blonde hair. My blue eyes were wide open, still in shock. I looked like a crazy person. Which, incidentally, was now a distinct possibility.
Had that man with the red eyes spit acid at me? Had I really seen horns—and eyes turning gold? Not to mention that inhuman speed and grace. This was not a good situation. I could only pray the hallucination had been a result of my head injury and not the onset of a mental illness.
“Thank you for holding, Miss Liddell,” the constable’s voice returned.
“Sure. I just want to file the complaint. I was attacked by two men in Catherine Wheel Alley an hour ago.”
“Do you need medical assistance?”
“No, I’m fine, I think.” My fingers brushed against the bruise on my stomach, and I winced. My head still pounded. But the hell with it; I didn’t feel like being prodded by a doctor right now. “I just want to report the attack.”
“I understand, Miss Liddell. Why don’t you come tomorrow to report it?”
I restrained myself from yelling at her. How would a Brit phrase this? “Don’t you think tomorrow might be a bit late?”
“If you file a report tomorrow—”
“This is stupid. They’ll be long gone by then.” Okay. I was done with the pleasantries.
“I’m not sure what you want me to do about it. I’m sure they’re long gone now.”
I didn’t even know how to approach the question. “Maybe… send a patrol there? It’s ten minutes away. See if you spot the two assholes who tried to kill me?”
“There’s not a lot we can do. I was mugged just last month, myself. You really should be more careful in the future.”
I blinked. Apparently the police operated differently here. “Are you serious?”
“There really is a limit to what the City of London can do about it, Miss Liddell. What would be best is if you come tomorrow morning, and file a report—”
“You know what? Forget it.” I hung up, seething. I’d tell Gabriel about this the next day. He struck me as a serious police officer, at least.
Exhausted, I rubbed my eyes. It was nearly three in the morning here, but only ten p.m. on the East Coast. Scarlett would still be up.
I pulled out my phone, texting her. I think I’m losing my mind. I saw some really weird shit tonight.
A moment later, a green bubble popped up on my screen. Welcome to my world. What did you see?
I swallowed hard. If I start losing my mind and send you texts full of jumbled word salad, promise me you’ll make sure I get medicated.
Sure, she typed. But you’re not losing your mind. Have a Manhattan and a good fry up in the morning.
I dropped the phone on the bed. A fry up wasn’t a bad idea.
I had to sleep, but first, I desperately wanted a shower. Alley dirt covered my body, I had a bootprint on the side of my cheek, and I was pretty sure the rancid smell of death from the crime scene clung to me.
I rose, crossing to the clean, white-tiled bathroom. I turned on the water and adjusted the temperature until it was hot enough to make tea. Then, I pulled off my ripped sweater, tossing it in the trash. It was beyond repair. I unzipped my boots, and stepped out of the rest of my clothes.
I stepped into the shower, letting the sublime water rush over my skin. As the steam billowed around me, I couldn’t help but think of that stranger—his fingers gripping my hips hard, his lips soft on my neck. I stroked my finger down my chest to my hipbone, where he’d grabbed me. My nipples began to harden. If I closed my eyes, I could almost smell his musky scent, and feel his muscled body against mine. I could almost feel his mouth sliding lower toward my navel…
My eyes snapped open again. I wasn’t going to think about him again. I wasn’t sure what had happened with him, but I needed to get a grip.
I grabbed the small shampoo bottle, pouring a dollop of vanilla-scented soap into my palm. I worked up a thick lather, forcing myself not to think of the heat that had raced through my body at the stranger’s touch. I’d think of unsexy things: lampreys, taxes, British politicians having questionable relations with pigs…
For just a moment, I drifted asleep while still standing under the current.
Horace, don’t! Her scream pierced the walls. Hiding under the table, I covered my ears with my hands. I tried to close my eyes and I couldn’t, and I saw the blood trickle down her lips…
My eyes opened wide, my breath rapid and shuddering. Stupid. So stupid. I leaned against the shower wall to steady myself.
My brain was conjuring impossible visions—a long-forgotten trauma. An attack I’d heard, but hadn’t seen. All those years ago, I hadn’t actually been there to watch the blood on her lips.
My body tensed. I pretty much did everything in my power not to think about that.
Tears stung my eyes. It felt like my own mind was punishing me in the worst way possible.
Why had I gone into this disturbing field in the first place, especially given my own history? I could have become a school psychologist, or an addiction counselor. Someone who helped the living, who had a part in their growth. It sounded nice, but… that type of work just didn’t light my world on fire.
According to a goateed man in my counseling psychology class at Tufts, forensic psychologists were all “trauma junkies.” Goatee Man—a clinical psychologist—believed that profilers like me haunted the dead and the depraved because we were fundamentally flawed. Apparently, it was a way of sublimating our own sadistic impulses into something socially acceptable. Asshole.
That wasn’t the only thing we argued about. According to him, personality, temperament, intelligence—it was all completely genetic (which raised the question, what was the point of psychologists in the first place?).
But that brought me to the real reason I needed to understand killers’ minds. I needed evil to be environmentally-created, and I made it my life’s mission to prove it. I wanted to understand how a psychopath’s background shaped him into what he was—the violent parents, the brain damage, the sexual abuse—how it all fit together to create a monster. That was the real reason I haunted the dead and the depraved.
I shook off the old, stale arguments, and turned off the tap. I stepped out, feeling the warm water trickle down my body. The cold bathroom floor sent a shock through my feet. I grabbed a soft white towel and dried off, leaving wet footprints all over the bathroom floor.
Finally, the brutal day had ended. All that was left was to brush my teeth and go to sleep. As I crossed into the bathroom and passed the mirror, I spotted a strange movement from the corner of my eye. I whirled, my body tense. What the hell was that? I thought I’d seen something in the mirror, but it was just my mind playing tricks on me.
A sigh slid from me. Just the mirror, and my own terrified expression in my blue eyes. It had seemed… different a second ago. Almost like there was a stranger in the room with me.
Obviously, the night’s events had screwed with my senses. It didn’t mean I was losing my mind, though, right?
I hoisted my suitcase onto the bed and unzipped it, rummaging through until I found a pair of black underwear and a tank top. I slipped into them. When I pulled the cotton shirt on, it clung to my damp back. I’d been too tired to dry myself properly.
Grabbing my travel kit, I turned for the bathroom. But as I did, I froze, a shiver inching up my spine. I was almost certain I saw something moving in the mirror again… something that was no longer there.
I closed my eyes, breathing deeply through my nose. Okay. The next time that happened, I was booking an appointment with a therapist. If I was going to descend into insanity, I would d
o it in the most responsible way possible.
I couldn’t risk turning out like my dad.
Chapter 4
I stood outside a Starbucks, and the early morning sun washed Bishopsgate in amber light. I had a laptop bag slung over my shoulder and a latte in my hand. I was just about ready to face the day—right after I washed down two Tylenols. Hopefully, they’d help ease the case of jet-lag, face-boot, and lung-punch I’d caught recently.
My gaze landed on a tabloid discarded on one of the Starbucks tables: 1 in 5 Brit Muslims’ Sympathy for Jihadis. Apart from the crimes of syntax committed by that headline, I recognized the storm of xenophobia that was about to wash over the city. If we didn’t find the killer soon, London would just come up with its own scapegoats.
I glanced at my reflection in the dark glass. I didn’t look too bad. I’d applied some concealer to the eggplant-colored bruise on the side of my head. I wore a fitted gray dress, a black leather jacket, and my boots, which may have had the faintest trace of jackass blood on them. My hair tumbled over my shoulders in neat curls, and my cheeks had a healthy blush, courtesy of some rouge. You could hardly tell I’d spent the entire night working on the case.
I headed across the street to the police station, pulling my phone from my pocket as I walked. But as I drew closer to the station, I could see that Gabriel was already waiting for me out front, looking impossibly handsome in a dark shirt and trousers. The morning light gilded him beautifully. “Good morning, Agent Liddell.” He handed me a visitor’s tag.
“Cassandra,” I corrected him, shoving the tag into my pocket.
He cast me a stern look. “You have to wear the badge inside the station.”
“Seriously? I mean, I’ll be with you most of the time.”
He arched an eyebrow, an expression that conveyed full-blown British adherence to protocol and rules. I sighed, clipping the tag to my shirt. I hated being labeled as a visitor, even if I was one. His mouth curled in what was nearly a smile, apparently satisfied I wasn’t about to go American-maverick on him.
If he knew the kind of things I thought I’d seen last night, perhaps he’d still be worried.
“Come on.” He pulled open the door. “The nine a.m. status meeting’s already started.”
“All right, lead the way.”
He walked briskly inside, and I followed, my steps fast to catch up with his pace as we passed the front desk. An enormous insignia loomed over the desk clerk—two dragons crawling up a shield, with the Latin phrase Domine Nos Dirige: Lord, guide us.
I scowled. Perhaps the constable I’d spoken to last night had been relying on the Almighty to catch my attackers instead of just sending in a patrol.
Gabriel led me to a stairwell. I thought of bringing up yesterday’s attack, but he seemed in such a rush. It was slightly after nine, and he didn’t look thrilled at being late for the meeting.
“So, what’s the status meeting?” I asked as we climbed the stairs.
“It’s mandated—every morning at nine a.m., DCI Wood’s orders. All personnel related to the serial killer investigation have to show up.”
He sounded resentful of this. I didn’t mind. In the FBI, meetings and paperwork were our bread and butter. We’d have meetings to decide what meetings we should have. A morning status briefing sounded like a good call, but maybe it wasn’t the norm for the City of London Police Department.
Once we reached the top of the stairwell, we walked down a small, brightly-lit corridor, our footfalls echoing off the ceiling, until we reached a large door on the right. Gabriel knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a response.
I followed him into a large room, the space mostly filled by an oblong mahogany table, with DCI Wood’s enormous form taking up one end of the table. Half a dozen people filled the chairs on either side, and everyone turned to look at us as we walked in. A large round clock hung on the wall, its hand pointing at the time: 9:03. I felt as if I were back in school, late for algebra class.
Gabriel gestured to me. “This is Special Agent Cassandra Liddell from the FBI. She wasn’t aware of the meeting today. I take full responsibility for our tardiness.”
I suddenly felt like a jerk for holding a Starbucks cup. Clearly if I’d skipped the latte, I’d have been here on time.
I raised my hand in a sort of half wave, half salute, smiling sheepishly. Some people nodded, others stared blankly at me.
“Are we working with the FBI?” a stout bald man asked in a bland tone. I was pretty sure this was as close as we would get to an overt confrontation unless things really went to shit.
“I’m from the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Virginia,” I said. I needed to impress them with my credentials, but I couldn’t appear to brag, or I’d immediately confirm their worst suspicions about Americans. “I’ve been tasked with researching serial killers for my unit. I’m here just in case my profiling experience can offer any insight, and to learn from your expertise in the process.”
“Very well.” Wood’s rough voice was like stones rubbing together. “Please sit.”
I pulled out a chair, taking an open spot by Gabriel’s side, and shrugged off my laptop bag.
He began to introduce everyone at the table, and I made sure to remember the names and titles. Jasmine Scott was a detective from the Scotland Yard. The confrontational bald man was Phillip Bennett, from the NCA, which was often dubbed the British FBI. Two detectives from the City of London police were called Holly Patel and Ben Patel, though Ben hurriedly explained that they weren’t related. The less detective-y of the bunch were Doctor James Dixon, the forensic pathologist, whose spectacles were round and thick enough to stop bullets, and Gracie Lowe, the forensic scientist. As the only one who smiled at me, she earned my everlasting love.
At the other end of the table, Wood steepled his fingers. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with silvery hair and straight black eyebrows.
He leveled his gray eyes on me. “Okay. Just to bring Agent Liddell up to speed. Catherine Taylor, the woman murdered yesterday, is the fourth in a series of killings. All victims’ throats were slashed, bodies mutilated postmortem, with various internal organs removed. Some of these organs were found at the scenes, some were not.”
“Thank you, Chief. I read the case files, so I’m familiar with the previous murders.”
“Good.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “In earlier cases, the killer seemed to have been very careful. There were multiple fingerprints in all crime scenes, but the locations were public, so that was hardly surprising. We found no cross-match between murders.”
I had already surmised that the killer had probably worn gloves.
“CCTV footage didn’t get us anywhere,” Wood continued. “The killer is probably aware of camera locations, and intentionally avoids them.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We contacted the FBI because we’re dealing with an unprecedented state of public hysteria. The newspapers dubbed this guy ‘the Terrorist Ripper.’ City businesses are suffering, and restaurant traffic is down. Women who work in the City have been staying home. Two men have been attacked, mistaken for this so-called Ripper. We thought that, with the number of serial killer cases you have in America, we could use your input. However, the London FBI offices couldn’t help us, so they had to send you.” He cleared his throat. “Quite frankly, opinion throughout the United Kingdom law enforcement agencies about forensic psychology is not very favorable.”
I mentally translated this as, here, we mostly think you people are useless.
“We’ve had some… unhappy experience with criminal profilers in the past. But as I said, the situation is quite dire.”
I kept my face expressionless. All right. He’s definitely established that no one wants me here, but that they’re desperate enough to listen to anyone. I wondered if they’d considered using a medium before stooping so low.
“Crikey, we’ve even tried using a medium last week,” Detective Ben Patel said.
Great.
Gabriel cleared his throat. “Catherine Taylor was a nineteen-year-old college student from Essex, studying at Goldsmiths. She lived in a flat in New Cross with one flatmate, Gemma Roberts. Catherine had a nasty break-up with a boyfriend, but that was a year ago. Yesterday evening, Catherine told her flatmate she was going out. Gemma wasn’t invited. Seems they’d had a falling out a few months back.”
I frowned. “Do you know what Gemma did last night?”
“She spent the night in a New Cross pub. Vomited on one of the regulars. Meanwhile, our victim left the apartment by herself at half past six. We’re not sure where she went yet, but her body turned up in Mitre Square at eleven twenty. Assuming the killer specifically searched for a woman named Catherine, he may have stalked her somewhere near her home, already knowing her name and address. Since it seems she came voluntarily, he may have persuaded her to join him in the City for drinks. It’s possible they took the Overground together.”
“What’s your focus right now?” Wood asked.
“Ben is checking the pubs in New Cross, seeing if we can find any witnesses who saw her last night. Holly is on CCTV duty for Southeast London, this neighborhood, and the Overground. I’m talking to friends and relatives.”
Wood glanced at Doctor Dixon. “All right, do we have an autopsy report?”
Dixon pushed his humongous spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Cause of death is exsanguination.” He glanced at me. “Blood loss.”
“Thanks for the clarification.” Yep. They definitely thought I was an idiot. Perhaps it was my accent.
“The victim’s heart and left kidney were missing,” he continued. “The mutilation of the victim’s torso was postmortem. However, the slashes on her face are antemortem.” He glanced at me again. “Before her death.”
Agent of Enchantment (Dark Fae FBI Book 1) Page 4
