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  Copycat Killer

  Psychic for Hire Book 1

  by HERMIONE STARK

  Copyright © 2018 by Hermione Stark.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author. The people, places and situations in this book are products of the author’s imagination and in no way reflect real or true events.

  Copycat Killer

  By HERMIONE STARK

  A lowly waitress by day, a dreamer of death by night.

  Being a psychic sucks. Killers haunt my dreams, and there’s not a darn thing I can do about it. I messed up a case badly and my days of working for the special Agency that hunts killers of the monstrous variety are over. But now I’m dreaming of death again.

  This time it’s the brutal double-homicide of a celebrity succubus and her lover. The press say that my mother’s murderer, the notorious Devil Claw Killer, is on the hunt again — but my dreams insist the suspect is a copycat. Chasing him brings me face-to-face with my former boss, Special Agent Constantine Storm, who warns me to stay out of his way. The trouble is that he’s chasing the wrong guy, and I was never one to stay out of Storm’s way.

  If I catch this killer I’ll get to fix my track record and prove Storm wrong. Hell, I might even pay my rent. But in a world of magic and power, wizards and otherkind, are my dreams and my wits going to be enough?

  Copycat Killer is the first book in the Psychic For Hire Series:

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  Chapter 1

  DIANA

  I arrive at the crime scene to find several police cars and TV crews outside the large mansion. An ambulance too, which doesn’t bode well. The lawn in front of the house has been fenced off to stop reporters from trespassing. This is St John’s Wood, London, a neighborhood that is home to some of the world’s wealthiest celebrities. Gruesome crimes are not supposed to happen here.

  It seems even the rich are not averse to gossip because a crowd of neighbors has gathered, eager to find out what is going on. A few may even be worried that their kid might be next.

  I am late. I got the text message from my new boss two hours ago, telling me to meet him and his team here. I scan the crowd but cannot see any of them. Special Agent Constantine Storm is one of the best investigators at the Agency of Otherkind Investigations. That he hired me, an unproven psychic, still boggles my mind.

  I doubt he will be impressed with my tardiness. In my eagerness for my first case I had rushed to get here, but I’m still not used to London’s public transport systems and I got lost. Not the best impression to make on my first day on the job.

  On the lawn in front of the house a small stage is being set up. It acts like a magnet to the news crews and reporters who are jostling for prime positions near the front.

  I finally spot Storm’s tall figure near the podium, a breeze playing in his midnight hair, looking so darn fine in his smart suit that it should be illegal for him to wear it. Annoyingly, my heart leaps at the sight. When my phone beeped after receiving his message this morning, I didn’t know if I was more nervous about seeing him again or about this being my first case.

  I raise my hand to wave in hopes of catching his attention. He sees me and nods in acknowledgment. The slightest tilt at the corner of his lips lets me know that he’s not mad that I’m late. I feel instant relief. I try not to beam at him as he jerks his head a fraction towards the side of the stage, letting me know he wants me to wait for him there. I make my way through the crowd towards it.

  Storm goes back to talking to a man whose face I recognize from the newspapers, James Fenway, the victim’s uncle. The recent family tragedy has not removed any of his Hollywood shine. In his mid-forties, he is handsome in a well-groomed kind of way. Not a patch on Storm though, and not just because Storm is younger by nearly a couple of decades. Bet Fenway doesn’t like that.

  Even from my position at the outermost edges of the crowd I can tell that Storm is displeased with whatever James Fenway is saying. Fenway is clearly used to getting his own way. He looks like he’s about to push Storm aside, but at the last moment he changes his mind. Storm has the quiet grace of a big cat; lethal even in repose. He is not the kind of guy anyone feels comfortable pushing around, not even one of Hollywood’s most famous directors.

  Storm does not look happy as Fenway takes his place at the podium. Fenway clears his voice a couple of times as if to test the microphone. The sound immediately gathers the attention of the crowd of waiting reporters, who all go silent in anticipation.

  Fenway swallows hard, as if struggling to find the words he wants to say. He looks every inch the grieving uncle. He puts his arm around the pretty young woman standing beside him, urging her forward towards the microphone. She refuses to move, staying stiffly where she is, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, hugging herself as if to fend off the accusatory glares of the gathered crowd.

  Her eyes are fixed on the ground and she is determinedly not looking at the cameras. She is shaking. I can see it from here. The stiff set of her jaw looks angry. The cameras are loving it. They are trained as much on her as they are on him.

  She is Eliza Fenway, the victim’s older sister. I have seen her on the television. She is tall, blond and slender, but the stunning looks of her tragic younger sister make her seem entirely ordinary.

  This story has been hot news all week since sixteen-year-old Jennifer Fenway first went missing. Not just because her uncle and guardian James Fenway is Hollywood royalty, but also because young Jennifer was a succubus and strikingly beautiful. That strawberry blond hair, that translucent skin, the smattering of freckles that betrayed her youth.

  All week long the newspapers had splashed their covers with photos of her that had tugged at the nation’s heart strings. And then two days ago the news had broken that Eliza Fenway had been seen having a blazing row with her younger sister earlier in the day that Jennifer had gone missing. One of Jennifer’s friends had gossiped to the press that young Jennifer had been having a secret affair with older sister Eliza’s boyfriend, one Mustafa Salehi, known as Mo to his friends.

  Poor Jennifer Fenway. Until this morning I had still been hoping she would come home of her own accord and, like sixteen year olds everywhere, be incredulous at all the fuss that had been made over her.

  Mustafa Salehi is currently in Agency custody. Early this morning he had found Jennifer’s body in her garden shed, or so he claimed. He had called the police, who had promptly notified the Agency of Otherkind Investigations, who had jurisdiction since the victim was a succubus. The case being so high-profile, the chief had assigned it to his best team, led by Special Agent Storm.

  It is weird to think of myself as part of any ‘best team’. Storm offered me the job just two weeks ago when I had inadvertently saved the life of Prince Xander Daxx, an angelus from Otherworld who is engaged to marry Princess Caroline of England. His murder would have been a political inter-world disaster, not to mention a reputational disaster for the Agency given that their best agents had been on site and undercover at the engagement party.

  I’d leapt at the chance to take this job. It gives me the opportunity to hunt down the serial killer DCK — the Devil Claw Killer — who had murdered my biological mother and wants to murder me.

  On the podium James Fenway has started addressing the press in a brave voice. Clearly the presence of his elder niece Eliza at his
side indicates that he is giving her his full support. As he speaks he thanks his neighbors and friends for their support this past week, and asks the press to respect his family’s privacy at this difficult time. Then he begins planting the blame firmly on the shoulders of Mustafa Salehi, the cheating boyfriend who must have seduced and deceived his vulnerable youngest niece. He even thanks the Agency for taking the murderer into custody.

  The murderer. As if Mustafa Salehi has already been tried and found guilty. Storm is standing behind Fenway with his arms crossed over his chest and a stony, unreadable expression on his face. He has enough self-restraint not to be gritting his teeth like I am. James Fenway clearly wants this matter wrapped up fast. His excellent storytelling has almost got me believing what the man himself desperately wants to believe. That Mustafa Salehi deserves to rot in hell.

  My, what a seductive way he has with words, says a little voice inside my head. He really knows how to sell a story. No wonder he’s won all those awards.

  I haven’t seen any of his movies, I tell her. So how do you know about these awards?

  You haven’t done much of anything yet, she says snarkily. And I pay more attention than you do.

  I still call her the ‘little’ voice inside my head even though she is no longer so little. Since I unleashed her two weeks ago — so that she could help me save myself from being murdered — she’s grown much louder.

  Eager to get away from James Fenway’s much too persuasive voice, I work my way through the edges of the crowd and towards the house. It looks like Storm isn’t going anywhere soon and I am impatient to get started.

  This job offer came when I’d had no money, no friends, no home. Now, for the first time in my life I have a purpose. Find DCK and bring him to justice. But first I have to prove myself by helping to solve this new case. I’m determined to do it. I’m going to make Jennifer Fenway’s killer pay. The fact that Storm called me in must mean that he is not sure if Mustafa Salehi is the guilty party.

  A police officer is guarding the tape that is cordoning off the house. He scowls at me, clearly noting that I don’t belong.

  I fumble in my satchel for my Agency ID badge. It arrived in the post a few days ago, sent by Remi with a little note saying she hoped I was enjoying settling in to my new apartment. The badge is very official looking in its black leather flip case, its shiny silver metal emblem sitting opposite a photo card of me looking a bit out of my depth for my liking. I show it to the police officer. His eyebrows rise. I almost expect him to turn me away, but he lifts up the crime scene tape to admit me into the property.

  Feeling rather stunned at this unexpected new power, I make my way down the path towards the house. Any minute now someone is probably going to stop me. I carefully hook my badge onto my belt. I feel like I should be one of the gawking onlookers rather than one of the officials investigating this murder. My whole life I’ve felt on the outside looking in. This doesn’t feel real yet.

  I smile nervously at a second police officer who is standing guard outside the front door of James Fenway’s sprawling mansion. Then I quickly stop smiling, realizing it must be inappropriate at this solemn time.

  He nods at me. “Ma’am,” he says, and lets me past him.

  Ma’am! As if I was someone important. I cannot help but feel a little thrill, my ego — which I didn’t know I had until now — sitting up and paying attention. Apparently being Agency staff makes me important even to a police officer! I am going to have to do my best to live up to it.

  The front door of the house is slightly ajar. I push it open. Inside it is quiet. Everyone is outside listening to the press conference. I pause in the hallway, feeling like an intruder.

  “Remi?” I call. “Agent Kane?”

  Agents Remi Bronwyn and Leo Kane are Storm’s team. They do not respond. They must be outside too, probably busy interviewing witnesses. Everything I’ve seen of them tells me both are very dedicated to and good at their job. Only the best on Storm’s team.

  I walk down the hallway, catching a glimpse of myself in a large mirror, my jeans and neatly-pressed blouse looking too ordinary and out of place in my plush surroundings. I hadn’t been sure what to wear and, with my first paycheck still a month away, not been able to afford new work clothes.

  I probably shouldn't be so gob-smacked by the tasteful furnishings but I am. Everything unashamedly screams new money. The modern art on the walls, the life-size glass sculpture of naked dancers near the base of the artful staircase, the large picture windows that admit plenty of light.

  A girl could get used to this, observes the little voice approvingly. We could live like this if you tried a little harder. You’re better looking than poor little Jenny Fenway, if you’d bother with makeup.

  I don’t want to live like this, I tell her.

  Everyone wants to live like this, she retorts.

  I walk through a very pleasant lounge and easily find the kitchen. I should probably be heading upstairs to the victim’s bedroom but part of me doesn’t want to go there yet. She was alive just a week ago. All of her things will be there, all of her hopes and dreams left scattered about as if they still mean something. Like my mother’s were. I am not ready to face another set of shattered hopes and dreams.

  I grab a clean mug from the rack beside the sink and fill an electric kettle with water. I find a little glass-fronted case full of a selection of different teas. I pick a fruity one. A few weeks ago I would have never dared do this, but that was before I was nearly murdered. If I want a tea, I’m going to have one. Plus, I’m a psychic. The whole point of me is to walk around absorbing the ambiance in the hope it will spark a vision. And that includes drinking their tea.

  I try to shake away the sudden rush of resentful anger that has come from nowhere. Perhaps it is the memories that come with tea. My adoptive aunt, Mrs Colton, had let me drink it whenever I met with a client. It was the only time she’d let me have some. She’d said it was the perfect psychic prop. She’d bring out a big tea-set made of fancy old-fashioned china and have me make a show of pouring it into dainty cups. Sometimes she’d made me pretend to read tea leaves to make my psychic-ness more convincing. People want a show, she’d said. They needed the props. Despite all of that, I had always enjoyed drinking tea.

  Dearly departed Mrs Colton, says the little voice snidely. You’re well shot of her.

  She’s damn right I am. I bite my lip, feeling guilty about agreeing. Mrs Colton may have been my prisoner and extorted my psychic visions for her own gain, but she hadn’t deserved to be murdered in cold blood.

  She plotted with Dr Carrington to get you locked up in a psychiatric ward, says the little voice. Don’t forget that. You’re lucky the devious pervert didn’t get you killed.

  I move to near the kitchen window and, closing my eyes, tilt my face up towards the sunshine. The Coltons are dead, my biological mother is dead, and I was nearly killed too. Just two weeks ago. And now it seems like death follows me everywhere I go. But the sunlight is pleasantly warm and red on the backs of my eyelids. The world continues turning, as must I.

  I can still hear the distant sounds of the press conference taking place outside. They’ve got to the part where the press are asking questions, shouting over each other to be heard.

  The kettle finishes boiling and clicks off. I pour my tea and take it into the lounge. Feeling drawn towards the gleaming grand piano, I go to it and peruse the framed photographs perched on top. Almost every single one has Jennifer Fenway in it. Glowing golden girl Jennifer winning a gymnastics award, Jennifer in a bikini on a sail boat, Jennifer in a red ball gown with her uncle and his famous friends at the Academy Awards last year. He is hugging her. She is holding the award. She is not smiling. Not pouting either. Just looking at the camera, every inch the unimpressed teenager.

  I pick it up. My hand brushes the glossy surface of the piano and a vision floods into my mind. Jennifer’s pale naked arms splayed wide over the back of the piano as she clutches it. She is bent
over it and someone is behind her. She is laughing. Her half-clothed body is bouncing with every one of his determined thrusts. Feeling repulsed, knowing I have just seen something never meant for my eyes, I put the picture down carefully.

  Jennifer is staring solemnly out of it, as if she is sorry. Gorgeous glorious Jennifer whose image dominates this piano-top where there is not a single picture of her sister. If I’d had a smart phone I would have got it out to google whether Eliza had even been invited to the Academy Awards. Probably not. Whereas little sister Jennifer had got to walk the red carpet.

  Jennifer had clearly been her uncle’s favorite. She seemed to have been Mustafa Salehi’s favorite too. I bet some unpleasant reporter has asked Eliza that question already, whether she’s glad she’ll be the favorite now that her little sister is out of the way.

  I peruse the bookshelf beside the piano, and finally find a picture with Eliza in it. The photo is pushed behind several other frames. In it both girls are younger, Eliza probably around sixteen and Jennifer around thirteen, still gangly, but already the most beautiful thing in the photo. It seems to have been taken three years ago when the girls first came to live with their uncle, shortly after their succubus mother had been admitted into hospital for a drug addiction. The girls had lived with their beloved paternal uncle, James Fenway, ever since.