Copycat Killer Read online

  My hand reaches out to touch her, but then I stop. I can’t do it.

  My lips tremble, trying to find something to say, but words do not come out. She was the one person who had known what I was, who had seen all of me, and loved me anyway. Fiercely. Until her dying breath. And I cannot find any words to say to her. The church is almost deathly silent. I can hear every movement of the other mourners who have taken their seats on the pews, their clothing rustling as they wait for me to finish.

  Only her face is visible. The blood specks are gone. They should have buried her with those specks. They were a mark of her courage. It was I who found her body. That monster DCK had torn it almost to shreds, leaving only her face intact for me to recognize. It was like he had done it on purpose, taunting me. Her body is covered now, but I know the truth of what lies beneath that pristine white shroud.

  A monster took her from me, and I have to find him and make him pay.

  I’ll do it, I promise her inside my head. I’ll get him for you if it is the last thing I do.

  I know that she would not be happy with this promise. She had told me to hide, to stay safe and grow strong. But I won’t cower. I can’t let him get away with what he has done.

  Unable to look at her corpse for a moment longer, I wish her a hasty goodbye in my head, and then return to the back of the church to take a seat. By myself.

  The priest begins to recite his prayers. His words should be comforting, but I am barely aware of them. I see heads turning one by one to take looks at me. I feel their eyes. They are wondering about me.

  There is a video of me on the internet that went viral. It appears to show Constantine Storm and Xander Daxx fighting over me in a plush guest bedroom at Wintersdeep Castle during Xander’s Royal Engagement Gala two years ago. It’s not the truth of course, but the millions who watched it didn’t care to know the truth. The sordid lie is more entertaining.

  The snatches of chit chat I heard earlier in the queue told me these people worked with Magda. Their heads turn more than once and I know one must have recognized me and told the others. My long pale hair is distinctive, even though I have chopped it shorter than it was. They don’t know my relationship to Magda. She had given me up for adoption when I was a baby to keep me safe. She would never have told.

  I wonder how many of them truly loved Magda. Not many, I think. She’d kept herself isolated, always fearful that she would be found and killed. Most of them must be here out of curiosity. It was big news when she was killed during Princess Caroline’s Royal Engagement Gala by no less a notorious persona than the Devil Claw Killer himself. They are probably disappointed with how normal this whole service is. Not a single member of press to speak of.

  Princess Caroline has not bothered to attend. Unless she is that stiff-backed heavily shrouded woman in the front row who has sat statue-still through the whole service and is the only one not to have turned to look at me. I doubt it. Princess Caroline likes to be seen. Hiding herself away under a veil would serve no purpose.

  That she has put any effort into organizing this funeral has come as a surprise. It is beautiful. A huge floral bouquet has been laid atop the gleaming coffin, and white floral wreaths line the central aisle leading down the middle of the pews. I am pathetically grateful for them. I could not have afforded this. Magda deserves this. All she got for her sacrifices is a daughter who serves canapes and clears tables for a living.

  A woman gets up to say some words in remembrance. She speaks of how dedicated Magda had been at her job, and she offers up an anecdote from a staff Christmas party. I listen dully, grinding my teeth. This is all Magda will be remembered for.

  When the service is over, I follow everyone out of the church, walking behind the coffin to its final resting place in the churchyard cemetery outside.

  The rain has started up again. Umbrellas go up. I do not have one. I determinedly bring up the rear, not wanting to be looked at or sought out for conversation. Remi said there would be a wake afterwards, but I cannot go to that. I stand behind the group, listening to the priest say another prayer.

  It hurts that Princess Caroline did not come. Magda was her loyal servant for over a decade, since the princess was a girl. Her absence speaks volumes about how little Magda meant to her in the end. My mother. It is so hard to think of her as my mother. As her coffin is lowered into the ground I suddenly clench my fists. I want to cry out at them to stop. I haven’t said my goodbyes yet. I still need her.

  And then a warm big hand closes over mine gently, wrapping reassuring fingers over my clenched fist. I look up at him, startled. For half a heartbeat I expect Storm. But it is Xander Daxx.

  As soon as I notice that he is here, so do others. His tall and imposing presence, that tawny lion look, makes it hard for people to not see him. Whispers spread through the group, sounding almost excited. It makes me grind my teeth. They have got what they came for. Something gossip-worthy, involving a royal, no less.

  One woman’s hand slips into her pocket towards her camera phone. A single skewering glance from Xander makes her desist. She turns away, cheeks flushed hot red.

  I pull my hand away from Xander’s. Why the hell is he even here? He puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it gently before letting it drop. He stays beside me, holding his umbrella over both of us. I wish Storm were here. And Remi. But they are not.

  When they lower Magda’s coffin into the ground, I avert my eyes, unable to watch. She hadn’t even been forty yet. Too young for this.

  “She should have lived,” I say quietly.

  Xander puts his arm around my shoulder. I let him, even though I know that people are watching and whispering. I don’t care. He’s a stranger, but I need someone to hold on to for just a moment. Yet I want to shout at him too. I want to demand to know why his fiancée did not come. How could she not care? And why did Xander bother to come?

  “Did you know Magda well?” I ask.

  “I didn’t know her at all.”

  I stiffen. “Then why are you here?”

  He looks down at me with those inscrutable grey eyes. “You know why.”

  A chill runs through me. I get the feeling that he knows Magda is my mother. I quickly look away.

  “It was you,” I murmur. “You paid for the funeral.”

  He does not correct me, and I know it is true.

  I don’t thank him because suddenly I am too angry to. I try to keep my voice from wobbling, to not make it sound personal when I say, “Your fiancée should have been here. She was one of the few people who actually knew Magda, unlike these strangers. But she didn’t give a damn. Is she really so cold-hearted? How can you marry someone like her?”

  “I have my reasons,” he murmurs, not sounding upset by my words at all.

  I wonder what reasons those could be. Shortly after their engagement gala they had postponed the wedding date, causing a frenzy of press speculation. Two years later they have still not set a new one.

  Magda’s coffin has disappeared from view into the hole. I cannot bear to watch them pile earth on top of her. I shrug Xander’s arm off and I walk away. He follows me. A car is waiting for him at the cemetery gates.

  “Do you need a lift?” he says.

  But my attention is elsewhere. Not far from the car, just inside the churchyard gates, is a man dressed in somber black. A man I’d know anywhere.

  “Storm!” I cry out, taking a few rapid steps towards him.

  Storm doesn’t move from his spot. He doesn’t come towards me. He gives Xander a cold look over my shoulder. Xander returns it. I bid Xander goodbye, feeling awkward, as if something is going on between us even though it is not. Xander’s chauffeur gets out of the car and holds open the passenger door.

  Xander lingers, his eyes seeming to see all too much. “You don’t look well.”

  “Charming,” I mutter.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “If you need anything—,”
/>   I cut him off. “I can take care of myself. Thanks.”

  “I’m sure you can.” There is amusement in his eyes. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Such politeness. I doubt I will see him again.

  After Xander is gone, I turn back to Storm. I open my mouth to thank him for coming. To say I am glad to see him. Seeing him has shaken up all sorts of old feelings inside me. I am surprised I am not trembling from the sheer tumult of them crashing around inside me.

  “You two looked cozy,” he says in a clipped distant kind of way.

  His tone flattens all the feelings bursting inside me. “I’m allowed to have friends,” I say, hurt.

  “So you’re friends now?”

  “What’s it to you? I haven’t seen you or heard from you in two years. I get that I messed up the job badly. I get that you had to fire me, but I thought we—” I cut myself off sharply.

  “You thought what?” he says.

  “Nothing,” I say, my voice coming out wobbly.

  He lets out a soft sigh. He takes a couple of steps closer to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. I gaze up at his dark eyes, with that beautiful and disconcerting wedge of brilliant green in the left one. I see sympathy, and warmth, and something welcoming, like home.

  His mere presence is comforting. It feels like he knows all my troubles without me having to tell him. He knows that I feel so alone and so lost in this big city. That I had thought life would be big and rich and full of wonders, and instead it is small and grey and constantly disappointing. That I feel adrift.

  “What can I do to help?” he says.

  Suddenly I know exactly what he can do. Everything I wanted so badly two years ago comes back to me. I can almost taste it, like old blood in my mouth.

  “You can let me help you catch DCK. I came to London for that. I can still—”

  “No, Diana,” he says gently. “That’s my job. Spend your energy focusing on building your own life. I’m sorry you lost Magda. I understand you want her killer caught, but that darkness will consume you if you let it.”

  “What would you know about that?” I ask heatedly. “She was my mother. Mine. For you it’s just a job, but for me it means more. Let me help you! Please!”

  He shakes his head. “You know why I can’t.”

  “But you thought I could be useful. You gave me the job. Please, Storm—”

  “I made a mistake,” he says heavily. “You weren’t ready. I thought because you didn't know Magda that maybe you wouldn’t be so emotionally tangled up in it, but I was wrong.”

  “But I still have visions. Dreams. I’ve been having one recently. I’ve been wanting to tell you about them.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t help you with those. But I know someone you can talk to—”

  “I don’t want to just talk. I want to do something.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I can’t just ignore them,” I snap. “I can’t turn them off like that.”

  “It’s for your own good. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  Like last time, he means, even though he leaves that part unsaid.

  “James Fenway was a predator and a murderer,” I hiss.

  He nods. He doesn't even do me the courtesy of disagreeing so that I can argue with him.

  “And I’m not some stupid child now,” I say. “I’ve learned from that mistake.”

  “Good,” he says. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  I want to shake him. I feel like we are a thousand miles apart even though we are standing so close together. I cross my arms over my chest. “Remi said you were in Paris? Been having fun, have you?”

  “It was for work,” he says. “The team is still in France. They send their condolences. I have to go back after this.”

  “I’m surprised you even came here, since we’re not friends,” I say bitterly. “Or is this work too?”

  He doesn’t say anything. His eyes flick to over my shoulder where the funeral service is wrapping up.

  “Oh my gosh,” I mutter, my cheeks flooding with hot shame.

  How incredibly stupid of me. It is work. He came because he hoped that Magda’s killer might be here, watching and relishing the grief his actions caused.

  Stunned, I turn around and scrutinize the mourners anew. Ordinary people, whom I never imagined could be DCK. The thought never even crossed my mind. Storm was right. I am not ready.

  Finally the tears that I had been so determinedly holding inside come pouring down my cheeks.

  I don’t turn back towards Storm. I can’t bear for him to see them. “Well, it was good seeing you,” I tell him in a strangled voice. “Good luck with your case.”

  “Diana,” he says, the soft note of regret in his voice only making me cry harder. His warm hand lands on my shoulder. I shrug it off and walk away.

  Chapter 4

  DIANA

  It rains all the way on my walk home from the funeral, a dreary relentless dripping that drenches the hood of my summer jacket and creeps into my collar.

  My wet misery feels appropriate. By the time I get to my neighborhood I feel completely drained. I trudge past Notting Hill tube station. This is an expensive part of town, with pristine four-storey townhouses and expensive cars outside them. I had loved it when I first moved here. It had made me feel excited about living in London. Now I wish I had chosen a cheaper location. But my rather large deposit is invested, and I can’t afford to lose it.

  Arriving at one of the immaculate looking townhouses, I let myself in. Inside, there is an entryway and a staircase leading straight up from it. The faded blue carpet and the smell of an odd cleaning fluid already feel like home. Every door on this level, and the upper ones, has a number on it. All of the rooms in this house have been converted into separate lodgings. I swiftly climb up several flights of steps to an apartment on the third level. There is no elevator.

  My sour-faced landlady comes to collect the rent every Thursday and likes to inspect the apartment to make sure I am keeping it clean. She had been here just yesterday. Her presence always makes me feel resentful. Though she is not due for another week, I am already worried that I will have to beg her to let me pay the rent late. I cannot imagine it will be a pleasant conversation.

  Stop moping, says the little voice snidely. You could have been living like a queen right now, but you chose not to.

  “I wasn’t moping,” I mutter resentfully. “And I don’t know what fantasy world you imagine we’re living in, but money doesn’t magically grow on trees.”

  Not on trees, she retorts. But there is plenty of it if you know how to get it.

  “Well I don’t,” I mutter.

  Tomorrow I am going to ask Smithers’ to release the money that I had saved up through work for Magda’s funeral. A portion of my pay packet got kept back every week. If he releases it within the next few days I can use some of it to make up the rent. The rest of it I intend to send to Xander Daxx for funeral costs. Anonymously of course.

  As I let myself into my room, a yowling AngelBeastie throws herself at me. Realising I am drenched, she hisses in complaint. I know what she wants. Most days Beastie is perfectly happy being a house cat and refuses to go out. But right now she’s decided she is sick of being cooped up here. She wants me to sneak her downstairs.

  I am not allowed to keep a pet. Whenever my landlady is here AngelBeastie resentfully deigns to hide under my bed. On days AngelBeastie does want to go out, I sneak her down on my way to work and then sneak her back in when I get home.

  Today I don’t have my usual Friday night shift at the restaurant. Luca, my boss, has closed it for a private family party for his daughter’s birthday. He didn’t need the extra staff. I dearly wish he had, despite my tiredness. I quickly strip off my damp clothes and step into a hot shower.

  My so-called studio apartment is just one room. On one side is a bed, a basin, and a shower inside a plexiglass cubicle. On the other side of the room is a small kitchenette aga
inst one wall, a little table and chair, and a small wardrobe. The decor is old and the wallpaper is peeling, and the air-freshener I need to cover up the musty smell that comes from the shower has run out. Still, it is better than the attic I used to live in at the Colton house.