Mirror, Mirror Read online

  #1 New York Times Bestselling Author

  J. D. ROBB

  “One of the most prolific and bestselling authors writing today.”

  —Fort Worth Star-Telegram

  “Held me spellbound from the first page to the last.”

  —MyShelf.com

  National Bestselling Authors

  MARY BLAYNEY

  “Witty prose . . . simply superb.”

  —Booklist

  “Compelling.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  ELAINE FOX

  “An exciting new talent!”

  —Patricia Gaffney

  “One of the best-written, original, and fun novels to come across my desk in ages!”

  —M. L. Gamble

  MARY KAY MCCOMAS

  “Inventive . . . spins an introspective and irresistible story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A remarkable talent.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  R. C. RYAN

  “Characters created by R. C. Ryan are unforgettable.”

  —Huntress Reviews

  “These not-to-be-missed books are guaranteed to warm your heart!”

  —Fresh Fiction

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  MIRROR, MIRROR

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the authors

  Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  “Taken in Death” by J. D. Robb copyright © 2013 by Nora Roberts.

  “If Wishes Were Horses” copyright © 2013 by Mary Blayney.

  “Beauty, Sleeping” copyright © 2013 by Elaine Fox.

  “The Christmas Comet” copyright © 2013 by Mary Kay McComas.

  “Stroke of Midnight” by R. C. Ryan copyright © 2013 by Ruth Ryan Langan.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

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  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-10161536-2

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / October 2013

  Cover photographs: Mirror: Rufous / Shutterstock; Smoke: A’lya / Shutterstock; Background: Attitude / Shutterstock.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  CONTENTS

  TAKEN IN DEATH

  J. D. ROBB

  IF WISHES WERE HORSES

  MARY BLAYNEY

  BEAUTY, SLEEPING

  ELAINE FOX

  THE CHRISTMAS COMET

  MARY KAY MCCOMAS

  STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

  R. C. RYAN

  TAKEN IN DEATH

  J. D. ROBB

  In memory of Tom Langan,

  a one-in-a-million hero

  When a child fell into her power,

  she killed it, cooked and ate it,

  and that was a feast day with her.

  THE BROTHERS GRIMM

  Good and evil we know in the field

  of this world grow up

  together almost inseparably.

  JOHN MILTON

  PROLOGUE

  The evil witch killed Darcia. Henry knew it because he’d seen Darcia on the floor, and all the blood. He’d wanted to shout and cry and run. He’d wanted to fight, a brave warrior, a knight in battle, like the hero in his favorite stories. But he couldn’t. Everything felt funny and sleepy and wrong. He knew he was under a spell. The evil witch’s magic spell.

  And when he looked at Gala, his twin sister, her eyes were like the blue glass in the vase with white flowers on the table.

  The evil witch had cast a spell on them so they were like the zombies in his vid game, so he and Gala just shuffled along and the words he wanted to say came out like low, creepy moans.

  The spell made his head feel thick and too big. And under the spell he was really scared.

  She made them wait, the evil witch, while she packed stuff in their special going-on-a-trip bags. Waiting, he thought the spell started to lift. Though his head still felt big and thick, he remembered the secret in his pocket.

  The witch took them out of the house, and told them to get in the back of the car, to lie down, to sleep.

  He wanted to run away, to grab Gala’s hand and run, but the spell made him get in the car. They lay down together, Henry and Gala, and shivering, held each other close.

  Maybe the witch would take them to a dungeon or a tower and lock them up. But he didn’t sleep because he had the secret, and something he could do. If he could just say the words.

  When the witch said, “We’re going to have such fun! We’re going to live in a special place made of sugar plums and chocolate icing,” he didn’t believe her.

  He saw a tear slide down Gala’s cheek, and he tried to comfort her inside their minds.

  I’ll protect you, Gala. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.

  We’ll protect each other, her mind said to his.

  He wanted to cry, too, but he had to be brave. He had to take care of his sister, and find the way home again.

  Because evil witches lied. Even when they looked like Mommy.

  CHAPTER ONE

  In her long leather coat, her choppy brown hair wind-blown, Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood in the sprawling living space of a three-story town house on the upper-crust of the East Side. The dead woman wore blood-soaked pajamas covered with dancing puppy dogs. She lay on her back, one arm flung overhead. The blood trail and spatter told the tale, clearly.

  But for now Dallas gave the uniform standing by the go-ahead.

  “The nine-one-one caller states she’s a friend of the victim. She identifies same as Darcia Jordan. The wit—Elena Cortez—and the vic are nannies. The vic’s employers—”

  “If she’s a nanny, where are the kids? Is this her residence or place of employment?”

  “Ah, both, sir. She works for Ross and Tosha MacDermit, who own the place. We did a search through, didn’t find any kids. No sign of struggle or disturbance anywhere but here. But there is indication some clothes and toys were packed up, taken out. Two kids, one male, one female. Twins, age seven.”

  “Peabody.” Dallas turned to her partner. “Get their names, descriptions, photos out now. Get the Amber Alert out, now.”

  “Lieutenant, the parents are, according to the wit, on vacation. We haven’t been able to contact them, so it’s possible the kids are with them. It didn’t seem like—”

  “I don’t care what it seems like or doesn’t
to you, Officer. The nanny’s dead and the kids are unaccounted for.”

  “But protocol—” The cold fire on her face had him dropping that ball.

  “They’ve got a security cam on the door. I want the disc. Keep the witness close. I’ll speak to her shortly.” Turning her back, Eve stepped to the body. Opening her field kit, she verified identification first.

  “Victim is identified as Jordan, Darcia, age twenty-nine. Single, no offspring. Employed by Ross and Tosha MacDermit, as Parental Assistant. Is that the new term for nanny? The victim has multiple stab wounds. Throat, right shoulder, chest. Defensive wounds on the palm of the right hand, on the right forearm.”

  Frowning, she eased the neck of the ruined pajama top down slightly. “Hell. There’s a small pentagram carved just above her heart. Shallow cuts, but a clear pattern. Possible ritual slaying.”

  She used her gauge to determine time of death. “TOD, straight-up midnight.”

  “Alert’s out.”

  Eve nodded at Peabody. “Take a look.”

  Bending down, Peabody studied the occult symbol. “Crap. You think ritual?”

  “I think the killer took the time to cut this into the vic.”

  Peabody, her square face full of worry, glanced toward the stairs. “I’m going to do another search. Kids hide.”

  “Go ahead. Closets, cabinets, under beds.” And remembering another young survivor, added, “Bathtubs, showers.” Standing again, she scanned the area.

  “A lot of valuables, electronics, easily portable. Check for jewelry, cash,” she called out to Peabody, then took the disc the uniform brought her.

  She popped it into the living area’s wall screen. “Run disc,” she ordered, “begin twenty-three thirty. Scanning speed.”

  All quiet, she thought, studying the camera view of the entrance, the sidewalk and street beyond. Just an ordinary fall evening heading to the end of 2060 in an upper-class East Side neighborhood.

  At time stamp twenty-three fifty-four, she saw the late-model, black, four-door sedan slide to the curb.

  “Freeze image, enhance. Run that plate,” she snapped to the uniform. “Continue, standard speed.”

  She watched the woman—tall, curvy, blonde, late thirties, long black coat, high boots—get out of the car, cross the sidewalk to the entrance door.

  She flicked a glance up, toward the camera, smiled—slyly. And rang the bell.

  “Lieutenant—”

  Eve held up a finger to silence the uniform, watched the woman speak. A lip reader might get the words, even though the woman turned her face. Then she smiled again, stepped forward out of range.

  “Scanning speed.”

  In her mind, Eve saw what happened inside, away from the camera. A strike out with the knife, catching the throat. A step or stumble back, a hand thrown up. Another strike with the knife, cutting the hand, the arm, the shoulder, driving the victim back. Two hacks into the chest, and the coup de grace, the second, killing slice of the throat.

  And using the tip of the knife, after death, to mark the dead.

  She slowed the run again when the woman—red coat now, a large travel tote over each arm—led two absurdly pretty redheaded kids with glazed eyes out of the house.

  They went without protest, swaying toward each other like miniature drunks, and climbed in the backseat. After stowing the totes in the trunk, the woman slid behind the wheel.

  Eve clearly saw the woman throw back her head and laugh before she pulled away.

  “Vehicle data, Officer.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s the thing. The car is registered to Ross and Tosha MacDermit. And that woman, sir? That’s Tosha MacDermit.” She held out his PPC, showing Eve the woman’s photo and ID data.

  “I recognized her from when we accessed the data to try to contact. That’s the vic’s employer, Lieutenant. That’s the mother.”

  “Why didn’t she let herself in? Why kill the nanny instead of telling her to get out? Does the wit know where she and the husband are?”

  “Not exactly. A second honeymoon deal. An island, maybe South Seas. She wasn’t sure. She was pretty hysterical.”

  Employers, Eve thought, and brought up the data on her own PPC, began to scan.

  The wife was employed by the UN as an interpreter, held dual citizenship, and that would require some untangling of red tape. Husband, a self-employed artist.

  “Start a canvass, Officer. Knock on doors. Find out where the MacDermits are supposed to be, when they left, when they’re due back. Find out if anyone saw her come home last night. If they keep their car on the street or in a garage. Get some answers.”

  “No sign of the kids,” Peabody said as she started downstairs. “No sign of burglary—a lot of visible valuables up there. I found this.” She held up a long black coat. “In the master closet. It looks like bloodstains. Smells like blood.”

  “It would. The killer wore it while stabbing the nanny. Left that behind, traded coats. Bag and tag. The security disc shows the mother arriving about six minutes before TOD, ringing the bell.”

  Peabody, bending over to pull an evidence bag from her kit, jerked back up. “The mother, but—”

  Eve gestured to the screen, backtracked, zoomed in on Tosha MacDermit’s face.

  “That’s the mother. And here . . .” Zipping forward, she ran the section showing her leading the two children out.

  “Why kill the nanny?” Peabody wondered. “An affair with the husband?”

  “An always popular theme.” Thumbs tucked in her belt loops, Eve took another hard scan of the room, the blood patterns, the body. “She may have done him, too, elsewhere. Kill the cheaters, take the kids, and leave. But she doesn’t take any valuables?”

  “Done with them,” Peabody suggested, “done with the cheaters? She could hit, or have already hit their financials. At least it’s really unlikely the kids are in any danger. She’s their mother.”

  “Look at them.” Eve zoomed in again on each pretty face. “That’s not just getting-woken-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night groggy. Look at the pupils, at the way they walk.”

  “Drugged?”

  “They had to walk out the front door, which means walking right by the nanny’s dead and bloody body. I’d think that might cause a little bit of upset. Instead, they look . . . slack, empty.”

  “Maybe she gave them something so they wouldn’t get upset, give her any trouble—maybe not even really understand the body and blood.”

  “Maybe. She’s an interpreter for the UN. We need to start pushing there. He’s a freelance artist.”

  “Sculptor primarily, if the third-floor studio’s any indication. A good one, too. Fairy-tale stuff with an edge.”

  “We need to find out where they went, where they are, and if the husband’s still alive. Let’s take the wit outside. Grab the disc, log and seal.”

  She stepped outside into the stiff breeze that tugged at her coat. It skimmed back through her hair and chilled her hands. She never remembered gloves until it was too late.

  Bystanders gathered just outside the sidewalk barricades. She scanned them with eyes the color of good Irish whiskey, and cop flat. And spotted the witness in the back of a black-and-white.

  “If she’s hysterical,” she told her partner, “you take the lead.”

  But Elena Cortez’s hysteria had shifted to watery shock and grief. She stepped out of the car, wringing a damp cloth hankie in her hands.

  “I’m Lieutenant Dallas, Ms. Cortez, and this is Detective Peabody. Tell us what happened.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. I came with the children—”

  “The children.”

  “Sasha and Mica. I’m their nanny. They’re friends with Henry and Gala, and Darcia . . . Darcia and I . . . we’re friends.” She sucked her breath in three times as she pressed the hankie to her mouth. “Good friends.”

  Fat tears spilled out, down her thin face. “We walk them to school together, and I waited on the corner, down there”—she pointed so
uth—“but she didn’t come. And it was cold, so I took the children to school, and I came back to see what happened. She didn’t answer when I texted her, so I came to see. Maybe she’s sick, I thought, or one of the children. She wouldn’t forget. We walk them every day to school, and the MacDermits are away.”

  “Where away?”

  “I— Somewhere warm and important and romantic. They come back tomorrow. They have their tenth anniversary. It’s a special trip.”

  “Okay, what happened when you came back here, to see?”

  “She didn’t answer. I worried a little. I don’t know why I did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “I tried the door. I don’t know why, it’s always locked, but it was . . . impulse? I don’t know, but it wasn’t locked. I just pushed it open, and I called out. I stepped in, just a little. I saw blood, then I saw Darcia. I saw her on the floor, with the blood.”

  She pressed both hands to her face. “I should have gone in, looked for the children, but I shut the door, very fast, and I called nine-one-one. I started to run first, but I called nine-one-one, and they said to stay. So I stayed.”

  “You did exactly right,” Peabody told her gently, as the tears fell faster, faster.

  “The children? Did he hurt the children?”

  “The children aren’t hurt, as far as we know. Elena,” Peabody continued, “do you know anyone who’d want to hurt Darcia?”

  “No. No. No one.”

  “How did she get along with her employers?” Eve asked.

  “They’re family. She’s been with them since the twins were babies.”

  “Did she have . . . a special relationship with Mr. MacDermit?”

  The insinuation went over Elena’s head as she smiled a little. “She loved him. He’s such a nice man. A big kid, she said sometimes. When I bring the children over, he always makes us laugh. He’s a very important artist, but he’s very nice. And a very good father. Not all men are such good fathers.”

  Eve had reason to know the truth of that.

  “And his relationship with his wife?” Eve asked.