《The Noblelady Detective》


 Prologue

    It was truly quite simple what was happening to Ericka Elayne. She was in the act of dying.


    No, that was far too passive a word to properly explain what she was going through.


    She was being murdered.


    Yes, that was the right phrase.


    Murdered by the very serial killer she had spent weeks and months profiling and tracking down, until it was as if she knew him better than she knew her own parents.


    She¡¯d known going undercover, disguised as the kind of prostitute she knew he loved to target the most, had been risky in more ways than one, and over the past month she had arrested more men soliciting services than anything else. Tonight, she¡¯d thought to herself, would be no different.


    Until she laid eyes on him, a man with wavy black hair, nearly six feet tall, approximately 160 pounds, wearing the clothes of the upper class. When she walked up to him and began to talk to him, she instantly knew he was nobility of some kind. The son of a wealthy businessman, most likely. He was not the first man she¡¯d thought matched her profile, but he was the first to match it so exactly.


    Too exactly, she now knew.


    He¡¯d disabled her quickly. In the split second she had turned her back to him and began to lure him back to her apartment to arrest him, he had suddenly grabbed her by the back of the neck and slammed her forehead first into the brick wall.


    She had known he was a bold man, impulsive and bloodthirsty, but she hadn¡¯t thought he would be so brash as to hurt her in the first dark alleyway she led him down, where anyone could spot the two of them.


    It¡¯s truly pure, dumb luck that he hasn¡¯t been caught yet, she thought foggily, her mind groggy and strange from blood loss, the crimson liquid pouring into her eyes.


    When she had fallen, the dark wig she¡¯d worn had slipped off of her head, revealing the short red tresses she¡¯d been hiding.


    ¡°A cop, are we?¡± she¡¯d heard him hiss angrily, and despite herself, she mentally protested against his accusation. She was a private investigator, thank you very much. Not a policewoman.


    But she hadn¡¯t been able to verbalize such thoughts, not when he grabbed her around the waist and threw her on her back while covering her mouth to muffle her screams, all while tearing out his blade, a large butcher¡¯s knife.


    She had expected him to rape her like he usually did with his other victims. That was his MO: incapacitate the prostitutes by inducing a head injury, rape them, then kill them by stabbing them to death and tearing out their organs.


    But he didn¡¯t, not this time.


    ¡°Damned cop,¡± he growled with each stab he took. ¡°Making my job so bloody difficult, damn it.¡± Even while in the act of murdering another human being, he was still speaking like someone raised in the upper echelons.


    It briefly occurred to Ericka, even as her vision darkened around the corners, that this was her best possible chance to profile him, even though she knew such observations would be completely useless. Nobody could survive this many stab wounds.


    He was a messy killer, she noted, as he struck her in the ribcage. No medical experience. Even though he had killed over five women, six if you counted her, he killed as if he had next to no experience.


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    He was frantic and angry. Angry at women in general. The way he was muttering, he found prostitutes and police officers equally filthy, how interesting.


    Her thoughts began to dissolve, becoming less organized. Her heartbeat was steadily slowing, but increasing in loudness.


    The man rose from above her, emanating the stench of blood. Her blood. Carelessly, he took out a handkerchief and swiped it up and down the blade, splattering her with the liquid.


    He said something to her, but she did not make out what he was saying. His voice was too far away, too blurry.


    And then she opened her eyes, seeing nothing but darkness, and heard a voice wailing, ¡°Oh, somebody, somebody, please save me, I don¡¯t want to die, not like this!¡±


    Neither do I, Ericka found herself thinking bitterly. Nobody wants to die.


    But somehow, that strange voice, she heard it whisper back to her, ¡°Please help me, not like this, please¡­¡±


    Against her better judgement, Ericka found herself reaching out towards the voice, and suddenly, a hand grabbed hers in return. The grip was tight as a vice.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± the voice told her, and suddenly pain erupted in Ericka¡¯s lungs, burning and hot. She took one deep breath after another, it was as if she hadn¡¯t breathed in years.


    ¡°Calandra!¡± She heard a voice, a different voice, cry out in relief. ¡°Oh thank god, oh thank god, you¡¯re alive.¡±


    Ericka did not have the chance to wonder who this Calandra girl was before she became acutely aware of the taste on her tongue. A bitter, but slightly salty taste, and above that, an almost overpowering flavor of pure sugar.


    She knew this taste, she knew it well, from years ago, when she was a new private eye, testing herself with poisons, forcing herself to improve immunity.


    Meave. A bitter poison that with just the right amount of sugar, could be explained as a flavoring in tea or cakes, and usually, when consumed in a high enough dosage, was utterly fatal.


    ¡°Poison!¡± she found herself croaking out, but the voice that came from between her lips was one she did not recognize. Instead of the smoky, almost masculine voice she had, this was high and clear, an actress¡¯ voice, a singer¡¯s voice. Feminine and young.


    ¡°What?¡± that other voice asked, and slowly, Ericka¡¯s vision started to swim into place.


    She was in a lavender room, she quickly noted. Lavender with soft pastel pink colors, and pale minty blue. Very pretty, but judging by the chandelier and canopy over her bed, expensive.


    This was not Ericka¡¯s room, and certainly no hospital room she could afford. No, this had to be some wealthy girl¡¯s home, an upper class woman, or¡­


    Ericka gulped.


    Even nobility.


    She turned to face the woman sitting next to her, an older woman with frizzy gray hair pulled away to show a kindly, heart shaped face.


    ¡°A mirror,¡± she gasped, and the woman blinked.


    ¡°Beg pardon, Lady Calandra?¡± she asked softly.


    ¡°I need a mirror¡­¡± Ericka trailed off, realizing she did not know this woman¡¯s name.


    Maude, a voice, the voice Ericka had heard in the strange darkness, whispered in her ear.


    ¡°Ms. Maude,¡± Ericka finished, and the woman¡¯s eyes widened as if she had never heard that name before. It made Ericka¡¯s stomach dip, but then she smiled at her.


    ¡°One moment, my lady,¡± she told her as she rose from her seat before returning with a hand held mirror.


    Ericka could not believe her eyes as she took the mirror from Maude.


    For the girl in the mirror now was not the woman Ericka usually saw. She did not see her short red hair, her soft face, or brown eyes.


    She saw blue tinted lavender hair and a thin, delicate face and green eyes, all on the face of a girl that had to be around seventeen or eighteen at the very most.


    This was too real to be a dream, and besides, Ericka never lucid dreamed. Just the very thought was enough to tell her this was her reality.


    This led her to one strange conclusion.


    That she had died and been brought back to life, but inside the wrong body.


    The body of a noblewoman.

 Chapter One: The Final Profile of a Killer

    Memories flooded into Ericka¡¯s skull that very moment, memories that did not belong to her. They belonged to Calandra, the girl whose body she was now inhabiting. She saw faces and heard voices and felt the oddest sensations prickling over her flesh.


    Vomit rose in her throat but she managed to swallow it back just long enough to beckon for a trash can or bowl of some sort. Maude seemed to instinctively understand what she wanted to say, and obediently handed her a gigantic, thankfully empty golden bowl for her to throw up in.


    After she was done emptying her stomach of any poison that remained, Ericka leaned back and exhaled, trying not to say anything as her mind accepted these memories and familiarized itself with Calandra¡¯s speech patterns. She had no desire to slip up and say something only Ericka Elayne would say.


    Like it or not, Ericka¡¯s body and identity were well and truly dead.


    She hastily swallowed, trying to soothe her dry throat and keep herself from crying. All of her hard work that she had done for the past five years was gone. Every piece of information she collected, every photograph took, every sleepless night, all of it has been in vain. It had only led to an early death at the age of 23, stabbed and mutilated in a dark alley, and if she was right and he had destroyed her face after her body had died¡­


    Whoever found her would not know they had found the body of a young, hopeful private investigator.


    All they would see would be The Slicer¡¯s latest prostitute victim.


    Her thoughts strayed to Doyle and Stout, the only two police officers she knew of who were honest. Would they be able to identify her? Would they open up a missing persons file? Would they investigate, would they even care? Or had they only seen her as a ticket, their easy way to solve annoyingly difficult or boring cases?


    Ericka hated how she immediately thought about these sorts of things. They were useless and silly, and would do nothing to help her actually identify the man who killed her.


    Right now, she needed to sniff and wipe her nose, dry her eyes, and find a notepad to write the updated profile on.


    ¡°Ms. Maude?¡± she asked again in that alien voice.


    ¡°What is it, my dear?¡±


    ¡°May I¡­may I have a cup of tea? Mild tea, for my throat. And some water.¡±


    Ms. Maude nearly leapt to her feet in an instant. ¡°Of course, Lady Calandra! I shall return post haste.¡± Then, with remarkable energy for a middle aged woman, she almost sprinted out of the bedroom, leaving Ericka alone to collect herself.


    She wiped her nose with a handkerchief that was on her bedside table, and then began the difficult process of getting out of bed.


    Automatically, she knew this body was different, painfully so, from the one she was used to. This body was smaller and weaker. It didn¡¯t seem as though she had ingested too much poison either, otherwise it would certainly be dead.


    The legs were short, thin, and frail. Even though she didn¡¯t weigh much, they struggled to keep her upright as she got out of the bed. And as she started to walk to her desk, where she instinctively knew there was a notepad and diary to write her profile on, they wobbled and threatened to collapse and send her tumbling to the floor.


    But slowly, she made her way towards the desk. As she walked, however, she became painfully aware of the many, many differences and changes this body had that she was completely unused to.


    This body had long, straight hair that came to her waist, while Ericka had cut her red hair short and feathery. Where Ericka was flat all the way down, this girl had breasts and hips. And she was so small; Ericka knew she had been tall for a woman at five feet eight inches, but this body seemed uniquely tiny and frail.


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    Finally, she managed to get to her desk, and Ericka settled down into her chair with a soft sigh. Her body ached so much from just this tiny walk; either Calandra was horribly out of shape, or the poison truly had almost killed her.


    It¡¯s the latter, the voice snapped in her ear.


    Is that you, Calandra? Ericka found herself thinking back.


    Who else would it be?


    So you¡¯re not completely dead, are you?


    Not yet, but almost. I haven¡¯t the faintest how long I can linger inside your head. Apologies.


    Ericka shrugged and cracked her neck. Well, it¡¯s better than being left utterly alone in this strange world, I suppose.


    Then she pulled out the drawer where a notepad lay next to a diary.


    Don¡¯t you dare read my diary, Calandra snipped at her.


    I already have all of your memories, Ericka thought back as she picked the book up. What does it matter if I read your diary? Could help me pretend to be you more.


    At that, Calandra had nothing to say.


    Ericka flipped to the first empty page of the diary, supposing that writing a profile here would be safer than writing one on a barefaced notepad.


    Let¡¯s see here, she thought to herself as she began to write down the basics.


    He was almost six feet tall, average weight with black hair. The gas lamps had been dim that night, Gardener Lane was never well funded due to the red light district, and their requests for better lighting had gone unnoticed for years, so she hadn¡¯t gotten a good look at his face, she just knew he had a pleasant one that hid his ill intentions.


    His clothes had been black and red for the most part, but she thought she¡¯d seen a little purple, only emphasizing his noble status.


    She remembered how angry he had been, at women, but he seemed to choose prostitutes to kill not for their profession, but because they were easy pickings and less likely to be investigated seriously. He also hated the police for some reason, how strange considering the police were mostly there to protect the lives and property of nobility.


    He killed like an amateur. He must have been the type to feel the itch to kill and just head out and choose the first woman who fit his type. Barely planning anything, only the bare minimum to not get caught.


    Or was he so sloppy because he wanted to be caught? Did he find the policemen stupid for being unable to find him, even when he left strands of hair and fingerprints and semen and sometimes his own blood at the scene? Forensic science was a new art, imperfect in its brand newness, but even so, Ericka found it ridiculous that they couldn¡¯t find a match for any of his DNA.


    Was his anger at the police due to their inability to find him, arrest him, stop him?


    No, he felt no remorse for his actions. The way he stabbed and tore out the organs of the women he assaulted said enough.


    His family¡­he was not an only child. He was closer to his father than to his mother. His sibling could be a full sibling or perhaps a half sibling. The gender was one she could not tell, they could easily be male or female.


    So, in short, he was a handsome member of the upper class, likely rather entitled due to his wealth and looks. He had a feeling of superiority over other people, especially lower class women, and a lot of rage and anger that his upper class status would not permit him to express.


    A pathetic man who could not control his anger and emotions. Or more accurately, someone who bottled his emotions, does it daily, and is still surprised when it explodes every time.


    Ericka leaned back in her chair. There he was, her mysterious Slicer who had been terrorizing women she knew and were friends with for the past half year. Being murdered by him herself might have been the best possible thing to happen to her in a long while. She now had a portrait of him that no one, no private investigator, no police officer, had.


    And now she was even part of the same class as he was.


    Ericka grinned.


    Now, she truly would be the one to find him. How poetic was that? The woman he killed would be the one to track him down and throw him into jail to rot for his sins.


    She couldn¡¯t wait.