Mr. Real (Code of Shadows #1) (27 page)

She reached the bottom step, grinning broadly. “You look quite dapper yourself, Sir Kendall.” She opened a small purse that matched her white belt and boots. Vinyl, all of it. “Let me make sure I have everything,” she said.

The back screen door clopped; footsteps through the mudroom. Sir Kendall braced himself as his grimy clone emerged from the kitchen wearing only jeans. The man’s chest and arms shone with dirt and sweat, his short dark hair was plastered to his forehead, and a long swipe of dirt, maybe oil, stretched like war paint all the way up from his chin to the bandage on his brow.

And his eye was still puffy. What was wrong with the poor devil? Why hadn’t his injuries healed? Did they hurt?

Alix drew in a breath at the sight of the clone, then quickly busied herself by rooting in her small purse, as though to keep herself looking anywhere but at him.

Interesting.

The clone looked her up and down with undisguised awe—of the positive sort. Apparently discriminating taste didn’t survive the cloning process. The clone continued on upstairs.

Alix pulled out a chapstick and drew it over her lips. “We need to take your car. Mine is still oil-challenged.

“Splendid,” Sir Kendall said.

The clone appeared on the landing at the middle of the staircase. Alix couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Sir Kendall couldn’t either. And why should he care whether those injuries hurt? He really ought to kill him soon.

“Where’re your towels?” Paul asked.

Alix frowned and snapped her little purse shut. “What is this, a hotel? Seems to me you have plenty of funds.”

“Can’t dry myself with cash.”

Alix huffed and stomped up to the landing where Paul stood, flung open a small closet, pulled out a towel, and shoved it into his arms.

He unfolded the towel and twirled it into a long roll in the small space between them, muscles flexing. Alix watched hungrily as he draped it over his shoulders. “Thank you,” Paul said.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Where’re you going?”

“Out,” she snapped.

“Out where?”

Alix smiled savagely. “None of your business.”

My, these two were a volatile combination! Anger, dissent, and lust among the enemy ranks.
Delicious
. Not to mention exploitable.

“We’re heading out to the supper club,” Sir Kendall called up from where he stood on the landing. “I don’t suppose you’re hungry.”

Alix finally managed to tear her eyes from the clone. “He can’t come. There’s food in the kitchen.”

“My dear, the man’s just done a full day’s worth of menial labor.”

Paul smiled. “I
could
use a nice steak.”

Alix snapped her head back around to him. “No, you couldn’t.”

“I’ll stand you dinner,” Sir Kendall said. “Go clean yourself up. We’ll wait.”

The clone lit up with annoyance at the order, then seemed to tamp himself down.

Alix descended the steps, glaring. “You can’t—”

“Ten minutes, old chap.”

Paul went up.

Alix reached the bottom. “What the hell? I can’t believe you just invited him.”

Sir Kendall smiled. He found it was easiest to prevail upon Alix when he took her by surprise. He kissed her forehead. “My dear, I hope you’ll indulge me. Come.” He went to the kitchen, heard her follow behind. He poured them each a glass of wine.

She said, “I don’t want him along.”

“You know what they say about keeping your enemies close.” He handed her a glass, swirled the liquid in his own. “I know of only one reason Hyko would clone me: so that the man might eventually take my place. Clones aren’t made for sport. I must know him, and that’s all there is to it. You can’t blame me, can you? Wouldn’t you insist on the same if you were me?”

“He’s not going to take your place.” She seemed to believe this completely.

“What’s his purpose then?”

She shrugged. “Just to be.”

The desperate feeling was creeping back. He didn’t like it. They finished their wine and sauntered out to the front driveway. Sir Kendall opened the passenger door and she got in.

“You putting Paul on the hood, or what?”

“You’ll see.” He gunned the engine and honked.

Paul came out the door wearing jeans, though less holey than the previous pair, and a deep red shirt, a color Sir Kendall himself favored; red tended to look good with his hair.

“Where am I supposed to ride, the hood?”

“A five minute spin,” Sir Kendall said. “Surely you can take Alix on your lap.”

Paul and Alix glared at each other.
Splendid
. If they didn’t want to be thrown together, best to throw them together.

“I don’t mind,” Sir Kendall said. “She’ll hardly go in for the copy now.” In fact, he was banking on just the opposite; the closer and more emotional their bond, the better. They clearly had a history of some kind. He could use them to break each other.

Connections made you vulnerable.

Alix got out of the passenger seat with a smirk. Paul gave her a stern look and sat, and then she sat on his lap and shut the door.

Sir Kendall gunned the engine and roared down the long drive.

“So what kind of car is this?” Paul asked. “A foppish ascot?”

Alix snickered.

Sir Kendall frowned. Paul would pay for that. “It’s an Alfa Romeo Spyder,” he bit out.

Sir Kendall had never seen anything quite like the Malcolmsberg Supper Club, which struck him as a cross between a mockery of a German castle and the hunting lodge of a halfwit. Mottled glass globes hung from decorative chains, throwing a ghastly glow onto the dark wood tables and chairs. Glossy walls of faux wood paneling were adorned with deer heads whose fur looked vaguely moth-eaten, and souvenir German plaques exhorted the frumpy patrons to drink and be merry.

The hostess came up to her stand, found their name on her list, and scowled. “I only have you down for two.” She looked back and forth between him and Paul.

Sir Kendall gave the woman a seductive smile. “Well, as you can see, my arch enemy has seen fit to clone me, and here my clone showed up without notice, and, well, look at him, all beaten up. Can we honestly let this poor devil go without supper?” The hostess laughed at his little joke, and nearly fainted when he handed her the fifty from Paul’s truck.

She turned to Paul. “You poor clone.”

Paul shrugged. “He’s the do-over, not me. I’m the one they got perfect.”

She smiled and led them to a table for four. A red, stained-glass candleholder glowed in the center of the table, next to a basket of crackers that were individually wrapped in cellophane. They ordered drinks from an elderly waitress with unfeasibly tall hair and white earrings the size of gumballs. Sir Kendall added an order of frog’s legs to start them off. “I hear they’re excellent here,” he said.

The waitress beamed at him. “You heard right.” She asked him where he was from, and he offered his usual reply about the south of England. Idyllic pasturelands and all that. So then why couldn’t he remember more of his childhood? It had never mattered, but now he desperately wanted to recall just one little detail. A toy. A book.

Why was he different? What was he not seeing?

He felt Paul studying him. “Where are you from, Paul?” he asked once the waitress had departed.

Paul flicked a hard glance at Alix. “Clones are from test tubes, are they not?”

Paul knew something. They both knew something. Was it about the launch or something else? “And where was the test tube located, old chap?”

Sir Kendall could see from the frenetic way Paul unwrapped a pack of crackers that the term still jarred him greatly. “Ohio,” he said.

“Ah.” Upsetting him was almost too easy. Sir Kendall reached over and touched Alix’s hand, watched the planes of Paul’s face harden. “Do pass the basket.”

She passed the basket of crackers. Sir Kendall took a pack and passed the basket back. If he could get Paul unbalanced enough, the man might give him something.

“Do you know how old you are?”

“Twenty-nine,” Paul said.

“Touché.” Sir Kendall smiled. “When did you appear? Two years ago? Four?”

Alix snickered softly. She sat up and planted her fists on her hips. “My name is Puma Reinhardt, and I’m four years old!”

Paul smiled. He seemed to find her brand of humor funny.

The waitress delivered their drinks. Bottles of beer for Alix and Paul, Denali neat for him. Paul grabbed his beer and took a healthy swig. Well, he’d need more reinforcement than that.

“You really are going to have to work on that accent, old chap.”

The vein in Paul’s neck became slightly more defined. “Actually, I don’t have to work on it.”

“Suit yourself,” Sir Kendall replied.

Alix snorted. “Don’t worry, he will.” She pointed out notable locals, such as the mayor, who dined with his family in the corner. She related a number of townie anecdotes; she seemed to want to monopolize the conversation. Paul practically inhaled his beer and ordered another when the waitress came back to deliver their frog’s legs and take their dinner orders. Once she left, he went for the complimentary pickle and olive plate.

“Really, you
are
joking,” Sir Kendall said.

Paul looked up, face flushed. “What?” The word came out hot. Good God, it was as if the very sound of his voice set his clone off.

“One never shakes out his napkin before placing it in one’s lap; you are to unfold it. And you don’t eat right out of a common dish, you transfer the contents you desire to your side plate.”

Paul finished munching his pickle, washed it down with beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he turned his eyes squarely to Sir Kendall, like a pair of lasers locking onto a target.

With flat-out hate.

A tense silence bore down on the table.

“Wow! This is so fun,” Alix said.

More silence.

Casually, Sir Kendall lifted his Denali and sipped, relishing the emotions rolling off the clone. “Word to the wise, old chap,” he said. “The outside one’s your salad fork. I don’t see how you’ll ever replace me convincingly.”

Alix smiled over at Paul. “Doesn’t know his salad fork. Sad Puma!” Again she planted her fists on her hips. “Puma’s only four years old.”

She was always playing at something, this girl.

Dimples deepened in Alix’s cheeks as Paul eyed her. Then she looked down; a clumsy attempt to hide how she sparkled for him.

How had he not seen it before?

She loved the man. This clone.

It was possible she didn’t realize it herself, but Sir Kendall knew women. He glanced at Paul. Did it go both ways? How could it be?

The waitress came and passed around salads.

Sir Kendall slid a hand around Alix’s shoulder, traced circles with his fingertips on her bare skin, eyeing Paul. “What do you think of our girl’s outfit?”

Clone Paul shrugged and cut a tomato in half.

“Oh, don’t give me that. Surely you’re impressed.”

Paul shot him a dark look. “There’s no end to you, is there?”

“Christ, you guys,” Alix said, removing his hand from her shoulder. “I’m the one who said this was a bad idea. But now that we’re here at the restaurant, maybe let’s try and not act like freaks. Pass the salt, would you?”

Paul passed the salt, and Alix salted her salad profusely. Nervous. She wasn’t typically a big salter.

She said, “You guys are going to be so mad you didn’t order the duck. I’ll let you taste mine if you goddamn behave.”

“You’re not even impressed with the necklace?” Sir Kendall continued. “That’s a king’s ransom in rubies she’s wearing there.”

“No, it’s not.” She stabbed a cucumber. “It’s expensive, but not a king’s ransom.”

“What do you think, clone?”

“The lady says it’s not,” Paul said.

“My dear sir, you must never take a lady’s word for her age or the quality of her jewels. If you’re ever to take my place, you must remember that.” He turned to Alix. “And you, my pet, are either lying or greatly deceived.” He reached over to touch the necklace—and her. He did it for Paul’s benefit, but a chill came over him as he fingered the piece, turning the center stone from side to side. The rubies were far more exquisite than he’d thought at first glance, quite possibly the most exquisite gems he’d ever seen. “Great rubies have a certain mild brilliance, a velvety quality of light. What you have here is the finest collection of stones I’ve seen inside or outside of a palace—or a museum, for that matter. The minuteness of the inclusions, bright scattering, the florescence, and the stones matched as they are? My god, that’s easily ten million dollars draped around your neck, my dear. Possibly twenty,” he added.

He dropped the necklace and found her staring at him, stunned. Had she honestly thought the piece cheap? She placed her hand at her throat. “This is a ninety-thousand dollar necklace.”

Sir Kendall laughed. “I’d put the center stone alone up there with the Mandalay Ruby. In a heartbeat.” In this he was perfectly frank—he’d seen rubies that size, but not that quality. It seemed impossible that they’d exist without being known. “Wherever did you come by it?”

“Um…a gift. In a way.”

From Hyko? No, this was beyond Hyko. These rubies…they were impossible.

“I suppose it’s all quite subjective,” she said. “With gems.”

She couldn’t be more wrong. “Care for a fresh drink, my dear?”

“Sure,” she said.

“I’ll take a beer,” Paul said.

Sir Kendall excused himself and strolled across the restaurant to the bar. He needed another Denali—a double—and he didn’t want to wait for Tall Hair.

Up at the bar, he slid his hands over the heavily varnished wood, waiting for the bartender, who was busy at the other end.

Near priceless rubies on this trashy girl, his face on an American brawler, the lawn statues, the deadly attacks that never materialized, the chaos of meaningless details. And what history were these two concealing? He’d find out.

If Paul wasn’t so badly beaten up, Sir Kendall could impersonate him with Alix, or the clone’s fighter friend, Tonio. He could kill the clone and penetrate Hyko’s organization. The idea of killing Paul bothered him, but that was just more reason to do it.