Page 37 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

A deep sigh. “You do know I could—” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Move the blade off my throat. That is all.”

I do, and he lets out a long exhale, as if relaxing, and I think it’s because of the knife, but then he starts to shift. To shift and yet… not shift, if that makes any sense. His form stays as it is, but everything else morphs. His eyes are a kaleidoscope of changing colors, not all of them natural. His hair stays tied back, but it’s in the same constant state of change, from brown to white to red to the sort of startling blue I’ve only ever seen on birds. His skin color changes from brown to pale to dark, and then the skin itself changes, sometimes human, sometimes scaled, some times feathered.

The last startles me enough that it’s a good thing I don’t still have that blade to his throat. He gives a low chuckle and holds that shape for a moment so I can get a better look. The feathers – like the scales – are tiny, leaving his body still humanoid in appearance.

Another chuckle. “I cannot fly,” he says. “Well, not looking like this. I can, of course, change into a bird.” His eyes hold mine, as if trying to convey a message, but when I do not react, he only sighs and returns to his human form.

“That is my natural shape,” he promises. “Male.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I could show you the positive proof, but we are not yet acquainted enough for that. The point is that—”

“You claim that is your natural shape, but how do I know it? The fact remains that I found you outside the scene of a young woman’s murder. With blood on your boots and a story about being in the market long after it closed.”

His mouth opens. Then he shuts it and eyes me again, that long and searching look. When he pulls back, he shakes his head.

“You are convinced,” he says. “I am a monster, and therefore, I am a killer.”

“There are no more killers among monsters than among humans. But the evidence—”

“I showed you my true form, and you did not accept it.”

“Because you are a doppelgänger,” I say. “You shift forms.”

“If I show you the blood on my boots, can you tell whether it’s human?”

“No, but—”

“If I provide an alibi, can you confirm exactly when that young woman died?”

“No, but—”

“There is nothing I can say, Marielle. Except this.” He leans toward me. “I am a doppelgänger. I can take nearly any form I wish. And yet I stayed and tried to convince you to listen to me.” He meets my eyes. “When you are ready to talk, we will talk.”

The doppelgänger vanishes, and I jump back, only to see a tabby cat race off down the alley.

I don’t go after the tabby. I’m too uncertain, and I hate that, because I am always certain. He should be the killer. He was outside the scene. He has blood on his boots with a poor explanation. He’s a doppelgänger, and I am hunting a doppelgänger, a species so rare that I cannot conceive of two of them in the same town at once.

Unless one is hunting the other, who is not only a killer but a threat to all doppelgängers. Humans are already quick to see monsters as monstrous – it’s right there in the name we’ve given them. Unscrupulous and greedy humans use that fear, which is what keeps me in business, because this hunt is not putting any coin in my pocket. Of course, families and towns have offered rewards, but to claim them, I would need to unveil the killer as a doppelgänger, cementing the belief that all monsters are dangerous and should be exterminated.

What did the doppelgänger say?

I can take nearly any form I wish. And yet I stayed and tried to convince you to listen to me.

That’s what he had been trying to tell me during our exchange. Waiting for me to realize that he could escape at any moment. Turn into a cat and flee. Turn into a wolf and tear out my throat. Turn into a wyvern, rip me limb from limb and fly off afterward.

But I had a blade to his throat for most of the conversation, and he admitted he did not wish to risk shifting like that.

In the end, there is only one thing I know for certain. The killer has struck and will not do so again in this town. It will take the body parts and get out, moving swiftly and quietly to the next town on its list.

* * *

I catch a few hours of sleep in the room I rented. Then, at dawn, I head downstairs to eat a hearty breakfast and buy food for the road.

I hear the commotion even before I enter the dining hall, and I need to shoulder past men nearly twice my size, all gathered around a serving girl.

Now, it is not unusual to find men converged around a serving girl, like vultures circling a weak doe, and my hand instinctively grips the knife in my pocket. I hate to cause trouble, I really do. But I hate to see anyone being menaced even more. Which means I might not be getting that hot breakfast, because experience has taught me that innkeepers do not look kindly on anyone who stabs their patrons, even if it was in defense of the establishment’s employee.

But as I grow closer, it becomes clear that the serving girl is holding court, and she’s not a ‘girl’ but a woman of at least thirty.

I’m about to ignore them when her words reach me. “And now they have taken it to the arena. A doppelgänger.”