I smoothed my hair, sucked in a breath, pushed open the creaking shop door, and stepped back in time.
As the shop bell tinkled and the smell of musty paper filled my nostrils, I became nine years old again – the weird outcast kid whose mother was banned from school events after swindling the chair of the PTA with a Forex trading mastermind program that was really just a CD-rom of my mother comparing currency trading to doing the laundry. (It was his own fault for getting swindled. Who even uses CDs anymore?)
As soon as the school bell rang I’d sprint into town, duck through this same door and escape into another world. I’d curl up in the cracking leather armchair in the World History room with a huge stack of books and read until my mother finished her shift and came to collect me. Books become my friends – characters like Jane Eyre and Dorian Grey the perfect substitutes for the kids who were horrible to me. When I was older and the guys at school sneered at me and fawned over my best friend, I fell into books again – this time to fall in love with the bad boys, the intelligent boys, the boys filled with anger and lust and pain. Dark horses and anti heroes like Heathcliff and Sherlock Holmes, and melancholy authors like Edgar Allan Poe spoke directly to my soul.
Mr. Simson barely said a word to me, but he never seemed to mind the fact that I read every book in the shop but couldn’t afford to buy any. Sometimes he’d even let me riffle through the boxes of rejects before he sent them away for recycling. People would come into the store and try to sell Mr. Simson stacks of airport books – James Patterson and John Grisham paperbacks that no one buys secondhand. When he refused their generous bounty, they’d creep back at night and shove the volumes one by one through the mail slot, so Mr. Simson always had stacks of them lying around. I would smuggle the books home to our housing estate – If Mum caught me reading she’d lecture about how men didn’t like smart girls and we’d have a big row – and read them under the covers at night or hidden in my textbooks during class.
It was in Nevermore Bookshop where I first discovered punk music. I found a box of battered 1970 zines in the Popular Music section, and I lost myself in faded photographs of bored teenagers with bleached mohawks. None of them fit in, and they didn’t give a shit. I was in love.
Teenage Mina threw herself into punk music and fashion, bought a second-hand sewing machine, and started cutting up all her clothes. Fashion became a way to express myself, and opened up a world that was bigger and brighter and more fun than the council estate and my shitty school and lack of tits and the tiny village of Argleton.
When you don’t have any friends and have an entire bookshop for research, you get a lot of schoolwork done. At the end of my last year at secondary school, I was offered four scholarships to prestigious universities. But there was only one thing I wanted – to become a punk-rock fashion designer. The next Vivienne Westwood, thank you very much. So when I was awarded a place at New York’s infamous Fashion Institute, I packed up my Docs and sewing machine and left Argleton behind me for good.
Or so I thought.
For four glorious years I lived in New York City, working my arse off, living it up with my best friend Ashley, and learning everything there was to learn about the fashion industry. Last year I finished my degree and Ashley and I landed the same year-long internship with Marcus Ribald, our favorite designer of all time after Vivienne.
Then I noticed a faint blur in the corner of my eye and I fell down the stairs three days in a row. I would reach for my coffee cup and knock it over, or sign my name on a document and miss the line completely. I thought it was nothing – I walked through life constantly hungover and running on coffee and discounted day-old hot dogs, which I assumed explained the pounding headaches that stabbed me day and night. But I kept pushing, kept working, kept drinking. I was living the dream. Nothing could stop me.
Wrong. All it took was a harrowing doctor’s appointment and Ashley’s betrayal to stop me.
Bye bye internship. So long, crappy rat-infested apartment I secretly loved. Nice to know you, dreams of future success and dressing celebrities for the red carpet. Now I was back in Argleton, sleeping in my crummy old room and getting nervous about a job interview as a bloody bookshop dogsbody.
I stepped into the gloomy interior. My boot landed on a thick carpet in the wide entrance hall, flanked on either side by tall shelves crammed with books. A small line of taxidermy rodents peered down at me from tiny wooden shields nailed along the moldings. I don’t remember those. The new owner sure had strange taste in interior decor. But then, he had written that acerbic job ad…
I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, moving carefully to avoid tripping over the stacks of paperbacks littering the floor. Must and mothballs and leather and old paper caressed my nostrils. The air practically sweated books.
“Hello?” I called, coughing as dust tickled the back of my throat. Was the bookshop always this dusty?
Hello, beautiful. A voice croaked from behind me. I whirled around, a retort poised on my lips. But no one was in the doorway. I twisted my head to peer into the corners of the room, but I couldn’t penetrate the shadows.
Where did that voice come from?
“Hello?” I called out. The first thing I’m going to do if I get the job is brighten this place up a bit.
Something rustled in the dark corner above the door. I glanced up. My eyes resolved the shape of an enormous black bird perched on the top of the bookshelf. At first I assumed it was stuffed, but it unfurled a long wing and flapped it in my face.
“Argh!” I flung my arm up, slamming my elbow into a stack of books, which toppled to the ground. The raven croaked with satisfaction and folded its wing away.
What in Astarte’s name is a raven doing in here? It’ll poop over the books. I wonder if it’s roosting in the roof somewhere? We’ll have to find that if we want to chase it out…
“Croak,” said the raven with an accusatory tone, as though it had heard my thoughts.
“I guess you kind of suit the place.” I glared at the bird as I bent down and fumbled for the books. “A raven in Nevermore Bookshop. Once upon a midnight dreary—”
“Croak.” The raven’s yellow eyes glowed. Something in that croak sounded like a warning.
“Fine. Fine. I didn’t come here to quote poetry to a bird.” I stood up and rubbed my throbbing elbow. “I want to talk to the boss. Do you know where I might find him?”
As if it understood the question, the raven dropped off the shelf, swooped past me, and flew around the corner, disappearing through an archway on the left. I followed it into what would have once been a drawing room and was now a jumble of mismatched shelves and junkstore furniture. In the middle of the room were two heavy oak tables – one holding a large globe, the other a taxidermy armadillo. Books stacked so high it looked as though the armadillo was building itself a border wall. Old cinema chairs and beanbags under the window formed a reading area, and the large lawyer’s desk that had served as Mr. Simson’s counter still took pride of place beside the grand fireplace, although the brass plaque on the front now read “Mr. Earnshaw.”
The raven swooped around me and perched on the desk lamp, its talons clicking against the metal. It took me a few moments to register the man hunched over the desk – the dark, wavy hair that spilled over his shoulders obscured his face, and his black clothes faded into the wood behind him.
“We’re closed.” A gruff voice boomed from inside the hair.
“Your sign still says open.”
“Well, flip it over for me on the way out,” the voice managed to sound both exasperated and uninterested.
“Um, sure. Mr. Earnshaw, was it?” I waved. He didn’t even look up from his paper. “I saw the job ad you posted on the _Argleton app, and I wanted to—”
“App?” The head snapped up. Eyes of black fire regarded me with suspicion from beneath a pair of thick eyebrows, deep set in a dark-skinned face of such remarkable beauty I sucked in a breath.
The new proprietor wa
s younger than I expected him to be – Mr. Simson had been an old man even when I was a girl – and far too handsome to be working in a bookshop. His exotic features and sharp cheekbones belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. The defiant tilt of his chin and twitch of his haughty lips concealed a storm raging inside him.
Danger rolled off him in waves. Danger… and desire.
Thick muscles bulged at the seams of his shirt. He’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, one thick forearm graced with the tattoo of a barren, gnarled tree and some words in cursive script below.
Even though he was an Adonis, this Mr. Earnshaw also looked like a complete wanker. He scrunched up that perfectly-sculpted nose, his lips curling back into a sneer. “What the devil is an app?”
What kind of weird question is that? “Um… you know, an application for your phone, so you can get the bus timetable or talk to your mates or—”
“Don’t talk to me about phones,” Earnshaw snapped. “People spend too much time on their phones.”
Right. I’d forgotten about the part in the job ad about hating ebooks. This guy must be one of those weirdos who eschewed technology. “Oh, I agree. I mean, phones should only be used for calling people. And checking social media. That’s it. I would never read on mine,” I blubbered, shoving my phone behind my back. “I mean, studies have shown it can cause long-term eye damage and—”
“No matter how long you keep talking, it’s not going to change the fact that we’re closed. What do you want?”
“I’m applying for the assistant’s job.” I fumbled in my purse for the envelope I’d carefully sealed, trying to avoid accidentally showing him the ereader tucked behind my makeup case. “I’ve got my resume in here for you with all my qualifications and—”
“I don’t need that. If you want the job, tell me why I should hire you.”
“Right, well…” This was the weirdest interview I’ve ever been to. Earnshaw’s eyes stabbed right through me, turning my insides to mush. I opened my mouth, but then he blinked, long black lashes tangling together over those eyes – they were like black holes, gobbling whole universes for lunch. A shiver started at the base of my neck and rocketed down my spine, not stopping until it caressed me between my legs.
Now I wanted the job more than ever, just so I could stare at this specimen all day. Bloody hell, I always did have a thing for surly bad boys. I blamed Emily Brontë. The brutish and untamable Heathcliff ruined me for nice guys.
“If your answer is to gape at me like a bespawling lubberwort,” he growled, “then you can take the job and shove it where the sun don’t shine—”
“That’s not my answer.” My cheeks flared with heat. Who even is this guy? Adonis or not, how’d he get off talking to customers and potential employees like that? No wonder the place is deserted. “I was just collecting my thoughts. You should hire me because I’m a hard worker. I’m punctual. I have some retail experience, as well as design expertise so I can do graphics and window displays—”
“I don’t care. Why do you want to work here? No one wants to work here. That was the whole point of the ad.”
I racked my brain for an answer to that question. What does he want from me? “Um… I guess because I used to hang out in the bookshop all the time as a kid. I know where all the books go and I’ve personally helped Mr. Simson fix that till on at least two occasions.” I pointed to the ancient contraption the raven was pecking.
Earnshaw glared at me, his eyes flicking over my face as though searching for something. He didn’t say a thing. The silence stretched between us until even the raven got bored of hunting for worms in the credit card machine and stared at me, too.
Is he waiting for more?
“And… um, I have all sorts of useful skills.” I scrambled for anything that might endear me to this strong-chinned man. “I have a fashion degree, so that’s probably not useful. But I am a Millennial, so I can do the store’s social media. I could build a website—”
You can see it, can’t you? That strange voice said. It’s obvious. She’s the one he told you about.
Earnshaw grunted. I narrowed my eyes at him. Did he hear it, too?
Just hire her already, that voice said again. She’s pretty.
“Hey!” I glanced over my shoulder, looking for the owner of the voice so I could kick them in the nuts. But there was no one else in the room.
Was it Earnshaw? But the voice didn’t sound like him, and judging by the way he was still staring at me, he already thought I was nuts. Maybe he didn’t hear the voice after all?
Besides, the voice almost sounded like it came from inside my head.
Please, don’t tell me that on top of everything else, I’m hallucinating voices as well.
“I like her. I bet she’ll bring me treats. Berries, smoked salmon, maybe even a hard-boiled egg.”
I peered over my shoulder again. Are they hiding in the hallway? Behind the beanbag stack? “Who’s there?”
Earnshaw’s head whipped up. “Who are you talking to?”
“You didn’t hear that? Someone prattling on about salmon and eggs.”
Earnshaw’s eyes narrowed. He reached out and clamped an enormous hand around the raven’s beak. “You didn’t leave the door open, did you? We’re supposed to be closed.”
“No. I…” My shoulders sagged. Who am I kidding? This is hopeless. “I guess I’ll just be going now. Thank you for your time and—”
“You start tomorrow,” Earnshaw glowered. “We open at nine. Be here at eight-thirty, but don’t let anyone else in. If you’re late, the bird gets your first paycheck.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Join a brooding antihero, a master criminal, a cheeky raven, and a heroine with a big heart (and an even bigger book collection) in a new steamy reverse harem paranormal mystery series by USA Today bestselling author Steffanie Holmes. Read book 1, A Dead and Stormy Night, in KU now.
Ignited
I’ll do whatever it takes to free them.
Even if I have to sacrifice my soul.
The Kings of Miskatonic Prep have fallen.
Three arrogant, cruel, and broken boys defied an ancient god,
a faculty who imprisoned them,
and the parents who stole their future.
They were never going to win.
But they won’t quit.
They won’t stop fighting.
This time, it’s not themselves they’re trying to protect.
They fight for me. For us. For our future.
Pain. Pride. Temptation.
They rage against their inner demons.
While I embrace mine.
Shit’s getting real at Miskatonic Prep.
I’ve got a heart made of fire, the wrath of an avenging witch, and three Kings at my side.
You think you know monsters?
You ain’t seen nothing yet.
One way or another, we’re graduating from Miskatonic Prep.
Let’s burn this motherfucker down.
Grab Ignited now!
Want more reverse harem from Steffanie Holmes
“Sizzling hot, sexy characters, and a plot filled with magic, mayhem, excitement, suspense, and fairies. Fantastic.” - Laure Eccleston
“I love all the guys and this book is hot!” - Gilda Rodriguez
“Maeve is feisty and no damsel in distress. I want more!” - Stephanie
Dear Fae,
Don't even THINK about attacking my castle.
This science geek witch and her four magic-wielding men are about to get medieval on your ass.
I’m Maeve Crawford. For years I’ve had my future mathematically calculated down to the last detail; Leave my podunk Arizona town, graduate MIT, get into the space program, be the first woman on Mars, get a cat (not necessarily in this order).
Then fairies killed my parents and shot the whole plan to hell.
I've inherited a real, honest-to-goodness English castle – complete with turrets, ramparts, and four gorgeous male
tenants, who I'm totally not in love with.
Not at all.
It would be crazy to fall for four guys at once, even though they're totally gorgeous and amazing and wonderful and kind.
But not as crazy as finding out I'm a witch. A week ago, I didn’t even believe magic existed, and now I’m up to my ears in spells and prophetic dreams and messages from the dead.
When we're together – and I'm talking in the Biblical sense – the five of us wield a powerful magic that can banish the fae forever. They intend to stop us by killing us all.
I can't science my way out of this mess.
Forget NASA, it’s going to take all my smarts just to survive Briarwood Castle.
The Castle of Earth and Embers is the first in a brand new steamy reverse harem romance by USA Today bestselling author, Steffanie Holmes. This full-length book glitters with love, heartache, hope, grief, dark magic, fairy trickery, steamy scenes, British slang, meat pies, second chances, and the healing powers of a good cup of tea. Read on only if you believe one just isn’t enough.
START READING NOW
About the Author
Steffanie Holmes is the author of steamy historical and paranormal romance. Her books feature clever, witty heroines, wild shifters, cunning witches and alpha males who always get what they want.
Before becoming a writer, Steffanie worked as an archaeologist and museum curator. She loves to explore historical settings and ancient conceptions of love and possession. From Dark Age Europe to crumbling gothic estates, Steffanie is fascinated with how love can blossom between the most unlikely characters. She also writes dark fantasy / science fiction under S. C. Green.
Possessed: A reverse harem bully romance (Kings of Miskatonic Prep Book 3) Page 25
