No answer.
“I need to talk to you. I’m not buying this blood phobia story.” I stepped into the hallway, squinting to resolve the dark paneled walls covered with even more artwork and a set of narrow servant’s steps sweeping up toward the attic. I peered into the first room. It was impossibly neat – the bed made with hospital corners, a metal clothes rack beside the window holding an identical row of pinstriped suits, damask waistcoats, and crisp white shirts. Six pairs of shiny brogue shoes were lined up on the edge of the blanket box, upon which sat a turntable and a sound board. A set of leather belts with extra silver attachments hung from a hook beside the bed.
I picked up one, noticing the silver attachment buckled a wrist-sized loop. “Argh!” I dropped the thing and wiped my hand on my jeans. Those aren’t belts…
It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce this was Morrie’s room, and that I now knew way more than I needed to about the guy. I backed out without touching anything else. The next door was closed. I pushed it open just wide enough to see it was a bathroom. Then the smell hit me and I slammed it shut again. I guess Morrie’s fastidiousness doesn’t extend to communal spaces like the bathroom and kitchen. At least I knew my boys were somewhat normal.
Why am I thinking of them as mine? I’ve only known them for three days, and one of those days they asked me to lie to the police and they might very well be lying to me now. Don’t get attached to them just because they’re hot and they were nice after I spilled my guts. I should know by now what happens when I think I can trust someone.
“Quoth!” I yelled, pushing open the next door. The contents of this room consisted of a mountain of clothes, books, and stale takeout containers that might hide a bed or furniture or the weapons of mass destruction. A unique and distinctly Heathcliff musk hit my nostrils – leather and peat and stale cigarettes mingled with damp laundry and rotting food. I held my nose and backed out. If Quoth was buried under that pile, he was a goner.
By Isis, guys are pigs.
I headed toward the final door at the end of the hall. I knocked. “Quoth? I know you’re in there. If you’re wanking, can I get a grunt of acknowledgement?”
Nothing.
“Why does Morrie want you to go to the police station if you’re supposed to be laying low? What is it you’re not telling me? You listened to me spill my guts last night. I demand equal treatment. Quoth?”
Still no reply.
“Quoth, seriously, say something or I’m opening this door right now.”
The hairs on my neck prickled. The silence in the flat turned ominous. It was too quiet.
Someone broke into the shop last night and killed Ashley. We assumed they slipped out after doing the deed, but what if they’d been hiding in the shop this whole time? What if they’re behind the sofa downstairs or crouching in the corner of the Children’s Books room, just waiting for the chance to sneak out and pick us all off?
Or what if Quoth is standing behind me with a machete and an evil glint in his weird eyes?
The creeping sensation shot up my neck. I whirled around, but there was no one in the hallway. I froze, listening hard for the sound of movement, but all I could hear was the faint sounds of people banging on the front door and Heathcliff yelling.
No. I don’t deserve to feel scared like this. I’m getting answers.
I turned back to the door. “That’s it. I’m coming in.”
I shoved my shoulder against the door and yanked the knob. The door flew open. I tripped over the rug and stumbled into the room.
“What?”
I wasn’t looking at a guy’s room, but an entire suite. An enormous, elaborately-carved four-poster bed dominated the space, hung with thick curtains but unmade, the bare mattress covered in a layer of dust. In an alcove in front of the window were arranged chairs and coffee tables and a liquor cabinet, all covered in white sheets streaked with grime. On the other side of the bed were three doors. I opened one to find a massive closet – twin banks of ornate racks and shelving units flanking a floor-length gilt mirror. In the dusty glass my reflection appeared in mottled sepia like an old photograph, the edges fading into a pinhole, the way my vision faded away.
Imagine having a room like this. I pictured the racks full of my clothes, the shelves bursting with bright-colored Doc Martins and Vivienne Westwood dresses. When I was a famous fashion designer I’d be featured in my double-page Vanity Fair spread photographed inside this closet…
Except that you’ll never be a fashion designer.
The thought slammed into me, jolting me back to reality. The whole reason I was standing in this room in the first place was because I’d had to give up the one thing I loved. And I hated Marcus Ribald for not hiring me when I deserved that position, and I hated the industry for not being open to me anymore, and I hated Ashley for spilling my secret, but I also kind of hated myself for giving up.
But what other option did I have?
I backed out of the closet and slammed the door, then tried the next. The second door opened into the most incredible bathroom I’d ever seen. A hexagonal-shaped room in the southwestern turret housed an old fashioned porcelain toilet and sink. The stained glass window that covered one whole wall allowed light to filter down onto the copper bath that took pride of place in the center of the room.
Wait a second… it’s not a hexagon.
What appeared to be a hexagonal turret from Butcher Street was actually three sides of a five-sided room. Standing here in the bathroom, the angles were completely obvious. It almost looked like it was designed as a Victorian illusion, the way they liked to add secret compartments in their bookshelves and hidden drawers in their desks.
But why disguise a five-sided room? And why go to so much effort to create the room in the first place? It didn’t take my designer’s eye to see that it wasn’t as balanced or aesthetically pleasing as a hexagon would be. It also made it difficult to fit furniture into the space.
I stood beside the window and looked down at the circle of gossips converging outside the bookshop. Instead of dispersing, the crowd had grown even larger, and I could see a couple wearing jackets from the local television station with heavy cameras and mic equipment. Great. I’m sure they’re getting a totally true and unbiased account from the neighborhood busybodies.
I backed away from the window before anyone saw me, and tried the third door. It revealed a small drawing room, complete with fireplace and ornate oak desk. This was probably where the lady of the house wrote her letters.
I sneezed into my hand as dust swirled in the air around me. No one was sleeping in this room, which was completely crazy. It was by far the best room in the place. It was also the only other room on this floor. So where did Quoth sleep?
The attic.
After checking under the bed and behind the liquor cabinet for would-be murderers, I went out into the hall, shutting the door behind me. Whatever reason the guys had for avoiding that suite, I had a feeling they didn’t want me snooping. Besides, all it had given me was more questions. Right now, I needed answers.
I took the stairs two at a time, gripping the wall to steady myself. At the top was a narrow hall leading to two low doors where once the house’s servants would have slept. I could see the mechanisms for a call bell still hanging on the wall behind me.
“Quoth, are you in there? Come on, this isn’t funny—”
Flittering sounds issued from behind the left-hand door. I inched toward it and knocked.
“Don’t come in,” a voice croaked. I swung the heavy door inward. Too late, you wanker. You had your chance. I’m coming in and I don’t care if you’re naked with your dick in your hand—
The door banged against the wall behind it, revealing a scene that turned my blood to ice.
Artwork filled the tiny room – canvases stacked on top of each other and stuck at odd angles all over the walls. Mostly abstracted shapes and forms, but some realism, too – landscapes as seen from the sky or through the branches of
trees. The bold colors assailed my eyes, already used to the dimness of the shop.
In the midst of that bold color, Quoth crouched on the edge of a narrow brass bed, completely naked. Beside the bed, a stack of books reached nearly to the ceiling – all true crime stories or volumes with titles like Death Culture in America and Egyptian Funerary Ritual. But that wasn’t what dried my breath on my tongue.
Black feathers stuck from Quoth’s skin, their tips shrinking as they retracted into his body. A spindly frill around his neck made it appear as if he wore a sixteenth-century ruff. His fingers gripped the bed frame, their tips curled into sharp talons that smoothed over into fingers before my eyes. Black-feathered spines protruded from his elbows and wrists, forming enormous wings that crashed against the walls as they shrunk into his elbows.
How is this possible?
Where his mouth and nose should have been, a long black beak protruded from his face. It shrunk back as I stared in gape-mouthed horror, flattening and smoothing out and becoming Quoth’s alabaster skin and sharp cheekbones. Round bird eyes closed and opened as lids formed and Quoth – the human Quoth – stared back at me in horror.
I froze in place, watching a horrid transformation play out in reverse. In that moment, everything fell into place. The secrets they kept, the lies I’d been asked to tell. I understood what I was watching, but I didn’t comprehend it.
Quoth was the raven.
Chapter Thirteen
We both froze, staring at each other. A wordless conversation played out in the heated air between us. Accusal, denial, disbelief, indignation, horror, acceptance.
Quoth was the first to break our stalemate.
“I can explain,” he said.
I clung to the doorframe, the only thing holding me upright. “I’d appreciate it.”
“Can I put some pants on first?”
“I’d appreciate that, too.”
Quoth hopped down from the bed and crossed the room to a small chest of drawers decoupaged with scenes from nature and birds in flight. I knew I should look away, but I was afraid of what might happen to me if I did, so I kept my eyes trained on his body. I noticed the ripple of his muscles as I searched his naked skin for the signs of the feathers and beak and bird bones I’d seen only a few moments ago. Quoth was thinner than both Morrie and Heathcliff, but he was still toned and taut. Between his legs swung a cock that even flaccid was impressive.
He pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and skinny black jeans, then picked up his phone and tapped the screen.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“Texting Morrie. The others have to know what you know.”
I didn’t like the ominous tone in his voice. “Why?”
“We assumed it was only a matter of time until you figured it out. We discussed it. We figured we could trust you. But we thought we had more time. And not even Morrie could predict this bloody murder messing everything up.”
Footsteps clattered up the stairs. A moment later, Morrie’s head popped around the door. “Well done, gorgeous. You deduced our secret.”
“It was hardly a deduction. I walked in and Quoth was all feathery.”
Morrie offered me a hand. I took it, and let him help me down the steep staircase. Quoth followed behind us at a distance, which I appreciated, since I didn’t want him anywhere near me.
Heathcliff slumped in his chair by the fire, a cigarette jammed between his teeth. Grimalkin curled in his lap, staring at me with wary eyes. Someone had pulled over another chair so it faced Heathcliff. I recognized the design from the suite in the mystery bedroom.
“You’re a right nuisance, you know that?” Heathcliff growled, nudging the chair toward me with his boot. “You’re nosier than Morrie’s last boyfriend, and he was a detective of sorts.”
Morrie had a boyfriend. I felt a flash of disappointment, but not surprise. My memory flashed to the leather straps hanging beside Morrie’s bed. I stored that nugget of information away to process properly later. Right now, I needed to know about the feathers. I sank into the chair, gripping the curled arms.
“Quoth, fetch the tea!” Heathcliff barked.
“Three days,” Quoth muttered as he headed off to the kitchen. “I couldn’t even get three days.”
“I don’t need tea,” I said. “I need answers. Feathers stuck out of Quoth’s skin. He had a beak. And then they just got sucked inside his body.”
“You may have spent four years in America, but you’re British at heart. You need tea.” Morrie pulled over his computer chair and folded his willowy frame into it. He steepled his fingers together like some cartoon super-villain, and watched me with those icicle eyes.
We waited in silence while the kettle boiled. My stomach churned with a mess of feelings – fear, suspicion, indignation, anger. The scream of the kettle rattled around my skull. A few moments later, Quoth appeared in the doorway, a tray balanced in his hands. Morrie reached up and collected his cup. Quoth held the tray out to Heathcliff, who grabbed a cup and raised it to his lips. That left one for me.
I took the hot cup and held it in my hands, but I didn’t trust myself to raise it to my lips without spilling, so I just rested it on the arm of the chair. Quoth had put too much milk in it, anyway.
“I’ve got my tea now. Start talking. Why is Quoth a… a shapeshifter?” The word should only be used in silly paranormal romance books. It should not be a word I spoke aloud to my new friends.
Morrie leaned forward. “You know how you joked about our names, how ridiculous it was that he was Heathcliff and I was James Moriarty, and I know you thought Quoth was an odd name, too.”
“It is an odd name.”
“Our parents weren’t strange librarians who named us after characters from literature. We are those characters.” Morrie pointed to his chest. “I am James Moriarty, mathematician and master criminal, and arch nemesis of Sherlock Holmes. He is Heathcliff, spurned orphan and beloved of Cathy of Wuthering Heights. This here is Edgar Allen Poe’s raven, the one who perched upon a chamber door. We don’t know how we got here or why, but we’re definitely not supposed to exist in your world.”
Chapter Fourteen
I snorted. “Right. Come off it. You said you were going to tell me the truth. I don’t want any more stories, especially not one this bloody stupid.”
“It is a story, Mina,” Heathcliff said. “We are the stories. Think about it. Why else does Morrie seem completely unperturbed about his employer losing millions of quid overnight?”
Quoth gave me an apologetic look from the doorway. “Why else would feathers poke out of my skin, and you’ve never seen me and the raven in the same room together?”
“Why else is Heathcliff such a prick?” Morrie tossed in.
“But… but that’s impossible!” I cried.
“Agreed,” said Morrie. “I’ve been running computer simulations ever since I arrived here, trying to find an answer for how it happened. My conclusions have all been the same – we shouldn’t be here. And yet, here we are.”
“But… how?”
“We don’t know,” Morrie shrugged. “I’ve directed a considerable amount of energy toward solving the puzzle of it, but so far to no avail. All I can tell you is that the most likely responsible party is Nevermore Bookshop itself.”
“How can a bookshop be responsible for this?”
“I need a proper drink,” Heathcliff declared, slamming his empty cup down on the tray.
Leaving my question hanging unanswered, Heathcliff dove into the kitchen and emerged with a dusty bottle of wine. He popped the cork and filled a glass, which he handed to me. He took a long, deep swig from the bottle.
“None of us remember how we got here,” he said, between gulps. “Last I recall, I alighted from Wuthering Heights in a state of great agitation after overhearing Cathy planned to wed Linton. I’d stolen a bottle of Hindley’s finest whisky and I took this medicine as I ran, for I had lost myself to the futility of love. I stormed across the moors un
til the drink purged the rage from my bones, and I passed out in a puddle. I woke up on the floor in front of the Classic Literature section. Mr. Simson collected me and gave me some magical elixir to sober me up—”
“Gatorade,” Morrie supplied. “I keep telling you it’s not magical. You can buy it at the market for two quid.”
“Shut up for a moment,” Heathcliff swigged another gulp of wine. “Mr. Simson explained that the shop was cursed, and that he’d been expecting me for some time.”
“He … what?” I slumped down in Heathcliff’s chair, pressing my fingers to my temple.
“He said a few years after he purchased the building from its previous owner, the greek poet Sappho appeared on the shop floor, same as I was lying there now. He said he’d had a few others over the years, always from the Classical Literature shelves. He saw it his duty to help them find their way in the world as best he was able. He found Sappho a post as a weathergirl. Lady Macbeth runs a chippie up in Glasgow. Pip from Great Expectations is a council planner in London, if you can believe it.”
I snorted.
“Mr. Simson said that’s why he kept the bookshop all these years. He needed to help them. He didn’t think anyone else would. And he wanted to figure out why we kept showing up. He wanted to break the curse before the shop brought back some truly heinous villain.” Heathcliff shot a look at Morrie, who grinned angelically. “That’s why he started Nevermore’s occult collection.”
“I’ve seen the occult shelves, behind the pet books,” I said. “It’s not exactly impressive. Just a bunch of flat earth conspiracies and new age rubbish.”
“You have seen the dime-a-dozen tarot books we leave on the shelves for the plebs,” Morrie said. “Mr. Simson kept all the real occult books locked away under protection. He believed that in one of these books he’d find the secret of the shop’s magic.”
“Wait a second,” I stared at Heathcliff, starting to comprehend. “If I believe this story, which I’m not saying I do, you were pulled from your story as you left Wuthering Heights? You never came back?”
Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop Page 11
