I’ll always watch over you.
Those were the words Quoth said to me, again and again. Last month, when I’d been invited to the Jane Austen Experience, Quoth didn’t feel he was ready to spend a whole weekend around so many people. While Heathcliff and Morrie attended lectures and high tea and Regency dancing with me, Quoth sat outside in the snow, watching through the windows. Always outside, looking in.
And in the end, he was the one who saved my life. No one has ever loved me so unconditionally or demanded so little of me. It made me want to give him more, to give him everything.
Quoth’s hand on my hip grew hot. I whirled around and pulled him close to me, drawing his lips to mine for a deep kiss. I poured all of myself into that kiss, trying to show him how good it felt to see this side of him, to be allowed into his heart. My finger traced the scar along his shoulder, left by Christina Hathaway when she attacked him.
He wrapped his arms around me, drawing me against him. His hand snaked beneath my shirt, pressing hot skin against skin. I lost myself in him, wishing that we could close the gap between us, that the atoms dividing us would disintegrate so we could be part of each other.
We fell to the bed, tearing at each other’s clothes. This was Quoth as I’d never seen him before, desperate and shaking with barely contained tension. He touched his lips to my nipple and I cried out, and the shudder that went through his body made me love him more.
Quoth’s lips found mine, hungry and hot. His hand thrust between my legs, his fingers plunging inside me, stoking the fire that he’d created. The ache inside me flared into an inferno.
He rolled me onto my side and slid behind me, parting my legs with his knee. When he entered me, colors from the painting bled into the room, soaring across my vision like an aurora. Quoth held me, nails digging into my breast, finger darting over my clit.
Cocooned in his warmth, I’d never felt so protected, so loved, so needed. We fit together so perfectly, our bodies like puzzle pieces that had finally found their mate. Inside me, his cock touched hidden places, building sensation upon sensation until my body could take no more.
We came together in a shower of bright fireworks, our bodies trembling under the stars of our own creation. Bright lights burst across my vision, and I lost myself outside my body, no longer certain where my pleasure stopped and his began.
I sank into his arms, squeezing my eyes shut, relaxing into the hum of release. The colors still danced behind my eyes – Quoth’s painting come to life inside my brain. In the stillness of his attic room, in the safety of his arms, I saw the world as he saw it, and it was beautiful.
“Mina…” Quoth shuddered against me. Overwhelming by the rush of emotion, tears spilled over my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.
I grinned. “That was amazing.”
“It was.” Quoth wiped a finger under my eyes. “You’re crying?”
“Not sad tears.” I touched my hand over his heart. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt closer to you than right now.”
“Good.” He swallowed. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
“Ah.” That explained his behavior tonight. He’d been building up toward this moment. I rolled over so I was facing Quoth. I could only just make out the edges of his face. The colors still darted across my vision. I reached out a hand and stroked his cheek. Even when I’m blind, I’ll still be able to feel his soft skin, his warm lips on mine. I’ll see the lights and colors and pretend I’m inside one of his paintings. Even when I’m blind, this moment will be perfect.
“I think I want…” Quoth gulped. “I’ve been looking at art schools on the internet.”
“You have?”
Quoth’s cheek moved beneath my hand as he nodded. “I don’t even know why. I didn’t think I wanted to go. I just wanted to find out… There’s a college in Barchester that offers a part-time degree. I would only be in classes a few times per week. The rest of it is independent work. They have this big, bright art studio overlooking a park, and a pottery kiln and metalworking spaces and a photography suite, and all the teachers are professional artists and—”
“I think that sounds amazing,” I breathed. My heart just burst for him. Two months ago, Quoth wouldn’t even leave the shop. He was invisible, without even a passport or a real name. He barely said a word and wouldn’t appear downstairs unless it was in his raven form. Now he was talking not just about being in the world more, but about taking a step toward having a career, a life. “Are you ready for that?”
“I think so.” His finger stroked my cheek. “I’ve realized that if I want to have a future with you, I can’t just expect you to hang out in a dusty old attic.”
A future with you. By Isis, his words made me feel so good.
“I like your attic, but I like this idea even more.”
Quoth’s finger paused mid-stroke. “And… I think you should enroll with me.”
My body froze. “Um… why?”
“Because you’d love it.”
My heart pattered against my chest. “You’re right. I would love it. But that doesn’t mean it’s something I should do.”
“I know there’s a chance it will make you feel bad about your eyes, but it could also be amazing. Will you at least consider it? You’re the only other artist I know. I trust your opinion. They’re having an open day next week. Will you come and meet the lecturers with me? Please?”
I sighed, sensing a rat. Quoth’s motives were entirely selfless. He probably didn’t even intend to go to school himself. He was just trying to get me to find excitement in something since I couldn’t do fashion anymore. Well, two can play at this game. I’d make him so excited about art school that he signed up on the spot, and it would be his own bloody fault. “Sure, I’ll go with you.”
“You’re amazing.” He kissed me again. “Thank you, Mina.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I reached over and flicked off the lamp. “You won’t be thanking me when you’re introduced to the reality of student loans. Goodnight, my infuriating bird.”
“Goodnight, my rare and radiant maiden, my muse.”
I settled my head into the crook of his arm and closed my eyes. Weariness and happiness washed over me in equal waves. “Damn you, yours is much better.”
Chapter Seven
My phone alarm blared an angry guitar solo. I reached over to flick it to snooze, but my arm slapped against warm flesh. I opened one sleepy eye and was met by Quoth’s kind face.
“Good morning,” I said sleepily.
“It is now.” Quoth leaned over and pressed his mouth to mine. My lips parted and his tongue touched mine – tentative at first, then deep and possessive, as if he needed me in order to breathe.
I pulled back, breathless. “You’re right. This is good. Let’s wake up this way every day.”
“I’d like that,” he smiled. “If you lived here we could wake up like this every day. Well, I’d have to beat off Morrie and Heathcliff.”
I laughed at the idea of Quoth beating off the two sword-wielding maniacs of my harem. We’d been jokingly referring to the guys as my ‘harem’ ever since we got back from Baddesley Hall. I liked it – being the center of attention for not one but three guys was empowering, if not a little overwhelming at times. And it stopped me from feeling sick every time I looked at them and realized I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.
I have three boyfriends. I love them, and they love me.
They also loved each other in their own dysfunctional ways. At the moment, that was enough. If I paused for too long, if I opened my mind wide enough for the doubt to creep in, then thoughts of the future niggled at me. How long could they go on being Mina’s harem before it became an issue? What would I do if they needed me to choose?
What will happen to us if I don’t choose?
One woman with three boyfriends wasn’t exactly conventional. I was a punk rocker in my twenties – it was kind of expected that I’d experiment with my sexuality. But what about when I was in my thirti
es? What about my fifties?
A future without Quoth, Heathcliff and Morrie didn’t seem possible. They were a part of me now. But what if the world forced us apart? Perhaps it was because everything about my future was already so uncertain, I wanted to hold on to them tight and never let go. But that wasn’t fair – I couldn’t ask them to be one of three forever. Eventually, I’d have to let two of them go. The thought turned my heart to ice.
They’d taught me that I was tough enough to handle anything, but I wasn’t sure I’d be tough enough to lose them.
I glanced at my alarm clock. 6:15? Outside, it was still dark – the pale moon hung directly over the window, shining a blue square across the bed. Everything beyond that square was invisible to me.
Why did I set the clock for 6:15? All I have to do is roll downstairs and open the shop at nine. I could sleep in Quoth’s arms for another—
Oh, shite. I bolted upright, dropping Quoth like a stone. Danny’s coming around early to set up for the workshop.
“You just remembered the workshop, didn’t you?” Quoth watched from the bed as I scrambled for my clothes. There was a hint of amusement in his voice.
“What gave you that idea?” I muttered as I hopped on one leg, trying to get Jo’s cropped tartan pants over my thigh.
“I love that you’re so excited about it,” Quoth said. “I think you’d make a great writer.”
“I’m not going because I want to be a writer,” I said. My cheeks flushed with heat, and I was grateful that he wouldn’t be able to see my blush in the dark. “I’m just sitting in to make sure it runs smoothly, so I can learn how to run future workshops—”
“You could be a writer if you wanted to,” Quoth said. “No one can tell you that you can’t write because of your eyes. You have such a unique way of seeing people – you look right into souls. It’s why you’re so good at solving mysteries. Plus, you’ll have plenty of inspiration, what with all the strange happenings around here.”
“Stop gushing,” I growled. My cheeks stung with heat. I yanked my shirt down and bolted for the door before he could say anything else embarrassing.
“Can you make me a hero in your story?” Quoth called after me. “Every good novel needs a street smart raven shapeshifter with a really huge cock.”
“You’re becoming more like Morrie every day!” I yelled back as I clattered down the stairs. Figures Quoth had to pick 6:15 in the morning to decide to become a comedian.
The old building creaked and groaned as I snuck past Heathcliff’s room. His snores echoed through the door. Downstairs, something thudded. Probably the hot water cylinder. It always makes that noise.
In the living room, Morrie was already awake. He stood under the pendant light, buttoning one of his crisp shirts, staring down at the screens on his enormous computer rig with a bemused expression. My breath caught in my throat as I took him in, all his sharp edges and creased trousers and brow furrowed in thought. I’d never been into fastidious men, but Morrie… he made his sharp edges work for him.
He glanced up as I entered. His hands flew from his buttons to click something on the screen. “You look tired,” he said, his usual grin spreading across his face.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Morrie’s grin froze, and I recoiled as I remembered who I was speaking to. Just last week, Morrie had confessed a detail about his relationship with the infamous detective that I didn’t want him to think I was throwing back in his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It’s early. I just—”
“You just need coffee?”
I gave him a thumbs up.
“It’s already brewing.” Morrie stepped toward me. He brushed my nipple with his finger. “Are you sure coffee is all you need?”
“Mmmmmm. I wish there was time for that, but I’ve got to get downstairs and set up for the workshop.”
“You’re taking this management role way too seriously,” Morrie pouted. “If you recall, you made me a promise last night.”
“I don’t think I actually promised jack or shit,” I pressed my lips to his. “Luckily, I find you pretty bloody irresistible. I’m all yours tonight, I promise.”
“Fine.” The coffee machine beeped. Morrie retreated to the kitchen. “I’ll make yours extra strong.”
“You are my hero. Has Danny arrived yet?” I asked, buttoning my blouse. Downstairs, the hot water cylinder banged again.
“Nope. I hope he’s not late. I’ve got his favorite brand of coffee, but I’m so nervous I’m probably going to drink it all before he gets here.” Morrie emerged from the kitchen, clutched two mugs in his hands. I noticed that his knuckles were whiter than usual. He flashed me his brilliant smile as he handed me my coffee, but I noticed it wavered a little at the edges.
Was James Moriarty excited about meeting a writer? Or was this about something else?
I heard another thump from downstairs, louder this time, and a sound like someone coughing. Shite, that’s not the cylinder, I bet that’s Danny! I plucked the cup out of his hands. “No more coffee for you. I’m going to need both of these. Come on, let’s go downstairs. I gave Danny a key so he could let himself in, and I bet that’s him now.”
As I descended the stairs, a cold breeze raced up from the ground floor, raising the hairs on my arms. The door banged on its hinges. “See, told you Danny must have snuck in. All those years as a hardened criminal paid off, because he sure was quiet.”
“I didn’t even hear him,” Morrie mused. “As one criminal to another, he’s good. But then, of course he is. I can tell from his books. In The Middlesex Murders, the killer plays a recording of a conversation he taped a few days earlier behind his locked office door in order to give himself an alibi. So clever. I’m noting that for future use.”
“Hey, Danny, are you—”
My words died in my throat as the light from the open door illuminated a lumpy shape lying across the rug. A figure on the ground was surrounded by fallen piles of books. Danny’s face was turned toward us, his hands frozen at his throat. His eyes bugged out and his features were twisted in a weird sort of smirk.
“Hey, Danny, that’s not funny, mate.” Morrie nudged him with his boot. “Get up.”
But Danny didn’t move. Morrie bent down and tipped Danny’s head to the side, revealing a dark, ugly mark around his neck, the skin broken in places and blood dribbling from the wounds.
“Well, that’s interesting,” he said, rising slowly to his feet. His hand reached for mine, and I noticed his fingers trembled. “He’s stone dead.”
Chapter Eight
“Cause of death is relatively straightforward,” Jo announced, leaning over Danny’s body and using a small magnifying glass to study his neck. “He most likely died from asphyxiation, caused by the collapsing of his windpipe. These marks and the violent compression of the neck suggest a ligature was used – from the lack of cuts in the skin and this bruising pattern here I’d say it was some kind of fabric – a scarf or rope, rather than a wire. There’s no murder weapon on the scene, though. The killer must have taken it with him, which makes things trickier. I’ll have to confirm all this in the lab – sometimes these marks can be simulated after death.”
I felt sick. Danny’s glassy, bugged-out eyes stared up from the floor, condemning me.
Another dead body. Another murder in the bookshop. My mind flashed back to the other times I’d seen the police and forensic teams in here – when my ex-best friend Ashley was the one lying dead with a knife in her back, when the indomitable Gladys Scarlett was brought down at her book club meeting by arsenic poisoning.
This time there was little blood, no knife, no poison, but there was Danny’s face, so white and bulbous, so unlike his roguish smile and sparkling eyes.
Who did this to him?
“There is also some bruising here,” Jo turned Danny’s head and pointed. “As well as hemorrhaging around the strap muscles. This suggests he struggled against his attacker. It might also explain the books strewn everyw
here. I believed your victim kicked at the shelves, knocking down the books.”
“Time of death?” Hayes asked, jotting notes on his pad.
“This guy is relatively fresh. He’s probably been dead about an hour.”
An hour. My heart thudded in my chest. That meant that Danny was being murdered while Morrie and I were upstairs discussing coffee and everyone else was sleeping. The murderer had been inside the shop. I thought back to the thumps I’d heard. I should have run downstairs immediately. We should have called the police. We could have saved him if we—
DS Wilson ended her phone call. “Guv, I’ve spoken with the front desk at Danny’s hotel. They said he left around five a.m. They’re available to let us into his room.”
“Good. I’ll head over there now.” Hayes snapped his notebook shut. “Get the constables to canvass the neighborhood, see if anyone heard or saw Danny or another person around the bookshop this morning at the time of the murder. Start with Mrs. Ellis across the road; she’s always first to the post with neighborhood gossip. I’d also like you to interview Ms. Wilde and Mr. Moriarty and anyone else in the house at the time.”
Wilson rolled her eyes at me. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just have them conduct their own interviews, since they seem determined to play detective?”
“It’s not our fault people keep being murdered,” I cried. A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the gale-force wind blowing outside.
“What Mina means to say is that we’d be happy to take over your duties,” Morrie added, holding me against his chest as Heathcliff and Quoth came down the stairs escorted by one of the uniformed officers. “Since you seem intellectually inferior—”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Moriarty.” Hayes rubbed his eyes. He looked as tired as I felt. “DS Wilson will take your statements shortly.”
Memoirs of a Garroter (Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries Book 4) Page 6
