A Dead and Stormy Night

by Steffanie Holmes

  Morrie held me until I sagged against him. “I’m not even close to being done with you yet, gorgeous,” he murmured against my lips.

  He slid my jeans and panties over my thighs, kicking them across the rug. Morrie’s fingers crept up my thighs, a slow walk. He brushed a finger across my wetness, and I nearly came right then, staring at the shelves of poetry books.

  “You are thus arrayed,” he grinned. “License my roving hands, and let them go, Before, behind, between, above, below.”

  “Please,” I begged.

  This is crazy. Yesterday Heathcliff kissed me and now here I am with Morrie. I can’t—

  But as quickly as the thought came, it flittered away. Morrie flipped to another page in his book, and as he bent between my legs, he began to read.

  He slid a finger inside me, plunging it in time with the rhythm of the poem. I gasped as he pressed his lips over my clit. He continued speaking, the words muffled by the strokes of his tongue, the flicks and swirls spelling out ancient words of erotic desire.

  “Oh, oh, fuck… Morrie…” I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Pressure radiated through my body, a deep yearning that pressed against the inside of my skin. It burst, and bright red flames danced in front of my eyes. Morrie held my legs as my body turned to jelly.

  “Oh, whoa… Morrie… please… Morrie,” I murmured, leaning my weight against him. I’d never ever had two orgasms in a row like that. Never. And that second one… how did he do that?

  He chuckled. “I told you that I’d make you beg for me.”

  Morrie picked me up easily, his lips never leaving mine. He cradled my body in his, his strong arms holding me against him.

  “Where do you want it?” Morrie whispered against my lips. “Up against the shelves? On Heathcliff’s desk? We could be really wicked and shag in the Religion section.”

  “What about the room upstairs?” I murmured, wrapping my arms around his neck. “The one with the four-poster bed and the fancy bathroom?”

  Morrie pulled back, his mouth set in a firm line. “You went in there?”

  “Yes, when I was looking for Quoth. Is that bad?”

  “It could be.” Morrie kissed me again. “That is fine. I like bad girls. But we’re not doing it in there.”

  “Why—”

  I yelped as Morrie flipped me and dropped me on the rug, running his hands along the curve of my ass. I knelt on my knees and gripped the balustrade as he slid between my thighs. Foil rustled as he rolled on a condom. Where did he even have a condom? But my mind couldn’t process it because the head of his cock entered me.

  The size of him shocked me, driving the breath from my lungs as he gave me another inch, and another, waiting for me to adjust before he thrust deeper. He must be all inside me now.

  But no, there was more, so much more. I took him and held him and I’d never felt so full or so pleased or so desperate for anything before.

  Morrie drew himself out of me and slowly, slowly, as I breathed out, he slid inside again. My fingers tightened around the wood as I took him, my body relaxing and relenting to him.

  Out again. In again. Slow and languid and hot. Oh, so hot.

  I peeked over my shoulder at Morrie, registering his expression. A veneer of intense concentration masked the beast underneath. Morrie dueled with his twin natures – control, and chaos.

  I’d had control. I wanted chaos. I wanted everything he had to give.

  “Morrie,” I whispered. “Enough of this softness. I want you to fuck me.”

  His breath kissed my back. “Gorgeous, I thought you’d never ask.”

  Morrie slammed into me, driving his length as far inside me as it would go, stroking all the right places. My knees burned against the carpet. I gripped the staircase for dear life as Morrie thrust into me with all the power and force of his personality. He fisted my hair in his hand, bending my neck back as he scraped his teeth along my collarbone.

  I thrust my hips back against him, driving him deeper, burning myself against his skin.

  “I wanted to do this since I first saw you walk into the shop,” Morrie murmured against my earlobe, his hands sliding between my legs. He touched my clit and I came again, my body shuddering around his cock. His teeth dragged over my skin, and his body bucked as his own orgasm hit him. His long body curled around mine, collapsing against me, skin against sweaty skin.

  What have I done?

  “I’ll never be able to read Donne the same way again,” a dark voice growled behind me.

  Heathcliff.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I whirled around, my heart in my throat.

  No, not Heathcliff. There, on the stairs, sat Quoth in his human form, his skin luminescent against the dark wood paneling.

  My mind reeled. Did he watch us?

  And then, another thought, one that surprised and terrified me. Did he like what he saw?

  My face flushing with heat, I scrambled for my clothes. Who is this person, and what has she done with Mina Wilde?

  This wasn’t me. This wasn’t the kind of thing I’d do, fuck some random stranger in the middle of a bookshop where anyone might walk in or peek through the windows.

  But Morrie wasn’t a random stranger, which was worse. He was James Moriarty, and I’d known him my whole life because he was a part of the other world I inhabited, the world of books and imagination where I got to be the heroine instead of the victim.

  And this heroine just slept with the villain.

  I shoved past Quoth and headed upstairs. “I need a moment,” I cried as I stumbled through the door to their apartment. I shoved the bathroom door open, but the smell slammed into me, and I slammed it shut again.

  My hand fitted around the handle of the spare bedroom, the one with the four poster bed. I thought of what Quoth had said yesterday, of the way Morrie reacted when I’d suggested it as a place for our tryst. But it was here and they weren’t. I twisted the handle.

  The door wouldn’t budge. Locked. But who locked it? Did the guys do this so I’d stay out of that room? What are they keeping inside?

  “Hey.”

  I whirled around. Quoth stood in the hallway. He’d pulled on a black t-shirt for some band named Blood Lust. It showed a woman in a flowing red dress standing in front of a creepy gothic mansion covered in vines.

  “Argh!” I held my shirt over my lady bits. “I’m not dressed.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Someone locked this door.” I couldn’t keep the accusatory tone out of my voice.

  Quoth shook his head. “It’s always locked.”

  “But then how—”

  “That’s a conversation to have with Heathcliff.” He averted his eyes to the ceiling. “I came up here to apologize to you. Also, you can use my room to change if you want.”

  “I appreciate that, but I think I’ll just—” I dropped my clothes in a puddle and pulled on my bra, best to get this done before the rest of the neighborhood saw me.

  “I didn’t mean to spy on you,” Quoth said. “I heard a noise like someone screaming, so I came down to see if you were okay, and there you were. I didn’t see much, if that’s what you’ve worried about. Morrie’s white arse covered most of the view.”

  “It’s not your fault.” My cheeks burned with heat. I couldn’t believe he’d seen me.

  “I was disrespectful. I apologize.”

  “It’s fine. I…” My shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

  “I know. Heathcliff was raving last night about kissing you.”

  “He did?” So that’s really how Morrie knew. Lying bastard. “What did he say?”

  “Basically, that he acted like a right tit. Truthfully, I think he’s a little afraid of you.”

  “Morrie said that, too. Why?”

  “Because he didn’t think he’d feel anything for anyone after he lost Cathy, after he read what happened to her. And then you showed up in the shop and he doesn’t know what to think now.”<
br />
  “Are you saying he likes me?”

  “Very much,” Quoth whispered, a dark shadow passing over his eyes.

  I buried my face in my hands. “Great. So my boss has a thing for me, and I just slept with his friend. I’ve messed everything up.”

  “You haven’t. This isn’t an ordinary bookshop you’ve walked into. Heathcliff likes you. Morrie likes you. They both know that fact, yet neither wishes to enter a competition for your affections. Instead, they care only that you are happy, and safe.” Quoth paused. “I like you, too.”

  My head whipped up, but Quoth had vanished. A single black feather fluttered to the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I like you, too.

  I slumped over the pile of books on our chipped table. I’d decided to tackle my airport book art project to take my mind off Nevermore Bookshop, but it wasn’t working. All I’d managed to do was fold three origami cranes and obsess over Quoth’s words. What was he saying, that the three of them would happily… share me? Is that even a thing?

  I reached for my phone, and started texting Ashley. “I need your help. I—”

  Shit.

  I can’t text Ashley.

  Ashley’s dead.

  Grief hit me in a wave. I’d been so busy being angry and hurt over the last few months that I hadn’t thought about everything I’d given up by refusing to forgive Ashley, and now… I’d never again make her laugh so hard she got the hiccups, we’d never go out for drinks after a long day in the office, or dance until our feet fell off at the Fashion Week afterparty.

  The last words I’d spoken to her were in anger. She might’ve been trying to reach out, hoping to end the void between us. Maybe she would have even confessed to selling Marcus’ drawings if I’d acted like her friend, if I’d noticed her being odd. But I hadn’t wanted to notice.

  Now she’s dead. And I’m digging myself deeper and deeper into a mess with these guys, and I have no one to talk to about it.

  My heart ached for a connection to her. My phone screen blurred through my tears as I navigated to her Instagram feed. I scrolled through Ashley’s photographs to a picture of the two of us, our tongues poking out at the camera as we posed on the top of the Empire State Building.

  There was another one; a selfie of her sitting at her desk in the office, beaming at the camera as she held up a goodie bag we got from a makeup company ahead of Marcus’ last show.

  You look so happy. I can’t believe you’d risk it all to sell Marcus’ designs. Oh, Ashley, why’d you do it? What weren’t you telling me?

  My finger paused over a picture of Ashley in our old apartment, holding a big stack of folders and papers, her hair freshly pinned and her little-black dress smoothed down over her killer body. I remember this, it was right before the gala dinner. We were running late, but she begged me to take that photo.

  Wait a second…

  …is that…?

  Oh, wow.

  On the edge of Ashley’s paper stack was the familiar scribble of Marcus’ signature, plus the corner of a drawing. My heart thudded as I recognized the scalloped edges from the fur leather jacket that had been leaked last year.

  Ashley had added the caption, “Getting ready for the big gala dinner. I have a special surprise gift for someone who’s there. Come say hi, but not until after I’ve eaten mah shrimp.”

  I bolted out of my chair, knocking glue and scissors and books everywhere. The car had exploded again, so I’d have to run if I wanted to see the guys in person. “Mum, I’ve got to head down to the shop for a minute. Don’t wait up!”

  I shoved my key in the door and rushed inside, my lungs bursting after sprinting from the car. “Morrie, Quoth, get your asses down here. I’ve figured out—”

  I stopped short as Heathcliff’s dark figure appeared in the doorway to the main room. He glared up at me, and my words died on my lips.

  “Mina,” he said. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

  Surprised by his abrupt instruction, I bit back my news and followed him into the main room. Heathcliff slid into his chair and gestured for me to occupy the velvet chair beside the desk.

  “What’s this monstrosity?” I nudged an enormous book occupying half of Heathcliff's desk.

  “It’s what I wanted to show you. This is the Doomsday Book. it records the property of every man in England during the reign of William the Conqueror.”

  “The title sounds ominous.”

  “It was called thus because it constituted what was seen as an accurate account of holdings and values, so William could determine the taxes owed under Edward the Confessor and reassert the rights of the Crown. Its decisions, like those of the Last Judgement, were unalterable.”

  “And you keep this tome around for a little light reading?”

  “I wanted to see if had a record of this property.”

  “In 1086? But this building is Georgian and Victorian.”

  “Yes, but there have been many buildings on this very spot. You can see at least two different layers of Tudor walls in the basement.” Heathcliff opened the cover. It thumped on the desk, sending up a cloud of dust. He ran his finger down a list. “On this spot in 1086… was the office of Herman Strepel, bookseller and copyist. Strepel’s team would take orders from the clerics and canons for particular volumes and then have those volumes made up in the client’s chosen style. Basically, the medieval equivalent of a bookshop. Would you like to see? How’s your Medieval Latin?”

  “I was sick the day we had Medieval Latin class at fashion design school. Is its news weird?”

  “For a building to have the exact same function for many hundreds of years? A little weird, yes.” He slammed the book shut, raising a cloud of dust that set me off in a coughing fit.

  Heathcliff leaned back in his chair, his eyes swiveled to the ceiling. “Mina, I—”

  Morrie strutted in and threw his arm around Heathcliff’s shoulders. A raven fluttered down from the shelves and perched on the armadillo.

  “You hollered for us, gorgeous.” Morrie’s grin made my chest tighten.

  “There was shrimp for the starter at the gala,” I held up my phone. “Ashley was so excited because she’d never had shrimp before. She talked about it over and over and it turns out the shrimp was completely disgusting. But this is how she’s getting messages to her guy!”

  “Say what?”

  “I’ve figured it out. Look.” I tapped the screen. Morrie peered over the railing to glance at the phone. Heathcliff remained where he was, his expression unreadable. “She’s using her social media. In this photo she tells the buyer to meet her at the gala dinner, and that she’ll make the drop after the first course. That’s why she mentions the shrimp. I bet there are other messages buried in the photographs, too.”

  I scrolled right to the end of the feed. I stopped on the very last photograph, the snap she’d taken right here in the shop on the day of her murder. I hadn’t wanted to read the caption the other day, too afraid of what it might say about me, but now the words filled me with a weird exhilaration.

  “Dropped off a very special illustrated book at this quaint bookshop in my hometown. I also found a copy of High Fashion and the Culture of Excess, a classic for any fashionable minx!”

  “That’s how the buyer knew to come to the bookshop to pick up the pictures. He was following her Instagram feed.” I paused. “But if this message is correct, Ashley collected the money and dropped the picture in the afternoon, so why was she in the shop that night?”

  “Perhaps she wanted to confront him, or she was hoping to get the pictures back off him and keep the money?” Quoth offered.

  I handed the phone to Morrie. “Can you get an IP address for these comments?”

  “I can, but it’s useless.” Morrie tapped away on his phone. “It’s a residential proxy. Tracking the real IP will take me some time, and even then it’s not a guarantee.”

  “What would we do with this person’s address, anyway?” I
rubbed my temple. “Go over to his house and beat him until he confesses? We can’t exactly speak to the police about Ashley’s conspiracy. They’re never going to believe us based on some drawings and an Instagram post.”

  “There’s got to be a way we can trick him into confessing,” Morrie said. “My nemesis fooled many of my contemporaries in such a way.”

  “But how? He obviously knows Ashley’s dead. It’s not like we can just send him another message saying – omigod, that’s it. That’s exactly what we can do.” I tossed the phone to Morrie. “You’ve already hacked into her Instragram, right? So I can post something and it will appear as her?”

  Morrie tapped a few buttons on the phone and handed it back to me. “There you go.”

  “I need paper and a pencil. And somewhere to sit.”

  Without a word, Heathcliff swept his arm across the desk, sending a cascade of pens and papers and books onto the floor. Morrie grabbed the monitor before it joined the rest. Quoth crept upstairs and returned with some fancy art paper and pencils. I slid into Heathcliff’s chair and sketched out a design. It was one of my own, for a figure-hugging fishtail dress with leather and lace inserts that matched the general style of Marcus’ latest collection. When I was done, I arranged a few books around it, making sure to include the volume where we’d found the money. I snapped a picture, added a filter and enough hashtags to make it look legitimate, and uploaded it to Ashley’s site.

  “That’s quite clever, gorgeous,” Morrie said.

  “Now for the final touch.” I typed a message that sounded pure Ashley. “Hey twats. I might be dead, but I’m not buried yet. You’ll find me under the full moon, in the place where we last met. This zombie bitch is ready to kick some serious arse.”

  I hit publish and the post appeared in Ashley’s feed. Immediately, people started liking and commenting. “There. Now whoever turns up at this store tomorrow night, we know they were the one who killed Ashley.”

  “Excellent work, gorgeous.” Morrie swept me up into his arms and honored me with a kiss that left me breathless. The tension in the room shifted, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.