Even after only knowing them for only two days, I should have guessed these guys were different. But this…
I stepped into a small but pleasantly furnished sitting room. A gas fire in the hearth lit the apartment in a warm glow, and I could make out the edges of a jumble of mismatched furniture. Books littered every surface – that is, the surfaces that weren’t covered in empty bottles and strange ephemera. I glanced above my head, but there was no toast threatening to befoul me. There were no posters nor crudely-drawn penises on the walls, unless you counted the large renaissance-style painting of heroically-naked gods chasing a nymph above the fireplace. Bright artworks in carved frames adorned every available surface. Prints, I guessed, because some of them looked like they might be Picasso or Monet.
Red-and-gold flocked wallpaper peeked out from between the dusty gilt frames. As I stepped toward the warmth of the fire, the mantle came into view, cluttered with weird statues, marble boxes, and empty cigarette packets. I spotted a Clash poster over the bookcase and a record player on a shelf beside the fire. Two rickety coffee tables teetered under the weight not of beer cans, but dainty china teacups and saucers. Instead of the usual smell I associated with guys – sweat and unwashed dishes and socks that had to be peeled off the walls – the air smelled of old books and cracked leather, lavender tea and woody incense.
Above the record player, the raven swung lazily from another custom-made perch. When it saw me, it opened its wings and swooped away into the hall.
“Where are you going?” I called after him. “I promise I’m not going to quote any Poe.”
Morrie poked his head out from a small alcove at the back of the hall, his tall body bathed in light from a computer screen. “Heathcliff, you useless oaf, Mina’s here!” he called out, then flashed me his wicked grin. “Welcome to our humble chambers.”
“This place is so cool,” I said, stepping toward the empty leather chair in front of the fire. “I could just imagine reading here, with Grimalkin curled up in my lap—”
In an unusual show of stealth, Heathcliff leapt out of the shadows and slithered into the chair ahead of me. “That’s mine. No one else sits in this chair.”
“Hello to you, too.” Grimalkin jumped on the back of the chair and swiped playfully at my hair. I patted her furry head. I tried to pat Heathcliff’s head, but he ducked under me and slouched deeper into his chair. I gave him an exaggerated pout. “At least Grimalkin is happy to see me.”
“You didn’t try to purloin her property,” Heathcliff replied.
“Come on now, is that any way to treat someone who brought dessert?” I lifted the lid of the box in my hands to reveal a stack of sticky toffee pudding cakes.
“I was the picture of politeness.” Morrie emerged from the alcove and grabbed a cake from the box. My jaw fell open. He must have just come out of the shower, because his hair was plastered to his face and droplets trickled from his exquisite jaw. In the gloom I’d also neglected to notice he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
My mouth dried. By Astarte, James Moriarty was cut. Toned pecs and an eight-pack led my eye down, down, down, where a snail-trail of dark hair and the tips of an Adonis-V let my imagination flirt with what was below his waist. A tattoo of a Napoleonic warship covered his bicep above his ‘the game is afoot” piece. The words, “I must confess, I covet your skull,” were written across his chest in an elegant gothic script, and a spider’s web hung over one of his glorious pecs, the spider dangling down over his abs.
“You okay there, gorgeous?” Morrie grabbed a second cake. “Your mouth’s hanging open like you’re trying to trap a fly in there.”
I snapped my mouth shut. “I’m fly… I mean, I’m fine. Are you going to put clothes on? It’s miserable out tonight. I’d hate for you to catch your death.”
“Can’t stand the sight of me, eh?” He tugged on a red shirt and buttoned a black-and-gold vest over top of it, rolling up the sleeves over his forearms. Be still my heart, that man knows how to dress.
“I’m just a concerned citizen. I also brought some berries for the raven. They’re a bit smushed, but—” The words slipped away as I noticed a third pair of eyes watching me from the hallway. “Who… who else is there?”
A figure stepped out of the shadows. Under the light of the chandelier, another guy came into focus, his features so striking he stole my breath. While Heathcliff had his rugged looks, and Morrie his slick charm, this guy’s skin radiated with a pale luminescence that wasn’t of this world. A pair of sensuous pouting lips turned up at me as long fingers reached up to sweep a silken strand of waist-length black hair from his face, grazing along a cheekbone that could cut glass. Eyes of deep brown, tinged with rings of fire like a Norwegian forest burning in the wake of Ragnarok, glared at me like he was the hunter and I his prey.
“Who… who are you?” I managed to choke out the words.
“The flatmate,” he whispered back, the words carrying the weight of a curse. “I’ll take the berries to the bird.”
I started at his voice. That throaty tone, that rich timbre, like chocolate melting over ripe strawberries. He sounds just like that random voice I keep hearing around the shop!
Then how come I’ve never seen him before?
“Have you been spying on me?” I demanded. Extreme, otherworldly hotness did not excuse this bloke from being a creep.
The flatmate’s eyes shifted, fire flaring through them as the forest gave way to the inferno. He closed his eyelids, tangling his feathery long lashes as he whipped the berries from my hand, turned on his heel, and marched back down the hall. His hair flared out behind him like the plumage of a songbird, collecting and reflecting the light, painting the stands in fleeting shades of color – indigo, lavender, copper, burnished gold.
I rubbed the corner of my eye, wishing like crazy my wonky eyes could penetrate the gloom of the hallway, because I bet the view of his arse was fucking spectacular.
“That’s Quoth,” Morrie said. “He’s a bit of a loner. You won’t see much of him.”
“Probably for the best. But seriously, his name is Quoth?”
Morrie nodded.
“His real name? Not his World of Warcraft handle? Not his shitty post-punk band’s name? His parents actually called him Quoth?”
“That’s what it says on his gym membership,” Heathcliff grunted from the chair.
“Okay, this flat is too outrageous to be real. You’re sure only three of you live up here? I’m not about to meet Shakespeare and the Venerable Bede? Because I’m not sure my brain can handle the thees and thous right now.”
“Just us three merry bachelors,” Morrie sang as he reached in for another cake.
“Four, if you count the raven,” I added, surprised he’d forget the bird.
“Right, yes. Of course. Four.”
“Don’t you have some work to do?” Heathcliff picked up his book from the arm of the chair. “I believe there was a plot afoot to make my life miserable.”
“You’re already miserable. I’m hoping a website will make you so miserable you come back around to joyful,” I said, managing to ruffle his hair a little before he shrugged me off.
“I hope he does a little joyful jig.” Morrie waved me through. “That would make my whole year. Step this way to my lair.”
In the small alcove off the living room that would probably have once served as a nursery when the house was a single Victorian residence, Morrie pulled up a chair beside a sleek black desk. Unlike everything else about Nevermore, this desk was a work of modern art – a gleaming expanse of steel and glass, holding three screens arranged in a semi-circle around a high-backed chair, and beneath it a black computer stack and mechanical keyboard.
“So you’re a gamer.” I rolled my eyes, recognizing some of the gadgets from the apartment of a gamer boyfriend I’d had back in New York City. Judging by Morrie’s setup, he’d spent serious money on this rig.
“In a manner of speaking.” Morrie pulled out the chair and beckoned
me to sit. I did so, marveling how the chair conformed to my curves. A brief deviant fantasy of straddling Morrie while he sat in that chair and smirked up at me crossed my mind, and I reveled in it for a moment while he leaned across to adjust the keyboard. His arm brushed mine and I regretted not purchasing that box of condoms.
He’s been text-flirting with you all day, Ashley’s voice scolded me inside my head. She did always know it all when it came to guys. He invited you back to his flat late at night. He keeps flashing you that smile. Go for it, honey!
Not while Heathcliff and Quoth are here. These walls must be paper-thin and uninsulated. The idea of working with Heathcliff after he heard Morrie and I shagging made all sexual desire flee my body. I don’t need any more complications in my life right now. I’m just going to build a website, that’s all.
I glanced around the different screens, deliberately avoiding perving at Morrie. Data streamed down one screen too fast for my eyes to track. “What’s all this? I thought you didn’t have a job anymore?”
“Nope. I’m freelance now. I told you I’d be fine.”
“What do you do, exactly?”
“As my contemporaries like to say, I’ve been endowed with a phenomenal mathematical faculty.” Morrie’s hand brushed my shoulder as he settled me into the chair, sending a shiver through my body that had nothing to do with a draft. “This means I do whatever interests me. Some years back I published a book on asteroids. My last job was in finance. On the train today I taught myself to hard-code a website. Want to see what I’ve come up with?”
“You mean, do I want to see the website you put together after teaching yourself on the train? Yes, please. I could use a laugh.” I pictured a terrible mess with flashing text and an overabundance of exclamation points.
Moriarty leaned over to click the mouse, his body looming over mine. I sensed the tension in his muscles as he moved the mouse. Is he as turned-on as I am? “I’ve already purchased a domain name and set up a basic site. The online shop is a plugin for our catalogue on The-Store-That Shall-Not-Be-Named. I even managed to find a picture of Heathcliff looking somewhat normal. All it needs is some text and images, and maybe a mailing list.”
“No mailing list,” Heathcliff called from in front of the fire.
“Go back to your book,” I shot back.
“It’s hard to concentrate with you two trying to ruin my business.”
Morrie showed me how to navigate between the different elements. “If you place the cursor in this box, you can add text for the homepage. Then do the ‘About Us’ and ‘Find Us’ page. I even added an interactive map of Argleton.”
I stared at the blank box on the screen, my fingers frozen over the keys. “What do I type?”
“Just information about the shop. You’re trying to make it sound appealing so people will come visit us and then Heathcliff will stop being such a scrooge about using hot water.” Morrie wiped a sodden curl off his forehead. I gulped. Right, just write some stuff while Morrie watches. Uh-huh. Easy.
I tapped my finger against the E key. Bookshop. Books. Reading. Escape. What could I say about Nevermore Books that captured the way I felt about the place?
An idea sprung from thin air and tapped me on the shoulder. I typed, “Nevermore Books – where you find stories you never knew you needed.”
“You’ve got this, gorgeous.” Morrie’s sexy voice caressed my ear. “Keep going.”
My fingers flew over the keyboard as I called up my memories of escaping to Nevermore after school and of the solace and comfort I found between the pages here. I conjured up a labyrinth of shelves where anything could be lurking, and even made a note about meeting the “friendly bookshop raven.”
“It’s a bit of a stretch,” I said, pointing to the raven part. “But he’s so unusual I think we have to include him.”
“Croak,” agreed the raven, who’d fluttered in and perched on the back of the monitor.
“Yes, yes.” I typed furiously. “I’m adding a bit about not quoting Poe.”
“This is brilliant.” Morrie leaned over my shoulder to get a better look at the screen. My fingers slipped on the keys. I’d forgotten he was right there. “You’re a natural.”
“A natural at not quoting Poe?”
“No, a natural writer. I can solve a Navier-Stokes equation in seconds, but I’d have stared at that screen for hours and not come up with something as eloquent as what you’ve written in ten minutes. You could sell sand in the desert with your words.”
“Please, don’t talk to me about selling sand.” One of my mum’s earliest schemes was a healing scrub made from ‘authentic' Damascus sand she’d scooped off the beach at Blackpool. I suspected she was still paying off the Environment Agency fine.
I typed in some info on the rest of the pages, finishing up on the About Us page. I poised to tell our potential punters a little about their surly proprietor, then realized I didn’t know a thing about Heathcliff. His accent was Northern and he couldn’t have grown up in Argleton, because he’d have gone to my school and I would have remembered him. Everyone kept calling him a gypsy, and his dark skin and prominent nose certainly suggested an eastern lineage. Where did he come from? Had he gone to university? What made someone so young and built for hard labor decide to run a musty old bookshop?
“Heathcliff, can you come in here?” I yelled.
“I’m busy.”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
The raven fluttered into the living room. I leaned around the corner of the alcove in time to see it peck Heathcliff in the arm.
“Croak!”
“All right!” Heathcliff leaned forward to glower into the alcove. “What?”
“I just need some biographical info for you, for the website.”
“I don’t want people knowing anything about me.”
“We’re not talking about your deepest, darkest secrets, just the basic stuff. Where you were born, why you got into the book trade—”
“I’m in the book trade because I thought it wouldn’t be full of annoying people disturbing my calm with incessant questions. I was wrong.” Heathcliff swatted at the raven. It croaked in defiance and flew onto a perch above the hallway door.
“Please?”
Heathcliff sighed, as though I’d asked him to take the Queen’s shilling. “Fine.” He shoved his arse out of the chair, rooted around in his pockets, and recovered a faded leather wallet of old-fashioned design. He tossed it at me. “It’s all in there. Any other details you need, just make them up.”
I stared down at the wallet. Heathcliff’s spice-and-cigarette scent spilled from the seams and assaulted my senses. I flipped it open and peeked inside, pulling out cards and scraps of paper tucked into every pocket, all containing Heathcliff’s details in tiny print. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. Even with the light from the computer screen, I’d never be able to read any of it.
Why can’t he just tell me? Why does he have to make me…
“You waiting for a written invitation?”
“It’s not that,” I said quickly, tossing the wallet back at him. “I just can’t use this.”
“Why not?”
“Because… um…” I racked my brain for an excuse they’d believe.
“Because she can’t read them,” said a throaty voice from the doorway. “She’s going blind.”
Chapter Nine
“That’s… that’s not true!” I whipped around. There, lurking in the shadows was the flatmate, Quoth, his arms folded across the front of his blood-red shirt, his fierce eyes watching me like a vulture.
How can he know?
On his lips, the shame that had sent me home from my beloved New York, that had cost me my dream job and my best friend and sent me into a spiral of self-loathing, mocked me. I wished the wood beneath my feet would rot away so I could fall through into the shelves below. Bury me beneath books. Or better yet, bury Quoth. How does he know, and why the fuck did he have to say something?
/> “That true, gorgeous?” Morrie asked, his voice gentler than I’d imagined possible.
No, don’t do that. Don’t pity me. I can’t deal with pity.
“How… how did you know?” I whispered, my chest constricting. That was my secret. Quoth didn’t have the right to blab it to the whole flat, especially not to Heathcliff, who was probably getting ready to fire me.
“I observe people,” Quoth tucked a silken strand of hair behind his ear.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I noticed when you were stacking the shelves today. You hold the books close to your face to read the titles, and you turn your head at an odd angle, as if you lack peripheral vision.”
“So you were watching me in the shop. That’s creepy, especially since you haven’t bothered to show yourself.” With that body and those piercing eyes, I’d have remembered him. That was a fact.
Quoth shrugged. “I’m always here. I blend into the background.”
“You don’t—”
“You can kill Quoth later. Lord knows it would solve half my problems,” Heathcliff glared at me. “Does he speak the truth?”
“Yes, fine, it’s true.” I threw up my hands. “I’m going blind, okay?”
I’m going blind. The words rung in the silent room – words I’d been terrified to utter out loud ever since the diagnosis. Words I’d only told one other person (not counting Mum) before, and she’d gone and ruined my life with them. Words that meant I lost everything I loved – color, art, words. All of it gone.
Heathcliff shot to his feet. He patted the chair beside the fire. “Sit. Tell us about it.”
Morrie looked aghast. “You’re letting her have your chair? I’ve lived here for three years and never once have you let me sit in that chair—”
“Keep harping on about it and I’ll throw the chair out the window, and I’ll shut off the hot water,” Heathcliff growled. Morrie nudged my frozen body toward the chair.
I stared at my feet, my whole body trembling. They know they know they know—
“Bloody hell, Quoth. You’ve upset her,” Morrie punched his flatmate in the arm. “You can’t just blurt out shit like that.”
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