Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  “Stay out of my head!” I yelled upstairs, my cheeks burning.

  “Croak!” came the reply.

  “So there might be something to this blackmail,” I said quickly, hoping to change the subject. “But how would we find out? I’m not going to have to talk to Marcus, am I?”

  “Not when we have the internet on our side.” Morrie tapped a few buttons on his phone. “Okay, I’ve pulled up Marcus’ Ribald’s financials. He’s made two large payments in the last year, one a few days before the gala dinner, and one just a week ago.”

  “They could be payments to do with Fashion Week.”

  “So he works with a lot of stylists who have anonymous Cayman Island accounts?”

  “Hmmm. You have a point.”

  “Of course I do. I’m very clever.” Morrie downed his glass in one gulp and picked up his phone again. “All we need to do is find out who these accounts belong to, and we’ve found our murderer.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “When you’re as brilliant as me, you don’t even need to answer that question.” Morrie tapped away on his phone. “Give me a minute, and I’ll have a name.”

  “But I don’t understand why Ashley was killed. She’s not the blackmailer. I just can’t see her setting up a Cayman Island account.”

  “I deduce one of three things happened. One, your dear friend was involved in this blackmail operation in some capacity, then decided she wanted out of the ring. She tried to leave and our blackmailer killed her to protect her identity. Two, your beloved Marcus Ribald hired someone to pose as the buyer and he killed Ashley to close the loop. Three, Ashley was working for Marcus all along, and she was killed because she threatened to report the blackmail. That’s usually how these things end.” Morrie paused. “Not that I have any close personal experience with blackmail.”

  “No, not at all.” The back of my neck prickled, a reminder that this guy had been the foremost criminal in the world, the spider at the center of a vast, nefarious web.

  In a fictional world. Does it even count?

  “This is going to take me a little longer to break,” Morrie muttered, his fingers flying over his phone screen. “These Cayman banks are always tight with security.”

  I turned to Heathcliff. “Is this a ‘send out for pizza’ situation, or does he mean that he’s going to be working all night?”

  “Make mine a meatsplosion,” Morrie didn’t even look up from his screen, his fingers a blur. “I bet I’ll have this hacked by the time dinner arrives.”

  “You’re on,” I said. “Loser buys the next bottle of wine.”

  “Deal. I hope you’ve been saving your pennies, gorgeous, because I’ve got expensive taste.”

  Heathcliff picked up the phone on his desk. “Quoth,” he yelled. “You want your usual?”

  “Croak!”

  Heathcliff put in an other for three large pizzas, chips, and garlic bread, and endured a five minute conversation with the person on the other end reiterating that yes, his name really was Heathcliff, and no, he wasn’t some pimply-faced youth having a laugh.

  “It’s odd to think of the Heathcliff I know – the one from Wuthering Heights – eating pizza,” I said after he hung up.

  “We all of us agree one thing that’s improved from our fictional worlds is the cuisine,” Heathcliff said gruffly. “Nelly was a fair cook, but she cannot hold a candle to Tony’s Pizzeria. I’m grateful if I never see another mutton pie for the rest of my days.”

  I bit my tongue to ask of the cooking skills of Isabella Linton – the sister of Edgar Linton, who Cathy married for his wealth and affection – remembering in time that Heathcliff came to this world before he’d spitefully married her.

  Heathcliff picked up his book again, and Morrie tapped away on his phone. Upstairs, all had gone quiet. I decided to pay Quoth a visit.

  “Call me when the pizza arrives,” I called over my shoulder.

  Grimalkin batted my ankles as I felt my way up the second flight of stairs. Quoth wasn’t in the living room, or the kitchen. I clambered up the narrow servant’s staircase, and poked my head into his bedroom.

  At first, I assumed he wasn’t there. The room was dark, and no one had disturbed the neatly-made bed. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I noticed a figure in the window – a bare chest lit by a pale shaft of moonlight.

  Quoth sat on a narrow wooden stool, his knees poking through Holly Santiago’s artfully-torn jeans. He held a paintbrush between his teeth and another in his hand. Both brushes dabbed at the surface of a canvas. It was angled away from me, so I couldn’t see the painting, but Quoth’s transfixed gaze was plenty arresting.

  I moved across the room, trying to see what he was drawing with such single-minded focus. He didn’t even seem aware I was in the room. As I squinted at the square of canvas, my foot brushed an easel, sending a cascade of paintings crashing to the floor.

  “Argh!” Quoth leapt out of his chair. Feathers burst through his cheeks and covered his arms.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just me.” I scrambled to pick up the paintings I’d disturbed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s…” Quoth gripped the windowsill, sucking in his breath. His back muscles strained. Slowly, the feathers retracted into his skin. His shoulders relaxed.

  “You didn’t shift?”

  “Sometimes I can control it.” He picked up his brushes. “Did you want something?”

  “Morrie’s trying to hack a Cayman Island bank account before the pizza arrives. I thought I’d see if you were okay.”

  Quoth flicked on his bedside lamp, positioning the light so it shone onto the bed. He patted the spread. “Sit.”

  I obeyed, grateful for the light that illuminated Quoth’s features in stark highlights. His hair fell over his shoulders and down his bare chest in luxurious waves, the light revealing hues of gunmetal, orange sunset, and cornflower blue. I lost myself in the depths of his brown eyes, searching for the storm that raged there earlier, but I could find no trace.

  “I do not care about what Morrie said,” Quoth told me. The stillness in his eyes didn’t waver – he wasn’t lying.

  He should care. I hated that he didn’t care.

  “That wasn’t what I saw. You looked upset when he called you useless, which, by the way, I don’t believe for a second.”

  “Why? It’s true.” Quoth leaned forward, and the light danced off his hair, this time shooting it with jets of pale blue. I sat on my hands, hoping that would temper the urge to run my fingers through those luminous strands. “I offer nothing to the world I’ve found myself in, and I remember so little of the world I left that even if I were somehow to return, I would be a stranger.”

  I snorted. “You’re being sarcastic, right?”

  “I am not.”

  “Dude, you realize you’re an amazing artist, right?” I pointed to a painting hanging over the bed, of two skulls nestled amongst a field of blood-red roses. “That is sick. It could be an album cover.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I have a tattoo that’s kind of similar.” I turned around and lifted the edge of my shirt to show him the ink on my lower back. “Ashley and I got matching ones. I love it, but the artist is nothing compared to you.”

  “I’m nothing compared to the artists on the walls downstairs.” Quoth stared at the floor, deliberately not looking at my tattoo. I sat back down again.

  “You mean all those prints of Picasso and Rembrandt? When you compare yourself to the greatest artists of human history, yeah, you’re probably lacking a bit. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have talent. Did you choose the prints downstairs?” I studied the juncture of Quoth’s earlobe, marveling at its exquisite beauty. Why was everything about him so perfect, but so… breakable? Despite his sinewy muscles, Quoth moved as though he were made of glass.

  I guess I’d feel like that, too, if at any moment my body could burst into pieces and remake itself into another shape.

  “Morr
ie put them up for me after he caught me reading books in the Art History section.” Quoth smiled, but like everything about him, that smile bore a fragility that made my chest ache. “They are not prints.”

  Of course they’re not. I decided to leave that revelation for now. “I know – even if you don’t – that they’re your way of borrowing some surcease of sorrow, but why don’t you sell your paintings?”

  Quoth groaned at my poor attempt at humor. “Tease me with that poem and you may find a present on your shoulder when you least except it. I cannot sell my paintings. No one wants them. Morrie says they’re too morbid.”

  I grinned down at a bird’s eye view of a cemetery, where a groundskeeper dug a fresh tomb while mourners lined the aisle between graves. “They’re morbid as fuck, but that’s a selling point. Plenty of people would have something like that on their wall. I know I would. You could even take commissions, maybe offer your services to bands and fashion labels. You wouldn’t feel like you were useless if you contributed something, left your mark on this world.”

  “You don’t have to be nice to me, Mina. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Say it one more time like you believe it.” I slid my hand from under my ass and patted his knee. Big mistake. The warmth of Quoth’s skin seeped into my body, wrapping around my heart and squeezing. Fire flickered in the corner of his eyes. For a moment, he let his guard drop and I glimpsed the despair hidden in plain sight, the loneliness written across his porcelain skin.

  My breath hitched. I recognized Quoth, because he was a mirror of myself – he was the ghost of young Mina who escaped to Nevermore Bookshop every day because she had no friends, who sought solace and friendship in her imagination, who drowned out her screams with loud music and covered her scars in torn clothing.

  When I first met Quoth, he’d frightened me. But as bit by bit he’d revealed himself to me, I knew I had no reason to be afraid. I didn’t need to be saved from Quoth. He was the one who needed saving.

  “I am fine,” he whispered. “You are here, and I am happy.”

  His words burned through me. Bile rose in the back of my throat. I drew my hand away, desperate not to feel his pulse quicken or sense the depth of his wanting. “You’re happy I’m here?”

  “You fill me with fantastic terrors never felt before.” He smiled at his own joke.

  “Well, you’re the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,” I shot back.

  A grin spread across his bleak face, genuine and haunting in its fleeting beauty. As soon as it appeared, it was gone. “I hear your thoughts sometimes, when I’m a raven. More than the others. I’m sorry about it; I don’t mean to disturb your privacy. I can’t control it.”

  “I understand. I’ll try not to think anything filthy while you’re around.” I’d meant it as a joke, but Quoth winced. My cheeks flushed as I remembered what happened back in London. “I know you saw Morrie and I… that was so wrong. I shouldn’t have done that while you were there.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for, not to me, or to Heathcliff.”

  I stared at him, not understanding. Quoth winked, and my cheeks burned as realization dawned on me. He’s heard my thoughts about Heathcliff. He knows all the filthy things I imagined…

  “You should embrace the chaos, Mina. It’s okay to not know what you want.”

  “And you should do something with your paintings.” I rubbed my cheek, trying to get the heat out of it. “Another few weeks and you won’t be able to move in here.”

  “If I sold them, I’d have to talk to people – a gallery owner, an agent.”

  “I’ll help you. I’ll act as your agent, if you like. A lot of Marcus Ribald’s haute couture customers are big in the art world. I bet I know some people who could help you get started.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Embrace the chaos, Quoth. Isn’t that what you told me? Why do you hide up here in the attic anyway? There’s that whole bedroom downstairs that would fit a lot more artwork inside.”

  “Bedroom?” Quoth’s voice rose an octave.

  “The master suite at the end of the hall. I peeked inside when I was searching for you—”

  “You didn’t go in, did you?” Quoth’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

  “Of course I did. I had to check you weren’t hiding under the bed.”

  Quoth leaned so close, his face hovered an inch from mine. His breath caressed my lips, and I struggled to suck in air. “What did you see?”

  “Just… a bedroom. There was a four-poster bed and a some furniture covered in drop cloths. An pentagonal bathroom in the turret. Oh, and a beautiful wardrobe. I’d kill to have that room.”

  “Mina, you can’t go in there again. This is serious. It—” Quoth’s plea was interrupted by a bellow from downstairs.

  “Pizza’s here!”

  Quoth ducked his head and made his way to the door. The spell had broken, leaving my skin flushed and my head flummoxed. I picked my way through the dark space and down the narrow staircase into the living room.

  Heathcliff had already settled into his chair and lit the gas fire. Morrie pulled two tiny coffee tables together, setting all the dirty coffee cups into the corner of the room and opening out the pizza boxes. The smell of garlic and cheese hit my nostrils and my stomach rumbled. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. Morrie and I hadn’t eaten on the train – neither of us had a suicide wish.

  “I take it from your gloating smile that you won our bet?” I asked Morrie as I collected a slice of Hawaiian pizza and settled into my own chair.

  “It took me all of eight minutes.” Morrie leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head, that wicked smile playing across his face. “I didn’t break my record, but it’s still respectable. I’ll have a bottle of Château Lafite 1869, if you please. Our blackmailer’s name is Roger Cox.”

  “You’re getting a £3.99 bottle from the renowned wine region of South Dakota, and you’ll like it.” The name Roger Cox sounded familiar. “I think I know this person, like maybe they were part of Marcus’ Rolodex. Go to this address.” I rattled off a URL and Morrie pulled up a page of glittering filtered photographs of Marcus’ office and various fashion events and fancy cocktails.

  “This your social media influencing?” Heathcliff frowned over Morrie’s shoulder.

  “No, I deleted mine after I lost the internship.” I shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “I’m not gonna be able to take selfies for much longer, anyway. This is Ashley’s.”

  “Whew,” Morrie scrolled down the page, which was ninety-five percent selfies of Ashley pouting at the camera in the latest designer clothes she borrowed from Marcus’ studio. I tried to push down my jealousy as Morrie scrolled past her most recent pics – of her standing outside Broadway premieres, her arm draped around B-level celebs, her modeling an amazing leather jacket, her waving at the camera as she waited in the airport lounge. “L8rs h8ers. I’m off home for a vacay.” Her final words.

  I scrolled back to the gala dinner where Holly found Marcus’ drawing. The whole office had been invited and Ashley and I spent hours perfecting our outfits and makeup. Every moment of the event had been captured by Ashley for prosperity, and many of those moments featured me – teetering around the room in my too-high heels, beaming over my cocktail as Ashley pointed out all the A-listers, hunting through my goodie bag for the free Gucci scrunchie. I tried not to focus on how happy we looked hanging out together, instead scanning the crowd for familiar faces.

  “There he is,” I jabbed my finger at the screen. Luckily, Ashley had diligently tagged Roger Cox in her picture, along with every other fashion person she could identify. He sat at the table behind Ashley and I, staring straight at the camera. “He was definitely there the night of the gala. I remember him now, he’s a British fashion writer, although I believe he’s retired. Marcus said they were ‘old friends’ but he didn’t ask me to send Cox a bottle of Champagne, which he’d done for other distinguished guests.”

&n
bsp; “Get this, gorgeous. He lives nearby.” Morrie turned around his phone to show me a map. “Do you want to violate a police request for the second day in a row and pay him a visit tomorrow?”

  I bit down on my pizza, my mouth filling with delicious cheese. Finally, we were getting close to finding Ashley’s killer and clearing my name. “Hell yeah.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “I’m not convinced this is the best plan,” I said as we stared up at the imposing facade of Roger Cox’s Georgian manor. “This guy is a big deal in fashion circles. He’s not just going to admit to blackmailing Marcus Ribald.”

  “Trust me,” Morrie twirled his phone through his fingers like he was a punk drummer working the crowd. “I’m taking a page out of your book for this one. Cox is going to topple like a house of cards.”

  With Quoth’s cage in tow, we took the bus from Argleton out into the Cotswolds, then hiked up the hill from the tiny villages of Buxtonhenge to reach Roger Cox’s home. Morrie complained the whole way about the wind and the rain and the cow dung on his brogues. I wished Heathcliff had been able to come with us – I imagined him completely in his element, wet clothes clinging to his body, his posture straight, his broad shoulders squared, the weight of the world lifting from him as he relished the brutality of the natural landscape he loved.

  But then, I was thinking of the Heathcliff from my favorite book. The Heathcliff I knew – my Heathcliff – seemed to be just as happy to sulk behind his desk and yell at customers as he was to frolic on the moors.

  Quoth clung to my shoulder and croaked away in my ear. Stop laughing at my thoughts, you ungainly fowl.

  Nevermore, Quoth thought back. I pretended to punch him in the chest, and he pretended to peck out my eyes.

  Morrie rung the doorbell. A few moments later, the man from the photograph answered.

  “State your business,” he demanded. “I’ve already told Vanity Fair I won’t be giving any interviews.”

  “Oh no,” Morrie tsked. “We’re not here for an interview, at least, not the sort you want printed anywhere. Good evening, Mr. Cox. My name is Professor James Moriarty. I presume you’ve heard of me, being a fine, well-read gentleman such as yourself.”