Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  TO BE CONTINUED

  * * *

  A murdered writer threatens to derail Mina’s author event, and a biblical plague threatens her sanity in book 4, Memoirs of a Garroter.

  * * *

  Enjoy free short stories, alternative scenes, and the latest news and updates when you join the Steffanie Holmes VIP list.

  Nevermore extras

  1

  Nevermore Bookshop RULES

  (As compiled by Heathcliff Earnshaw)

  No mobile phones.

  No mentioning The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named within these walls, upon pain of death.

  No eating or drinking in the shop. This is not one of those fancy high street chains with an on-site barista, nor do I appreciate picking up banana skins or empty crisp packets. If I catch you with coffee in here, I will dump it over your head. Ask Morrie, I’ve done it before.

  All alcohol is to be relinquished to the proprietor upon entry to the shop. It will not be returned.

  There’s a circle of hell reserved for people who haggle over a £2 paperback.

  No murder in the shop. It’s a tedious job cleaning the bloodstains out of the carpet.

  The proprietor does not appreciate having his bum pinched. This means you, Mrs. Ellis.

  Dan Brown is a terrible bore and I’ll flatten anyone who says otherwise.

  We will not match books to your outfit. Actually, Mina probably will.

  This is a bookshop, not a jungle gym. Children caught climbing the bookshelves will be sold into slavery.

  Heavy breathers in the erotica section will be promptly moved on, usually by being forced to converse with a chatty and horny elderly lady who hangs out there. (Hi, Mrs. Ellis).

  No, we will not sell your badly-written erotica, kooky religious tracts, or essays about alien abduction. However, self-published reverse harem authors are welcome.

  No pulling the cat’s tail.

  No hungry/tired children in the shop. Go across the road and buy them a pie. Or some arsenic – I don’t care which. But don’t inflict them on the rest of us.

  No customers upstairs in the flat.

  No customers behind the proprietor’s desk.

  18. No customers in the storage room.

  In fact, if customers could just avoid the shop altogether, that would be preferable. There’s a Waterstones in the next village. They have a barista.

  Our shop raven loves it when you recite Poe to him. Go on. Give it a go. We promise nothing bad will happen to you.

  2

  QUOTH

  Alternative POV chapter

  “Excuse me, I was just wondering,” a middle-aged woman leaned over the counter to address Heathcliff. Oddly enough, the scowl with which he greeted her did not deter her inquiries. “Did Anne Frank ever write a sequel?”

  Heathcliff blinked. From my perch atop the armadillo, I could see the steam coming out his ears. “A sequel to her diary?”

  “Yes. I really enjoyed it. I was hoping there was a sequel where she escapes to the South of France and finds true love.”

  “It’s a non-fiction book,” Heathcliff’s voice dripped with scorn. “She’s sent to a concentration camp, where she died. So no, there’s not a bloody sequel.”

  “Oh, that’s such a shame,” the customer tutted as she made her way to the door. “She was a talented writer.”

  The woman slipped into the hall. Heathcliff's eyes rolled so far back in his head I was afraid they'd get stuck there. He slammed his head into the desk several times. "Kill me now. Save me from the idiots of this age. Shut the door after her, would you Quoth? I can't deal with another imbecile today. And make me some tea."

  I fluttered out of the room before he started throwing books, which was his usual method of venting his frustrations. I perched on the top of the hallway bookshelf, beside my wall of trophies, and peered through the window above the door into the street below, checking no one was around to see through the windows when I shifted into my human form.

  A figure caught my eye. A girl stood on the footpath outside, staring up at the facade of the building. Her heels rose off the ground as she craned her neck to see right the way up to my attic bedroom.

  Radiant light from the afternoon sun bounced off her face, highlighting strong features and an expression of grim determination. Whatever her reason for being here, she didn’t intend to come away empty-handed. Long brown hair fell over her shoulders in waves, picking up flecks of the violet light spectrum only my raven eyes could see.

  The girl looked down at her phone, holding the screen closer to her face than most humans did. As she slipped it back into her purse, I caught a glimpse of the Argleton community app open on the screen. Hmmm, that’s where Morrie placed Heathcliff’s ad…

  Uh-oh.

  From the main room behind me, Heathcliff snarled. Today has been a bad day. A customer came in and asked for a copy of George Ormand’s Nineteen Eighty-Six. Another found a scribbled price of £1 from a previous bookseller in a 1920s volume we’d priced at £15 and tried to argue we should sell it to him at that price. Then The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named glitched and we sold a first edition collection of Dickens for 4 pence. Heathcliff was not in the right humor to meet an applicant for the assistant job, especially not if it meant he'd be losing a bet to Morrie.

  And especially not a woman like her. Look at her, absolutely beautiful. But there was something beyond her surface beauty that arrested me – behind that determined look, her green eyes shone with impossible depth and sadness. I recognized a fellow haunted soul. Whoever this girl was, she needed something to take away her pain. Heathcliff wasn't exactly going to be able to give her that. He'd just as likely cause fresh wounds.

  She opened the front door and stepped inside, the gloom of Nevermore Bookshop enclosing her like a shroud. Her bright red boots sank into the worn carpet. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books as she made her way tentatively down the hall. Was she reconsidering her application, or was she moving slowly because she couldn’t see in the gloom?

  “Hello?” she called, her voice as sweet as the first plums of spring.

  Hello beautiful, I thought sadly as she moved underneath my perch without noticing me. A strange sensation prickled the back of my neck, between my feathers. The tips of my wings itched. Something about this girl called to me. I wanted to talk to her, as a human. But I knew that couldn’t happen. I couldn’t talk to anyone, not if I wanted to stay safe. And it didn’t matter anyway – Heathcliff was about to chase her out of our lives for good.

  The girl’s head whipped around, her eyes scanning the darkness. “Hello?”

  What? The pricking feeling intensified. Did she just hear me?

  No. That’s not possible. As far as we knew, only other fictional characters like Heathcliff and Moriarty could hear my raven thoughts.

  The girl peered up at me, her confused expression weakening my heart. She can’t see me, I realized. She has bad eyesight. I unfurled a long wing and swooped off the shelf, making myself known to her, overwhelmed by a desire for her to see me, to acknowledge me, even if only as a bird.

  “Argh!” She flung up her arm, slamming a sharp elbow into my wing. I hopped back onto my perch as she toppled into a stack of books, scattering the volumes across the hall.

  Oops, great. Wonderful first impression, Quoth.

  A random thought that wasn’t my own struck me between my ears. What is Astarte’s name is a raven doing in here? It’ll poop over the books. I wonder if it’s got a nest in the roof somewhere? We’ll have to find that if we want to chase it out...

  I croaked with surprise. Okay, this is weird. Those are her thoughts, but I shouldn’t be able to hear those, either.

  It could mean...

  That maybe she’s...

  “I guess you kind of suit the place.” The girl spoke aloud as she bent down to retrieve the books. “A raven in Nevermore Bookshop. Once upon a midnight dreary—”

  “Croak.” Oh, no, you don’t. You may be
the girl we’ve been waiting for, but you don’t get to recite that poem.

  “Fine. Fine. I didn’t come here to quote poetry to a bird.” The girl stood up and rubbed her elbow. “I want to talk to the boss. Do you know where I might find him?”

  I’ll show you. I unfurled my wings, swooped past her, and flew through the archway on the left into the main room, where Heathcliff kept his desk beside the grand old fireplace. I perched on the desk lamp, tapping the metal in an attempt to get his attention.

  Heathcliff, there’s someone here to see you.

  Bugger off, was his response.

  Not this time.

  The girl’s boots clunked against the floorboards, the sound exploding in my ears. She approached the desk, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to find the right words. I registered her mind, muddled with thoughts of a faraway city she wished she could return to, and a friend who betrayed her, and a fear that consumed her. Mingled in there were memories of this very bookshop at another time, with another proprietor, and of her joy at hiding in dark corners and discovering fantastical worlds within the pages.

  She loved this bookshop once. My heart fluttered as I put together the details. She is… she's the one.

  "We're closed," Heathcliff muttered, not even looking up from his book.

  She frowned. “Your sign still says open.”

  “Well, flip it over for me on the way back out.”

  “Um, sure. Mr. Earnshaw, was it?” She waved at him.

  Look up, you idiot. You have to see her.

  I’m ignoring you, he snapped back. Both of you. Get out of my head.

  The girl lowered her hand. “I saw the job ad you posted on the Argleton app, and I wanted to—”

  “App?” Now his head snapped up, those black eyes of his regarding her with suspicion. A flicker of something like curiosity, like desire, wavered in his features, before he scrunched up his nose and curled his lips back into a sneer. If he’d seen what I’d seen, he was doing his best to ignore it. “What the devil is an app?”

  She looked perturbed. “Um… you know, an application for your phone, so you can get the bus timetable or talk to your mates or—”

  “Don’t talk to me about phones,” Heathcliff snapped. “People spend too much time on their phones.”

  The girl babbled as she whipped the hand holding her phone behind her back. “Oh, I agree. I mean, phones should only be used for calling people. And checking social media. That’s it. I would never read on mine. I mean, studies have shown it can cause long-term eye damage and—”

  “No matter how long you keep talking, it’s not going to change the fact that we’re closed. What do you want?”

  “I’m Mina Wilde. I’m applying for the assistant’s job.” She dug a large envelope from her purse and held it out to him. “I’ve got my resume in here for you with all my qualifications and—”

  “I don’t need that. If you want the job, tell me why I should hire you.”

  "Right, well…" Mina flicked her eyes over Heathcliff and bit her lower lip. Lust rolled off her in waves. Of course. Heathcliff treated her like crap and it made her want him. I'd read enough romance books now to know that was the way it always worked. I'd never read a book where the cute girl fell for the quiet feathery raven boy.

  “If your answer is to gape at me like a bespawling lubberwort,” Heathcliff growled. “Then you can take the job and shove it where the sun don’t shine—”

  “That’s not my answer.” Mina’s cheeks flared with heat. Her voice took on a hardened edge. He’d pushed her too far. “I was just collecting my thoughts. You should hire me because I’m a hard worker. I’m punctual. I have some retail experience, as well as design expertise so I can do graphics and window displays—”

  “I don’t care. Why do you want to work here? No one wants to work here. That was the whole point of the ad.”

  “Um… I guess I used to hang out in the bookshop all the time as a kid. I know where all the books go and I’ve personally helped Mr. Simson fix that till on at least two occasions.” She pointed to the ancient till where I perched.

  Heathcliff, don’t let her leave, I begged him telepathically. She’s the one Mr. Simson told us about, the one we’re supposed to wait for. I’m sure of it.

  "And… um, I have all sorts of useful skills," Mina continued, her words tumbling out as she fought to regain control of the interview. "I have a fashion degree, so that's probably not useful. But I am a millennial so I can do the store's social media. I could build a website—"

  I don’t see it, Heathcliff shot back at me, studying her features through his sneer. She wants to build a website. I’m not having a website—

  Oh, just hire her already. She’s pretty.

  “Huh?” The girl glanced over my shoulder, wondering where the voice had come from. I glared at Heathcliff. He had to believe me now.

  She’s just hearing something on the street, he shot at me. Stop making this—

  I like her. I bet she’ll bring me treats. Berries, smoked salmon, maybe even a hard-boiled egg.

  The girl peered over my shoulder again. “Who’s there?”

  She heard me! She heard me! I danced along the till.

  We don’t know that. Heathcliff whipped his head around to look behind Mina. But of course, there was no one there. "Who are you talking to?"

  “You didn’t hear that? Someone was prattling on about salmon and eggs.”

  I told you so! I practically screamed, tapping the till with my beak.

  Heathcliff’s eyes narrowed. He reached out and clamped an enormous hand around my beak. You’re a wanker. “You didn’t leave the door open, did you?” He glowered at Mina. “We’re supposed to be closed.”

  “No. I…” Mina’s shoulders sagged. “I guess I’ll just be going now. Thank you for your time and—”

  “You start tomorrow,” Earnshaw glowered. “We open at nine. Be here at eight-thirty, but don’t let anyone else in. If you’re late, the bird gets your first paycheck.”

  Yes, yes! I danced along the till. Thank you.

  Yeah, yeah, Heathcliff said. Don’t tell Morrie I’ve gone soft on you.

  Mina beamed. Her smile was a beam of sunlight in the gloomy shop. She thanked Heathcliff profusely, and hurried outside, probably thinking to get away before he changed his mind, which was wise. Heathcliff heaved himself up and went into the hall to lock the door behind her.

  I sucked in a breath and forced my shift. My skin itched and prickled as the feathers retracted – a creeping irritation that I could never scratch away. Fire leaped through my veins as my internal organs and systems adjusted themselves. Bones snapped, sinews twisted, and by the time Heathcliff returned I sat, naked, on the edge of his desk.

  “Get your bare arse off my book. I didn’t need your song and dance with her,” he muttered.

  “Clearly, you did,” I replied, wriggling against his book a few times before sliding off and sinking into the velvet chair opposite the desk. An icy draft blew up through the broken windowpane, caressing my pale skin. I relaxed into the discomfort. After that visit from Mina, a cold blast did me good.

  “Well, I’ve hired her, so you got your way.” Heathcliff picked up his book by pinching the corner, holding it as far away from his body as he could. He made a face as he dropped it into the rubbish bin.

  “Mr. Simson told us she’d come back – the girl who loved the bookshop. I saw flickers of her thoughts. She used to come to this bookshop as a child. She even remembers Mr. Simson. That love just radiates off her. And she could hear my thoughts. I’m telling you, she’s the one we’re supposed to protect.”

  “She doesn’t look like she needs protecting.”

  “I don’t think you’re the best judge of that.” I hugged my knees. “There’s pain in her past, a lot of it. I think she needs friends.”

  "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Heathcliff growled. "Well, don't get all hot and bothered. The minute she meets Morrie, she won't be concern
ed with either of us."

  “It won’t be like that.”

  “It’ll be exactly like that, and all the better for it. Morrie will fuck her and forget her. I’ll get some peace again, and you’ll stay in the attic out of my sight so you don’t get all excited and shift in front of her, lest she calls the authorities and some government researcher ends up eating raven pie for supper.”

  I nodded, but I was a million miles away, lost in the memory of Mina Wilde’s sunshine smile and haunted eyes. My heart swelled. Mina Wilde, welcome to Nevermore Bookshop. I see you. I want to be your friend.

  I hope… I hope you see me, too.

  3

  MORRIE

  Alternative POV chapter

  French cuffs perfectly ironed. Check.

  Exceptional close shave. Check.

  Chess set and portable BDSM kit in satchel, in case the opportunity should present itself. Check, and check.

  I nodded to my reflection as I made one last evaluation of my appearance. Everything seemed in order. If I were a hot-blooded woman, I’d fall at my feet in reverence. But today, I wasn’t meeting just any woman. I would be in the company of Mina Wilde, and that required a level of perfection I had hitherto never required.

  I glanced at my phone. Speaking of my temptress, she should be arriving at any moment. As I headed downstairs, a familiar voice floated up from outside. Mina’s been captured by Mrs. Ellis. James Moriarty to the rescue.

  I threw the shop door open. There she was, standing on the street in a sexy-as-all-hell tailored military jacket and black leggings laced to reveal a sliver of pale skin at the seams. Well played, gorgeous. How did you know I have a thing about laces? Droplets of rain tumbled off the end of her adorable nose as she turned her head toward me. My throat closed up – a foreign sensation to me – and my cock twitched in my trousers.