The thought slammed into me, jolting me back to reality. The whole reason I was standing in this room in the first place was because I’d had to give up the one thing I loved. And I hated Marcus Ribald for not hiring me when I deserved that position, and I hated the industry for not being open to me anymore, and I hated Ashley for spilling my secret, but I also kind of hated myself for giving up.
But what other option did I have?
I backed out of the closet and slammed the door, then tried the next. The second door opened into the most incredible bathroom I’d ever seen. A hexagonal-shaped room in the southwestern turret housed an old fashioned porcelain toilet and sink. The stained glass window that covered one whole wall allowed light to filter down onto the copper bath that took pride of place in the center of the room.
Wait a second… it’s not a hexagon.
What appeared to be a hexagonal turret from Butcher Street was actually three sides of a five-sided room. Standing here in the bathroom, the angles were completely obvious. It almost looked like it was designed as a Victorian illusion, the way they liked to add secret compartments in their bookshelves and hidden drawers in their desks.
But why disguise a five-sided room? And why go to so much effort to create the room in the first place? It didn’t take my designer’s eye to see that it wasn’t as balanced or aesthetically pleasing as a hexagon would be. It also made it difficult to fit furniture into the space.
I stood beside the window and looked down at the circle of gossips converging outside the bookshop. Instead of dispersing, the crowd had grown even larger, and I could see a couple wearing jackets from the local television station with heavy cameras and mic equipment.Great. I’m sure they’re getting a totally true and unbiased account from the neighborhood busybodies.
I backed away from the window before anyone saw me, and tried the third door. It revealed a small drawing room, complete with fireplace and ornate oak desk. This was probably where the lady of the house wrote her letters.
I sneezed into my hand as dust swirled in the air around me. No one was sleeping in this room, which was completely crazy. It was by far the best room in the place. It was also the only other room on this floor. So where did Quoth sleep?
The attic.
After checking under the bed and behind the liquor cabinet for would-be murderers, I went out into the hall, shutting the door behind me. Whatever reason the guys had for avoiding that suite, I had a feeling they didn’t want me snooping. Besides, all it had given me was more questions. Right now, I needed answers.
I took the stairs two at a time, gripping the wall to steady myself. At the top was a narrow hall leading to two low doors where once the house’s servants would have slept. I could see the mechanisms for a call bell still hanging on the wall behind me.
“Quoth, are you in there? Come on, this isn’t funny—”
Flittering sounds issued from behind the left-hand door. I inched toward it and knocked.
“Don’t come in,” a voice croaked. I swung the heavy door inward.Too late, you wanker. You had your chance.I’m coming in and I don’t care if you’re naked with your dick in your hand—
The door banged against the wall behind it, revealing a scene that turned my blood to ice.
Artwork filled the tiny room – canvases stacked on top of each other and stuck at odd angles all over the walls. Mostly abstracted shapes and forms, but some realism, too – landscapes as seen from the sky or through the branches of trees. The bold colors assailed my eyes, already used to the dimness of the shop.
In the midst of that bold color, Quoth crouched on the edge of a narrow brass bed, completely naked. Beside the bed, a stack of books reached nearly to the ceiling – all true crime stories or volumes with titles likeDeath Culture in AmericaandEgyptian Funerary Ritual. But that wasn’t what dried my breath on my tongue.
Black feathers stuck from Quoth’s skin, their tips shrinking as they retracted into his body. A spindly frill around his neck made it appear as if he wore a sixteenth-century ruff. His fingers gripped the bed frame, their tips curled into sharp talons that smoothed over into fingers before my eyes. Black-feathered spines protruded from his elbows and wrists, forming enormous wings that crashed against the walls as they shrunk into his elbows.
How is this possible?
Where his mouth and nose should have been, a long black beak protruded from his face. It shrunk back as I stared in gape-mouthed horror, flattening and smoothing out and becoming Quoth’s alabaster skin and sharp cheekbones. Round bird eyes closed and opened as lids formed and Quoth – the human Quoth – stared back at me in horror.
I froze in place, watching a horrid transformation play out in reverse. In that moment, everything fell into place. The secrets they kept, the lies I’d been asked to tell. I understood what I was watching, but I didn’t comprehend it.
Quothwasthe raven.
Chapter Thirteen
We both froze, staring at each other. A wordless conversation played out in the heated air between us. Accusal, denial, disbelief, indignation, horror, acceptance.
Quoth was the first to break our stalemate.
“I can explain,” he said.
I clung to the doorframe, the only thing holding me upright. “I’d appreciate it.”
“Can I put some pants on first?”
“I’d appreciate that, too.”
