Of course not. Something isn’t right with Nevermore Bookshop. It brings fictional characters to life. I’ve been so distracted by Ashley’s murder and Morrie’s cock that I haven’t been focused on the biggest mystery of all. And now the shop has claimed another victim. Maybe it’s too dangerous to be open to the public. Maybe its magic is out of control. Maybe—
A thick hand clamped down on my shoulder. “Mina,” Heathcliff’s voice boomed in my ear.
“I’m fine,” I whispered. “It was just a shock.”
“You’re a shite liar. Quoth’s bringing down some tea.” Heathcliff swung around in front of me, his dark eyes boring into mine. For a moment, his expression distracted me from my thoughts. Heathcliff only had two emotional states – grumpy and grumpier. Right now, he wore neither. The edges of his hard mouth wavered, his eyes widened, his swarthy skin hung pale and limp. I studied his stricken features, trying to discern what had caused this shift. He almost looked… concerned. I knew it couldn’t be for Mrs. Scarlett – was it for me?
The thought that I might be the object of Heathcliff’s empathy, that I’d brought forward some deep-rooted, long-buried tender emotion, made my heart beat faster. My gaze flew to his lips – the lips that had one month ago met mine in a fierce kiss and had barely spoken to me since. A shiver ran through my body that had nothing to do with the chill in the shop.
“You are okay,” he murmured, his rough fingers stroking my cheek. “You are not in danger.”
I shook my head, unable to speak, unable to say to him that right now I was in danger of losing myself to him.
“Mina.”
I jumped. My heart leapt into my throat. My eyes flicked to the place where the voice had come from. It took a moment in the darkness to resolve the shape of Quoth, returned to his human form, standing in the doorway with a tea tray in his hands.
The spell broke. Heathcliff’s face boiled over into his usual scowl. Quoth stared at the floor. “I brought tea,” he mumbled.
“Excellent!” declared Mrs. Ellis from her spot under the window. “We could all use a nice cuppa. Be a good lad and serve us old ladies. Isn’t his hair beautiful, Sylvia?”
Quoth handed me a cup. His hand shook as I took it from his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I whispered back. Heathcliff grunted, slipping off into the shadows.
Quoth’s eyes followed his friend’s back, a million unsaid emotions passing across his face. He swiveled away. This time, his eyes darted toward the opposite corner, where the members of the Banned Book Club clung to each other, weeping and whispering. “If I hadn’t shifted, perhaps the mouse would’ve—”
“It’s not your fault. She was an old woman with a bad heart. I don’t blame you.” I sipped the tea, noticing my own hand trembled a little. “I just wish I could stop feeling like this was a sign, that bad things are destined to happen to me, or around me.”
“Nothing is bad when you’re around,” Quoth whispered, backing away. “And you never have to be afraid. I’m always watching out for you.”
Quoth scurried over to serve tea to the old biddies. As I sipped my drink, the EMTs removed the body in a white bag. Jo followed, peeling off her gloves and slumping down in the leather chair on the other side of the desk. I cast a look over my shoulder. Heathcliff was nowhere to be seen. I slid into his chair, grateful for the way his peat-and-cigarette scent rose from the worn leather. It steadied me.
“I was right. It looks like natural causes.” Jo accepted a cup from Quoth’s tray, folding her long fingers around the mug. “Probably a heart attack, but I’ll know more after the autopsy. Did anything shock her before she died?”
“She saw a mouse,” I shuddered at the memory. “She shrieked, then she started choking, and her face went all red and she fell over.”
“That might do it.” Jo picked up my copy ofOf Mice and Menand flicked through it. “Say, this isn’t the famous mouse, was it?”
“Famous mouse?”
“Don’t you read the paper?” Jo set down the book and her bag and pulled out a copy of the morning’s paper. Splashed across the page was the headline, £250 REWARD FOR THE HEAD OF THE TERROR OF ARGLETON, with an artist’s rendering of a tiny white mouse with a brown patch.
“Apparently, the little bugger’s been popping up in all the shops along the high street and Butcher Street. Greta from the bakery said it chewed through a bag of flour. Charles over at the newsstand said it nibbled the corners off a box of postcards. It even popped up beneath a chafing dish at the Indian buffet.”
I squinted at the picture – it was an artist’s reconstruction of a tiny white mouse with a pink nose and brown patch on its hind leg. “Yup. That’s our little friend.”
“Apparently, Mrs. Scarlett is only the latest in a long list of his victims,” Jo grinned. “You’ve got a bird and a cat in here – you should have no trouble claiming that reward.”
“I’ll put it on a tab at the pub.”
“Sounds like a plan. Hey, you want to grab a drink tonight?”
“Hell yes.” If I couldn’t get my fear under control, I was going to need it. Besides, maybe if I had a few drinks, I’d be brave enough to ask Jo what I should do about Morrie’s challenge and my date with Heathcliff.
“Excellent. Meet you at the pub for happy hour.” Jo drained her tea and left for the mortuary. The other ladies in the book club hovered, looking pale and lost. Quoth refilled cups of tea, his eyes focused intently on the teapot as though it would grant him the answers to the universe. I admired how hard he was trying to come downstairs and act like a normal human. I just hoped it wouldn’t bite him on the arse.
“I just can’t believe it,” Mrs. Winstone sobbed. “One minute we were discussing our book, and the next minute, she’s dead.”
