Chapter One
“Oh shite, oh shite…”
CRASH.
“Get back here, you bastards!”
I moaned, crawling deeper under my blankets and shoving my pillow over my head.What’s going on now?
I’d been flatting with my new BFF, Jo Southcombe, for the last six weeks. So far, it had mostly been awesome. Unlike the dingy flat I grew up in, Jo’s place had Edwardian features like high ceilings, picture rails, and beautiful fireplaces, as well as decent heating, comfortable furniture that didn’t smell faintly like the rubbish tip, and a coffee machine that I would marry if humans and inanimate objects were allowed to wed.
It was also pretty cool to come home at the end of the day to a glass of wine and a friendly face. Especially after all the extra work I’d been doing at Nevermore Bookshop. Not only was looking after my three boyfriends Heathcliff, Morrie, and Quoth a full-time job, but I’d decided to forge ahead with a program of events to bring more business into the shop. I’d lined up the next three months with author visits, art exhibitions, local history talks, and even a ghost hunting tour. It was super exciting and heaps of fun, but also a ton of extra work. Jo was great at listening to my tales of woe and offering advice.
But Jo was also…unique. She was the county pathologist, which meant that a) she worked all hours of the day and night, so sometimes she wanted to share that bottle of wine at three a.m., and b) she filled her home with the oddest collection of strange and macabre things. The other day I opened the fridge for a snack and found three Petri dishes of bacteria sitting on the bottom shelf. Then there was the anatomical skeleton behind the shower curtain (The first time I met ‘Barry’ I got such a fright, I tripped over the edge of the bath and smashed the bottle of Britney Spears’ perfume I purchased ‘ironically’ but secretly loved), and the doorbell that played Monty Python’s ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’ whenever someone called in. Last week, she started a project studying forensic entomology and set up a shelf in the living room containing several jars filled with dead mice and various alive and very disgusting flies, ants, wasps, beetles, and locusts.
Another crash sounded from down the hall. Sighing, I threw off the covers, pulled on an oversized Iron Maiden hoodie, and peeked my head out the door.
“Jo, what’s wrong?”
My flatmate danced around the living room, slapping at the air. I squinted into the dim light.What’s she up to now?
“Are you learning some kind of hunter-gatherer mourning dance off Youtube again, because I think it needs work—” my words died on my lips as I noticed small objects darting around Jo’s head. Are those insects? Don’t tell me she let her science experiment escape…
My gaze fell to the floor at Jo’s feet, where pieces of glass scattered across the rug.Please don’t let that be the South American fire ants—
“Argh!” I yelped and leapt back as something large and black dived at my face. The bug zoomed past me and slammed into the door, where it hung around, admiring the view. “Kill it! Kill it!” Jo screamed.
I grabbed the nearest object – a replica Egyptian canopic jar – and swung. The ceramic vessel shattered into pieces, and the black insect darted down the hallway, completely unscathed.
“What wasthat?” I demanded, watching it flit across her portrait of Sir Bernard Spilsbury (he was the father of forensics, so I discovered in a forty-five minute impromptu lecture after I’d innocently asked Jo about it the other day).
“It’s a locust! I accidentally knocked the jar and it smashed and now they’re all over the apartment.” Jo swung an anatomy textbook at the wall. She left out a satisfied “Yah!” as she connected with her target, leaving an ugly brown smudge along the paint as she drew back and swung again.
“You’re telling me the flat is crawling with locusts?” I ducked as another angry insect dove at my head.
“It’s less crawling, and more swarming!”
I covered my head with my arms and ducked into the kitchen. Locusts flew around the room like a whirlwind, pinging off the windows and diving at the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. In seconds, they reduced the herb garden on the windowsill to a bare dirt patch.
I fumbled under the sink, barely able to read the labels on the cleaning products. My fingers closed around an aerosol can.Fly spray.
By all the goddesses, let this work.
“Go back to Egypt, you poxy bastards!” I yelled, aiming the can at the swarming bugs and slamming my finger down.
A stream of white liquid shot out from the nozzle. I swung my arm around, laughing maniacally as I coated the insects.Take that, you grotty little wankers—
“Oh no, that’s cooking spray!” Jo yelled.
What? Shite.
I lowered my arm just as a huge jet shot from the nozzle and hit the wall behind the stove. Oily bubbles exploded all over the kitchen, coating the floor and the walls and Jo’s Victorian apothecary set and Jo and also me in a layer of slick, sticky oil.
“I’m sorry,” I moaned, turning the can around to read the label. How had I missed the words ‘Non-Stick Cooking Spray’ in huge letters?
Probably because I’m going blind, that’s how.
“We’ve just made them angry.” Jo ducked as a dark swarm careened toward her head. She crawled across the floor and grabbed the front door knob. “Hurry, Mina!”
