“Morrie—”
But he’d disappeared deeper into the shop. I didn’t blame him. He’d been battling with the Heathcliff situation for months, and Ididsmell rather foul.
“You’d better follow me,” I gestured to the horseman. “I’m afraid we’re a little short on beds. If you’re staying at the shop, you’ll have to share.” I led him up to the first floor and pushed open the door labeled ‘KEEP OUT: SPRAYING FOR INSECTS.’ I flicked on the light, revealing the inflatable mattress set up on the floor. “You’ll be sharing this room with…hey, what happened in here?”
Someonehad divested the bed I’d made up this morning of its sheets, and turned the room upside down. Books lay scattered across the floor, their covers torn off, their pages creased and crumpled. One had been stabbed through with a kitchen knife and was now pinned to the wall.
The someone whom I assumed responsible for this destruction hopped across the sofa, a whirlwind of wrinkled skin and righteous indignation, his knobbly knees sticking out in all directions and his eyes bugging out as he gesticulated at the page of a book. The bedsheet pinned over one bony shoulder drooped dangerously, revealing a pasty chest covered with downy silver hairs.
“I never said that!” he raved, jabbing at the book with his finger. “I never said, ‘beware the barrenness of a busy life.’ I did once tell my student Plato that mywifespent so much time thinking up ways to infuriate me that she had not a minute to spare for child-making, thus rendering her barren by circumstance, but I hardly think that’s a teachable lesson—”
“Gah.” I held up my hands as Socrates kicked out a bony leg, sending his sheet flying and offering far too much wrinkly skin for display.
It’s times like this I wish I had no vision left at all.
Socrates had been the first recent arrival – an interesting addition, considering he wasn’t technicallyfictional. But Mr. Simson – my father, Homer – had insisted on stocking some of the staples of Greek and Roman literature on the Classics shelves; his own works, Ovid, Herodotus, Plutarch, Plato, Aristophanes, etc. So we assumed that explained Socrates’ loud-but-generally-harmless presence in the shop. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be followed by Nero or Caligula.
“And Ineversaid this nonsense about slander being the tool of a loser. I love a good slander! I slander with the best of them. Hmmph, all I did was ask questions and let others make up their own stupid minds, and look what a fool history has made of me.” Socrates threw the book to the floor and stomped on it, his sheet flying up around his bony arms.
“Socrates, this is the Headless Horseman. Headless, meet your roommate, Socrates, the greatest philosopher that ever lived. I’m sure you two will get along great. Be grateful you don’t have ears,” I muttered as I slammed the door in the horseman’s not-face.
“Pre-bath drink?” Heathcliff held out a glass for me as I trudged upstairs to our private flat. Morrie was already at his computer desk, adding details of tonight’s raid into our Dracula database. Our cat (and my grandmother), Grimalkin, curled around his narrow shoulders.
I downed the glass on my way to the shower. In the bathroom, I flung open the window and tossed my catsuit outside into the alley below, probably missing the rubbish bin by miles.So much for my fierce cat-burglaring outfit.
After rubbing my skin raw and dousing myself with seven gallons of vanilla-scented perfume, I collapsed into the chair opposite the fire and accepted another drink. My vision from earlier rushed back to me, and I felt the stress from the night slip away. So what if Dracula was still out there and Heathcliff was being a shithead and we now had to contend with yet another fictional character, this one without a head? Here I was in my chair by the fire. The world’s hottest gothic antihero was devouring my body with his smoldering eyes while a lanky criminal mastermind rose from his computer to rustle up a midnight snack in the kitchen. All I needed was some hot chocolate and my favorite raven and…
“Hey, where’s Quoth?”
“He’s not back from hisprivate lesson,” Heathcliff grumped. “Morrie’s hot chocolate is vastly inferior. He doesn’t put in nearly enough whisky.”
I raised an eyebrow. Quoth had been invited by Mrs. Ellis to exhibit his paintings in the village’s first-ever All Souls Day art walk for the final day of the festival. It was like a trick-or-treat path for adults – visitors could walk to different locations in the village to experience spooky art and performance pieces and buy treats from local artisans. It was a neat idea. The date was fast looming, and Quoth couldn’t think of much else. He was either at his school’s art studio or having private tutorials with his new favorite teacher, Professor Sang. When he was at home, he spent every spare moment hunched over a canvas in his attic room, refusing to let me see any of his creations.
Even so, I was surprised he was still out. It was well past midnight. Surely the school had health and safety regulations that prevented students and teachers camping over? And QuothknewMorrie and I would be going after the next box of earth tonight. I pulled out my phone and checked the messages. He hadn’t even replied to my texts. I couldn’t help the hurt welling inside me that Quoth hadn’t even checked that we got home safe.
That’s not fair. This exhibition is important to him, and you know he needs this. It’s so hard for him to come out of his shell and be around people. If he can speak through his artwork, it’s one step closer to him feeling truly free.
Heathcliff touched his hand to my knee, his thumb moving over the fabric. “No message from the little birdie?” His eyes met mine with intensity. I knew for all he griped about Quoth, he was worried about him, too.
At least, I thought he was worried. It was hard to tell with Duke Pricklebum. The more Heathcliff pulled back from Morrie and me, the less I was sure about anything.
“Nothing.” I tossed my phone on the rug. Grimalkin leaped from Morrie’s shoulders and dashed across the room to jab it with her paw.
“He’ll be back crapping all over the shop in no time. How was the break-in?” Heathcliff sounded like he was asking about the weather. He hadn’t even commented about my delightful horsey scent. Did he truly want to be part of this relationship, or had he gone along with it because he needed a distraction from losing Cathy?
Cathy. I knew she was a fictional character, but Ihatedher and her perfect Cathy-ness. The greatest love story ever written was about Heathcliff and Cathy, not Heathcliff and Mina and Morrie and Quoth. I’d fallen hard for Heathcliff because of the way he loved me, intensely and possessively, but every time he drew away, I wondered if he was saving a piece of himself for his doomed ex-lover, hoping that maybe one day she’d appear in the shop.
It wasn’t fair on either of us, but you couldn’t help the way you feel, especially when someone who once told you he’d be with you always went cold. I swallowed a lump in my throat.
“We managed to get the box, but then we were chased by vicious dogs. Luckily, the Headless Horseman showed up and scared them away, but now he’sourproblem.” I shuddered as a bang sounded from downstairs, followed by Socrates yelling something incomprehensible in Ancient Greek. “Why are there so many more fictional characters appearing now?”
Even though I couldn’t barely see his features in the gloom, I felt Heathcliff’s glare boring into me.
“What?” I flicked my dark hair over my shoulder and glared right back at him.
“Isn’t it obvious? They’re attracted to you,” he said. “The waters of Meles flow in your veins. These bastards are attracted to it like Morrie to my whisky stash.”
“But my father was here for years, and things were never this bad, were they?”
