The Plot Thickens: Luxe paperback

Chapter 1

Quoth

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

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

I pretend to be busy preening my tail feathers.

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

“It’s a non-fiction book,” Heathcliff’s voice drips 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 tuts as she makes her way to the door. “She was a talented writer.”

The woman slips into the hall. Heathcliff's eyes roll so far back in his head that I’m frightened they'd get stuck there. He slams his head into the desk several times.

"Kill me now, birdie. Save me from the idiots of this age. Shut the door after her, would you? I can't deal with another imbecile today. And make us some tea."

Heathcliff doesn’t mean to be bossy. The customers wear on him. He isn’t the ideal person to run a bookshop, being more suited to rambling wild upon the moors or perhaps shouting at people on the internet, but he’s our only option. Mr Simson left us in charge of the place. I can’t stay in human form long enough to praise the latest Sarah J Maas, and it’s rather difficult to operate the ancient till with my beak. And if Morrie gets a hold of the shop finances, it will take him all of twenty-four hours to turn Nevermore into some kind of nefarious enterprise.

Besides, Mr Simson liked Heathcliff. They used to stay up all night, swapping stories over a bottle of whisky. As much as Heathcliff hates customers, ordering books, dealing with The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named, sweeping up, and pretty much every other aspect of running a bookshop, I think he’s secretly quite honoured that the old man trusted the shop to him.

Today he’s in a mood because of the bet.

Morrie – a true chaos gremlin – made Heathcliff a bet that if he put up an ad for a shop assistant, he’d find some poor glutton for punishment desperate enough to take Heathcliff’s abuse and do all the bookshop jobs he hates, thus leaving Heathcliff with more free time to read his books, pet Grimalkin, and glower at the universe or whatever it is that Heathcliff likes to do. Heathcliff said no one would ever be that desperate, so he accepted Morrie’s bet on the condition that he got to write the ‘help wanted’ ad. I proofread Heathcliff’s ad, and he did a great job at making Nevermore Bookshop sound like the most terrible place in the world, so I think he’ll likely win. Morrie put the ad up on the Argleton community app that morning, and Heathcliff’s been a ball of nerves ever since.

I unfurl my wings and swoop out of the room before Heathcliff starts throwing books, which is his usual method of venting his frustrations. I perch on the top of the hallway bookshelf beside my wall of trophies and peer through the window above the door into the street below, checking no one’s around to see through the windows when I shift into my human form.

As usual for this time of the afternoon, Butcher Street is deserted. People have better things to do after lunch than get yelled at by literature’s greatest gothic villain.

I’m just about to force my shift when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. A girl stands on the footpath outside, staring up at the facade of the building. I missed her before because she’s so still. Her heels rise off the ground as she cranes her neck to see right the way up to my attic bedroom.

Radiant light from the afternoon sun bounces off her face, highlighting the mixture of determination and apprehension that cross her pretty features. Whatever her reason for being here, she doesn’t intend to come away empty-handed. Long brown hair falls over her shoulders in waves, picking up flecks of the violet light spectrum only my raven eyes can see.

The girl glances down at her phone, holding the screen closer to her face than most humans normally do. As she slips it back into her purse, I catch 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 snarls. He must have seen her out the window, and he’s bracing himself for another horror. Already today, there’s been the Anne Frank lady, and before her, 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 is not in the right humour to meet an applicant for the assistant job, especially not if it means he'll lose a bet to Morrie.

And especially not a woman like her.

I glance at her again, and my body freezes in place. It isn’t just because she is beautiful, although she’s certainly that. There’s something beyond her surface beauty that arrests me – behind that determined look, her green eyes shine with impossible depth and sadness. I recognise a fellow haunted soul.

Whoever this girl is, she needs something to take away her pain. Heathcliff isn't exactly going to be able to give her that. He'll just as likely cause fresh wounds.

My chest aches with longing. I wish I could be that person for her.

I scratch at my wing feathers. I’m not technically a person at all, much less the sort that a girl like that should have anything to do with. I am a dream within a dream, and that’s how things have to stay, no matter how much I wish for more.

The girl opens the front door and steps inside. The gloom of Nevermore Bookshop encloses her like a shroud. I peer down at her as she passes beneath my shelf, feeling like a creep for staring but completely unable to take my eyes off her.

Her bright red boots sink into the worn carpet. She runs her fingers along the spines of the books as she makes her way tentatively down the hall.

Is she reconsidering her application, or is she moving slowly because she can’t see in the gloom?

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

Hello, beautiful, I think sadly as she moves underneath my perch without noticing me. A strange sensation prickles the back of my neck, between my feathers. The tips of my wings itch.

Something about this girl calls to me. I want to talk to her as a human. That’s never happened before. But I know that can’t happen. I can’t talk to anyone, not if I want to stay safe and protect Heathcliff and Morrie.

It doesn’t matter anyway – Heathcliff is about to chase her out of our lives for good—

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

What?

The pricking feeling intensifies. There’s been no other
sound in the shop, no reason for her to look up in my direction.

Did she just hear me?

No. That’s not possible. As far as we know, only other fictional characters like Heathcliff and Moriarty can hear my raven thoughts. And this girl is far too raw and enchanting to be the product of some writer’s imagination.

The girl peers up at me, her confused expression weakening my heart.

She can’t see me, I realise. She has bad eyesight.

And I’m perched atop this bookcase of quaint and curious volumes of forgotten lore, peering at her like the villain I am.

I find myself overwhelmed by the desire for her to know I’m here, to acknowledge me, even if only as a bird.

I unfurl a long wing and swoop off the shelf, flying close enough that I ruffle her hair.

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

Oops, great. Wonderful first impression, Quoth. You terrified her. Why can’t you just—

A random thought that isn’t my own strikes me between my ears, cutting off my depressing monologue.

That was a raven! I’m pretty sure it was a raven. It’s large and black. What in 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 croak with surprise.

Okay, this is strange. 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 speaks aloud as she bends down to retrieve the books. She stacks them haphazardly on the side of the aisle. “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 I’m not listening to that poem from your perfect, bow-shaped lips.

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

I’ll show you. Happy to be useful, I unfurl my wings, swoop past her, and fly through the archway on the left into the main room, where Heathcliff keeps his desk beside the grand old fireplace. I perch on the ancient till, tapping the metal in an attempt to get his attention.

Heathcliff, there’s someone here to see you.

Tell them to bugger off, is his response.

Not this time. And you’d better be nice. I like this one.

The girl’s heavy boots clunk against the floorboards, the sound exploding in my ears. She approaches the desk, her mouth opening and closing as she struggles to find the right words. I understand – she’s not alone in being intimidated by Heathcliff.

But there’s something else in her eyes and in her heart – a familiarity, a sense of coming home. Above my head, the floor creaks, even though the floorboards never creaked in that spot.

It’s as if she recognises the bookshop, and it recognises her.

I register her thoughts. I see them as if they’re my own, but they’re flickers – muddled thoughts of a faraway city she wishes she could return to, a friend who betrayed her, and a fear that consumes her. Mingled in there are memories of this very bookshop at another time, with another, familiar proprietor, and of her joy at hiding in dark corners and discovering fantastical worlds within the pages.

She loved this bookshop once. My heart flutters as I put
together the details. She is… she's the one he told us about.

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

Can’t he sense it, too?

She frowns. “Your sign still says open.”

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

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

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

I’m ignoring you, Heathcliff snaps back in his thoughts. I’m
ignoring both of you. Get out of my head.

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

“App?” Now his head snaps up, those black eyes of his regarding her with suspicion. A flicker of something like curiosity, like desire, wavers in his features before he scrunches up his nose and curls his lips back into a sneer. If Heathcliff sees what I see in her, he’s doing his best to ignore it. “What the devil is an app?”

She looks 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 snaps. “People spend too much time on their phones.”

The girl babbles as she whips 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 digs a large envelope from her purse and holds 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.”

Heathcliff, please, you have to look at her—

“Right, well…” Mina flicks her eyes over Heathcliff and bites her lower lip. Lust rolls off her in waves. Of course. Heathcliff treats her like crap and it makes her want him. I’d read enough romance books now to know that’s the way it always works. The surly, grumpy, possessive villains always get the girl. I’d never read a book where the cute heroine falls for the quiet, feathery, harbinger-of-doom raven boy.

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

“That’s not my answer.” Mina’s cheeks flare with heat. Her voice takes on a hardened edge. “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 points to the ancient till where I’m now perched.

Heathcliff, don’t let her leave, I beg him telepathically. She’s the one Mr Simson told us about, the one we’re supposed to wait for. I’m sure of it. If you pull your head out of your ass for half a second, you’ll see it, too.

“And… um, I have all sorts of useful skills,” Mina continues, her words tumbling out as she "ghts 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 shoots 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 glances over her shoulder, wondering where the voice had come from. I glare at Heathcliff. He has to believe me now.

She can’t hear you, birdie. She’s just picking up some sound on
the street. Stop making this—

I like her. I bet she’ll bring me treats. Berries, smoked salmon,
maybe even a mouse.

The girl peers over her shoulder again. “Who’s there?”

She heard me! She heard me! I dance along the till, flapping
my wings in Heathcliff’s face.

We don’t know that. Heathcliff claps his hand over my back, pinning my wings to my sides. Bastard. He whips his head around to look behind Mina. But of course, there’s no one there. Instead, he settles for a little light gaslighting (he is a villain).

“Who are you talking to?”

“You didn’t hear that? I think that raven just said that I’m pretty.”

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

Heathcliff’s eyes narrow. He reaches out and clamps an enormous hand around my beak. You’re a wanker. “Don’t be ridiculous. Ravens don’t have opinions. You didn’t leave the door open, did you?” He glowers at Mina. “We’re supposed to be closed.”

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

“You start tomorrow. 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. Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop.”

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

Yeah, yeah, Heathcliff says inside my head. Don’t tell Morrie I’ve gone soft on you. And you’d better be the one paying up on his ridiculous bet.

Deal.

It’s worth losing £100 to have Mina Wilde in our lives.

Mina’s smile is a beam of sunlight in the gloomy shop. She thanks Heathcliff profusely and hurries outside, probably thinking to get away before he changes his mind (wise). She bangs into a table in the hallway and knocks over several books, but she’s too excited to notice as she races out the door and down the street.

Heathcliff heaves himself up and trudges into the hall to lock the door behind her.

I suck in a breath and force my shift. My skin itches and prickles as the feathers retract – a creeping irritation that I can never scratch away. Fire leaps through my veins as my internal organs and systems adjust themselves. Bones snap, sinews twist, and by the time Heathcliff returns to the main room, I sit, naked, on the edge of his desk.

“Get your bare arse off my book.” He tries to snatch it from beneath me, but he doesn’t want to touch me. I bet if I were Morrie, that would be different. “I didn’t need your song and dance about her.”

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

“Well, I’ve hired her, so you got your way.” Heathcliff picks up his book by pinching the corner and holds it as far away from his body as he can. He makes a face as he drops 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. Her love for this place 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 hug 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 growls. “Well, don’t get your feathers ruffled over her. The minute she meets Morrie, she won’t be concerned 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, moping and 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 nod, but I’m a million miles away, lost in the memory of Mina Wilde’s sunshine smile and haunted eyes. My heart swells. Mina Wilde, welcome to Nevermore Bookshop. I see you. I
want to be your friend.

I hope… I hope you see me, too.

Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries
Book 1 - A Dead and Stormy Night
Book 2 - Of Mice and Murder
Book 3 - Pride and Premeditation
Book 4 - Memoirs of a Garroter
Book 5 - Prose and Cons
Book 6 - A Novel Way to Die
Book 7 - Much Ado About Murder
Book 8 - Crime and Publishing
Book 9 - Plot and Bothered
Book 10 - The Plot Thickens
Novella - How Heathcliff Stole Christmas