A House of Cloaks & Daggers (The Gift War #1)

2. A Hobgoblin

Chapter two

A Hobgoblin

D ante’s Bookstore was supposed to close before dusk.

It was a small establishment on a quiet cobblestone street in the town centre, and most of its customers were regulars. I was familiar with their shopping patterns and reading habits, having spent most of my spare time at Dante’s since I was a child, and they rarely came in during the late afternoons.

Sometimes, a college student would wander through when they came home for the weekend, looking for a textbook we didn’t stock. Other times, passing tourists would be drawn inside by the dim, romantic glow from the ceiling lights or tempted by the heirlooms displayed beside books in the front window. The bookstore was a haven of tranquillity and old charm, like stepping backwards in time. Even on a street lined by quaint, gracefully ageing shopfronts left mostly untouched since the Victorian era, Dante’s allure was unique.

Conventional redbrick walled the upper level, where the living quarters had been turned into a surgery for books in need of repair. The lower level was carved from rosewood and adorned with Belgrave’s insignia—the outline of a single flame encircled by straight lines shooting outwards. The insignia dated back to medieval times, long before the modern world. It had belonged to the House of Belgrave, whose Lord had established many townships across the eastern lands as part of an ancient King’s Court.

Long gone, long dead, long forgotten. Nobody knew what had driven the nobility away.

There were very few coherent recollections from that era, and most known accounts were infused with so much wartime hysteria that they read more like fantasy novels than history books. Regardless, the insignia was preserved by the council and used to mark certain buildings protected by the Heritage Society. Most of the buildings were skeletal in their remains, so the insignia was either painted on or printed out and hung over their replacements. Dante’s, on the other hand, displayed an artful and dignified carving of the insignia in the wood above the entryway that the owner claimed was original.

“Been like that since I was a boy,” he’d told me gruffly, on the one and only occasion I had ever dared to ask. “And my father before me. He warned me not to look at it for too long lest ye see the flame start to flicker and ye lose yer wits.”

At the time, I was six years old, and the prospect of losing my wits terrified me greatly. The owner himself, John Dante, terrified me greatly too.

He was a miserable, haggard man with an unruly white beard, large hands, and dark, cunning eyes. He lived alone in a rundown cottage outside of the town limits and kept to himself beyond the basic requirements of operating the bookstore. The people of Belgrave called him a Hobgoblin, but John was indifferent. He took no pains to present himself as anything other than the grouchy old bastard that became his natural form.

However, he was the partially estranged grandfather of my best friend, which meant I was permitted to spend my time in the bookstore’s reading nook outside of school hours—on the condition that I did not pester him while I was there.

I maintained a wide berth in the bookstore for a decade, during which time I grew up and overcame my fear of both John and the insignia on the rosewood. The marking was merely a lingering trace of history, and the owner an old man who disliked the real world.

The older I got, the more I found that I could relate to those things. So, when I turned sixteen, I began to pester John for a job.

He took great offence to my proposition at first, but thanks to his granddaughter Amelia’s persistent lack of interest in reading and business, John eventually conceded that I was his best chance for retirement.

For the first couple of years, I worked to gradually increase my hours while John subsequently reduced his own until I eventually became full-time. He still visited the store, though as his health declined, his visits became fewer and further between. Patricia Farley, the president of the local book club, managed to take two or three shifts on the weeks that John couldn’t. I had a sneaking suspicion that Trish stayed out at the broken-down cottage on those weeks, too, but I was never bold enough to ask.

Amelia, who stayed my best friend and remained uninterested in the bookstore, came and went as she pleased. She usually called in during the week to brief me on local gossip, and she always left behind a trail of books she’d neglected to return to their shelves and chocolate wrappers that hadn’t made it to the bin in her wake.

I didn’t mind the frequent moments of quiet solitude between visits because I liked my own company and the little niche I’d found amongst the avid readers in our town. I also liked the characters in the books that entertained me during the slow times. We had a tight budget, but I managed to balance it between the classics our regulars liked and new trending titles on BookTok and Bookstagram. It was enough for a monthly delivery of new material, which sustained me between my other tasks.

I was seventy-four pages into one of those books—a new adult romance with enough spice to make my cheeks flush—when the little brass bell at the entrance jangled, followed by the sharp click of the front door closing.

Glancing up from the page on which the forced proximity trope finally made an appearance, I realised how late it was.

The gentle lights hanging from the exposed rafters were visibly strained against the waning daylight, scarcely able to illuminate the spaces between tall rows of bookshelves. They cast a soft and reflective golden glow on the wood and spines. Craning my neck to peer around the reading lamp in front of me, I saw the empty street outside was already submerged in the lilac gleam of dusk.

“I’m sorry,” I called out, in case there was someone still at the front. My voice echoed through the store, sharper than I’d intended. “We’re closed.”

There was no answer.

They must have seen the front counter is empty and left .

Closing my book, I gathered up the chocolate wrappers Amelia had left behind. She had breezed in and out of the store to invite me to dinner and drinks at The Water Dragon four chapters ago. I’d set myself up in the reading nook to see out the quiet final hour of my shift, and so I told her I’d come out once I’d finished the chapter I was reading.

She’d left with a shrug—but not before agreeing to lock up at the front, which she had clearly forgotten about in the twenty seconds it took her to get from the back of the store, through the rows of bookcases, and out to the front entrance.

Mentally cursing her, I fluffed the pillow I’d been nestled against on the two-seater couch and tucked the book under my arm.

My steps were light on the hardwood floors, creaking slightly in certain places where the wood had warped after the leak a few years prior. I binned the wrappers and shut the door to the office Amelia had left open, flicking the main light switch down on my way past.

Dante’s plunged into an earthy gloom with grey, dust-flecked light floating between the shadowed shelves. The day was disappearing fast.

Blinking a few times to let my eyes adjust, I took the shortest route around the outskirts of the bookcases to the front desk. The counter sat to one side of the narrow entryway, which was occupied by a circular oak table showcasing new releases. A few stalls of bestsellers sat on either side of an antique armchair against the opposite wall. Beside it was a solid, gated staircase leading to the book surgery on the second floor—and Amelia had left the gate open.

Picking up my bag and sliding my book into it, I strode over and latched the gate closed.

I have no idea why Amelia would open it in the first place when she has no interest in any of the repairs that are stored upstairs, and she always brings her own food—

The thought stilled me for a moment.

Amelia never opens the gate. She never goes upstairs .

I looked out of the display window into the street, the cobblestone turning indigo in the fast-fading light as greyscale shadows crept up the buildings across the road. Wooden tables and crates had been emptied of their wares, some covered with tarp and others dragged in beneath the awnings. The first of the streetlamps flickered on a few doors up, shining silver onto the pavement below. The person who had walked into Dante’s a few minutes ago was gone.

There’s no one out there.

I rolled my shoulders back, dispelling the unusual shiver creeping up my spine, and started walking back to the desk.

Halfway across the room, I stilled again.

I was alone, but the feeling of being watched lingered like the brush of a hand along my back.

Somewhere on the upper level, a page flipped over. The sharp scrape of freshly bound and uncoated paper was unmistakable.

My skin prickled.

A sensation like the blow of breath hit the nape of my neck.

Someone is up there.

Tilting my head back, I squinted at the balcony, its railing barely distinguishable above the rafters. I could hardly make out the furniture upstairs through the murky shadows, let alone discern a potential figure sitting at one of the desks, and I had already turned the lights off.

Nobody can read in the dark. Amelia must have come back for something , I thought. I opened my mouth to call her—

No.

The voice in my head sounded strange.

Get out of here.

I took a deep, steadying breath.

Now!

The floorboards creaked—downstairs. Between the rows of bookcases.

That is not your friend.

Soles of my shoes scuffing against the worn boards, I backed towards the door. Two sharp, heavy steps mimicked me. Another creak came from the far corner of the store.

Inky black shadows filled the spaces between the six long aisles. I couldn’t see anyone standing there. The distinct, crisp sliding of pages had come from above, but the footsteps sounded from the aisles below, and the floorboards only creaked where there was water damage. The leak had been contained along the wall running behind the front counter, where I’d walked moments ago, where I’d left my keys—

Run!

There was more than one other person in the bookstore.