Chapter 4
Morrie
Ihave to hand it to the birdie – he did have an excellent idea for occupying Nevermore’s latest guest. Quoth flaps his wings and leads Lancelot into the first-floor stairwell.
He hops around on top of the cuckoo clock hanging on the wall.
At precisely the hour, the clock rings and the tiny painted cuckoo bird flaps out of its doorway to squawk at us.
Quoth looks directly at Lancelot and says, “Croak.”
“There’s a bird!” Lancelot gazes in awe. “The bird lives inside the clock?”
That’s a cuckoo bird. He’s a very special type of bird.
“Sacred to the king, you know,” I add. Quoth nods vigorously. Behind us, Heathcliff snorts.
“I can hear the raven inside my head!” Lancelot pats him. “This is truly a beautiful magic. You must be powerful knights to command such a creature.”
Excuse me? I command them. Now, Lancelot, Quoth explains.
These cuckoo birds eat a very specific diet.
They are only allowed one kind of food. It’s very difficult to find.
In fact, a lot of people will tell you that it doesn’t exist. But that’s why this is a very important quest, okay?
If we don’t get cuckoo bird food for our cuckoo bird, it will die.
Lancelot nods seriously, then swings himself up on Peaches’ back. He pats the hilt of his sword. “Fear not, young master Quoth. I shall return forthwith with the precious cuckoo bird food.”
He squeezes his muscled thighs, and Peaches breaks into a gallop, which is quite a feat inside a bookshop. They crash through the back door, sending wood chips flying from the frame, and clomp down the cobbled alley behind Butcher Street and off into the village.
Heathcliff puts his feet up on his desk and reaches for his book. “Good riddance. How long do you think he’ll be occupied with that quest?”
Quoth transforms into a naked human, then slumps into the velvet wingback chair. His dark, silken hair tangles about his face.
“Hopefully long enough for Mina Wilde to fall madly in love with all three of us and decide that not even a famous, sexy knight with a hero complex will tempt her away from three of literature’s most notorious villains,” he says.
“You’re a dreamer, birdie.” Heathcliff cracks the spine of his book. “She’s too good for the likes of us. Besides, the moment Morrie meets her, he’s going to want her for himself, and you know that women fall on their knees to worship him.”
“I resent that,” I pipe up. “Men fall on their knees to worship me. Women fall into my bed.”
Quoth’s orange-ringed eyes regard me. “Please, Morrie, I know you can’t help being yourself, but can you just… not seduce her and give her multiple orgasms and leave her a gibbering, Morrie-obsessed mess before I get up the nerve to talk to her?”
Poor Quoth. He looks so worried. He thinks that between Lancelot and me, he doesn’t stand a chance with Mina Wilde.
He can’t see that with his soulful eyes, his ethereal jawline, and his kind nature, he could have any woman he wants if he didn’t keep accidentally sprouting feathers and trying to peck them whenever he got close.
A better friend might try to tell him this.
But if this Mina Wilde is everything they seem to believe she is, then I’m not going to stand idly by while Quoth and Heathcliff awkwardly attempt to woo her with their own distinctive idiosyncrasies.
It’s only fair that in the world of fictional villains brought to life by magical bookshops, the lady knows all her options.
“I’ll do my best,” I smile at them both in what I hope is a reassuring way. “But no promises.”
The evening passes eventfully, which is unusual.
Usually, our evenings consist of bickering over what to have for dinner, bickering over what to watch on telly, and me sneaking out for some clandestine meeting with my criminal web while Heathcliff and Quoth bicker over their interpretation of obscure references found in Nevermore’s occult books.
But I have no meetings tonight, so I’m an unwilling witness to Heathcliff and Quoth giving in to their Mina-obsession.
Heathcliff locks himself in the bathroom for several hours.
He showers so long that there’s no hot water left for the rest of us, and uses no less than three bars of expensive Charlotte Tilbury soap (mine) and two cans of shaving cream (also mine).
He comes out sopping wet, wrapped in every towel that we own and my favourite wool coat, and proceeds to attempt to iron his one pair of clean trousers, setting off the smoke alarm and resulting in him demanding I help him find an online store to urgently courier him a new pair of trousers.
Quoth sets up his easel in front of the fire.
Grimalkin climbs onto his shoulders and curls up around his head.
He doesn’t even seem to notice her as he paints away, humming along to his goth music as he draws a beautiful girl with flowing dark hair, reading a stack of books (all of them by Edgar Allen Poe, I can’t help but notice).
This new assistant has tied them both up in knots, and she hasn’t even started yet.
I must admit – I’m intrigued. They said she might be blind.
Quoth recalls that she pressed her nose up close to the window and held her phone right up to her face to see the screen, although Heathcliff notes that she didn’t struggle to find her way around the shop.
She hadn’t told them about her eyesight, so they decided we weren’t going to mention it.
It’s rare for them to be so bossy. I hope it doesn’t last.
“You’d better have left for work before she gets here,” Heathcliff growls at me.
“I’m thinking of working from home tomorrow.” I raise an eyebrow.
I’m not, but the look on his face is my reward.
I duck as Heathcliff’s slipper flies over my head, and dart from the room before he decides to throw something more substantial, like the television. Or Grimalkin. (There’s precedent.)
It’s a good thing that Quoth got Lancelot out of the shop to pursue his pointless quest. Dealing with three lovesick fictional characters competing for one woman’s affections would be too much for even this pansexual libertine to handle.
I wake to a clatter in the flat. No, more than a clatter. A stampede.
CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP.
It sounds as though a herd of horses are galloping up the stairs.
Or maybe, just one horse…
A long, thin face nudges open my bedroom door and sniffs.
“Neigh?”
I tug the covers up to my face. “Hello, Peaches. Sorry, I don’t have any carrots for you. Maybe try Heathcliff across the hall—”
“What the fuck is that horse doing back in here!”
“NEIGH!”
The horse’s head retracts from my doorway. Groaning, I roll out of bed, pull on my silk robe, and pad into the hallway. No lie-in for the wicked today.
Heathcliff stands in the doorway to his room, completely naked, a wall of angry muscle.
The vein above his eye throbs. He waves a broom at Lancelot, who remains astride Peaches even though he has to stoop to fit under the ceiling.
Between them, a steaming pile of horse turd decorates the hallway rug.
“Get out of here, or I’ll gut you, string my fiddle with your intestines, and use it to play an out-of-tune dirge at your funeral.”
“I have returned triumphant from my quest!” Lancelot bows deeply. “No need to thank me. A kiss from the king’s beautiful wife is all that I require.”
“You’re not getting anywhere near any king’s wives, or any other women.” Heathcliff bangs the end of the broom on the ceiling. Plaster dust rains down on his head. “Quoth, get your feathery ass down here!”
A moment later, Quoth’s light footsteps clatter on the attic steps. He emerges, also naked, his dark hair tangled into a bird’s nest and the impression of a feather on his cheek. “What’s all the yelling—oh, gross.”
He makes a face as he lifts his foot and inspects the brown substance stuck to it.
“Will you look at this, Quoth? Lancelot and his horse are back,” Heathcliff growls through gritted teeth. “Apparently, he finished his quest.”
“You found cuckoo bird food?” Quoth wipes his foot on the edge of the rug. “We’re going to have to get rid of this rug.”
“Good.” I fold my arms. “I hate that rug. Let’s get something with silk thread, so that it’s soft on our feet and—”
“Will you shut up about the damn rug!” Heathcliff bellows. He looks like he wants to strangle me, which, honestly, I’d probably let him do. Usually, I like to be the one in charge, but imagining those huge hands wrapped around my throat does delicious things to my nether regions…
Lancelot jumps down from Peaches’ back. From his pocket, he draws out a small packet. “Behold, food fit for the king of the cuckoos!”
I lean over to look at the packet (not too far – I don’t want to accidentally stand in any more of Peaches’ deposits).
It’s just a package of ordinary bird food, but the picture on the front is of a cartoon cuckoo bird emerging from a cuckoo clock to enjoy these delicious treats.
The food is even called ‘Cuckooberries – treats for the best bird in your life.”
“That is…” Quoth opens the packet and sniffs the contents. “Actually, that looks quite delicious.”
“Argh!” Heathcliff slams the broom handle into the ceiling, sending another shower of plaster down on top of himself. He looks like he’s competing in an abominable snowman contest.
“So, I have completed this quest?” Lancelot clasps his hands and peers at Quoth with giant, round eyes that would make any woman’s heart melt into their knickers. Oooh, he’s good.
Quoth pours out a handful of the bird food and tips it into his mouth. He chews. His whole face breaks out into a smile. “Yes, I guess you have. This is delicious. Where did you get it from? Because I might need to buy up their whole supply—”
“Can we focus on getting rid of the giant shit on the rug and the even more giant pain in my arse? Mina’s going to be here at nine on the dot.”