Page 88 of Little Deaths
He turned to look at her, and the streetlights flared over his features in a pallid flash of light. “You’re like one of those glacial lakes in the arctic,” he said. “Remote and untouchable. Almost eerie. And then you touch the water and it grips you like cold lightning before sucking you under, and beneath the surface, everything’s dark and vicious. A shadowy wonderland.”
Her brain was too foggy for his words to fully penetrate but she still felt their effect, like thousands of pinpricks up and down her neck. “What are you even saying?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I think I like it.”
He pushed open a door. Then she was surrounded by the smell of books. After two and a half drinks and more rich food than she knew what to do with, the chemical tang of inks and new paper made her head spin. “Is this a bookshop? Why are we here?”
Rafe slid a pen from his pocket and tapped her nose with it. “It’s your namesake.”
“What?” She turned to stare at a display, draped in cobwebs dusted with glitter. Beside the king of horror’s newest book were stacks of Riley Sager and the broody, clay-colored vista of a book calledThe Hacienda. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s called The Raven. They only sell horror and mysteries here.”
Raven. She felt stung. “Did I tell you that? About my mother’s nickname?’
“You did.” He smiled—a brief flash of teeth. “It suits you.”
Before she could respond, he began weaving his way around the stacks, which seemed to be in alphabetical order. She staggered after him, her arm still looped through his. She gripped his shoulder more tightly as he ducked down, causing her head to swim, and produced a familiar-looking indigo cover. “Look. They actually have it.” He sounded pleased.
“It’s your book,” she said, blinking. “Incubus.”
“I wrote it on the second floor of a dress shop,” he said. “Once I started, it was like the words couldn’t pour out fast enough. I was so angry—angry, frustrated, and lonely. I wrote fiction to give my demons a home, only to find out that the reverse was true. I became a home for my demons.”
He flipped the book open and uncapped the pen.
“As it turns out, writing takes you to some pretty dark places. You go down deep enough and soon it starts to define you.”
She stared at him. “What does?”
“This. Everything. All those toxic emotions.” He made a vague gesture. “I’d have these dreams about my characters and it would feel like they were me. Or I was them. It wasn’t healthy, I realized. Sequestering myself like a monk or a fucking method actor.”
“Rafe,” her voice rose in alarm as he put the pen to the book, “what are you doing?”
“Autographing my book. Let’s call it a little renegade publicity. What do you think of this?To all the dark architects who find themselves masters of their own hells.”
“You can’t do that.” She tugged at his arm. “That’s vandalism.”
“How is it vandalism? I wrote it.”
“Sir.” An older woman in cat-eye glasses appeared from around the corner. “You can’t write in the books.”
Donni nearly laughed at the outraged expression on Rafe’s face. “I’m the author.”
She looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed. “It’s damaged now. You’re going to have to pay for that. I’ll ring you up front.” When he stared blankly at her, she said, “Unless you’d prefer I call security.”
“Unbelievable,” Rafe growled, and Donni nearly fell over with laughter.
“I guess she’s not a fan,” she whispered.
He gave her a look that made her erupt in more giggles as he stalked away.
While the cat-eye woman marched Rafe up to the front, she tried to collect herself against a shelf crammed full of James Pattersons. That was when her phone started to ring.
Her smile slipped when she saw the area code. Local. “Hello?”
“Donni, it’s Christophe—don’t hang up,” he added quickly, before it occurred to her that she should. “Listen, are you in town?”
Well, that was creepy. “Why? Are you tracking my whereabouts?”