Fangs for Nothing (The Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven 1)

by Steffanie Holmes

There’s a whole community here – people who’ll look after you when something shitty happens. I wish I had that. I thought I had that, until Claire and Patrick⁠—

I may be a hot mess, but at least I’m a fun hot mess, like a runaway train filled with glitter and Jammie Dodgers.

If people give them to me as gifts, I buy them on my Kindle and donate the hard copy. If Claire or Patrick ever wanted to visit a bookshop, I’d fake a stomach ache and wait outside.

I admit it. I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic. I used to devour one or two romance novels a week – give me all the burly mountain men, clever professors with kinky proclivities, spoiled billionaires, wild motorcycle gangs or sexy vampires, as long as the hero is broody, grumpy and possessive, with a schlong that has to be checked as oversized baggage on aeroplanes, I’m in.

Same...

If Dracula visited Black Crag, the infamous vampire would step back in disgust and tell the owner: Cool it with the gargoyles, dude. No one’s that goth.

😂

Reginald, I am going to destroy you.

Why do I feel like Jonathan Harker when he first arrives at Dracula’s castle? I feel as though I’m being lured into a trap, like a fly caught in a web. But maybe there’s a part of me that is excited to meet the spider …

I bet there are model train influencers on TikTok arguing about who built it best, Stephenson or Brunel.” “There’s no argument to be had,” Alaric says, not a trace of irony on his stern features. “It’s Brunel, all the way.”

Mirabelle’s back rises and falls as she sleeps. I try not to be jealous of the cat. I fail.

So I guess if I was wondering if he felt anything when he kissed me, I have my answer. Not that I was wondering. At all.

“Winnie,” I say. “Please, call me Winnie.” “I’ll call you Winnie if you call me Alaric.” “But you have a fancy title. If I had a fancy title, I’d make everyone use it.” “Would you like a fancy title?” The corner of his mouth quirks again. “I believe I have the power to bestow them. Would you like to be ‘Empress Winifred, Lady of Light and Laughter and Terrible Music’, or perhaps ‘Her Royal Highness Winifred, Grand Poobah of the Clutter Castle’.” I giggle despite myself. “You are ridiculous.” “The Very Very Reverend Winifred, Mistress of the Storage Containers.” “Stop!” “Galactic Czarina Winifred? Witchfinder General Winnie?” He taps his chin. “I’m certain there is a title that will convey all of your beauty and brilliance …” “Just Winnie! Please!” My stomach hurts from laughing. “Alaric.”

“Good evening, Lady Winifred, Countess of Clean. Did you enjoy the book club?”

He may be a rake and a wastrel of the first order, but Gideon Blake would fall on a sword for me, as I would for him. (Although only if the sword is made by a master smith. I don’t eviscerate myself on inferior craftsmanship.)

My fingers fall from the handle. Winnie lets out another strangled sob. I ache to hold her.

I can’t believe he’s allergic to sunlight. I hope he’s going to be okay.

“I read in the history of Black Crag Castle that one of my ancestor’s men betrayed his betrothed. The lord hung him from the castle walls,” Alaric says conversationally. “By his testicles.”