Page 2 of The Bookseller and the Alpha
“Almond croissants, babe. Fresh made. Crisp on the outside and gooey on the inside.”
“Done.” They were my favourite. Calories be damned.
My phone rang again just as I had collected my order. I moved away from the café counter, juggling my latte, the bag with my pastry and Pompy’s lead to get a hand free to answer it. Caller ID said my sister Electra was calling. “Yes,” I said.
“It’s me,” came my sister’s voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Whaddya mean? Nothing’s wrong. I had The Dream again last night, but that’s all.” I dropped Pompy’s lead and stepped on it, giving me only two things to deal with in my other hand. Pompy gave me a sulky look.I know how your mind works, little dog.Keeping one foot on Pompy’s lead I shuffled sideways towards one of the outdoor tables and leant over till I could let go of the bag with the croissant without turning it into crumbs. I could have used magic, sending a wisp of air to float the croissant down to the silvery surface, but I didn’t need the headache it would give me.
“Something’s definitely wrong. Is Pompy okay?”
“Pompy’s fine. She’s right here with me.” When Pompy heard her name she wagged her tail, her head tilting to one side. She’d already forgotten she was cross with me.
“You know that feeling I got before you broke your arm?” Electra’s voice was shrill. “I woke up with that this morning.”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m okay. Pompy’s okay,” I said.
“You’re okay now,” Electra said. “But the feeling’s been getting worse all morning.”
“Shit. Look, I’m on my way to the shop. I’ll be safe there. You put wards on it and everything.”
“Just hurry. But watch where you’re going. Ring me when you’re safe.”
“I will. I promise.”
After she’d hung up, I shoved the croissant and my phone into my tote bag (decorated with French bulldogs of course), then picked up Pompy’s lead. Sipping my latte, I pondered what my sister had told me. I’d broken my arm when I was twelve, at the new school I’d been sent to after I was classed as Null. Only kids with enough talent to become registered Witches (like my sister) got to study at the prestigious school run by the Council. The rest of us went to ordinary schools. I still got to study Magic Theory, with my heritage it was permitted, but I had to do it on Saturday mornings. It was the first time Electra and I had been separated since we were born, and we’d both been suffering in the first few weeks of adjustment.
When Electra begged me not to go to school that morning and said she thought something bad would happen to me, I had thought it was just an overreaction. I hadn’t believed her. To this day I was still ashamed about that. As a consequence, I’d ended up with a badly broken arm after one of the other children pushed me into the middle of the road, into the path of a car. I’d been lucky that my injury wasn’t worse.
Anyway, that morning we didn’t know that Electra’s ‘feeling’ was her first manifestation of pre-cog abilities. How could we have known? It’s not like any Witch for two hundred years has had that power. My sister, the Super Witch. She always says that something got screwed up, and she must have accidentally stolen my powers from me before we were born. I know it doesn’t work like that, but sometimes it felt like that, growing up. New powers continued to manifest in her, even after our testing. That’s why she was now the bodyguard for the Council President and I owned a bookshop.
Did I envy her? Yes, of course I did. Did I hate her for it? Absolutely not. She had no control over the powers that came to her, and I knew that she’d have given some of that talent to me, if there had been a way that was humanly possible to do so. I’d come to terms with it. And to be honest, I liked my life the way it was… mostly.
On the rest of the walk to the shop I probably looked a bit demented. Holding Pompy in my arms, I dodged in and out of the flow of the other city pedestrians, making sure to stay out of range of anyone who might make a grab for me or my handbag. Most people in the city were office workers headed to their jobs, plus a few early bird tourists. Bag snatching was a rarity here, but I was taking no chances. A few people shook their heads at me or grimaced in distaste as I went past, reinforcing my own view that I was acting weirdly. I stopped and looked both ways before I crossed the roads, and even used the crossings. Every. Single. Time. Most days I jaywalked; if the traffic was at a standstill there was no risk, but not today. Today I was a model pedestrian.
Unfortunately, my good behaviour was all for naught and I understood it as soon as I entered the arcade where my shop was located.
Harold, the owner of the antiques store next to mine, who was an indeterminate age between sixty and eighty, stood in front of the plate glass window of my store. Marcie, one of several women who worked at the New Age hippie store opposite, her vivid purple hair in a messier-than-usual bun on the top of her head, several layers of silk shawls in bright colours on her shoulders and round her hips, stood next to him. Harold was waving his arms around wildly. It looked as though Marcie wanted to comfort him but was too afraid to step closer in case he accidentally clocked her one. Harold was old, but he was not small and he wasn’t weak. A lifetime of hauling furniture aroundhad left him with wiry arms and broad shoulders, despite his age.
My stomach clenched with anxiety. Harold was one of the most chill people I had met in my life. If he was upset, something was seriously wrong. Pompy picked up on the tension and started to bark as I hurried towards the two.
If the world was a fair place, I should have feltsomethingwhen my shop was trashed as thoroughly as it had been. Even without my sister’s pre-cog abilities, it wasn’t fair that someone could do this much damage to my books while I slept happily in bed. (Well, maybe not happily, because I’d had The Dream, but still). I looked through the window, and my mouth dropped open. How could it not? My books. My precious books, thrown around as if they were junk. They covered the floor; in places two or three books high, pages open, spines bent. They decorated the iron steps of the circular stairway which led up to the second level where I kept the magical tomes under lock and key, and festooned the couches where my customers could sit and relax. It looked as though a cyclone had erupted in the middle of my shop.What the fuck?
In the background I could tell that Harold was talking, but I couldn’t concentrate on the words. All sounds were drowned out by the roaring in my ears. The anger hit me like a tidal wave, pulling me under. Fierce and hot it boiled in my chest, stealing my breath, making my fingertips tingle, and my hands shake. It felt as though I could set something on fire. Literally. The sensation was so real that I actually glanced down at my hands. Large for a woman, with long fingers, peeling pink polish on the fingernails and permanent ink stains on the fingertips, they looked the same as they always did.
Reality kicked me in the head.Of course they did. I was a Null. How could I be such an idiot to believe, for even a nano-second, that I could create magical fire? I couldn’t even light acandle with magical power. The thought was like a bucket of cold water on my anger. I couldn’t fry an egg, let alone a person and even if I could turn into a human torch that was a really bad idea in a bookshop.
I sighed, letting my shoulders slump. My energy drained away with my anger. Pompy leaned into me, silently giving comfort.
“Are you all right, Calypso?” Harold’s voice finally penetrated my brain fog.
“No, not really.” My voice didn’t sound like my own. Tired. Flat. I took a step forward. I needed to do something… anything. I couldn’t stand outside my shop all day.
“We called the Council,” Marcie said. “They’ll have someone here soon.”
“The Council? Why not the police?” My tongue was numb, and I felt like I was mangling the words, but apparently Marcie could still understand me.
“Any crimes involving Council-approved businesses get reported to the Council, not the police. The Council will send its own investigator. Didn’t you know that?”
