Page 2 of The Bookseller and the Alpha (Witch Twins #1)

Half an hour later I was clean, my hair was dry and I was dressed.

I’d chosen jeans, boots, a button up shirt in my favourite deep raspberry, and an oversized cardigan.

It was well worn, but it was comfortable and double thickness, which was what I needed in the shop in winter.

The heater was over fifty years old and temperamental.

I grabbed my coat on the way out the door.

It wasn’t warm enough, but it was better than nothing.

I waited in line to place my order from the little hole-in-the-wall café that I stopped at every day on my way to the shop.

Wrapping my almost useless coat around me, I shivered against the chill of the wind, waiting until the young, tattooed person behind the counter looked my way.

Today the barista had teased their hair in an electric blue mohawk and wore bright eyeshadow to match.

“Hey sweetie,” they said. “Just your regular coffee?” I ordered the same coffee every day (latte, double shot, soy milk, extra hot).

“I need something for breakfast. What do you recommend?” Normally I ate at home and just bought a coffee to reduce my eating-out expenses, but today was grocery shopping day and there was nothing to eat in the cupboard, not unless I wanted a can of tuna, a cup of rice and a tin of tomato soup.

While I could possibly turn that combo into something edible for an evening meal, the idea of it for breakfast made me shudder.

I’d taken one look, Pompy peering into the pantry hopefully from behind my legs and shut the door.

“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 around had 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 felt something when 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 a candle 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?”

I shook my head although now she said it, a memory stirred.

Was it in my contract with the Council? I hadn’t looked at it for years.

“I've never had a crime in my shop before.” I took another step. The wards, I had to disable the wards. I laid my palm flat on the door and murmured the words Electra had taught me. My ears popped as the magical field dissipated. Opening the door and moving inside, I bent to pick up the first book in my path. Pride and Prejudice . Mechanically, I smoothed the crumpled pages and closed the cover. I’m sorry Lizzie. I’ll find whoever did this to you.

I heard Marcie follow me inside, and she put a gentle hand on my arm. “Come sit in my shop. You’ll have to leave things as they are until the investigator gets here.”

“I don’t see how tidying a few books is going to make any difference.

” I waved my arm at the destruction. “This is going to take days to fix.” My voice choked.

Poppy whined, and I took a deep breath, trying to settle my feelings.

I turned to face my two friends. “I appreciate your help. I really do, but can I just be alone for a while? I just need some time to process this.”

Marcie looked at Harold, still standing on the stoop, who looked at me. “All right, lass,” he said. “Take your time. Just shout if you need us.” They tiptoed out and left me alone. I crumpled to the floor, Pompy clutched to my chest.

This was too much. On top of a recurrence of The Dream, the memory of my failure, my emotions were raw, jagged pain digging into my chest. I slumped against a chair and I cried.

I cried for the young hopeful woman I’d been when I started this bookshop.

Craving my mother’s attention. Wanting her to see that I could make a success of my life without magic.

I loved my shop. I really did. But I was so tired.

So fucking tired of not getting ahead. Of working six days a week.

With my insurance deductible and the days of business I was going to lose while I cleaned up the mess, I’d be skipping more meals than usual to make ends meet.

I certainly wouldn’t be putting aside any spare cash to save for a bigger apartment in a nicer part of town. Or even a car.

The cry was cathartic, settling some of the roiling tension inside me.

No-one was hurt and insurance would cover the damage.

I’d cope. The enforced diet would help me shift the stubborn ten pounds that refused to budge.

But not today. I savoured the almond croissant, knowing it was going to be the last treat I could afford for a while.

The outside was crisp and flaky. The inside perfectly gooey.

My eyes just about rolled back in my head and I was grateful that there was no-one around to see my foodgasm.

Food in my stomach helped improve my mood further.

It was bad, but it wasn’t a disaster; not in the way that a fire or a flood was a disaster. It would take time, but I could fix it.

I texted Electra to tell her there’d been a break-in at the shop, that I was fine, and she should stop worrying.

She’d texted back soon after to say that someone was on their way.

Then I took photos of the downstairs and of the circular stair before I began to clear a path across the floor to the stairway.

My brain had finally started working again.

I needed to get upstairs to see if anything had been taken.

Had it been a random act of vandalism? Why my shop?

As I sorted books into piles, creating a path through the room, I thought back over my customer interactions the previous week.

Had there been any angry customers? That seemed like the sort of thing the investigator would want to know.

The new university semester was about to start and I’d been busy with filling orders for textbooks both over the counter and online.

I had stock of all the prescribed textbooks for the Witch College and the local University and no-one had left the shop unhappy. I had no ideas.