twenty | blame

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"What in the name of God has happened here?" were the first words to leave Lennox's mouth as he stepped into the shop, taking care to avoid the books that littered the floor.

Shyla's stomach dropped with dread. He stood from where he had been knelt, sorting the books into piles. The Dark witches had done more damage than he had thought, and he had been trying to tidy up after them for the better part of an hour. Some of the shelves were beyond repair and the books would have to be discounted at best, their pages creased if not torn from their spines completely.

"Oh, love," Mavis gasped from behind her husband, holding her leather gloves to her chest. Her glassy eyes were full of concern where Lennox's were full of frustration, and she stepped in front of him to get a better look at Shyla. "What happened to your face?"

"Never mind his bloody face," Lennox huffed, slamming his coat down on the front counter and slipping his glasses off as though he no longer valued the gift of sight. "What happened to my shop?"

Shyla sighed, stepping over the books so that he was closer to them and running a shaky hand through his tangled hair. "I was attacked by two Dark witches. They caught me coming back from my lunch break."

"Oh, sweetheart, look at you," Mavis fussed again, grabbing his chin and tilting it so that she could inspect the wound on his temple. Both of his eyes were exposed after they had torn off his eye-patch, and under Lennox's scrutiny he felt very suddenly aware of the fact. Like a disobedient child, he squirmed out of Mavis's grip and lowered his gaze. "You're bleeding. Are you hurt anywhere else? Maybe we should get you to a hospital, just to be sure."

"My mother is a Healer," he reminded her softly, "and I'm okay, really. Just a few cuts and bruises is all."

"And where is my granddaughter?" Lennox questioned, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest. The buttons on his linen shirt threatened to pop open from the strain.

"With a client," Shyla answered as Mavis led him to one of the worn leather armchairs in the far corner. Only from this angle did he realise how much of a mess the shop was: at least half of the shelves had been broken into masses of splintering wood, and the floorboards were barely visible between the books strewn across them. The beads hanging from the hallway's threshold had been torn from the door frame and hung by a thread, some of them already scattered onto the floor. Shyla didn't remember seeing them drop, nor did he remember falling into the shelves, though his back throbbed with the evidence.

"Convenient," Lennox retorted. Shyla could feel the anger radiating off him like heat, but behind his clouded green eyes hid sorrow as he observed the ruins around him. His bookshop was his pride and joy, every shelf built by his own hands and every book alphabetised and categorised. It caused guilt to swell in Shyla's chest. "What did these witches want, besides to make a bloody mess of my shop?"

Shyla hesitated, playing it off with a wince as Mavis pulled out a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at the blood drying on the side of his face. "They didn't say," he lied.

"Bollocks," Lennox cursed. "They must have wanted something."

"Lennox," Mavis warned, turning to give her husband a disapproving look.

"I was too busy being punched in the face to ask." Shyla took the handkerchief from Mavis and pressed it to his wound. It didn't stop her from fussing over him; she took out a tissue and dabbed it on her tongue lightly before wiping the blood from Shyla's nose.

"And you don't know who they are? It wasn't that bloody witch Greer wanted to help, was it? I told you both nothing good would come from helping their kind. Bloody leeches, the lot of them."

sanctuary | on hold indefinitelyWhere stories live. Discover now