Page 3 of Under Daddy's Spell

“Holy god, woman,” he roared with impatience. “Do you want the damn books or not?”

“I do, of course. Do you have paperwork to go with them?”

He nodded toward the box. “They haven’t been appraised. I’m sure your father can take care of that for you, but I have copies of the bills of sale showing the transfer of ownership.”

Tessa pulled out a manila envelope and, sure enough, there were dozens of sheets of paper, many yellowed with age, denoting the dates they changed ownership.

“Do we have a deal?”he asked insistently.

“Yes, but I don’t understand—”

“You don’t need to,” he snapped. “Consider this an unexpected windfall and don’t question it further.”

Tessa walked behind the counter to her register and got him his one American dollar—an odd way of putting it, surely. Then again, she had to consider the oddness of the source.

Did she detect a hint of an accent? French and Cajun were common in the area, but this seemed off. When she held the bill out, he all but snatched it from her fingers.

Next, he smoothed a thin stack of papers on the counter.?“I’ve forgotten your name.”

“My legal name is Teresa Grace Delacroix.”

The drill started up again, but it didn’t faze him this time as he scrawled on both pages.

Speaking loudly to be heard, he explained, “I’ve made two copies, one for each of us. You need to sign them both.” He extended a pen.

The entire extremely strange encounter had her on edge. Although she would have read anything before signing, she carefully scanned the handwritten sales receipt. It was short and sweet, stating only the date and a list transferring at least twenty titles from seller Victor Zion to herself.

Seeing nothing unusual—about the document, at least—she signed on the line above her printed name. She’d barely finished crossing the X in Delacroix when he took the pen from her hand and scrawled his name.

Then his scowl vanished, and, for the first time since he arrived, he smiled, albeit rather creepily.

“Excellent.” The drilling abruptly stopped, leaving him shouting. Again, he seemed to think nothing of it. “A pleasure doing business with you, my dear. I wish you the best with them.”

He tri-folded one copy, tucked it into his jacket, and, without another word, sailed out the door.

A sense of foreboding filled her. She didn’t know why or what. Unlike many in the city who claimed to have powers, she’d never had so much as a case of déjà vu. But, as she stared after the strange little man, she got the feeling something was off.

The next instant, a burst of excitement overtook everything else, and she flipped the lid off?the box.

Tessa loved everything about books. Not only reading them—she loved the cover art, learning about the author from the backflap, sorting them, displaying them, and the smell of a shipment of freshly inked new releases.

Before this, she’d only owned two first editions, both gifts from her parents. Now she had an entire boxful.

Her father was the collector and, as Victor had apparently heard, an appraiser of some renown. Perhaps she could follow in his footsteps.

Tessa laughed and immediately dismissed the notion. He spent hours on his research. Where would she possibly find the time?

The books directly beneathGreat Expectationswere tied with twine making it impossible to see the covers. When she angled the spines to the light, the titles nearly took her breath away.

Most people didn’t know that when Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudicewas first released way back in 1813, it came in a three-volume set. The publisher, clearly not expecting a novel by an unknown to do very well, only printed 1500 copies on that first run. Of course, it went on to great acclaim in later years, including on the stage and screen. Feeling as giddy as a child on Christmas morning, Tessa barely kept herself from letting out a scream of excitement because she now owned an original set.

Carefully setting them aside, she reached in and withdrew another, quite thick and heavy—Ulyssesby James Joyce. She gasped so hard she choked. The next, a very rare copy ofHarry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, caused the same reaction. She’d recently read that the original printing of only 500 copies was the forerunner to the wildly popular American version,Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,which inspired the entire series and movie franchise.?This one, along with a copy ofThe Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien, had been handled more than the others. She liked to imagine scores of children enjoying them over the years.

“I’ve gotta call Dad. He’s going to freak,” she breathed, completely in awe of the classic works.

Her father was to blame for her obsession with books. Before she was even born, he read to her. According to her mother, they’d stretch out in bed in the evenings while he readGoodnight Moon, The Giving Tree,and practically the entireWinnie the Poohseries to her stomach. It continued throughout her childhood with a host of specially selected titles until she could read them herself. With his master’s degree in library science, she would have expected nothing less from her dad.

When she dialed his number, as usual, she got his voicemail. She didn’t bother leaving a message, which, half the time, he never checked. Her chances of a response went up a bit if she texted.

---