Mathilda, SuperWitch (Mathilda's Book of Shadows #1)(22)

“I know I’m not supposed to…”

And.

“I have nowhere else to take her.” (!)

And.

“What would you do?”

Then he hung up looking annoyed and we got in the car. Aidan definitely didn’t seem pleased but he said, “I’ve got somewhere to go. It’s safe.”

Oh goodie.

“Or, at least I think it is,” he continued.

Ack!

He turned toward me, looked me straight in the eye and said, “You think you could help… do something to put them off?”

Uh-oh.

Magic.

“Er, so… um, you know?”

“That you’re a witch?”

I stared.

“Or,” he went on, “that you’re the Witch?”

My mouth dropped open.

(Okay, so I shouldn’t play poker.)

“Jesus,” he whispered.

I nodded.

“Yes, I know,” he said.

Yikes.

I knew that, I guess.

“Just wanted to make sure,” I said, trying to sound cool (failing).

“About that help…?” he prompted.

“Okay, yeah. Sure,” I said with what I hoped was confidence. I hadn’t been doing so well in the magical arena that night.

I got out of the car and stood there.

Aidan got out of the car and stood inside his open door and watched me over the top of the BMW.

Damn, damn, damn. Under the gun. Not good conditions – performing magic in front of the hot, posh, sexy Sawyer-from-Lost-like guy.

I cleared my throat.

ACK!

I took a deep breath, concentrated, took my three turns, called to my goddess and:

Under cover of darkness,

Through the night

Cover Aidan and I,

Shadow our flight

Let our route and destination,

Remain a mystery

As I will, so mote it be.

(Must admit, that was pretty good.)

I chanted it again and again then brought my wand up and out in a wide arc scattering Aidan, the Roadster and myself with hot pink pixie dust and met both hands above my head with a final splurge of pixie dust raining over us.

Then I got back in the car.

Aidan did too.

“That should do it,” I told him.

(I hope.)

Aidan looked at me for a second. Shook his head and started the car (don’t know what that was all about).

And then we drove forever and ever again.

I was tired and cranky and the Jelly Babies were wearing off fast.

We needed to get somewhere soon.

I needed breakfast.

And I needed coffee.

* * * * *

10 February

(Late Night)

Had to go – there was a slight flapjack emergency that Nerissa couldn’t contain (I was tinkering with a Nigella recipe - should just follow the way of the Goddess of Cookery and not tinker but I couldn’t help myself – it needed chocolate!). Not to mention we had a bit of a rush and Pandora still hasn’t become quite comfortable with Big Red (Lucy and my nickname for the espresso machine).

Haven’t had a moment until now.

Note to self: Nestle Toll House Morsels do not melt very well in microwave.

Another note to self: Use expensive, possibly illegally imported (by Mavis) Toll House Morsels only for cookies, brownies, etcetera.

Another note to self: Don’t mess with Nigella recipes! (Except that one that has way too much Cointreau in it).

Where was I?

Oh yes, Aidan and I were off to someplace safe.

We rounded a turn, came out of a wood and then I saw nestled in some sloping, gently rolling, mini-hills a massive manor house-slash-castle.

It was beautiful, perfect and f**king scary.

“There it is,” Aidan said with not a little relief.

“What is it?” I asked with not a little panic.

“The Royal Institute of Psychical Research,” he answered as if that explained everything.

“Hunh?” I asked because that didn’t explain anything.

Aidan didn’t answer for as we drove toward it, a car drove out of it coming through the raised portcullis in the outer wall right at us. On the one lane road we stopped nose-to-nose with a black Rolls Royce.

“You boys have got some killer cars,” I said, to myself apparently as Aidan was getting out.

Four men were getting out of the Rolls too.

All of them were about Mavis’s age, except without the Elixir to Look Forever Fifty. They were ancient.

All except one. He looked exactly like I always thought Ichabod Crane would look. Tall, gaunt, with a hooked nose and a receding hairline, hair longish and thin, pulled back in a pipsqueak ponytail.

All of the men were staring curiously… at me.

I got out of the car.

No one spoke.

Everyone just stood there.

Staring at me.

“Er…” I said, clearly destined to be a Honeycutt diplomat (not).

Ack!

“Hi.” I finally got out.

“Amazing,” said one.

“Remarkable,” said another.

“Inconceivable,” said a third.

I was beginning to get pissed. What? They thought witches spoke in tongues or something?

“I don’t like it,” said Ichabod. He wasn’t looking at me curiously; he was looking at me like he wished he wasn’t looking at me.