Mathilda, SuperWitch (Mathilda's Book of Shadows #1)(23)

Then everyone started talking all at once.

“Now Jeremy –” started one.

“We talked about this –” started another.

“I thought we agreed –” started the third.

“There’s nothing we can do now –” started Aidan.

“I didn’t agree,” said Ichabod. “And furthermore, the Directors weren’t contacted –”

“There wasn’t time!” said one.

“We couldn’t stand by –” said another.

“Um… boys?” I tried to interrupt.

Nothing but more genteel interrupting of each other.

“Er… gentleman?” I said, a little louder.

They were beginning… well, not exactly to yell at each other but the conversation was becoming heated.

“Yo!” I shouted.

They stopped and stared at me.

“Sorry to interrupt but there are some bad guys after me and I’d rather be…” I looked at the building that made The Gables look homey. “In there.” And to myself I finished, “I think.”

“But of course!” said one.

And off we went in the cars, down the lane, one of the ancient dudes backing the Rolls the whole way on the single lane drive while I held my breath – scary!

Then we were out in a courtyard, the more ancient bit of the place looking positively medieval ensconced inside the manor house-slash-castle walls.

“Wow, this place is wicked,” I said, not able to stop myself.

Old Dude Number One stepped forward. “Yes, my dear, let’s get you inside, where it’s safe.”

He touched my arm to guide me inside but I cleared my throat awkwardly.

“I, er, have to, um…”

How exactly does one go about this?

“Yes?” Old Dude Number Two asked.

“Um, do you all mind if I put a protection spell on the place? Just a bit of a shadow glamour to hide Aidan and myself.”

Gasps all around. Shock and horror on some of the faces, fascination on others.

“If you’d rather not –” I began.

Now a new voice:

“By all means, Miss Honeycutt, be our guest.”

This was Old Dude Number Four – or New Old Dude – who came out of the medieval castle part and was tottering toward us on a cane and a prayer.

“Uh, hello,” I greeted.

He stopped and squinted at me, the new sun playing in his eyes.

“Mathilda Guinevere Honeycutt standing in the courtyard of the Royal Institute of Psychical Research.” He stopped and pinned Aidan with the squint. “I fear there is some grave spinning. Oh yes.”

Ack!

What a weird guy.

What the hell is grave spinning?

Then I got it. (Duh!)

“Sir, you obviously know me, may I ask –” I started.

“Of course, Miss Honeycutt. I’m Ambrose Bennett, Executive Director of the Royal Institute of Psychical Research at your service.”

Then he bowed, all dramatic.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. Sounded lame but what was I supposed to say?

“Your spell, my dear?” he prompted.

So, there I was, being watched by a bunch of old dudes, Ichabod Crane and Aidan.

Ack!

No pressure, right?

I had to focus, breathe deep, open my chakras, find my power source and block out the audience. It was going to take some fierce magic – everything I had – if I had anything at all – or anything left – to protect this big behemoth with me and Aidan in it.

Mm, very tired. Must sleep.

* * * * *

11 February

(After Herbology with Rhiannon – Mavis has begun to farm me out to the Coven for lessons, Rhiannon is our herb chick. She’s very cool but constantly trying to put stuff in the muffins. Gotta keep my eye on her.)

Must finish this bit before I head off to Magickal Implements with Nerissa.

Suffice it to say I did a killer spell on The Institute. So much so that Ash had trouble finding me (he was not pleased about that).

The old dudes escorted me to the mediaeval castle portion of the joint and deposited me in a room full of furniture that was so old I was scared to sit on it. They told me breakfast was being prepared (yay!) and then they left me in the room with Aidan but without any promise of coffee (ack!).

In a very Ash-like moment, Aidan stared out the window absorbed in watching something and completely ignoring me.

I cleared my throat.

“Do you think I could get a cup of coffee?”

“Oh God, yes, sorry.” He walked to the wall and, if you can believe, pulled a cord. He pulled a fricking cord. What kind of world was this?

We’d both settled in some impossibly fragile-looking chairs when one of the old guys poked his head in and Aidan asked for coffee.

“So, you were going to explain…?” I prompted when Aidan didn’t seem to want to start.

But then he started.

And this is what he said:

Aidan (surprise!) is not a plumber.

He teaches mythology at Trinity College in Cambridge and has been a member of the Royal Institute of Psychical Research for the past three years.

“The Institute” as he calls it was started in the 1500’s by none other than Queen Elizabeth I. The remit of the place was the study of all aspects of the supernatural.