Mathilda, SuperWitch (Mathilda's Book of Shadows #1)(68)
The last time I saw him, his BMW Roadster was careening out-of-control.
And now he’s probably in intensive care, holding onto the thread his life and waiting for my dulcet tones to awake him from a coma.
And here I am, surrounded by my princess fortress hoping for the best.
* * * * *
I created the all-powerful princess fortress when I was a little girl.
It had been a long day of Mom forcing us to help her make soap while listening to Simon and Garfunkel.
Then, as if a day of lye, essential oils and “Sound of Silence” isn’t bad enough, that evening Gran came over with her little finger cymbals shouting “I’m in the mood to dance!”
That night, the princess fortress was born.
You see, I knew in my heart of hearts that I was really a princess. These weird people who made soap and clanked finger cymbals for fun weren’t my real family. No! They kidnapped me when I was a baby.
(What can I say? I was the kind of little girl who lived in those plastic high-heeled shoes, clacking all over the house, the grocery store, everywhere.)
I figured I needed to practice for when the King and Queen of Wherever came to rescue me.
At night, when I was in my real home, that is to say, safe in the castle, I would undoubtedly sleep in a princess bed. I would be propped up on at least two pillows (covered in pink satin, of course) behind my head and shoulders with one pillow each running either side of my torso on which to rest my precious princess hands and arms.
Then I would lie still, night after night, waiting for the handsome prince to wake me up and carry me to a new, bigger and better castle.
There he would shower me with Fendi handbags and Tiffany charm bracelets (okay, that last bit came later, when I was a not-so-little girl).
Any time I felt scared or upset, I’d build my princess fortress and it would help me to sleep, help me to cope… just help me.
I hadn’t used the fortress in a long, long time.
And now that I was using it, it wasn’t working.
BecBec wasn’t here to keep my company with her whizzing around and freakish chatter.
And I didn’t know where Ash was.
Nor Aidan.
They didn’t answer their phones, I’d called The Gables (fifteen times) – no word. I called The Institute of Psychical Research (seven times) – nothing.
I did a lot of pacing.
I searched through Ash’s flat looking for an address book or contact list.
Zilch.
I did more pacing.
I took a bath, dressed my scrapes and scratches with antibiotic ointment and I paced some more.
There was nothing else to do but build the princess fortress, climb in and hope.
* * * * *
This is what happened:
The Dozen had been crazed since the review came out. We were up to six-woman shifts and still everyone was working over their scheduled hours.
Mavis was in Seventh Heaven.
With all the practice, Pandora seemed to be conquering Big Red and offering up rather tasty cappuccinos.
Some woman approached Lucy and me about writing a “War of the Wooden Spoons” cookbook.
It was fantastic.
I had felt very retro that morning so I put on a raspberry-colored, halter-top sundress with a thin lime-green belt and lime green slingbacks with a peek-a-boo rounded toe and tapered heel. The piece de resistance was the raspberry, orange and lime-colored polka-dot bow on the toe.
Fab-you-las.
I was standing at the counter, piping a shitload of chocolate buttercream frosting into a newly fried donut (my latest addition to the menu and regardless of the 950,000 calories, selling like hotcakes). I was about to dump it into the enormous bowl of powdered sugar before selling it, fresh, to the waiting blue-haired lady who was staring at it, drooling.
Then it came on me.
A premonition.
Hole-ee crap.
Shades of Cordelia in Angel, there was a pain in my head so intense, I dropped the donut into the bowl of powdered sugar and with a soft poof the powdered sugar exploded in a tiny, white cloud all over the counter. Out-of-control, I squeezed the pastry bag filled with buttercream chocolate sending a stream of frosting halfway across the coffee house. I stumbled backwards, clutching at my head, wincing and whimpering as I crashed into the mugs and cups behind me.
Ash…
And.
Aidan…
In trouble.
Not the normal kind of trouble, which was caused by me.
New trouble.
Bad trouble.
Deadly trouble.
* * * * *
The Dozen was in an uproar.
People slipping and sliding across chocolate frosting.
The blue-hair cracking the handle of her umbrella (carried even though there was no sign of rain) against the counter snapping, “My donut! Look what you did to my donut!”
I didn’t say a word, didn’t do a thing, I just left.
There was no time, I had to go.
I had to recreate the future.
* * * * *
I ran as fast as my lime-colored, raspberry, orange and lime-bowed, cute, 40’s-style slingbacks would carry me.
Fuckity, f**k, f**k.
No way was I gonna make it.
And you will appreciate how important this was and how hard it was for me…
I stopped, bent down, took off my sherbet shoes and dropped them where they were.
I pulled my wand out of my cle**age and booked it, barefoot.