Mathilda, SuperWitch (Mathilda's Book of Shadows #1)(88)

“And the witches?” I asked.

Endora was there to cast the witches’ vote so I pretty much knew the answer.

“Endora cast nay,” Mavis said.

“So we’re on our own,” I muttered, dejected.

I wanted to cry but I’d recently sworn off crying, at least until I was in my bed, in my princess fortress, on my own so no one could see me.

“Well,” Mavis said, slowly, “Dr. Bennett explained that he and the Directors and Marcus and the rest of the Elders had formed an allegiance.”

“Who’s Marcus?” I asked.

“Marcus was the Elder in attendance. Marcus Wilding, Sebastian’s father.”

Ack!

“Ash’s father…” I gulped, “was there?”

Oh goddess, no wonder that dude seemed so familiar.

Ack!

My possible father-in-law was there and there I was looking like a more stylish Elvira, Mistress of Darkness – double sided tape and all.

Ack!

Now, I really wanted to cry.

“Yes, my dear, he was there and on our side. Both Le Société and The Institute are with us, my dear. His announcement made Prunella call a Council meeting. Highly unusual, Endora’s not pleased. Normally, the Hag will defer to the Lady at Gatherings. But overturning the Lady’s vote and demanding a meeting with the Maiden before casting the Council’s binding vote…”

That pleased me no end.

We had some diplomatic work do. Obviously, this was not going to be my project as I seemed pretty rubbish at diplomacy.

Gran took the assignment to approach, and win over, the wizards and magi and Mavis the sorcerers and sorceresses. They were like my chief Wiccan Whips, if you will.

Kinda cool.

I’d worry about the rest of the supernatural population later.

I called Aidan to let him know how it went but he already knew.

I was pretty sure Ash already knew, considering his Dad was there.

I thought about Marcus Wilding and wondered if Ash would look like him when he grew older.

If he grew older.

Ack.

Then I went to bed and Daphne curled up in the crook of my knees and purred for a little bit before she fell asleep and, for the rest of the night, I tried to pretend I wasn’t scared shitless.

7 August

I figured I was okay; I’d faced down the folks at The Hobgoblin and an entire Gathering. The Witch World was abuzz with my massive show of cojones if the recent newsletter was anything to go by.

So this should be a piece of cake.

I mean, it was just The Dungeons.

And it was Ash’s birthday.

I made him a German Chocolate cake dripping with that yummy, golden icing.

My plan was to carry it down to him, singing happy birthday.

I was The Chosen One with kickass magic – the leader of a revolution, the Che Guevara of the Witch World.

(I picked Che because he was handsome and charismatic and Fidel wasn’t, at least not the first, he was scary and eventually became a despot. Incidentally, I was also ignoring the fact that Che ended up gunned down in a hut in Bolivia.)

(Would there one day be t-shirts and coffee mugs with my face on them?)

(Yikes!)

I stood at the door to The Dungeon, luscious cake balanced on one palm, my present tucked under my arm and my other hand ready to open the door.

Which I did.

Then I braced myself.

Nothing.

Whew!

Step one, done.

I stood, staring down the stone steps that led into darkness.

I felt a breeze float up.

It wasn’t a pleasant breeze.

It was a malevolent breeze.

A breeze that wanted to hurt me.

Yikes.

I took a deep breath.

It’s his birthday surprise, I can do this, I can do this, I told myself.

Nope.

I couldn’t do this.

“Mathilda?”

I jumped, nearly dropping the cake.

Ash was walking up behind me.

He wasn’t even in The Dungeons.

I’m such a dork.

“Happy birthday!” I cried.

He looked at me, the present, the cake, the open door and then back at me.

“I figured you wouldn’t want a big thing made of it so I thought I’d bring you a cake,” I told him. “I was just about to go down…”

That’s when the eyebrow went up and the arms crossed the chest, not saying it out loud but his body language screaming, “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

“Okay then,” I gave in, exasperated. “I was just psyching myself up to go down but couldn’t do it. There! I admit it!”

“May I?” He didn’t wait for me to say he could, he took the cake and set it on a small side table. “And?” He took the present and without further ado, ripped off the paper.

I had bought him a fabulous Alexander McQueen shirt. It cost a fortune but I’d never had a man with that kind of body to dress so I figured I’d go for it. I knew, once he had it on, it would be worth every donut I’d had to stuff with frosting and every cappuccino I’d had to cover with foam in order to afford it.

“It’s Alexander McQueen,” I said when the thick tissue paper and shiny box fell away and he’d shaken out the shirt and just stared at it. “He’s a very famous designer or he was, though he still is. It’s just that he’s dead now. Tragic. He was an artist. A visionary. Anyway, he makes really nice, quality clothes…” I trailed off after realizing I was babbling.