Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(12)
Her short, sharp “HA!” draws the attention of secret Resistance agent Vance the unicorn at the next table over, who glares at us and then gets back to painting his nails above the finger tattoos that when he makes a fist with each hand spell out “piss off.” That attitude from the customers is what made Hocus and Hops the perfect place to actually unwind and plan my next move away from the hidden eyes and tucked-away ears of the Council at the little house I rented a few blocks from Griselda’s.
Tilda sinks down in her seat a few inches, looking around at the handful of other witches in the pub. No doubt after yesterday she is checking to see if anyone is recording her. The videos from yesterday were all over WitchyGram. My face couldn’t be seen in any of them, but that didn’t matter to anyone. The real appeal was seeing a Sherwood—really this particular Sherwood—be embarrassed. No one would dare to try that with anyone else from her family, but as an outré, Tilda is vulnerable.
That’s why the Council picked her as its target in its never-ending effort to hurt the Sherwoods and, by extension, the ability of the Committee to keep the Council Witchingdom’s dirty little secret. According to my handler, Cassius, Tilda is seen as a weakness if she is truly an outré. They figured if they applied enough pressure to her, she’d act as their useful idiot in helping to get information about the Committee’s next moves so they could be stopped. Then, the Council would be free. No more working in the shadows because everyone thought they’d been disbanded eons ago. No more plausible deniability for those who utilize their services to gain power. No more loosening of the rules and regulations that define what a witch can be and where they belong in the Witchingdom.
Any sane witch would hate the Council. I sure as hell do, but for me there is no escaping them. If they are revealed as a real secret agency and not just an urban legend, there will be no stopping them.
“What happened yesterday was all me?” Tilda scoffs and leans forward before saying in a near whisper, “Everyone knows I’m an outré.”
That isn’t even a little true and she knows it.
“That’s not what you are,” I say, dropping my own voice as I lean forward so that our faces are close enough we could almost kiss. “That’s what you want them to think you are.”
We sit there staring at each other, the air around us crackling. Tendrils of my power surge forward, responding to her nearness, being drawn closer and closer to the surface with every heartbeat. What do you want, it calls out to her. Whatever it is, in that moment, I want to give it to her.
This is what she does to me. This is exactly why she is so dangerous. It’s like nitro for my magic.
Tilda reaches out, a confused look crossing her face as if she’s not sure why she’s doing it either, her fingertips barely grazing my forearm, but it’s enough. Magic blasts through me, seeking a way out, and it takes all of the control I have to keep it in check.
“What I want,” Tilda says, her eyes going hazy as she plugs into my power, “is to be a real witch, one with powers, who isn’t a stain on my family’s name.” She rolls her neck and lets out a soft moan. “Someone who isn’t whispered about.” She glides her fingers down to my wrist, biting down on her lip. “Someone who actually has a purpose in this life.” Her eyes flutter shut. “Someone who isn’t failing at the one job she could get doing online branding for her family to raise their likability scores because she made a complete eejit of herself, which ended up on every side of WitchyGram, even Goblin WitchyGram, and has reminded everyone of her family’s shame.” She sighs, the sound full of bittersweet yearning. “That’s what I want.”
She stops abruptly, her cheeks staining bright red and her chin trembling. Then she yanks her hand away from me and looks down at her fingers as if she doesn’t understand what just happened.
I’m shocked into complete silence.
Either Tilda is the best actress in the entire world or she has no clue what she really is.
Flexing her fingers as if she doesn’t understand why they’re buzzing, she looks up at me, confusion wrinkling her forehead. Then, before I can reach out to stop her, she hurries out of the pub, not even glancing at the people gawking at her rushed exit.
Ignoring every one of my instincts screaming at me to go after her, I force myself to stay in my seat and calmly drink my beer. There’s no need to process what just happened. I already know the answer.
No one is that good at pretending.
Tilda Sherwood has no idea she’s a spellbinder.
It shouldn’t, but this changes everything.
Chapter Seven
Tilda . . .
The Alchemist’s Bookshop and Tea Emporium, like every good bookstore that has ever existed, is home to the book nerds, the weirdos, the mistrustful, the lost souls, the misunderstood, the curious, and the introverts looking for a quiet place to people for a very limited time. I fit in perfectly. That’s why it is no surprise that it’s where I get most of my work done—and exactly where my two best friends know to find me a few days later when they want answers about what is going on in my life.
Too bad I don’t have any.
“You are so full of it, Tilda,” Birdie says as she shoots our third magical misfit musketeer a can-you-believe-this eye roll. “Eli and I know you better than just about anyone. There is no way that he didn’t spell you.”