Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(19)

He scowls at me because of course he does. “This is faster.”

I wish I could argue the logic, but I can’t, so I swear to myself that this time I will not let whatever it is that comes over me when I’m near Gil knock me stupid. I will not beg him to kiss me. I won’t wrap my arms around him. I won’t take surreptitious sniffs of his cologne. Yeah. That’s it. I will will it and make it so.

But life doesn’t work that way, does it?

We both know it doesn’t.

Which is why when I take his hand, a sizzle of awareness sets wave after wave of want through me, each one stronger than the last. It’s enough to take my breath away, but then he calls out a quick flying spell and we shoot up in the air like a rocket and breathing isn’t an option anymore. The wind whips my hair back and my glasses press against the bridge of my nose as we race through the sky, rushing through clouds and the crisp fall air. I won’t say that I’m holding on to Gil for dear life, but I sure can’t say I’m not.

“Can you slow down?”

He grimaces. “Just hold on.”

I tighten my grip on his hand as the houses in Wrightsville get smaller and smaller until they are only little dots below us. The Killjoy Forest is tucked in the Blue Ridge Mountains. There aren’t roads leading to it and there isn’t a single map showing its location, but every witch in the area knows the perfect flight plan to get there. Or at least that’s what they say.

I can’t help but let out an awed sigh as I watch it unfold below us. “It’s beautiful.”

“You haven’t been before?” Gil asks.

“It’s not exactly accessible for outré.” That’s putting it mildly. We aren’t exactly refused entry, but without any option besides flying in, it’s pretty damn hard to make it there.

“Then,” he says, slowing down, “we have to make sure you really get a good look.”

“You don’t have t—”

But I don’t even get to finish the sentence before he hooks a sharp left and sends us soaring over the trees, dipping down into meadows gone golden with explosions of autumn-blooming flowers and gliding so close to the waterfalls that I can dip my fingers into the cool mountain water rushing down into the creek below. I close my eyes and commit it all to memory—the feel of the air brushing my cheeks, the scent of the pitch pine trees, the thrill of sailing above it all in the bluest, clearest sky that belongs in a museum, and the steadying strength of Gil’s hand around mine. When I open my eyes, he’s watching me, a smile playing on his lips.

“Amazing, right?” he asks.

All I can do is nod, because it’s almost too much, the blast of certainty that hits me at this moment, as if this is how my life starts and everything up until now has just been prelude. I can’t explain it—I can’t even process it—but it’s there, rock-solid and confusing as hell.

He sets us down near a limestone arch that has to be more than two hundred feet tall and nearly a hundred feet across. A creek runs below it, gorgeous and blue, the water clear enough that I can spot bright neon fish swimming around the rocks that glimmer in the light.

I do a full three-sixty trying to memorize every inch of it. “It’s beautiful.”

For once, Mr. Know-It-All doesn’t say anything, he just takes my hand again and squeezes it as we stand there taking it all in. Then the earth shakes beneath our feet and birds scatter from treetops as part of the limestone bridge breaks away from the rest and small rocks splash down into the creek. The moving mound of limestone transforms as it comes closer, the illusion of pale stone evaporating and revealing a massive twelve-foot-tall bridge troll, complete with a nose ring made from bones and a snaggletoothed smile.

“I was just thinking about how a snack would be nice about now,” he says as he rubs his well-padded stomach. “What are you doing in my forest?”

The low baritone of his voice bounces around inside me and makes my teeth practically vibrate, like during a witch party when the music is blaring out of the speakers and the bass becomes a physical force. Even though I’m prepped for seeing him, the sight still sucks the breath out of my lungs.

Gil takes half a step forward, dropping my hand and drawing the troll’s attention. “Picking mushrooms for Griselda.”

The troll tugs on one of the three long black hairs poking out from his chin. “I’d say tell her hi from Eugene, but that won’t be possible when you’re in my belly.”

“Only if we can’t solve your riddle,” I say, my voice shaking only a little compared to what my knees are doing at the moment.

“Oh, you won’t.” Eugene chuckles. “I’ve eaten well off of this one.”

Gil crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his chin up in challenge. “So give it to us.”

“Anxious for your death. I approve.” The troll looks over his shoulder and hollers toward the forest. “Harold, start up the fire. I feel like witch kabobs.” The trees shake and the loud crack of a trunk snapping in two booms a few seconds before the flash of flames shows up on top of a nearby mountain. Eugene turns back to us and grins his terrible grin. “You get one opportunity to answer the riddle, and you can’t discuss the answer with each other, you just have to trust each other or not trust, as the case may be. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Witch tears tend to sour the snack.”