Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(22)
“You’re sure?” Cassius glares at me, obviously pissed his plans for advancement have gone up in flames.
“Without a doubt.”
“Then wrap up your report.” The vein in his temple pulsates and it takes everything I’ve got not to grin at his absolute fury at being thwarted. “The Council has another job for you.” He gets right up in my face, so absolutely confident in his superiority. “Don’t forget what’s riding on your cooperation. I’d hate to see your parents stay in The Beyond forever.”
Fury, white-hot and lethal at the bald-faced lie of the statement when there’s no way Cassius doesn’t know my parents are missing courses through me, and the urge to knock Cassius on his ass has me by the balls, but I can’t give in to it. No matter how good it would feel in the moment, I have to play the long game, keep Tilda safe. Sure, she has her family and Griselda to watch out for her, but for some reason I can’t explain, she has me too.
I really have well and good cursed myself.
“Clock’s ticking, Connolly,” Cassius says before snapping his fingers and disappearing into the ether.
Grinding my molars to dust, I hustle into Griselda’s house and find her alone in her kitchen sharing a plate of cookies with the squirrel as they both sit at the tiny round table where she does her tarot readings.
“She’s already gone,” Griselda says before I can ask about Tilda. “Seems she heard someone saying something that hurt her feelings. Can’t imagine who that was.”
Yeah, and the elderberry tea in her cup isn’t liberally spiked with absinthe.
My gut sinks. “What do I do?”
She shrugs her bony shoulders. “Depends on what you want to do.”
I glance down at the tarot cards laid out in a cross pattern on the table. “Was all of this in the cards?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.” She shuffles the deck, making quick work of moving the cards as a purple aura grows in strength around her. “All I can say is that life is messy. Get used to it.”
As if I have any other choice—especially when it comes to fucking things up with Tilda.
Chapter Eleven
Gil . . .
The first thing I need to do to unravel what is going on is to find Tilda, who is avoiding her usual haunts like a troll avoids hot soapy water unless it’s time for their yearly bath.
Turns out that that is easier done using the Internet than whipping up a location spell. As a Sherwood, her every move is well documented by the gossipmongers on WitchyGram, one of whom has just posted a pic of her going to a meeting in the basement of the Alchemist’s Bookshop and Tea Emporium.
Hurrying out of Griselda’s neighborhood, I turn onto Main Street just as a light purple protection dome that will block interlopers from gaining entry is starting to drape over the three-story shop. My shoulders relax about half an inch before they boomerang up to my ears again and a triple jolt of adrenaline shoots through my veins.
Magic works on an opposites spectrum; the dome not only protects, it also traps everyone inside. If Cassius still harbors suspicions about Tilda being the weakest Sherwood link, right now would be the perfect opportunity to cast a spell to get her to do the Council’s bidding without interference from the Sherwoods—and because she doesn’t know she has any power, she wouldn’t have any idea she could stop them.
Fuck.
I have to get to her.
Now.
It isn’t a thought so much as it is an action plan formed out of thin air and a desperation I can’t explain. All I know is that it is DNA-deep, wrapped so tight around every part of me that I am running toward the shop before I realize it.
Witches jump out of the way as I sprint toward the building, tossing curses in the air after me—as if developing a raging case of poison ivy is going to slow me down when I am about to be separated from Tilda. Sprinting even faster with the help of a Hermes kicker incantation, I cover the three blocks in fifteen seconds and make it to the building just as the purple-tinted dome line is almost to the top of the first-floor windows.
A sharp right into the alley nearly goes completely concussion-worthy wrong when I almost slam into the opposite wall, but I can’t slow down. No. That’s not it. I won’t slow down. I refuse.
Racing toward the stairs leading down to the Alchemist’s basement back entry, I slide under the purple line seconds before it hits the ground with a hard thump that sends dirt and debris into the air. My lungs are aching as I try to catch my breath and assess the damage from sliding down the stone steps on my ass to beat the dome. I clock the third that’s-gonna-leave-a-big-purple-mark bruise when I hear the ticking.
Shit.
I know that sound.
I’m up before I know it, my entire body practically vibrating with the effort to call forth another Hermes incantation so soon after the last. It hurts the way only overuse of magic can, like jagged nails gouging my brain or staying conscious while a tooth fairy gnaws on my vital organs.
I have half a breath to give to the pain though, and then I’m running again. With only ten seconds to get down the stairs, through the door, and into the meeting room before I’m shut out, I don’t have time to give in to the hurt.
I make it inside the room half a breath before the last tick. The meeting room door slams shut and another whoomph sounds from outside the door before the scent of warm apple pie fills the air.