Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(24)
Don’t I know it? But there is nowhere else I want to be unless it is in the closet on the opposite side of the room with the door closed and our clothes in a pile on the floor. My cock thickens and I’m leaning in, watching the way her tongue wets her bottom lip. Her gaze is lust hazy and she moves her hand from above my heart to the buttons lining the middle of my white button-up.
We’re not gonna make it to that closet.
“Oh, Tilda,” a woman interrupts, sending both of us stumbling back to the reality of where and who we are. “Who’s your friend?”
Tilda looks over at the tall woman with curly hair so black it’s nearly blue and a face full of freckles in the bright yellow dress and blinks as if she’s never seen her before. While it is nice to know I’m not the only one with a scrambled brain right now, I can practically hear her berate herself for going blank. I reach out before I think better of it, holding her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. We both look down in confusion, and I let go, my fingers tingling.
“Birdie,” Tilda says as she flexes her fingers behind her back, “this is Gil. Gil, this is Birdie.”
“Nice to meet you,” Birdie says, her smile genuine.
She reaches out to shake my hand. I hold my breath as I shake her hand, but there’s not a single spark, not even a sputter. The accidental spell from my duíl magic is definitely localized to one curvy redhead who is currently pretending to be completely focused on cleaning her glasses.
“Thanks for having me.”
“We’re always happy to have a newcomer,” Birdie says.
“He’s not a misfit.” Tilda slides her glasses back on but still doesn’t even so much as glance my way.
Birdie’s dark eyes go wide as she looks from me to Tilda and back again. Yeah, I can’t explain it either, but here I am grinning like a loon at a woman who is determined to show she can’t stand me.
She clears her throat. “Well, allies are important too. I wish we had more of—” Whatever she was about to say next gets swallowed by a huge sneeze.
In an instant, every lightbulb in the room turns pink, then blue, then red as Birdie continues sneezing.
Dome magic is usually effective, but the chance of something going wrong is never zero. I step between Tilda and the door, ready to face down whatever malevolent force either made it through the perimeter or got in before I did. That’s when I realize no one else in the room has flinched. Birdie sneezes one more time, this one big enough that it sends her thick dark hair flying around her as if she’s made a decision out of nowhere to start headbanging, and all of the lights—even the ones out in the hallway—go out.
“Sorry, everyone,” Birdie says, then leans close to me and whispers, “Magical allergies.”
Several people swipe on their cell phone flashlights.
“I got it,” a huge guy with a goofy grin who towers over everyone else in the room by a good foot and a half hollers out.
“Oh dear,” Birdie says under her breath.
“Et erit . . . et erit . . . hold on . . . I’ve got it . . . I swear . . . Et erit tenebris.” All of the lights from the phones go out too. “Shit,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”
A familiar male voice calls out, “Et erit lux.”
All of the lights flash on bright enough to make me squint.
Vance, an agent for the Resistance, the bookstore’s owner, and the unicorn shifter with “piss off” tattooed onto his knuckles, stands in the doorway, his usual surly expression on his face underneath his unicorn horn that never goes away even when he is in human form, holding a tray full of tea sandwiches.
“Eli”—he points a finger at the tall guy—“you’re supposed to write it down so your anxiety doesn’t get the better of you. And you”—he turns to Birdie—“get Griselda to refill your allergy meds.”
If either of them is offended by the unicorn shifter’s orders, they don’t show it.
He focuses on me. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Tilda says.
Vance gives me a once-over, and before I can think of a cover story to explain my appearance, he brushes by me and starts toward the front of the room.
“I’m sure we’ll figure it out soon enough,” he says over his shoulder. “Welcome to the meeting of magical misfits support group. Anything said here, stays here. There’s food after. Now sit down, everyone, and let’s get this over with.”
Everyone starts toward the seats arranged in a circle in the middle of the room as all of the pieces come together in my head. Sure, I know that nulls aren’t the only witches to have issues with working magic. Sometimes it is physical, sometimes it is mental, and sometimes it is a combination. I know Witchingdom has its outcasts, but I had no idea that they’d banded together to stand with each other. My gut twists; if the Council finds out, they won’t like it. They’ll do what they can to end the practice. Keeping witches isolated or afraid to rock the metaphorical boat is what helps them to maintain power.
“Don’t look at them like that,” Tilda says, obviously taking my grimace as being for her friends, not the Council. “Yes, some of us find strength in being with others facing the same challenges. Not everyone wants to lone wolf it—except for the werewolves. They’re like that sometimes. You aren’t part werewolf, are you?”