Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(29)
I gasp at the realization and collapse onto the hard stone floor.
All magic is two-sided, and it’s only the skill of the circle’s members that controls which path it takes—to heal or to harm. I’ve obviously fucked it all up by being a null and touching Effie in mid-incantation. As a circle of two, I would have had as much control over the spell as my sister—if I’d been magic. As a null, I’d glitched the spell, which really had been a curse—just like I am. So the curse in the book and the curse of being without magic combined and two wrongs made one disaster.
This is my fault and I can’t fix it—but I know how to fix it.
I sprint across town to Griselda’s house. By the time I’m reaching for her cat door knocker, I can barely breathe and sweat is rolling down my back. The second my fingers touch the cat’s tail, the door swings open and the scent nearly overwhelms me. Lemon zest and buttered popcorn.
“Griselda?” I holler as I rush inside, praying to the fates to show a bit of mercy by having my godmother at home.
She is—frozen solid as she hands a shot to a raccoon wearing a bow tie, his tiny little black paw barely touching her hand as he accepts the glass. That smidge of connection must have been enough to freeze him along with Griselda even though he isn’t family.
This isn’t just bad.
This is the worst thing that could ever happen.
I’m not just a null. I’m the null that froze her entire family, and if I can’t find someone to help me reverse the spell, they’ll be like that forever.
But the thing is, there’s no one left to help, and I can’t do a damn thing.
Chapter Fourteen
Gil . . .
Twenty-four hours and no Tilda.
She didn’t show up at the Alchemist’s Bookshop and Tea Emporium, where she normally spends a few hours on a velvet love seat checking social media and crafting posts. Earlier today, instead of finding her tucked in the corner of the love seat by the window with her glasses having slid nearly down to the tip of her nose and a cup of elderberry tea within easy reach, I found Vance fluffing pillows and grumbling about lazy fucking witches who can’t pick up after themselves.
Next, I’d checked Salem’s Bakery and Coffee Shoppe, the site of our last date. She wasn’t savoring an eye of newt muffin or doubling up on her espresso. In fact, I’d swear the leaves of the dragon’s blood tree had perked up when I’d walked in as if it had been hoping she was behind me. However, when the door shut with no Tilda, the tree’s leaves dropped back down and its limbs went slack with what I could only assume was dejected disappointment.
It’s close to sunset when I turn toward the town square, a desperate worry scratching at the back of my neck.
I am out of options if she isn’t at the annual Magical Misfits Bake Sale to Raise Awareness for Nonmagical Beings, or MMBSTRAFNB—whoever was in charge of that name really needs professional help. I will have to make an in-person appearance at the Sherwood compound, which is exactly the kind of thing that would tempt even the nicest asshole on the Council to turn my balls into moldy raisins.
Literally.
The bake sale is set up around the large yellow gazebo. There are a dozen six-foot tables loaded down with magical treats for the nonmagical, figwort pie to protect against the evil eye, blackberry-leaf tarts to conjure up some wealth, saffron bread to boost fertility, and poppyseed cookies to help with insomnia or, if eaten a few dozen at a time, about ten minutes’ worth of invisibility. I spot Eli in the middle of the gazebo, which is probably the only place where he can stand inside the structure without hitting his head on the rafters. Next to him, surrounded by a crowd of witches, twelve gnomes elbowing each other for better position, a few leprechauns, and a trio of fairies flitting around her dark curls, is Birdie. Inspecting the crowd inside the gazebo and outside of it, I search for a mop of red hair and listen for Tilda’s signature hiccupy laugh but come up empty.
Weaving my way through the crowd lined up to buy Eli’s muffins—he has got to have elves in his family tree somewhere, because my mouth is watering already at just the thought of them—I make my way to Tilda’s friends.
I cut in front of a pair of gnomes to get ahead of Birdie. “Where is she?”
“Well, hello to you too, handsome,” she says, holding up an individually wrapped baked treat. “Wanna muffin? Five bucks for a good cause.”
Birdie might seem all flighty and sweet, but there is more than a little ghost pepper I-will-fuck-you-up-son in her eyes. I grab my wallet and pass over a fiver.
“So where is she?” I ask as I unwrap the muffin.
“Oh, that money was only for the muffin. If you want information,”—she picks up a pickle jar with a hole punched into the top and shakes the dollar coins in it—“you gotta donate to the cause.”
“I thought you’d been busted for being a pickpocket as a kid, not extortion.”
Birdie doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed about her former criminal activities. She just shrugs and says, “What can I say, I’ve expanded my horizons.”
This is when I should walk away.
What the hell do I really care about Tilda Sherwood? It isn’t my job to watch out for her. My actual employment contract outlines my duties and they include spying on her, not looking out for her. I’m just supposed to be finishing up my report that will convince Cassius and the Council that she’s just a null with no access. She means nothing to me.