Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(3)
“Thank you so much,” I say as I start to turn around and thank my date. “I know better than to take a deep breath around—”
The words “a dragon’s blood tree” die on my lips as soon as I see my date—check that—my nemesis.
“And yet, you still did,” Gil Connolly says in that rumbly, judgy voice of his that does absolutely nothing to detract from his absolute—and most infuriating—sexy-archeology-professor-with-a-perma-snarl hotness. “Please say you aren’t waiting here for me. Again.”
Getting set up on a date with my nemesis once? Weird.
Twice? An accident.
Three times? Serious bad luck.
Four times in one month? There is only one explanation. I am most definitely cursed.
Chapter Two
Gil . . .
Fine. My research methods are rather unorthodox—that is the reason why I was banished on this fool’s errand of a secret, undercover project by the Council—but they work.
In less than a month, I’ve had three opportunities (what some might call dates) to observe Matilda Grace Sherwood in her usual habitats and study her reactions to low-level cunning magic. We aren’t talking floating teacups or corporeal transformation (what most witches call body swaps), but tactile reverberations and misdirections. These are the kinds of basic magic that even a newborn infant picks up on, the indescribable ghost fingers of something being out there that the child cannot see but can feel.
Tilda, however, tested true null at every turn. It was extraordinary. Not only is she an outré, she is the most flatlining nonmagical being on the record books. I’ve spent enough time with her to keep my handler from getting suspicious about whose team I’m really on—the Council’s or the Resistance’s.
Of course, the only team I belong to is my own.
It’s a dangerous game, but I’m more than up for it.
I’ll play both sides for as long as I need to in order to get what I really want—the Council releasing my parents from exile or the Resistance smuggling them out. I could care less who actually makes it happen, I’m just going to do whatever it takes to make sure it does.
So here I am working my contacts with the Resistance while doing the work of the Council, which for the past hundred years has managed to convince the regular citizens of the Witchingdom that it’s nothing but an urban legend. But the truth of it is that they are very real, very powerful, and very determined to make sure that any magical threats to its power are eliminated. And that is why the Council sent me here deep into Resistance territory to figure out if Tilda Sherwood is faking being an outré as a cover for something more detrimental to the Council’s existence.
Something, however, always seemed to come up that cut short my efforts to answer that question. That’s why I’ve been forced to set up yet another date. It is as if anytime I start to get close to the third and fourth level of tests, something extraordinary happens and the so-called date ends abruptly.
The first date ended when she knocked over her mug of elderberry tea into my lap. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she’d chosen the iced version, I would be speaking in a much higher octave right now.
A swarm of flying monkeys called an abrupt stop to our second date when they swooped down from out of nowhere and carried her off. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she was laughing at the absurdity of it, I would have gone after her, but there was just something about the absolute joy in her giggles that struck me momentarily dumb.
Last week, I was just about to launch into the third level when her grande dame of a mother marched into the Museum of Drastic Spells fuming about some unflattering social media post. Smoke was literally wafting after Izzy Sherwood, little plumes of black and gray whirling around the few hairs that had broken free from her tight bun. I stepped between them to block Tilda from attack before I realized what I’d done. For her part, Tilda just nonchalantly stepped around me and rolled her eyes, totally unimpressed with the fury of one of the most powerful witches in the entire Witchingdom.
This time is going to be different though. This time the ridiculous and unexpected have already happened. It will begin our date—correction, opportunity to observe—not end it.
Tilda’s purple glasses have gone wonky while I was patting her on the back to clear her lungs. She should look ridiculous. Instead, I can’t stop noticing that the cockeyed frames make her already big blue eyes seem even larger. It must be an optical illusion due to the thickness of her glasses since it isn’t as if she has actual magic to create the perception, and there is no way just looking into her eyes would be this interesting without some form of illusion.
“Of course I’m not here for you.” Tilda raises her middle finger—slowly and with intent—and then pushes and straightens her glasses in one smooth movement. All while glaring at me. “I have a date.”
Of course she does. I’ve set it up, just like I arranged all the other dates.
“One scheduled by Griselda?” I manage not to smirk as I sit down at her table while sending out a subtle wave of feeler magic to start today’s test.
My plan to date my way into answering the Council’s question about Tilda Sherwood is also the perfect cover for meeting with my contact in the Resistance. You see, Griselda is not only the town matchmaker, she’s also one of the canniest secret agents the Resistance has—not that the woman in front of me has any idea about all of that.