Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(30)
And yet, here I am putting ten bucks into the stupid pickle jar and doing my best to ignore the that’s-what-I-thought look of triumph on Birdie’s face.
“I have no idea where she is.” She hugs the glass jar tight to her chest as Eli joins us. “Honestly, I was kind of hoping she was with you stuck in a cabin with only one bed because the roads were washed out.”
“And he has to chop wood in a Henley,” Eli says, rubbing the enormous slab of concrete he called a hand across her upper back in that easy way people do when they are used to comforting each other. “Wait, no, shirtless—while she watches from the window.”
“You two read too many romance novels.” Or smoke too many dandelion pipes, but I wasn’t going to judge about that.
Birdie lifts one shoulder and rolls it back in a dismissive gesture. “Which is why we’re happy.”
“And also why we refuse to give in to the ridiculous societal expectations of being who Witchingdom wants us to be instead of who we are.” Eli raises his fist, knocking his knuckles against the gazebo’s rafters and wincing, but covering it by continuing, “Fly the freak flag.”
Birdie nods. “Proudly like in a parade.”
All of that is a lot to process, and my brain, quite frankly, doesn’t know what bit to go with first, so I pivot back to why I’m here in the first place.
“Tilda,” I practically shout her name. “Neither of you know where she is?”
“You’re serious.” Birdie gulps and starts fidgeting with the pickle jar lid. “You don’t know where she is either?”
My frustration peaks. Have I been talking in troll? It takes everything I have and my left eyelid is definitely twitching, but I manage to get out an answer without casting a begone annoyance spell on either of them. “No.”
Birdie and Eli exchange a look that says a million and a half things in 2.3 seconds.
“We need to find her,” Birdie says as Eli hustles over to another person at the table and tells them that they’ve gotta blast.
“I’m coming with you,” my mouth says even as my brain is telling me I’ve done more than enough for someone who shouldn’t—doesn’t—mean anything to me.
Yeah, keep saying the words that sure don’t seem to mean what you think they do.
Shoving that know-it-all inner asshole of mine into the corner, I get into the back seat of Eli’s land yacht of an ancient model car. The door’s shut and I’m buckled in before either of them can say anything about it. Eli makes eye contact in his rearview mirror and opens his mouth, but I intensify my snarl. He shrugs and starts the engine. Birdie peppers me with questions that I only half listen to and barely answer on the drive to the Sherwood compound.
The Sherwood house sits on the highest hill in the exclusive Charmstone neighborhood. It’s a rich shade of blue that’s nearly purple with black shutters and a gray stone path inscribed with runes to eviscerate those who mean to do the inhabitants harm. Like most witches’ houses, it’s small on the outside, looking as if it has barely enough space for a galley kitchen, a small living room, one bedroom that might have a double bed and a dresser if there’s space, and a single bathroom without a tub. In reality, as soon as a person crosses the threshold into a witch’s home, it is always the size the owner wants with as many rooms as they want and with the layout they want.
Being magical does have its benefits.
I’d made my appearance in a body walk the other night but had never put a foot across the property line. Standing on the sidewalk on the public side of the black picket fence lining the front yard, I hesitate. Unease creeps up my spine with all the delicacy of a rhinoceros in the middle of a roid rage meltdown doing an Irish step dance routine in six-inch heels.
“Change your mind?” Birdie asks.
“No.” Because it isn’t like I’m using my brain right now. This is all gut feeling, intuition, and the fuckery that is the spell I cast on myself using my family’s magic.
“Then let’s go,” Eli says, heading toward the house with his unique loping gait. “It’s not like Tilda to flip on silent mode.”
This is true. Even during our dates, when she was doing her best to glare a hole into my chest right where my heart is, she talked—about the latest social media trends, the fact that her nickname for me is Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dickly (that one made me laugh, which I’d had to cover with a coughing fit), or her absolute unfettered and nearly orgasmic love of eye of newt muffins. Something is wrong. Tilda is in trouble and she needs help, I can feel it all the way down to the second joint in my big toe, the one that flares and itches before a big storm or looming disaster.
I take a last look at the warning etched in Latin onto the first flat gray stone. It translates roughly to “here there be dragons.” If it’s metaphorical then the entire Witchingdom has misjudged Izzy Sherwood’s unspoken promise to bring down the full strength of her power on anyone who fucks with her family.
This is when a normal witch, a smart witch, a witch who hasn’t cursed himself with old-school desire magic, would walk away.
Of course that means I stride forward, bracing for an incoming blast of fire shooting upward aimed straight at my nuts.
The possibility of future children doesn’t go up in flames before I reach the front porch, and I let out a sigh of relief. Birdie is already clanging the iron dragon door knocker’s top and bottom jaws together. We all wait as a melodic roar sounds on the other side of the door.