Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(32)
“Ventus calidus, portum tutum.” Gil’s voice booms in the room.
For half a heartbeat there’s nothing, and then all I can smell is the ocean as a steamy breeze stirs the tips of my hair. It builds in strength and heat until my hair is flying around my head like the papers on the desk are around Effie, whirling and turning and dancing on that hot, humid, salty air.
At the same time, something, somehow is tugging me, pulling at my shirt, coaxing me to take a step and another and another until I’m pressed against Gil, molded to him. His hand comes down, curling around my waist, holding me close. An electric sizzle fills the air and suddenly the soft island wind in the middle of our family library becomes a hurricane. Lightning flashes. Thunder crashes. Books go flying off the shelves and slam into the furniture.
It isn’t just warm anymore. It’s so humid it’s hard to breathe. The heat blazes like an invisible fire and I’m immediately drenched in sweat and gasping for relief. Another hot gust blasts through the room, and the three-foot-high framed oil painting of Azmerelda Sherwood goes sailing through the air. I barely have time to register that it’s coming straight for me when Gil shoves me away from him and I tumble to the floor under the large oak desk.
“Consummavi,” Gil roars against the deadly wind whipping through the room.
And just like that, the gale and overwhelming heat are gone, leaving only the smell of buttery popcorn and salt behind.
Eli, Birdie, and I look as bad as we each obviously feel. Gil seems to be his usual snarly self with the addition of humidity-caused curls in his brown hair. Effie, however, is as frozen as she ever was, standing behind the desk, the book in her hands, and her eyes wide with fear. There isn’t even a drop of melted ice around her toes.
It’s all I can do not to fall onto the floor—again—and cry—again—knowing that I’ve really fucked things up—again.
“What was that?” Birdie asks as she tries to finger comb the rat’s nest of knots her hair has turned into thanks to whatever the fuck that was.
Gil cuts an are-you-going-to-tell-them glance at me as if I’ve got a fucking clue.
When he realizes I’ve got nothing, he lets out a string of not-even-a-little-bit-muffled swear words that would have made Griselda blush, then he looks at the rest of us and lets out a resigned sigh. “We’re gonna need a bigger spell.”
“Scintillam ignis?” Birdie asks.
Gil shakes his head.
“Ignis tempestas?”
He waves off the ideas of a spark spell or a firestorm. “We need a novis spell.”
Eli, Birdie, and I break out in giggles. Is that appropriate at a time like this? Absolutely not, but when you’ve broken your entire world so completely that there aren’t even any pieces left to pick up, your brain gets a little goofy. All that fear and panic and dread have to go somewhere, and instead of uncontrollable weeping this time, it’s a giggle fit that has me snorting like a goose by the end. The whole idea of a novis spell, when no one has been able to find a spell that actually does what it promises, is just that fucking funny.
There have been about a dozen documented instances of witches trying to cast novis spells, but what actually happens is disaster. People end up with extra ears or dogs start talking or suddenly there’s an eclipse or a natural disaster. They really are all talk and no magic—at least not the successful kind.
“Yeah,” I manage to get out between chuckles, “and if reverse magic actually worked, then that would be a plausible solution.”
Gil glares again but with more annoyance. Who knew the man had any left in the tank?
“It does work, and there is a spell to reverse a curse,” he all but growls. “The Liber Umbrarum has a novis spell.”
Birdie, Eli, and I are rolling on the ground now. I’m laughing so hard my sides ache. I can’t catch my breath. I’ve got tears streaming down my face and they’re actually not from being a mix of sad and mad at the same time. Oh. My. Fates. Who knew that Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dickly had it in him to be so funny.
Gil, however, isn’t laughing. He’s not even smirking.
The man is serious.
My sister Juniper is the family expert on rare and underutilized magic. She’s always sworn there is more out there than we realize. Spells and monsters and fabulous adventures just waiting to be had. Of course, she also cheats at Scrabble and organizes her lipsticks according to name instead of shade, so one does have to take her words with a smidge of doubt.
But if she is right, then there is a way out of this.
For the first time since I touched Effie, I have the smallest ember of hope glowing. “And you just happen to have a copy of the unbelievably rare Book of Shadows in your back pocket?”
Gil shakes his head. “But I know where one is, and we just have to go get it.”
“We?” My brain does that whole jolting-to-a-stop thing.
We? I check his pupils for dilation and his nose for pink splotches, the telltale signs of someone who’s hit the dandelion pipe hard. I glance over at Eli and Birdie, who are wearing matching skeptical expressions.
He lifts his chin and looks down his prominent nose at us. “You can’t do this without me.”
I open my mouth to argue and then reality rears its pain-in-the-ass head.
Ugh.
I hate that he’s right, but he is. I’m a null, Birdie’s allergic to her own magic, and Eli gets his spell-casting wires crossed somewhere between his brain and his mouth. But Gil? I can feel the magic practically vibrating around him. The air shimmers when he moves, and I can’t help but hold my breath in anticipation of something different, new, unlike the magic of anyone else I know. I have no clue what kind of inherited power runs through his family, but it’s gotta be extraordinary considering the fact that even as an outré I can feel it.