Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(34)
She turns back toward her ice-encased mom. “Sorry, but we’re gonna go with it,” Tilda says, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “I promise, no social media pics, Mom.”
I swear Mama Sherwood’s fingers twitch just the tiniest bit at that.
It sets my Council alert siren off too. I know my place is dirty with the Council’s bewitched listening devices disguised as candlesticks or mantle clocks or other household items. It would make sense that they’d do the same thing with the Sherwood house if they could. The house is thick with protective runes, but those lost potency when Izzy Sherwood stopped being able to act as a power generator. To put it simply, all of the runes are running on emergency power reserves and those will tap out within the next forty-eight hours. We don’t have time to waste.
“We need to form a circle,” I say, walking toward the cauldron hanging in the large, brick, cooking fireplace that fits between the stainless steel Sub-Zero fridge and the restaurant-quality commercial stove.
Tilda blinks back some tears pooling on the edges of her eyelids as she turns her back on her mom and levels a hard look my way. “Why?”
“We need a protective dome,” I say, each word coming out cramped and terse.
Did I use my no-shit-Sherlock tone? Yeah. Did it replace the fuck-my-mom’s-frozen look on Tilda’s face with a rush of annoyed fire that has her straightening her spine and looking like she’s thinking about whacking me upside the head with the cast-iron skillet on the stove? Pretty much.
Gotta love it when a plan comes together.
She plants her hands on her hips and glares at me. “Aren’t you being a little paranoid?”
I don’t mean to snort in disbelief, but it just comes out. Is this woman for real? “Does your family have enemies?”
Her gaze flicks to the ground before she brings it back to me, her defiance wavering. “A few.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Fine.” She sighs. “There are people on the Committee who would love to see Mom kicked off.”
“And if they found out she was frozen?”
Tilda’s jaw is tight and she looks like she can’t decide if she wants to defrost the frozen rooster to come peck my eyes out or stubbornly refuse to admit I’m right, but in the end, she lets out a huff of ugh-do-I-really-have-to-agree-with-this-asshole and says, “They’d definitely use that to their advantage.”
I shrug. There’s really only one logical solution here. “So a dome.”
Eli and Birdie hold hands and reach out their free hands toward me. Physical touch isn’t just an extra for witches working strong magic, it’s a must. Tilda, however, keeps her hands at her sides and her shoulders drop. The urge to reach out, tangle my fingers with hers, pull her tight against me, and feel her relax against my side is nearly overwhelming—but I can’t. What happened in the library is proof that the power she has is so untrained and so deep that she can’t guide it. Not yet.
I take Birdie’s and Eli’s hands as Tilda wraps her arms around her middle and stares down at the stone floor. Around the three of us, the air starts to scent as our magic perks up. My salt mixes with the fragrance of honey and warm cinnamon sugar as the spell begins to vibrate through me—a hint, then an idea, then a thought, then the words to form the incantation.
“Protegat nos in praesidium.”
A line of bright white magic comes down from the wood beams in the ceiling, reaching outward and encompassing the width of the entire house before lowering in a protective shell over it that lands with a soft thud.
“Okay, what now?” Birdie asks me as she takes a step closer to Eli, the curls at the top of her head not even reaching the man’s chin.
“Now we figure out how to avoid detection from a squad of half-rabid guard gargoyles, disarm a security system designed by the queen’s coven leader, and disappear with a book the size of a Monopoly board all while the elite of Witchingdom watch each other for any hint of something worth gossiping about.”
The corners of Tilda’s lips curl up into a grin. “Oh, so just a little light thievery?”
“Exactly,” I say, matching her is-that-all expression. “You’ll be our ticket in since you know the family.”
Her blue eyes widen behind her big round glasses. “They hate us.”
“True, but they’ll love being able to rub the Sherwood noses in the fact that they own a piece of greatness your mom can never get her hands on.” It is the way of Witchingdom—every witch for themselves, always trying to one-up each other, and loyalty to none.
“Buuuuuuuuut,” Birdie says, dragging out the word as she looks around at what is admittedly a pretty ragtag group, “our magical skills are a little lacking.”
Eli scoffs. “That’s putting it mildly.”
She jabs him in the side with a sharp elbow. “I’m trying not to be an asshole here, Eli.”
“I know I’m a null, Birdie.” Tilda offers up a self-deprecating chuckle that makes me wonder how often she does that. “It’s okay to say I won’t be any help.”
I crack my knuckles, already seeing an operational plan come together in my head. “That’s where you couldn’t be more wrong.”
Tilda doesn’t say anything. She just snorts in disbelief.
“Well, since no one will be able to access their magic while in the museum,” I remind everyone, going into snooty-professor mode, “the fact that all three of you know how to function without it will be our greatest advantage.”