Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(40)
The solution, obviously, is to run a contest on WitchyGram—but that doesn’t mean I’m not getting some questionable looks from Eli, Birdie, and Gil as we all sit on the brick patio looking out on Mom’s herb garden under the midnight full moon. Eli is walking through the garden checking out all of the plants my mom has nurtured into an organic who’s who of witchery herbs. Birdie is pouring tea for everyone in between rescheduling her tax-prep appointments so she can take off work for the heist. And Gil? He’s just standing under the patio’s awning, his arms crossed, and his usual surly expression on his face.
I don’t get it. The man either looks at me like he hates me or wants to kiss me or both, and it’s got me more bubbly inside than a cauldron on a night when there’s a full blue moon. His gaze catches mine and my internal meter goes from “he’s a self-righteous jerk even if he’s helping” to “fates alive, how do I get him naked” in 0.3 seconds. It’s awkward but manageable—unless we’re touching. Then it’s like all the attraction short-circuiting my brain gets a shot of nitro—horny, gotta-touch, please-kiss-me nitro.
Even now, without us touching, my cheeks are flushed and my pulse is hammering as I jerk my attention back to the table and the matter at hand.
Yeah, you know, saving your family.
Priorities, Tilda. Priorities.
Birdie pours me a cup of elderberry tea from the porcelain teapot shaped like a black cat. “Are you sure this will work?”
“When it comes to how to get people to react on social media?” I take a sip of the tart, earthy tea and pause for a second to savor it before answering. “It is my job and I am good at it. I can’t do magic, but I’m pretty great at getting things to go viral.”
“So what’s the plan?” Eli asks as he inspects the purple coneflower growing along the edges of the patio, the lavender flowers and purply-brown spiky centers, which my mom would dry out and crumble into the cauldron to increase the power of her spells.
I set down my cup and take out my version of a magic wand—my cell phone. “Well, we can’t exactly buy up all the juniper berries in Wrightsville to take up with us in exchange for the tickets.”
“Yeah.” Birdie nods her head. “That would definitely get people talking and wondering and headed over here to talk to your mom.”
“So we make it a viral challenge to build a statue from juniper berries that they magic onto our front yard by midnight.” My fingers fly across the virtual keyboard as I craft the perfect copy to get everyone talking. “The most fabulous statue as decided by a panel of judges who just happen to be sitting at this table wins.” Text perfected, I aim my phone at the tall, blue juniper trees flanking the path from the patio to the moon circle at the far end of the garden. “We get all of the juniper from the entries, and the winner gets to spend the next full moon herb harvest in my mom’s herb garden gathering what they need for the next lunar cycle.”
A little photo manipulation of the nonmagical variety, and I have a graphic, a message, and a winning plan just waiting for me to hit post to set it in motion.
“This garden is legendary.” Jaw agape, Birdie glances around at the pokeweed, several varieties of vervains (all varieties of which weaken vampires), and nightshades that aid in flying and act as a poison, as well as silverweeds, garden parsley, wolfsbane, and smallage, which is key to preventing cramps while flying long distances. Then she turns to me, a huge grin on her face. “That’s brilliant.”
I mean, I’m not going to say it is, but yeah, for once, it feels really good to contribute instead of just watching from the sidelines.
“Hard agree,” Gil says, his voice all grumbly.
Pleasure floods my system at the praise, and I accidentally hit post before I get a chance to give my text a second read. By the time I finish giving it a quick read to see if I need to delete, fix, and repost, Gil’s disappeared inside, which is for the best. He’s the king of mixed messages, and I have a whole family to defrost, so the less I think about him the better.
Of course, he is all I think about for the rest of the night alone in my bedroom. I mean, sure, I have dream after dream about the heist, but he’s there for each one. In one, Gil and I are dancing across the ballroom to cause a diversion just like a scene out of Dimond Eight when a band of badass witches steals a priceless tiara during an art museum heist. In another, we’re hiding out in a hotel hallway when the bad guys come by and we have to pretend to drunkenly make out so they pass us by. Then there is the dream that definitely is not part of a heist movie, because there is no way anyone would green-light a movie where the plot centered around bluffing our way into an orgy and . . . Let’s just say I woke up out of breath but amazingly refreshed and relaxed after that one.
Still, a bad witch’s work is never done, so I hustle on down to the kitchen before anyone else wakes up to start the first kettle of the day. I’m standing there in my sleep shorts and a tank top that’s seen better days, filling up the kettle at the sink when I look out the window and see our front lawn is thick with statues made from juniper berries. There are brooms, witches around cauldrons, dragons curled around eggs made of juniper berries that have been enchanted to glow, pointed hats the size of large dogs, and more.
“It worked,” I say to the empty room.
“Of course it did,” Gil says.