Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(55)

I jolt up into a sitting position, the pillow falling into my lap.

Love?

No.

It’s just the duíl magic, and now that’s all taken care of, right? At least that’s how it should work if desire was all there is to it. But it doesn’t feel like last night ended anything. I mean, yeah, I know there’s something extra mixed in there—probably because of her spellbinder magic—but it can’t be love.

Love isn’t magic, it’s more terrifyingly powerful. It can’t be controlled. It can’t be fooled. It can’t be outwitted. Love just is what it is, and there isn’t a damn thing anyone can do about it.

I fall back and smother myself with Tilda’s pillow again, but that only gives me another hint of her scent, and I’m up and out of the bed, pulling on my clothes, and heading to the lounge car before I even realize where I’m going. Of course, I’m going to find her.

Where else in the world would I be if not with her?

I find Tilda—and everyone else—in the lounge car. Instead of the sweater and jeans she was in last night, she wears a pair of black leggings, an oversized hoodie, and a pair of woolly socks. She looks like she’d be perfectly at home in my rented house bingeing old movies on the couch, tucked up beside me as a fire crackled in the hearth. Not surprisingly, she seemed equally good standing in front of a hand-drawn replica of the Marie Laveau Museum in Salem, guiding everyone through their parts of the heist one last time. Tilda may not realize it, but she’s in her element, heading up a team of people, leading a mission, and getting everyone on the same page. It is a gift that has nothing to do with magical ability or her last name and everything to do with the kind of person she is.

“Look who decided to show up,” Vance says from his spot in the corner, where he’s flipping through an issue of Magical Mayhem.

“Good morning to you too.” I swipe a chocolate croissant from the tray of pastries on the table where I swear the tarot cards had been last night. My attention swings over to Birdie and Eli sitting together in an oversized yellow leather chair at the front of the room and give them a nod before turning my attention to Tilda. “Hi.”

Her cheeks are flaming red, but her smile is anything but embarrassed. “Morning.” She pushes her glasses a little higher up her nose and clears her throat. “So, as I was saying, Gil and I will provide the distraction while you two grab The Liber Umbrarum.”

“Easy peasy,” Eli mutters.

Birdie delivers a very unsubtle glare and elbow to his side.

“Well, this will help with that.” Tilda picks up a brightly painted soapstone jar from the bar, slips free the hook holding it closed, and pulls out two small, round snuffboxes and hands one each to Birdie and Eli. “It’s the agaric mushroom powder.”

They both accept the boxes like Tilda is handing them live grenades. I can’t blame them, no matter what Griselda said when she sent us out into the woods; something known as a death cap mushroom shouldn’t be taken lightly.

Birdie takes a closer look at the snuffbox and seems to satisfy herself that the latch isn’t going to pop open unexpectedly. “So we just take a pinch and toss it in the guards’ faces?”

Tilda nods. “Yep.”

“What happens if we inhale it?” Eli asks, a worried edge making the big man’s tone sharp.

“Same thing as anyone else,” Tilda says, calm as ever. “You’ll become very pliant and relaxed.”

Eli doesn’t look convinced.

“Just hold your breath when you dose the guards and you’ll be fine,” Vance says. “You’d have to face-plant in it to actually die from it.”

“Oh great,” Eli says. “Very reassuring.”

Vance curls his lips in what is maybe supposed to be a smile, but I highly doubt it.

“I’m a little ray of fucking sunshine,” he says.

“Birdie,” Tilda says, a little louder than necessary—no doubt trying to head off the giant witch and unicorn shifter from escalating, “you’re going to pick Erik Svensen’s pocket for the key to the case’s analog lock.”

The other woman nods and she plucks the round snuffbox from Eli’s grasp and sets it down next to hers on a side table. “What makes you think he’ll have the key?”

“From what Leona says,”—Tilda rolls up the sketch she’d made of the museum and pops it into the umbrella holder by the door—“he’s the typical oldest son control freak who thinks he’s the fates’ gift to Witchingdom.”

“So you figure there’s no way someone like that will trust anyone else with the key?” I ask.

Tilda smiles at me. “Exactly.”

That smile. It is all for me and I want more of it. The need to see it again and again and again is a gut punch. It’s all I can do not to stride across the room, toss her over my shoulder, and take her back to my room. My cock thickens against my thigh and I’m two steps forward before I catch myself.

Not the time.

Not the place.

And I’m probably not the guy, but damn I wish I was.

Her cheeks a delicious shade of pink, Tilda continues. “Then you two will dose the guards protecting The Liber Umbrarum and grab the spell book. Gil and I will leave a change of clothes for you in this alcove near the entrance to the English gardens. You’ll swap gala formal wear for dark green overalls that match the gardeners’ uniforms and leave through the French doors. Follow this path to the back gate. There will be a motorcycle and sidecar waiting for you.” She looks over at Vance. “You’re sure your contacts can get that for you?”