Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(60)
We don’t have many options, but one of them is far better than any other.
I step back from the curtain, taking Tilda with me. I don’t mean to kiss her, but I can’t help myself. It’s not a nice kiss. It’s hard, desperate, and ends too fucking quick. This may be the last time I see her. It’s too soon. Hell, a million years from now would be too soon.
“I’ll slow them down.” I cup her face, memorizing every freckle on her nose as if I couldn’t draw them all from memory already. “You get out of here.”
She snorts and rolls her eyes. “I’m not leaving you.”
“I’ll meet you at the train,” I say, letting go of her before I can’t and forcing myself back to the curtain so I can time her escape.
“You didn’t hear me,” she says, her stubborn meter set to a million. “I’m not going without you.”
“Tilda, we don’t have time for this.” I check the view through the curtain one last time. The mercenaries are all focused on the crowd gathered by The Liber Umbrarum’s gallery. Only a few are stationed at this end of the museum. “The time to do this is now.”
“Finally, we agree.” She grabs my hand, intertwining her fingers with mine and holding on tight. “Guess we better go then.”
This woman. This frustratingly stubborn, sweet, determined woman. I’d love to argue, because it’s not that I think I’m right, I know I am. But I also know that this isn’t an argument I’m going to win. There’s a tilt to her chin I recognize from our not-so-by-accident dates, and I know her too well now to mistake her sweet face for belonging to a pushover. Tilda Sherwood is stronger than anyone realizes—sometimes I think even than she realizes—in ways that have nothing to do with magic.
And the mercenaries will turn their attention this way sooner rather than later.
“Fine.” I open the curtain, winding my arm around her waist as if we had been in the alcove fucking instead of avoiding getting caught. “Let’s go.”
We no more than get out into the wide hall where the walls are covered in portraits of some of the most influential witches throughout history when an entire cadre of goons comes from around the corner past the door leading out to the gardens and heads straight for us. The world slows down and I fall back into old habits from The Beyond, picking out the likely opponents, identifying weaknesses, and bracing to take more punishment than the other guy is willing to suffer, because that’s what it takes to win sometimes, being willing to endure the hurt.
I let go of Tilda’s hand and sidestep so I’m in front of her, set my feet, and force my muscles to relax so I can absorb whatever blows are coming and respond. Then, at the last moment, the guards swerve around us and head straight for The Liber Umbrarum’s gallery. Behind me, Tilda lets out a relieved sigh and lets her forehead relax against my back. Her soft breath tickles the back of my neck.
“I thought it was all over there.”
“Which is exactly why you should have listened to me,” I say, taking her hand and starting toward the doors to the formal gardens.
She shoots me an annoyed glare at the same time as we hurry down the hall crowded with witches watching the goings on with equal parts glee and horror. “I don’t abandon the people I care about.”
“You care about me, huh?” Not that her declaration makes my steps all that much lighter, but it totally does.
A quiet chuckle escapes as she straightens her glasses. “Do you really think this is the time and place for that conversation?”
I grin at her. “Excellent point.”
We hustle as fast as possible through the throngs of witches staring agog at the paid mercenaries, who look like they’re going to floss with the bones of whoever had the audacity to steal The Liber Umbrarum. Yeah, there is no way I am going to let Tilda be anywhere near these goons when they figure out the thieves aren’t in the gallery anymore, which is why we are approaching the doors leading out to the formal gardens.
The cool fall air hits me like a blast of air-conditioning after a July afternoon spent cutting the grass on a five-acre plot with a push mower. It smells like freedom, but I’m not gonna stop and enjoy it, not while Tilda is still in danger.
“Just act like nothing is happening,” I say as we head toward the back gate where, with any luck, Eli and Birdie, alerted that everything has gone sideways by the alarm, will still be with our getaway motorcycle. “We’re just another couple checking out these beautiful gardens on a clear fall evening.”
Side by side, we quick-walk down the path toward the gate while pretending to admire the gardenias, the mums just starting to bloom, and the boxwoods trimmed into tight, compact squares even as adrenaline rushes through me. I’m on hyperalert for any sign of danger. Well, any sign of additional danger.
Ten steps to the gate and my sense of dread starts to abate.
Eight steps and Tilda grins at me. We just might carry this off.
Six steps and the alarm goes silent. Tilda’s hand tightens on mine.
Four steps. “Hey, you,” someone shouts from behind us.
Two steps, and without having to say anything, we pick up our speed.
The gate bursts open, revealing Eli and Birdie standing next to a motorcycle with a sidecar. He’s got The Liber Umbrarum strapped to his chest, wrapped up in oil paper and secured with a mix of magic and duct tape. They’re holding hands, and Birdie is murmuring a cloaking spell. The air around them sparks with light but fizzles out within seconds, punctuated by Birdie’s sneezes, one right after the other in quick succession that snaps the spell.