Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(67)
What can I say to that? It’s the truth. Shame burns a hole in my gut.
“I don’t think Griselda believed I’d figure it out.” I mean, it’s not like people go around expecting to run into a spellbinder. Even among researchers like me, it’s more theory than reality. “And when I did, the Resistance had already rescued my parents from The Beyond and—to keep them safe—stashed them somewhere the Council couldn’t find them. And neither could I.”
“That’s blackmail!” Tilda’s jaw drops and she shoots up from the chair, wrapping her arms around me in a fierce hug. “How could they?”
Before Tilda, I would have said they could because of greed or malice or just plain old evil intent, but now I understand better. “Sometimes we do the wrong thing to protect the people we love. Griselda, your family, they just want to keep you safe.”
“I know that, but fates alive, I really wish people would realize that I should have a part in all of this.” She throws her arms up in the air with frustration and starts pacing in front of the window again. “That them bypassing me in these decisions in the name of protecting me is just bullshit.” She whirls around, a fierce determination emanating off her that screams “don’t fuck with me I’m a Sherwood.” “I swear, if I didn’t love them so much, I’d let them stay on ice for another couple of years for this.”
“Really?” I scoff.
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “I wouldn’t do that, but I’m still mad. As soon as we get The Liber Umbrarum home, I’m going to melt them down, and then you can let them know exactly what I think about this whole keep-Tilda-in-the-dark security plan.” She pauses, shaking her head as if she doesn’t even believe all of the venting she is doing. “I’ll do it right after I get done hugging them and apologizing about a million times for freezing them.”
Yeah, that part sounded exactly like the Tilda Sherwood I know and love.
I glance over at the clock. We are only a few hours away, outside of the window of being able to use a transport spell to poof from the train to the Sherwood house without a miracle. Even in the best of circumstances though, that spell doesn’t come without serious risks. Witches have been known to arrive at their destination with fingers on the wrong hand or a nose where their ear should be. Tilda’s spellbinder magic wouldn’t help avoid any of that.
“You start planning what you want to say, and I’ll take care of securing The Liber Umbrarum until we get to Wrightsville.” I glance out the window, the survival skills I’d learned to listen to in The Beyond starting to itch.
“What?” She lets out a melodramatic gasp and presses her hand to her chest. “You think one of us is going to abscond with it and sell it to the highest bidder for fabulous riches and infamy, or is that your plan?”
My whole body goes cold. She’s joking, logically I know this, but still, it’s exactly how it works with the Council. Like any great narcissist, the organization is all about projecting their bad deeds or nefarious plans onto others. Surviving them means always being on the lookout for what they’re plotting next.
Tilda cocks her head and laughs. “If you could only see your face right now. I’m kidding. Jeesh.”
“Sorry,” I say, “old habits.”
She looks up at me in confusion.
But, before I can explain, the entire train jerks to a stop, throwing us forward. Acting on instinct to protect Tilda no matter what, I magic The Liber Umbrarum to my chest and grab her, pulling her close so that the spell book acts as a kind of bumper for her as I turn my body so that when I slam into the wall, I absorb most of the tooth-rattling blow.
She skims her hands over me, her face squished up with concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m good.” As long as Tilda’s okay, my aches don’t really matter. “I’m gonna go see what’s going on. You stay here. Eli and Birdie will come looking to you for answers.”
I’m halfway through the caboose on my way to the platform so I can get a good look at things, when I realize I still have The Liber Umbrarum glued with magic to my chest like a shield. There’s not enough time to undo the spell before I burst out onto the platform and climb the railing to get a better look. There’s a yellow-tinted protective dome spreading outward to cover the train, and standing underneath the middle of it, on top of the lounge car, is Erik Svensen—and he’s not the only one there.
I can’t see the Council agents, but I can feel their presence like the shiver that goes up your spine in the dark when you know you aren’t alone. It’s a skill you develop in The Beyond, a sort of sixth sense that becomes instinctual. They’re watching and waiting, willing to just observe until they can make their move.
Icy realization freezes me. I did this. I failed Tilda and brought the Council right to her. There’s no way the show of power at the museum would go undocumented by the Council’s spectrometers, and now they’ll do whatever it takes to force her to their side or destroy her.
I can’t protect Tilda from this on my own. Even though it goes against every survival lesson I learned in The Beyond, I have to go get help—and not just any help, I need the Sherwoods.
As the protective dome covers the train, coming toward me like lava pouring down a volcano, there’s no time to say anything to Tilda or weigh the odds of actually getting to the house in one piece with all the parts where they’re supposed to be. Not that the last bit matters. When it comes to saving Tilda, I’ll do whatever it takes.