Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(68)

It’s not until I’m airborne and about to make the magical jump to the Sherwood house that I spot her in the window of the sleeping car. It’s too late to stop the transport spell, though, and I’m gone in the next breath, the look of betrayal on Tilda’s face etched into my brain forever.





Chapter Thirty-One


    Tilda . . .



Standing there by myself in Gil’s room as the train starts chugging down the tracks again, I can’t move. The betrayal cuts me like a rusty blade. I am alone and everything hurts.

No, that’s not good enough.

It doesn’t just hurt, it aches, burns, screams in agony.

He left. Gil Connolly just took The Liber Umbrarum and poofed out of here without a goodbye, an explanation, or anything else. And while some people would take the opportunity of the crash, boom, BANG of this disaster to dis-the-fuck-appear, I am not that person. I’m a Sherwood and that means something.

So without second-guessing what needs to be done, I head toward the gangplank leading to the lounge car as the train continues to speed down the tracks, swaying and rumbling under my feet, on its way to Wrightsville. I make it as far as the doorway leading into the car before I freeze.

This isn’t just bad, it’s a fucking disaster.

Eli and Birdie are in the corner by the tarot cards. Vance is duct-taped to a chair, his chin touching his chest, his jaw slack with unconsciousness, but he’s still breathing. The amount of sheer muscle it must have taken to knock out a unicorn shifter is a lot. They aren’t immortal beings without having learned a few million tricks of the bare-knuckles brawling trade, subterfuge, and general badassery.

As soon as I walk in, Birdie rushes forward but doesn’t get more than two steps from the table before slamming to a stop, her feet locked in place by what has to be some kind of containment spell. For his part, Eli looks like he’s about to eat the gizzards of whoever has the audacity to do this to Birdie.

That person is none other than Erik Svensen. He is, surprisingly, by himself without a goon-sized magical minion in sight.

“I assume you know why I’m here,” Erik says, his shoulders slumped as if he was the one being held hostage as opposed to being the one holding all of the magical power. “Hand over The Liber Umbrarum.”

“I don’t have it.” And for some unknown reason, I don’t immediately give up Gil Connolly as the one in possession of the world’s most powerful spell book.

Why?

Because, it seems, I’m a fucking sucker right to the end.

“Please do not make me do this the hard way.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a tired sigh. “Come on, Tilda,” he pleads, “be smart about it. You can’t win.”

Fuck that. I’ve had it.

Yeah, Gil was probably lying about me being a spellbinder, but I can’t shake the idea that maybe he wasn’t. Maybe part of it is because there’s a good percentage of my heart—like all of it—that wants to believe the man I love isn’t completely full of shit, but it’s more than that too. What happened between Gil and I at the coffee shop. The dragon’s blood tree’s obsession with me. The fact that I was able to kiss Gil when he was body walking, which is pretty close to—but not totally—impossible. The glitch that froze my family. The blast of energy when we escaped the museum. All of it would make sense if I am a spellbinder.

The chance that I’m a spellbinder is small—there’s only one every three to four generations according to The Liber Umbrarum—but it’s not zero.

Anyway, what have we got to lose by trying to juice a spell and seeing if me being a spellbinder is not a total fucking lie?

Gil will still have dipped out with the most powerful spell book in all of the Witchingdom.

Vance will still be unconscious and strapped to a chair.

Erik will still be staring at us as if he can’t decide whether to thunk us upside the head or forget he ever tracked us down in the first place.

And I’ll still be me—weird, doesn’t-fit-in Tilda Sherwood, who is lucky enough to have two of the best friends in the world. They risked it all for me. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do everything in my maybe power to get them out of the mess I made.

“Birdie. Eli,” I whisper, “start the freedom spell.”

“Are you serious?” Erik scoffs, because obviously whispering is not one of my super skills. “You three are going to overpower my spell, two magical misfits and an outré.” He narrows his eyes and tries to look all badass, but there’s no missing the pity in them. “Look, I just want the book. I have no interest in hurting any of you. However, if I don’t get The Liber Umbrarum back before my dad or the Council realizes that you have it, even The Beyond won’t be a safe enough place to hide from them.”

He starts to pace in front of Vance, who is still passed out, and opens up a small communications portal that is situated so that neither we nor the unicorn shifter can be seen. “I told you I’m on it, Dad,” Erik says on the other end.

Eli, Birdie, and I huddle together as Erik and his dad go from general check-in to micromanaging of how exactly to get the spell book back.

“You guys,” I say, hoping my whisper won’t be overheard since it sounds like Erik is arguing with his dad, “we’ve gotten this far, we can do this.”