Mathilda, SuperWitch (29 page)

“Yes, ‘Mathilda’ that’s me,” I told him.

His eyes widened, the big dweeb.

Oh hell
, I thought,
why not?

“You’re a scientist aren’t you? What do you do? Research?”

Martinis are like nipples…

“Er, no.”

“Development?”

One is not enough, three too many…

“No… no, I –”

“Oh wait, yes, I’ve heard about you. Yes, and, should I say, your wand worked very well. Congratulations. Very painful.” I turned to the man on the other side of me, incidentally, the Russian arms dealer. “That man, with his lovely intellect used it, not to find a cure for cancer, but instead to make a weapon shaped like a magical wand but instead it shoots lightning.” The arms dealer looked perhaps a bit too interested.

I turned back to the mad scientist. “You should be proud.”

His eyes got bigger.

“I was thinking the other day, I mean, you don’t mind suggestions do you?” I asked and didn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway,” I said, gesturing madly. “Next you should invent one that squirts acid. I think that would be an excellent idea.”

His face started to get red.

“Or, wait! How about fire? No, no… bolts of electricity are better than fire, more dramatic. You were smart to go with that. Don’t you think?” I asked, turning to the arms dealer.

He spluttered.

“What am I saying? Of course you do.”

I then leaned forward to the scientist and drunkenly stage-whispered, “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” (Hardly, since I’d just told everyone.) Then I gave him a big wink and pretended to zip and lock my lips and throw away the key, nearly hitting the dealer with my hand.

I turned to Addison. “Until, that is, the strand of what’s left of his hair that I got from his jacket gets into my caldron.”

Then I threw back my head and laughed as insanely as I could muster.

Which was pretty insanely, thank you very much.

Everyone was staring at me.

I didn’t care. Mainly because how dirty politicians, flesh peddlers and icky skanks felt about me wasn’t high on my priority list.

Then I asked a passing server, “Would it be possible if I could I have another martini?”

* * * * *

“Nicely done.”

I was alone, having my after-dinner coffee in the back courtyard and wondering if it would act as a magical elixir that would stop me from vomiting when Douglas Addison joined me.

“Mm. Senator Addison,” slightly slurring, “as a voting American citizen, may I just say that I’m alarmed at the company you keep.”

“Mathilda, my sweet girl, keep your friends close, and your enemies –”

“Closer. I know but those folks are just, well mostly… um…” At a loss for words I simply said, “Blech.”

“Indeed,” he agreed on a twitch of his lips.

“What’s your association with Agatha Darling?”

Might as well ask.

And anyway, I was shitfaced.

“She’s a friend,” he answered.

Right.

“
Do you know your
friend
kidnapped a young boy who is very close to me and when I found them, she electrocuted me?”

Okay, I know I was being blunt but why not? There may be a time to be diplomatic but alone, in a garden, after eating an elegant dinner with some of the dregs of society all wearing designer gear, in other words, proving the world was unfair, and getting blotto was not that time.

And anyway, I’d pulled out
The Chanel
.

For this.

What a disappointment.

I was surprised to see he looked genuinely appalled and maybe a little… could it be… angry?

“No, Mathilda, I didn’t know that.”

And you know what? I didn’t know whether or not to believe him.

* * * * *

Aidan took me home shortly after.

I fell asleep in the car.

Or, perhaps, passed out.

Toe-may-toes, toe-mah-toes.

I awoke just before we arrived and he walked me to the door of The Gables.

“I know I should probably apologize for making a spectacle of myself in front of your friends but I’ve got to tell you, your friends leave a lot to be desired.”

Maybe I was a tad bit upset because I hadn’t particularly enjoyed my second date with a doctor-slash-supernatural watcher-slash-possible future husband and father of my children and I was definitely still drunk.

I paused but before he could say anything I continued, “And, if you’re trying to woo me, it’s not a good idea to try doing it while flirting with a yucky, obvious, fake-tanned skank.”

Aidan laughed.

He laughed!

Bastard.

I sure can pick ‘em.

“They aren’t my friends and you’re jealous,” Aidan replied.

“If they aren’t your friends then why did you take me there?” I asked then added, “And I’m not jealous.”

“I took you there because, as The Chosen One, you’ll be moving in those circles and you were definitely jealous.”

“
I will never move in those circles and I… was… not… jealous. Not of that…” I curled a lip, “
thing
. A C-Lister whose next big career move is to be on
Celebrity Big Brother
.”

He smiled. “You shouldn’t be jealous. Amongst all the people there, you were far and away the most interesting. I think Doug felt the same way.”

Mm.

“
I don’t care what
Doug
thinks.
Doug
is a scary guy.”

Aidan smiled. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Right.

* * * * *

By the way, Aidan left after he gave me a kiss on the cheek.

A kiss on the cheek!

Um.

Whatever!

18 June

I was walking up Poet’s Walk after a morning shift at The Dozen. I’d passed the turn off to St. Andrew’s Church and the creepy-yet-cool-slash-older-than-time graveyard that surrounded it.

I ignored the dog walkers in their wellies who looked with horror at my high-heeled, cherry-colored go-aheads that click, clacked on the pavement as I walked by.

Lucy had done it again with a walnut and pear salad with bits of parmesan cheese shaved from hunks freshly chopped from that huge-assed parmesan wheel at the Italian deli on Hill Road.

How was I to compete?

I didn’t do salads.

As an update:

Ash, the Numero Uno Grudge Holder, was barely speaking to me.

Aidan had retreated, again.

No sign of Agatha.

No lightning bolts.

No kidnapping.

No new reasons to pull out
The Chanel
(or Versace or Halston, etcetera).

Everyone else was still working on intelligence, protection spells and what had become the hugely popular Witches Dozen Coffee House now that tourist season gripped the seaside.

I walked through the wood thinking of dried cranberries, rocket leaves and gorgonzola and nearly missed my turn off after the donkey’s pen into the private footpath to The Gables.

As I made it into the clearing by the greenhouse I saw, sitting on one of Mavis’s ornate wicker chairs, Althea, replete with what looked to be one of Gran’s famous mint juleps.

“The Chosen One!” she called, lifting her drink to me.

Ack!

“Anyone shoot at you today?” Althea asked as I approached.

“Not yet,” I answered.

And she cackled.

Crazy old coot.

“The day is young,” she said.

Great.

Not something you want to hear from someone who sees the future.

“Mint julep?” she asked.

I stopped, my cherry heels sinking into the damp lawn.

The sun was miraculously shining, my shift was done and I had to admit I would never create a salad that would compete with Lucy’s.

Further, I hadn’t yet had time (or the opportunity since she was mostly drunk) to chat with our loony guest.

What the hell.

“Sure.”

Another cackle then she poured me a mint julep.

I sat in the chair beside her, grabbed the drink that was teetering scarily in mid-air (held by her hand), kicked off my go-aheads and put my feet on the little wicker poof that had a yellow and white striped cushion on top.

“How’s it hangin’?” I asked Althea.

A slight chuckle came forth but no answer.

“How’re you finding it here at The Gables?”

She ignored me, closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sun.

“Enjoying your stay?”

Still nothing.

“Hear from Agatha lately?”

Silence.

“The gods? Goddesses? They talking to you?”

She didn’t even move.

“
Ring-a-ding ding,
hello, this is Hera, the end of the world is nigh
. Anything like that?”

Nothing.

“
Have you seen anything interesting, you know,
in your mind
?” I pressed.

She burped.

Then she spoke. “Mm, yes, a fool girl walking the footpaths in high-heeled shoes. You’ll wish you didn’t when your back goes out on you when you’re one hundred and five.”

Um, did she see my back go out when I was one hundred and five?

Was I glad that there was an opportunity, maybe, to get to one hundred and five?

I decided to let it go then I asked, “Would you like to go home?”

She opened her eyes and looked at me.

The she muttered, “Home… home, would I like to go home?”

She was so weird.

“Yes, home… you know, the sweet little cottage in the glade…” where you lure children to their deaths, “Nothing’s happened in awhile. Maybe you’re safe again there.”

“I am home, you stupid girl.”

I was getting a wee bit tired of the “stupid girl” comments.

“Sorry?”

“I’m always home.”

“Listen, Althea, we need to –”

Her face changed and she waved her hand across the distance between us and I fell silent.

But…

Not of my own accord.

Ack!

Holy Zipped Lips Batman!

No more drunken-and-weird-yet-somehow-benign Althea.

Definitely not benign.

“No, Mathilda, you listen to me.” Yowza, her voice was cold. “You leave me to my drink and my sun and my thoughts.”

And, right then, I had the terrible urge to get up and clatter away.

But it wasn’t my urge.

I even went so far as to put my hands on the chair arms to push myself up.

But I didn’t want to get up.

The bitch was trying to control me.

I struggled against her spell and, with some effort, I remained seated and waved my hand just as she did.

To my surprise, the spell fell away.

Now I was pissed.

“Althea, now’s the time for you to listen to me.”

She resolutely kept her face set and toward the sun.

That pissed me off more.

I snapped my fingers angrily, demanding her attention.

She didn’t move but she did say, “Go with the cranberry salad. But with goat’s cheese. Strong but not overpowering.”

What?

“Althea –”

Still with eyes closed, face tipped to the warmth of the sun, calm as you please, she spoke.

And this is what the crazy old bitch had to say, sounding sober as a judge:

“You are powerful. You’ve no idea what powers you command. You are not a storm, you are a hurricane. You are not a wave, you are a tsunami. You are not a wind, you are a tornado. You are dangerous because you are foolish, stupid, unprepared. You think you’re taking this seriously but you walk up the footpath in high-heeled shoes worried about lettuce leaves. You worry about which man’s seed will create your children. You will be the end of the witch world as we know it and you will be the end of your Spellbounds. The gods and goddesses themselves fear your foolhardiness.”

Ack!

Drama, anyone?

I think I preferred her drunk and slurring.

But, she wasn’t done.