Mathilda, SuperWitch (31 page)

I did a lot of pacing.

I searched through Ash’s flat looking for an address book or contact list.

Zilch.

I did more pacing.

I took a bath, dressed my scrapes and scratches with antibiotic ointment and I paced some more.

There was nothing else to do but build the princess fortress, climb in and hope.

* * * * *

This is what happened:

The Dozen had been crazed since the review came out. We were up to six-woman shifts and still everyone was working over their scheduled hours.

Mavis was in Seventh Heaven.

With all the practice, Pandora seemed to be conquering Big Red and offering up rather tasty cappuccinos.

Some woman approached Lucy and me about writing a “War of the Wooden Spoons” cookbook.

It was fantastic.

I had felt very retro that morning so I put on a raspberry-colored, halter-top sundress with a thin lime-green belt and lime green slingbacks with a peek-a-boo rounded toe and tapered heel. The piece de resistance was the raspberry, orange and lime-colored polka-dot bow on the toe.

Fab-you-las.

I was standing at the counter, piping a shitload of chocolate buttercream frosting into a newly fried donut (my latest addition to the menu and regardless of the 950,000 calories, selling like hotcakes). I was about to dump it into the enormous bowl of powdered sugar before selling it, fresh, to the waiting blue-haired lady who was staring at it, drooling.

Then it came on me.

A premonition.

Hole-ee crap.

Shades of Cordelia in
Angel
, there was a pain in my head so intense, I dropped the donut into the bowl of powdered sugar and with a soft
poof
the powdered sugar exploded in a tiny, white cloud all over the counter. Out-of-control, I squeezed the pastry bag filled with buttercream chocolate sending a stream of frosting halfway across the coffee house. I stumbled backwards, clutching at my head, wincing and whimpering as I crashed into the mugs and cups behind me.

Ash…

And.

Aidan…

In trouble.

Not the normal kind of trouble, which was caused by me.

New trouble.

Bad trouble.

Deadly
trouble.

* * * * *

The Dozen was in an uproar.

People slipping and sliding across chocolate frosting.

The blue-hair cracking the handle of her umbrella (carried even though there was no sign of rain) against the counter snapping, “My donut! Look what you did to my donut!”

I didn’t say a word, didn’t do a thing, I just left.

There was no time, I had to go.

I had to recreate the future.

* * * * *

I ran as fast as my lime-colored, raspberry, orange and lime-bowed, cute, 40’s-style slingbacks would carry me.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck.

No way was I gonna make it.

And you will appreciate how important this was and how hard it was for me…

I stopped, bent down, took off my sherbet shoes and dropped them where they were.

I pulled my wand out of my cleavage and booked it, barefoot.

I was almost too late.

* * * * *

At Campbell’s Landing, I ran into the road, waving my arms and chanting the spell.

Cars screeched and honked and careened around me – drivers staring at me with angry faces or giving me the two-fingered salute.

I ignored them.

At the foot of Marine Parade, I leaned over, waving my wand against the asphalt like I was sprinkling carpet freshener in the middle of the street, in broad daylight, in a raspberry dress and I didn’t care who saw.

As I waved, I whispered,

Cars do not drive,

Bikes do not ride,

People do not hike,

Their journeys – hold,

Their wanderings – frustrate,

The future has been told,

A future I will not tolerate.

Allow the blast – that I cannot prevent,

Though I will not allow the damage that is meant.

This important spell I cast with a plea,

Calling, with love, to the strength of my tree,

As I will, SO MOTE IT BE!

Waves of undulating powdery silver magic dust flooded the street from my wand. I would have been pleased with the strength of the spell but I felt the tremor of terror go up my back.

Soon.

Soon.

Soon.

Damn, it was gonna happen soon.

Too much to do, too little time, too much area to cover, not enough magic.

I had to pick…

Ash or Aidan.

Aidan or Ash.

I had a mind-meld with one; I had to count on Mavis’s magic to keep Ash safe.

Aidan, unless I stopped it, was going to drive straight into hell.

All around me bikes were skidding, cars were screeching and people were lifted off the ground and gliding eerily away from the silver sparkles sliding out of my wand.

Soon, I’d have to take cover.

But first…

I turned, straightening and swept out my arm with the wand in my hand and slammed a laser line of hot pink with silver and electric blue sparks at the top of Marine Parade where it exploded in multi-pink-and-violet blast just as a blue BMW Roadster was about to make the turn onto Marine Parade.

The roadster skidded, slid and started doing spins then I quit looking because I had to get the hell out of Dodge.

I ran toward the railing entry to the footpath that led up the steep incline to Marine Hill. I zig-zagged around it and plunged into the woods.

Please, Ash, don’t come! Don’t come, don’t come, don’t come!
I thought as cars skidded, bikes plunged and people continued to glide in their weird, bewitched dance to safety – all of it away from Marine Parade.

* * * * *

Then the bomb exploded.

* * * * *

Yes,
a bomb.

* * * * *

The sound was immense.

The explosion knocked me off my feet, slamming me into a tree which I slid down and then rolled down the slope slamming into another tree.

Enormous chunks of stone, pavement and dirt flew everywhere – ripping through the canopy of trees that protected me.

Protected me, as in, not a single pebble hit me. Who says nature won’t take care of you if you take care of it?

Anyhoo.

People screamed.

Tires squealed.

Amongst it all, I heard the unmistakable noise of debris hitting metal.

“No!” I shouted.

A cloud of dust rolled out behind the explosion.

I pulled myself up and through the trees and I saw Ash’s Lush Jag already pummeled by falling debris.

Ack!

“Ash!” I yelled, running toward the car.

Since my eyes were streaming from trying to see through the dust cloud, I didn’t notice that he was already up the footpath where he caught me by the waist, swung me around and half carried, half dragged me through the dust cloud back to the dented Jag, threw me in, got in himself, reversed and we sped away.

* * * * *

It was no coincidence that the Roadster and the Lush Jag were headed toward Marine Parade at the same time, only seconds away from when a bomb was about explode.

Someone had arranged it, sent them there to die.

* * * * *

So now, I’m laying in Ash’s bed in my princess fortress.

Ash had given me ten minutes to pack a bag (not nice, I need thirty minutes just to sort out accessories, even in an extreme situation or maybe
especially
in an extreme situation), leave instructions to the coven for the protection and safety of Josie and Rory (easy, they knew what to do). Then Ash and I wheeled out of there in my Mini Cooper.

Ash, of course, driving.

He dropped me at his flat and ordered, “Do not open this door for anyone.
Anyone!
”

He actually raised his voice; it was very Daniel Day-Lewis to Madeline Stowe under the waterfall in
The Last of the Mohicans
. Could have been sexy but in the circumstances it totally freaked me out.

And then he took off.

I didn’t hear a word from Aidan even though I called him repeatedly on the way to London (a two hour trip that took Ash one hour and fifteen hair-raising minutes, this drive was not filled with conversation mostly because I was still flipping out and most of that time he was talking tersely on his phone which is against the law in England but I didn’t remind him of that fact at that juncture even if he was flipping me out further by driving like a maniac
and
talking tersely on his phone) and time-and-again from Ash’s flat.

Do not
even
ask me why Ash, Aidan and myself weren’t at The Gables which just happens to be protected by the extraordinarily potent spells cast by sixteen of the world’s most powerful witches.

No, don’t even ask me that.

No word from Ash since he slammed the door behind himself.

And now I am alone, surrounded by pillows and worried to death about my boys.

21 July

Ash and Aidan are okay.

In fact, they’re perfectly fine.

But not for long because, pretty soon, I’m going to kill them.

* * * * *

The saga continues:

The power of the princess fortress cannot be denied. I fell asleep a little after five o’clock in the morning only to have my mobile ring what seemed like two seconds later.

It was Aidan’s ring (the ring tone is called “Moonlit Haze” – I don’t know, I just think it suits him) so I snatched it up.

“Aidan! You’re alive!” I cried happily.

Okay, so maybe that was a bit dramatic but I’d been working myself up all night.

On the other end of the phone there was chuckling.

Yes, chuckling.

The verbal equivalent of a grin.

“I don’t know what’s so damn funny, I’ve been worried sick!” I snapped no-longer-happily.

Then the bed moved.

Ack!

The phone was plucked out of my hand by none other than Ash who was close behind me, up on his elbow, happy-as-you-please, bare-chested, tousle-haired and five-o’clock-shadowed.

“Seymour…” he started but I didn’t hear what else he said because I was too busy staring at him in disbelief.

There he was, laying there, princess fortress be damned, talking normally (okay, not exactly normally, perhaps a little curtly, but still) like bombs weren’t exploding, like people hadn’t gone missing, like we lay together in bed every night!

(Must say am pleased I chose to bring only good nightgown I owned, made of peachy Lycra/cotton blend that was stretchy and clingy and so soft it had to be magical. Not to mention it had lovely ecru lace edging. Further mystical quality of being only nightgown in history that didn’t shift during sleep to end up exposing my bodacious bosoms with one bodice triangle ending up under my armpit and the other in between my cleavage – instead booby triangles kept position as if guarding priceless jewels (which, kinda, they were). But, I digress.)

I had my back to him and my neck twisted around so I could look at him and then he…

Get this…

No really, you aren’t going to believe this…

While he was talking, he rubbed the stubble of his chin ever-so-softly and somewhat absentmindedly on my shoulder.

Ack!

Ackity, ack, ack!

Er, excuse me?

Hello?

When did my shoulder become available for the absentminded rubbing of someone’s morning stubble?

Hunh?

When did that happen?

After our romantic whirlwind courtship full of flowers and presents and beach vacations together and night after night filled with executing varied positions requiring great flexibility (me) and enormous amounts of stamina (Ash) culminating in many orgasms?

No!

After our engagement and subsequent marriage with me in a custom-made Vera Wang and a Harry Winston ring, carrying a bouquet made entirely of perfect, hand-picked, long-stemmed cream roses and a reception replete with a firework display and beef wellington?