Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie We're In Trouble! (The Toad Witch Mysteries Book 2) (4 page)

Gus must have seen the look on my face. “Oh, my Gods. Please, put a lid on your gut volcano. Fine. I’ll take him back outside. Maybe sealing him in a plastic bag will help things go faster.”

He shot me a disgusted look, grabbed a plastic freezer bag and hustled outside.

Chapter 6

S
urprisingly, the acupressure worked. I took a deep breath and felt my stomach settle. Before I went upstairs to change, I poured an offering of sweet white wine into a shot glass and placed it on the kitchen windowsill for the cottage Daimon. Just in case.

I got back downstairs, just as Gus was returning.

“Where’s the Yellow Pages, Princess Vomitron?” Gus asked, coming back in. “The toad and I have business to attend to. Are there any entomologists in this rinky-dink village?”

“Why don’t you just order some corpse-eating beetles online and get it over with? Wasn’t that your original plan?”

“I tried. They’re an endangered species.”

“Meaning Amazon doesn’t carry them?”

“Bingo. I need a Plan B. So… phone book?”

“In the drawer, under the phone.”

I glanced at the clock. If I hurried, I could still make it on time. From the counter, Grundleshanks’s spirit gave Gus a baleful look.

“You might want to clear your plans with Grundleshanks, first. He doesn’t look very happy.” I said as I got my coat from the coat rack.

“Seriously? He’s here? Where?” Gus looked around.

That stopped me in my tracks. “You can’t see Grundleshanks either? For real?”

Before I could stop it, a grin started spreading across my face.

Gus gave me an annoyed look. “Don’t look so smug. Just because you’re freakishly gifted at seeing the dead, doesn’t make me a lesser witch.”

Ha! Finally, something I was better at than Gus.

“I’m going to write this day down on my calendar. Gus Andrakis admits a weakness.” I pointed. “He’s on the kitchen counter, next to the bowl of apples.”

“And dead Grundleshanks by the food doesn’t turn your stomach?” Gus scoped out the counter.

“I can deal with spirits. It’s the flesh they leave behind that gives me the heebie-jeebies. If you really want to see him, try closing your eyes.”

“Teach your grandmother how to suck eggs,” Gus snapped. “I know how to sense spirits.”

“Okay,
boss.
You da witch.”

“Shut it,” Gus looked around, frowning. “I’m not getting anything by the apples.”

“Because he’s moved. Try looking over by the coffee pot, witch boy.”

“You made real coffee?” Gus asked, giving up on Grundleshanks spotting. “I have been up since ridiculous-o’clock in the morning. I could use a whole pot of coffee right about now.”

“Sorry. It’s decaf. Fresh-brewed though.”

He shuddered. “Get back, you evil woman. The only point to coffee is the caffeine.”

“If I have to drink decaf for nine months, you can suffer along with me.”

“In case it escaped your notice, I don’t have a womb. And that wasn’t by accident.” Gus said, presenting his mid-section with a flourish. “That was a conscious decision, made in my pre-fetal state. So I could drink real coffee and mingle with the superior sex.”

I rolled my eyes. “If by superior, you mean arrogant and condescending, I’ll give you that one. Besides, it’s not that bad. Decaf tastes just like regular coffee… mixed with essence of peanut butter.”

He snorted. “Not a selling point. While you’re writing up my gift list, add an espresso machine. Thank the Gods for English Breakfast Tea.” He said, grabbing the tea kettle off the stove and filling it with water. “A winter of no caffeine would kill me. I’d have to learn how to hibernate.”

“Welcome to my world.” I said, putting on my parka.

“Where are you going, anyway? Is it a doctor’s appointment? Are you having an ultrasound? Can I come? I want to see the baby.”

“No, to all of the above. Except maybe, yes, to the last one, next time I go.”

“Is there a reason you’re avoiding telling me where you’re going?”

I sighed. “I’m meeting Paul for breakfast. And thanks to you, I’m going to be late.”

“How is that my fault?!” Gus asked with faux outrage. “You ceding control of your stomach to the baby isn’t my doing. That would be
your
fault. And Paul’s. I am the sole blameless one in this entire arrangement.”

I waved him off and unlaced my warm winter boots.

“I don’t know what you see in that wussy, wanna-be ghostbuster, anyway.” Gus said, all pouty. “You can do so much better.”

“He’s the father of my child.” I replied, struggling to slide my swollen feet into the boots.

“More’s the pity,” he muttered. He came over, took the boots from me and grinned. “But I promise not to hold that against the baby.”

 I balanced with one hand on his back, as he slid one boot then the other, onto my feet.

“He’s not that bad. He’s easy to look at, he’s got a bod that can stop a truck, he’s smart and unlike you, he prefers oysters to snails.” I said, borrowing the reference from the film,
Spartacus,
and waggling my eyebrows suggestively.

“That doesn’t mean he’s right for you.”

I looked at Gus, askance. “Are you feeling all right? You’re the king of superficial lays.”

“Honey, have sex with him all you want. Just don’t fall in love. He’s not good enough for you. Branch out, little tree.” He laced up one boot and started working on the next.

“If you really want to have a say in my love life, you’re going to have to learn to switch-hit.”

“Hey! I like women,” Gus protested. “As long as they understand that their role in life is to serve me and tell me how amazing I am, while I get ready for one of what will be my many dates—with men. Many men.”

I shook my head. “Whatever happened to monogamy and commitment?”

“They went the way of the rotary phone. How can I possibly let all this awesomeness,” he said, gesturing at himself, “be confined to one person? It just wouldn’t be fair to the world.”

“You do know you’re impossible? If your ego gets any bigger, it’s going to need its own zip code.”

He finished lacing up my boots and stood up, grinning. “But I’m not against tossing a woman in there, now and then, just for a change of pace.”

I snorted. “You’re such a tease. If you were into women, my life would be much more interesting.”

 I kissed his cheek, put on my scarf and gloves and headed out.

*     *     *

In the car, I couldn’t shake the image of Gus’s head, rolling on the kitchen floor, pleading for help.
What the hell was he up to?

The image made my stomach cramp with anxiety. There had to be something going on with him that he wasn’t telling me. Unless it was meant to be a warning about the toad ritual he wanted to do. But why would that cause ripples in the Otherworld?

The toad bone ritual was something he had found in an old George Ewart Evans book. It had been practiced over a hundred years ago, by an esoteric sect known as the Horsemen. The bone was rumored to give them the ability to calm or bedevil horses, with just a whisper.

Since life back then had been dependent on horses, people who were able to control them were in high demand. But nowadays, very few people even rode horses anymore. It was a sport practiced by choice, rather than a daily necessity. So why would anyone—on either side of the Veil—care what Gus did with the toad bones?

I shook my head to clear it and carefully backed out of the driveway. I was running too late to think about it now. Besides, even with the constant snow plow activity all winter, and the reapplications of Devil’s Point (rapidly diminishing) supply of rock salt, the road was still slick with snow and ice in patches, and it soon demanded all my attention.

Chapter 7

B
y the time I got to the diner, Paul was already eating.

“Sorry, I’m late,” I said, giving him my most charming smile.

I took off my parka and hung it on the back of my chair. The diner looked cheery and Christmasy, with twinkle lights along the ceiling and walls. But it was ridiculously warm.

What was the point of dressing for the season if businesses insisted on turning the heat up to eighty in the winter and the air conditioning down to sixty in the summer?

“I figured you weren’t coming.” Paul said, barely looking at me.

I picked up a menu and sat down. “I tried to text you, but I kept getting an error message.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What
did
people do before the world of texting?” He turned his focus back to his eggs, his face tight.

“I’m not
that
late. If you were running on pagan standard time, this would be considered punctual.”

He frowned. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It’s a joke,” I explained. “Because pagans are usually late?”

“I picked up that much.”

I sighed. Gus would have thought it was funny. Too bad he wasn’t here.

I tried to read the menu, but the waves of annoyance and impatience rolling off of Paul were practically visible.

I put the menu down. “All right, out with it. I know you’re pissed.”

He gave me a hard look. “I just find it disrespectful. It’s like your time is more important than anyone else’s time, so it doesn’t matter if people have to wait for you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m not disrespecting you, I had extenuating circumstances.” I protested.

“I’m all ears.” He said, attacking his eggs with his fork.

“I did try to text you,” I repeated. “But I kept getting
message not sent
. What the heck’s up with that?”

He sighed. “I reached my texting limit, so I’ve disabled it for a few days.”

“Seriously? You can do that?”

“Yes. Everyone can do that,” he said, still looking annoyed.

“Wow. I wish I had known that sooner. I had to up my text messages to unlimited while Gus was in Chicago. He maxed me out the first week he was there.”

Paul continued stabbing his eggs. “You have me here in person. Why don’t you just tell me?”

I rubbed my belly and thought about how much I was ready to tell him. I was pretty sure Paul was the father of my baby—or, at least, he contributed the human DNA. And I was really hoping he was the only DNA contributor, other than me. With the odd way the baby was maturing, I had real fears about that last part.

But Paul was having a difficult enough time dealing with everything that had happened. Being possessed by a demon was hard enough on him. The last thing he needed was to find out that he had become a baby daddy in the process.

Besides, I really wasn’t looking forward to that conversation. Maybe I could put it off awhile longer. Like, until after the baby started kindergarten.

Unfortunately, I was pretty sure that trying to brush Paul off with an off-the-cuff remark wasn’t going to do much to improve his mood either. And since the best lies are rooted in truth… I decided I might as well go with nausea.

“I think I had a bad shrimp the other night. My stomach’s still feeling rough. I didn’t know if I was going to be able to make it this morning, but I really wanted to see you.”

Just then, the waitress showed up with a pot of coffee. She refilled Paul’s cup and turned towards me. To follow through on my half-lie, I ordered chamomile tea and toast.

Then I turned my attention back to Paul. “So, how are you doing?”

He sighed, put his fork down and ran his hand through his hair. “Okay, I guess.”

I nodded, sympathetically. “Want to talk about it?”

“It’s been kind of weird.” He leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “The worst part is the dreams. How do you deal with them?”

“I think I have it easier. My dreams aren’t like yours.”

“Are you kidding me? You don’t get nightmares?”

I thought about it. “Sometimes.”

“Aha! So you do get them.”

 “Not as much as I used to.”

I didn’t need to revisit last summer in dreamscape. I had a constant reminder of the situation growing inside me. Paul and I had been possessed for a bit—long story!—and while I had been able to deal with it, thanks to my witchy genes, Paul was a normal human. Which left him with massive gaps in his memories and what I had come to refer to as PPSD (Post-Possession Stress Disorder). When he wasn’t confused, haunted and plagued by nightmares, he was twitchy, jumpy and anxious. He went from having a sunny disposition to being short-tempered with occasional bouts of rage.

“What about those
deja vu
moments?” He pressed on. “Where you'll see something and it’ll set off memory fragments? Something that you’d swear you’ve never seen, done or said before, but somehow, it’s familiar? Like you’re living through something twice? Don’t those drive you insane? Or the crazy flashbacks, where you feel like you’re trapped and you’ll never get out?”

I put my hand on his arm to stop him. “I don’t have the same problems. I remember all of it, so my mind’s not reaching out, trying to fill in the blanks.”

“Liar. You just said you have nightmares.”

“Rarely. For me, living it was the nightmare. I don’t get the
deja vu
moments. I get flashbacks sometimes, but I tell myself they’re not real and they go away.”

“What are you fucking made of? Teflon?” Paul shook his head. “I wish I could let things roll off my back like you do.”

The waitress dropped off my order and I smiled at her. I took a bite of the lightly buttered toast and shrugged. “I made a conscious decision to not get stuck in time. I don’t want to spend any longer back there than I have to.”

“Good for you,” he said, sarcastically. “Unfortunately, my conscious mind and my subconscious mind aren’t cooperating with each other. And it’s my subconscious controlling the horror show.”

I looked out the window, remembering all too clearly what we had gone through and what it was like to be a passenger in my own body.

Outside, the sky was gloomy and full of the promise of snow. Gus wasn’t going to like that one bit. If he couldn’t have warmth, he had been pretty adamant about wanting sun.

Paul hesitated, his hands gripping his coffee mug. “I’m thinking of seeing a shrink.”