Page 10 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

Erik…

I can’t do this.

I should do this.

I need to do this.

But I can’t do this.

It’s taking everything I have not to snatch the pen out of LeLe’s hand before she signs the Hunka Hunka Burning Love Wedding Chapel’s liability waiver stating that while the handfast marriage ceremony is only a temporary bond, participants won’t hold the chapel responsible if the handfast becomes permanent or never works at all.

The waiver doesn’t list why that could happen, but I know.

1. Getting married under false identities won’t impact the handfast spell. It’s not two witches’ names getting married, after all.

2. If the spell is taken under duress of any kind or while someone is unable to consent, the handfast won’t take, not even for a few minutes.

3. A handfast spell made during the full moon at the exact moment of its fullest presentation (which happens in exactly seven minutes) can’t be broken without a special, almost-impossible-to-complete spell and the participation of both parties (which I’ll never do).

My mouth is opening to say something—tell her it was a joke, say I feel sick all of a sudden, anything else, but LeLe signs the waiver before I can make a sound, and it’s done.

The only thing left is to say a few words under the arbor.

Then we’ll be married. And my plan to depose my dad will move on to the next stage.

By this time next year, the old man will be out of the picture one way or another, Cy and Sigrid will be safe, and I’ll sit back and watch the poisoned line I come from die out.

That’s good.

It’s perfect.

It’s exactly what needs to happen.

This is what I keep reminding myself as LeLe hooks her arm through mine and we walk out back to the moonlit garden. There’s an arbor at the back with a sparkly white cauldron that’s already smoking with the ingredients of the handfast spell.

“Go ahead and pick out your handfast wedding bouquet,” the Elvis impersonator who is going to perform the ceremony says. “I’ll meet you two under the arbor in two hip swivels.”

She starts forward but I can’t move. LeLe turns and looks at me with a million questions in her eyes but before she can ask a single one, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.

Sigrid’s face flashes on the screen and worry snaps my spine straight. “It’s my sister. I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

“We’re just being dorks with this goofed-up ceremony anyway,” LeLe says with a wink. “Take your time.”

That’s one thing I can’t do. The moon is at its fullest percentage in five minutes. After that it won’t matter. She walks toward the flowers and I stay behind, clenching my jaw tight as all the warning bells go off with Sigrid’s text.

SIGRID: Where are you?

ERIK: Vegas.

SIGRID: Get home. Now.

The warning bells turn into alarm bells.

ERIK: I can’t.

SIGRID: Please, E. Dad’s up to something.

That’s pretty much a given if he’s breathing.

ERIK: He’s always up to something.

SIGRID: This is different. He’s making me dress up for dinner.

I force my face to stay neutral. Thanks to years of practice when faced with some horrible scam that the old man is working pays off in numerous ways, it’s not a problem.

If my sister even gets a hint about just how worried I am, though, she’s going to go straight to full-on panic mode.

And even though she can’t see me, it always seems like she can see me.

ERIK: So.

SIGRID: Fitzpatrick is here. He’s coming to dinner. Dad wants me to play piano for him later like I’m at some kind of weird audition. E, please!

ERIK: Dinner’s nothing. You’ll be fine.

And if she’s not, forget my power sharing ceremony plan, I’ll kill the rat bastard with my bare hands even if it means I’ll go down with him.

SIGRID: I need you, E.

And that’s why I can’t change course. I have to stick to the plan. Every other option is temporary. Marrying LeLe and taking out my dad during the power sharing ceremony is the only way to stop him for good.

ERIK: I can’t.

The three dots showing she’s typing appear and disappear several times before she sends her response.

SIGRID: Fine.

A second later the in-Do-Not-Disturb-mode alert appears next to my sister’s name.

If I had any doubts about Sigrid’s ability to hold her own, even against our shitty dad, I’d be on the first magic carpet out of here, but she’s smart, strong, and savvy.

She can avoid his trap for the next few days, which will give me enough time to marry LeLe and explain how our marriage is going to work.

My chest burns.

My head throbs.

I can’t get enough oxygen in my lungs.

I try to inhale, but it’s like trying to suck a boulder through a straw.

My father is sending a message: Fuck with me and your sister pays the price.

Will he follow through with marrying her off to the in-all-probability murderous old man for enough cash to keep the loan sharks off his ass for a year? Without a second thought.

“Let’s rock ’n’ roll, you hunka hunka hot couple,” the witch dressed up as young Elvis in tight black leather says as he struts through the twenty-four-hour wedding chapel’s back garden.

LeLe is already standing beneath the rose-covered arbor with a bouquet of peonies, the huge full moon bathing her in a soft glow. “It’s time to get temporarily married.”

It’s times like these when I’m glad I’m under no illusions about who I am. Another guy—a good guy—wouldn’t do this to LeLe. That guy would find another way to save his family.

As we both know, though, I’m not a good guy. Not even a little. Not even when being around LeLe has me pretending more than I need to that I could be.

As everyone in Witchingdom loves to say (but usually only behind my back), I am my father’s son. I do what’s efficient. What’s easy. What will get me to where I want to be no matter who gets hurt in the process.

And tonight that means stuffing any hesitation I may have about my plan in a deep, dark hole and walking over to the woman whose life I’m about to ruin.

My steps barely even falter.

“Everything okay?” LeLe asks, concern crinkling the corners of her eyes.

“How could anything possibly be wrong?” I hedge, bricking up even the hint of hesitation or pity for this woman who simply had the same misfortune I did to be born an heir. “You ready to be spontaneous and wild?”

“Born ready,” she says with a giggle, obviously riding the rush of being impulsive for probably the first time in her entire life.

“If you’ll hold hands,” fake Elvis says, “we’ll get this show started.”

I take LeLe’s hand, ignoring the guilt so foreign to me that I can barely identify it twisting my insides and the sizzle of something lighter and brighter that hits me in the chest, and face the Elvis impersonator. “Let’s get married.”

And we do.