Page 29 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

Leona…

“Sorry about that,” Frieda says as she plucks Erik and me off the platform and sets us down on the ground.

““Walter just gets really excited at the prospect of fresh witch for breakfast.” She brushes us off and smooths Erik’s hair, which is sticking up in every direction, like we’re her dolls or something, and then steps back next to Walter.

““So it all comes down to it now. Can you tell us what disappears completely as soon as you say its name?”

What I wouldn’t do to have Bea here, even if that meant Barkley came with her. She is definitely the sister who would have figured this out within twelve seconds.

“Oh, come on, don’t say we need to get the barbecue going; I don’t think I cleaned the grill plates from last time,” Walter says, sounding about as sincere as a toddler holding a cookie, swearing they never took anything.

I look over at Erik, the Svensen heir who should have found about twelve loopholes or been able to lie his way out of this.

He’s just staring at me with a whatcha-gonna-do look on his face.

I glance over at the barbecue. It’s humongous (it’s made for trolls), but the vines covering it have grown vines, so there’s no way it has been in use for decades.

Being breakfast is not in our future, but there’s no way we can afford to spend another night here.

One, there’s the Council to worry about.

Two, I’m not sure I can go another night on the platform without making a fool of myself and/or getting naked with Erik.

Looking up at Frieda and Walter’s house, my gaze lands on the trophies crowded onto shelves that line the wraparound porch.

That’s when it hits me.

The only thing that trolls like more than company is winning.

That is it. That’s what we need to do. We have to offer the trolls a little competition, a contest so easy for them to win that they can’t even imagine it going any other way. Then all we have to do is beat them.

Easy, right?

Not really, but I’m all ears if you have any better ideas.

I do my best to settle my nerves with a deep breath and then give the trolls my most accommodating smile.

“Frieda,” I say, “we have the answer to your riddle.” My ears heat at the lie, but I power through. “However, we’ve enjoyed your company so much that I’m hoping we could come up with another way for us to pay passage to go under the bridge.”

“Oh yeah, sure you know the answer.” Frieda’s laugh booms so loudly that a whole flock of crows take flight. “We’re not giving you any new riddles until the first one is solved.”

Glancing down at my feet, I force out a disappointed-sounding sigh.

“Oh yeah, yeah, I totally get that, it’s just I thought we could do something together so we could all have fun.

Maybe like a game of Monopoly or Trivial Pursuit.

” I pause, letting possibility hang in the air.

“Or we could have a foot race. I don’t know.

I was just trying to think of something we could all enjoy, because the riddle just seems like fun for only Erik and me. ”

Walter crosses his massive arms as he shakes his head. “Do you think your puny little witch legs can take one of us in a race?”

“Of course not mine,” I say as I turn toward Erik, giving him a please-play-along lift of my eyebrows. “But his?”

Erik, being about as helpful as a wart on a newt’s chin, looks down at his legs as if he hadn’t realized until this moment that he had any. Why does he have to be such a pain in my ass? Can he not just go along with things?

“I know he’s scrawny and has never really worked for anything in his life,” I say, and yes, I’m venting a little, “but I think he could do it if he actually tried.”

Walter busts out into giggles. Frieda just shakes her head in disbelief.

I mean yes, the idea that Erik could outrun him or Frieda is ridiculous, but Erik isn’t helping by starting to do stretches—or at least attempting. He bends down to touch his toes and his fingertips barely get past his kneecaps.

“Now I know Erik and his family have a bit of an unsavory reputation for finding loopholes .” I put as much emphasis on the last two words as possible while Erik starts doing a pathetic imitation of a backbend.

“So I’m willing to put my honor as a Sherwood to guarantee that Erik will in no way, shape, or form break the rules that you set. ”

This last bit gets Frieda’s attention, as I’d hoped.

She makes a humph sound and pulls a few sticks out of her eyebrows that she uses to clean between her teeth, and she contemplates her next move. “So I get to set the rules?”

I nod. “Three rules you pick.”

“He can’t use magic to impact Frieda’s performance,” Walter says.

Frieda shoots him a dirty look. “I am the one in charge of making the rules here.”

He shrugs. “Then make them.”

While she thinks, Erik continues to act like a fool by running tight circles around me and then stopping directly between me and the trolls to do a set of jumping jacks. I’m more than half tempted to knee knock him.

“Okay, got ’em,” Frieda says. “One, he can’t use magic on me. Two, there are no do-overs. Three, there are no double-or-nothing opportunities after it’s over.”

Utilizing my years of practice at not showing my true emotions, I stuff the “yeah, baby” way down deep. I couldn’t have asked for better rules, but I know I can’t give in right away if Frieda and Walter are going to take the bait. I hem. I haw. I pace around a little.

“I don’t know, Frieda, those seem like awfully tight rules.” I rock back on my heels. “I mean, no do-overs? What happens if, like, lightning strikes? Or a bunch of pixies fly straight through the race path? Or the earth stops turning?”

“Then you are shit out of luck,” Walter says, his huge smile practically showing off every one of his sixty-eight yellowed teeth.

“So those are your rules?” I let my shoulders drop a few inches as I mentally prep to seal the deal. I hold up one finger. “No using magic on Frieda.” I hold up a second finger. “No do-overs.” I hold up a third finger. “And no double or nothings. Do I have that right?”

Frieda and Walter both nod yes and give each other a high five.

“And there’s no changing the rules now that we’ve all agreed?” I ask, cementing things in place. “And they apply to us all?”

“That’s right, little witch,” Walter says. “You cannot use magic on Frieda to help your boyfriend there.”

“She is my wife,” Erik says as he hops around doing one-leg quad stretches.

Now he speaks up? Well, it’s a little late for that, because I learned at the feet of a master when it comes to getting the most out of every interaction.

“I’d like to add a rule of my own, if that’s okay with you,” I say, putting all the sugar I can muster into my smile at the trolls.

Frieda narrows her eyes. “Depends what it is.”

“When we win—”

“If,” Frieda interjects.

I nod and take a deep breath to prep for what I have to do next, but even a Sherwood has to play dirty every once in a while—nothing in life or love is fair.

Not that this is love. It’s not. Not even close.

“Sorry, if we win, my husband has to participate in the dimitto spell immediately after the race.”

Erik doesn’t stop the hands-on-his-waist windmill stretches he’s doing, but there is a definite flinch in his movements before he recovers.

Yeah, this is a risk. He could throw the race, but he won’t.

When it comes down to it, Erik will always put his own self-interest and survival above everything else, just like a Svensen.

It’s not a question of if the Council will figure out we have The Liber Umbrarum but when.

And when they come for it, they won’t leave witnesses.

Walter lets out a low whistle. “You wanna divorce that bad? That is not an easy spell.”

“Do you find that additional rule acceptable?” I ask Frieda and Walter, purposefully ignoring Erik.

They nod.

“Great,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

Five minutes later, Erik and Frieda are lined up underneath the rusty overpass facing the split tree a quarter of a mile in the distance. Seeing Frieda next to Erik is like looking at a hundred-floor skyscraper next to a one-story bungalow. She is that much taller than he is.

“A kiss for good luck?” Erik asks.

I roll my eyes. There is no way I’m going to fall for that.

“Oh, come on,” he says. “If this all happens, then we do the divorce spell. Don’t you think a little kiss goodbye is warranted?”

I’m not even thinking about it. Kissing Erik is not even the beginning of a possibility of an idea that I maybe could have someday in the middle of a weak moment. I’m too smart for that. I know what he’s like. This is obviously some kind of trick.

And yet my feet are moving.

Before I know it, I’m standing in front of him, tilting my head upward and parting my lips. My heart is speeding, the butterflies are butterflying, and the anticipation of the moment is about to kill me.

“See,” he says, brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear. “I knew you couldn’t wait to kiss me again.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, and desire, hot and tempting, flashes between us. He leans down and comes within millimeters of my aching lips before he switches his direction and kisses me where my jaw meets my earlobe.

“Gotcha,” he whispers before taking a step back.

Heat blasts my cheeks.

He really is the absolute worst.

I’m all hot air and frustration when I spin around, ready to march off, half hoping Frieda will kick his ass, when his fingers encircle my wrist. He whirls me around and tugs me back. I land with a thunk against his hard chest. His lips are on mine before I can even register what’s happening.

The kiss is everything. It’s hard and soft, promising and demanding, the best and worst of this maddening man all at once. And like a complete fool, I never want him to stop.

But he does, breaking contact completely as if he’s afraid if he touches me at all—even just his fingers around my wrist—he won’t be able to stop.