Page 30 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

“You know,” he says, “if people realized how devious you really are, they would go into shock. But I see it—and I like it.” He dips his head down and kisses me again.

This time it’s a quick sweep of his lips against mine and he still manages to thrill me all the way down to my toes and jumble my brain before I can untangle his words. Devious? Me? Not a day in my life.

“Don’t worry,” Erik says with an evil grin, “I get it. You left me a big enough loophole in those rules to ride a dinosaur through. I’ve got this.”

My knees are all shaky as I walk over to the sidelines and stand beside Walter, who is sitting crisscross applesauce in the grass and still towers over me.

He gives me a head-to-toe look-over. “Are you sure you want that divorce after that kiss?”

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

I’m not sure about anything right now except for one thing.

“Want has nothing to do with anything when you’re the Sherwood heir,” I tell the troll.

Walter doesn’t say anything in return. He just pulls a whistle made out of the wheel from a semi-tractor trailer and blows.

Frieda doesn’t hesitate. She takes off running.

The ground shakes beneath my feet as her feet pound on the path from the overpass to the tree.

She doesn’t just have a lead on Erik, she’s blowing him away.

She reaches out to slap the split tree. But before her palm hits the bark, Erik poofs from the start line and reappears leaning against the tree with a shit-eating grin on his face while her hand is still in midair.

“You cheated!” Frieda says, sucking air into her tired lungs with enough gusto that the leaves shake on the trees as if they are about to fly off.

Erik lifts a shoulder in that absolutely annoying blasé way of his and says, “There was nothing in your rules about me using magic to help myself, only that I couldn’t use it to interfere with you .”

Frieda snarls, the lowest, scariest sound I’ve ever heard.

Walter jumps up from the grass and sprints over to the tree, his hands curled into fists.

My stomach drops. Okay, I did not mean for this. Erik is awful, but that doesn’t mean I want a couple of trolls to pull him apart like he’s a chicken wing.

Yes, I do look good in black and I could definitely work the whole widow thing, but we still have to get the spell book to the secured facility to keep it out of the Council’s hands, and I can’t do that without him.

I have an obligation to get that book back.

And that’s why I am hustling across the clearing to stand between Erik and the two trolls who are already gnashing their teeth.

“Okay, I hate to be this person,” I say, putting as much Sherwood heir ice into my tone as I can muster, “but you did make the rules, and Erik stuck to them.” Frieda lets out another growl.

“However, just so everyone walks away happy”—and alive—“how about if I spell one wish for each of you. Right here. Right now. No hesitation.”

“What,” Frieda says, not sounding mollified at all, “like you’re going to give me my dream fruit and veggie garden that never stops growing even in the winter?”

“Done.”

I wiggle my fingers, and the smell of warm cake donuts fills the air, and then a troll-sized container garden of tomatoes and zucchinis and cucumbers and potatoes and carrots, watermelon and peppers of nearly every variety, shape, and color appear next to their absolutely adorable house.

The troll claps her large hands together and, giggling with glee, takes off for the garden, the ground shaking underneath her feet.

I turn to Walter, who has a pink tinge to his cheeks and is nudging a massive blackberry bush with his foot.

“I’ve always wanted a puppy,” Walter says, his voice quiet. “But they’re just usually so scared of me that I gave up. It sure would be nice to have a dog come on my walks through the woods with me when Frieda doesn’t want to.”

Okay. That one makes me a little sniffly, but I blink back the sudden wetness in my eyes, wiggle my fingers, and an Irish wolfhound puppy appears next to Walter. The dog is shaggy as can be and its paws are the size of dinner plates.

Walter sinks to his knees and the puppy gallops over to him, not in the least bit frightened. The dog yaps happily and licks the troll’s face as he laughs.

And then it’s my turn to have my biggest wish fulfilled.

And it is.

It really, really, really is—because it has to be.

I flick my wrist and a copy of the dimitto spell appears out of thin air and flits this way and that as it slowly sinks to the ground in front of Erik.

Like before, when I sent the spell to him via flying monkeys, all he needs to do is chant his lines, and poof, we’re divorced.

His post-win grin doesn’t flicker as he picks up the spell I spent the past three months weaving.

“It is what we agreed to,” I say, surprised my voice isn’t shaking with nerves as I remind myself over and over that this is what I want.

“Absolutely.” He glances around at the clearing and points to a small hill at the other end.

“That seems like the best place to do this, don’t you think?

And you know, if divorce means you can’t take The Liber Umbrarum to the secured facility with me, that’s okay.

I promise you can trust me to get it there without me using any of the spells in it for my own benefit. ”

For a second his words don’t click, and then his Svensen duplicity reveals itself like a zombie hand popping out of the ground on All Hallow’s Eve. Fury blasts through me like a wind gust from the sun.

That.

Low.

Down.

Dirty.

Husband.

Of.

Mine.

That whole time while I was setting up the race so we could, you know, get out of here right away and therefore keep The Liber Umbrarum out of the Council’s hands and save Witchingdom, he was working out a loophole that only benefited him.

I really should have just let the trolls turn him into toothpicks.