Mathilda, SuperWitch

by Kristen Ashley

  And the food. A chatty old dame named Nerissa told me the two head cooks/pastry chefs (they both do both) are in a war to see who can make the finest concoction. And the customers benefit greatly from what they call The War of the Wooden Spoons.

  If you want delicate flavors and textures, do not go to The Witches Dozen. This is about excess – rich, soulful, comfort food that comes in big (but not overly big) sizes with splashy presentations and bright colors. The “witches” at The Dozen (as it is affectionately known by the regular clientele which, I can say, now includes me) are the gorgeous kind of gals that couldn’t care less about the calories and they’re not embarrassed to ask for seconds and have pudding.

  Everything from the furnishings to the music to the staff, to, best of all, the food, indeed says “welcome – sit long, talk much, eat hearty”.

  Am I bewitched? Maybe.

  Bothered, oh yes, but in a good way.

  Bewildered about why it’s so good?

  Not at all.

  Witches Dozen, No. 13, The Beach, Opening Hours 7:00 to 9:00 All Week Long

  Woo hoo! How ‘bout them apples? Especially like what he said about my fashion sense as obviously he’s talking about me (high heels, anyone?).

  Dig!

  It!

  One could say that our Summer Solstice celebration kicked in big time! Ask the gods for success and dance (semi) naked in the moonlight and then let it happen!

  19 July

  I am now laying in my princess fortress.

  My princess fortress that I built in Ash’s bed.

  My princess fortress that I built in Ash’s bed, in Ash’s flat, in London.

  I’m trying not to think about where Ash is.

  If he’s dead.

  Blown to smithereens.

  Shot to bits.

  Flayed alive.

  Or just being tortured.

  And Aidan is also MIA but not his usual MIA.

  The last time I saw him, his BMW Roadster was careening out-of-control.

  And now he’s probably in intensive care, holding onto the thread his life and waiting for my dulcet tones to awake him from a coma.

  And here I am, surrounded by my princess fortress hoping for the best.

  * * * * *

  I created the all-powerful princess fortress when I was a little girl.

  It had been a long day of Mom forcing us to help her make soap while listening to Simon and Garfunkel.

  Then, as if a day of lye, essential oils and “Sound of Silence” isn’t bad enough, that evening Gran came over with her little finger cymbals shouting “I’m in the mood to dance!”

  That night, the princess fortress was born.

  You see, I knew in my heart of hearts that I was really a princess. These weird people who made soap and clanked finger cymbals for fun weren’t my real family. No! They kidnapped me when I was a baby.

  (What can I say? I was the kind of little girl who lived in those plastic high-heeled shoes, clacking all over the house, the grocery store, everywhere.)

  I figured I needed to practice for when the King and Queen of Wherever came to rescue me.

  At night, when I was in my real home, that is to say, safe in the castle, I would undoubtedly sleep in a princess bed. I would be propped up on at least two pillows (covered in pink satin, of course) behind my head and shoulders with one pillow each running either side of my torso on which to rest my precious princess hands and arms.

  Then I would lie still, night after night, waiting for the handsome prince to wake me up and carry me to a new, bigger and better castle.

  There he would shower me with Fendi handbags and Tiffany charm bracelets (okay, that last bit came later, when I was a not-so-little girl).

  Any time I felt scared or upset, I’d build my princess fortress and it would help me to sleep, help me to cope… just help me.

  I hadn’t used the fortress in a long, long time.

  And now that I was using it, it wasn’t working.

  BecBec wasn’t here to keep my company with her whizzing around and freakish chatter.

  And I didn’t know where Ash was.

  Nor Aidan.

  They didn’t answer their phones, I’d called The Gables (fifteen times) – no word. I called The Institute of Psychical Research (seven times) – nothing.

  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, i
n 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 rubbin
g 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?

  No!

  I snatched my shoulder away from his chin (ignoring tingles) and made to exit the bed (in a huff, mind), but I wasn’t fast enough.

  A steel-like band (better-known-as Ash’s arm) encircled me and hauled me back against a rock-hard body (better-known-as Ash).

  “We’ll be there in an hour,” Ash said, flipped my phone shut without a thought that, perhaps, I might want to talk to Aidan.

  (Alas, the Glamour Girl phone died a tragic death when Motorola came out with a thinner-than-thin hot pink flip phone – you know I had to have it.)

  He then tossed my mobile onto my grass-stained and muddy raspberry sundress that was strewn across the (fabulous, must admit) club chair in the corner.

  “Excuse me?” I said sounding exactly as peeved as I was. “Did it occur to you that I might have a thing or two to say to Aidan?”

  Silence.

  Annoying man!

  I let out a pissed off puff of air then said, “Oh for goddess’s sake… let me out of bed.”

  Get this:

  “No,” Ash replied.

  Fuck that!

  I pressed my back against his chest for leverage, my booty pressed against his crotch and I grabbed on to the edge of the bed and pulled with all my strength, hoping to catapult myself up, out and away.

  His arm tightened.

  Ack!

  Ash: so annoying!

  “What happened to my princess fortress?” I snapped, groaning with effort.

  More pressing, more pulling, more tightening of arms and a little grunting (on my part) but no answer from Ash.

  “Ash, let me go!”

  He’d clearly tired of the pressing/pulling bit as, at this point, with very little effort (grr!) he flipped me over and pulled me against his body.

  Full frontal.