Mathilda, SuperWitch by Kristen Ashley
What the hell he thought he was doing, I… do… not… know.
He ignores me for days at a time.
He’s never taken me out to a movie.
To dinner.
Whatever…
One orgasm and then he thinks he can slip in bed with me in the middle of the night and he thinks…
He thinks…
Oh my goddess, I think he thought he was gonna kiss me.
His head started to descend and…
“Ash!” I screeched in my best fish wife’s voice.
That got his attention.
He winced and jerked his head back.
“For fuck’s sake, Mathilda –”
“Don’t you curse at me! You miserable,” Um? “Cad! Let me go!”
“No.” (Ash)
“Yes.” (Me)
“No.” (Ash)
“Yes.” (Me)
“Cad?” (Ash)
Argh!
“I said, let me go!” (Me)
“And I said no.” (Ash)
And that was it. I was pushing against his chest with all my strength, he was holding onto me with all of his and then it came back to me.
The premonition.
The vision flooded my consciousness with the almost Cordelia-like energy of the day before.
Just as clear.
And just as fucking unbelievably, terrifyingly scary.
In reality, I knew it didn’t happen as I saw it (thank the goddess and all her god-like friends). That Ash was there in bed with me. That Aidan was out there, able to chuckle over mobile phones and irritate me.
Yes, there was a bomb with debris, rock, dirt, pavement everywhere, people screaming, etcetera, etcetera and in the end, all was safe.
But, in my mind’s eye, the vision of what was supposed to happen was stuck. The vision that included the debris, rock, dirt, pavement everywhere, people screaming but also in my vision there was big bits of BMW Roadster, Lush Jag and little bits of the two men in my life.
Little gooey, dead bits of my once-gorgeous hunks raining on Marine Parade while I stood in the middle of the bloodbath that used to be my prospective husbands.
What’s a girl to do when something so icky, so flipping scary and so just plain horrifyingly awful pops into her head?
What else?
I gave up the fight and burst into tears.
This time, Ash didn’t seem surprised by my display or incapable of dealing with it. He rolled onto his back, wrapped one arm around me, tucked my head into his neck and stroked my hair.
“You… were… in… little… bits,” I gulped.
He kept stroking my hair.
“Landing on… mm… mm… Marine Parade,” I stammered.
Arms tightened, more stroking.
“Then… you went… away,” I blubbered. “And didn’t pick up your,” hiccup, “phone when I called.”
More stroking.
“I was worried!” I wailed and then I snuggled deeper into him and bawled my eyes out.
I have no idea how long I cried but once I started to make those mini-catchy breaths and sniffles, Ash moved. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, taking me with him so he was cradling me in his lap and reaching for something on the nightstand.
He then tipped up my chin and started to mop my face with a handkerchief.
When he was done and I had calmed down, I said, “You carry a handkerchief?”
He grinned at me.
“Better now?” he asked.
I nodded.
Pause.
“What’s a princess fortress?” he asked.
Oops.
Er, that bit was meant to be kept a secret. No one knew about my princess fortress and no one was supposed to know.
His grin broadened.
“Don’t grin at me,” I demanded.
“It was the pillow thing, wasn’t it?”
Ack!
He was teasing me.
And he was alive and breathing and able to be annoying for another day.
And so was Aidan.
And everything was okay.
At least for right then.
Thank the goddess and all things green and glorious.
And then, because I could, because I wanted to and because who knew what that day would bring…
I kissed him.
I kissed him with the exact amount of happiness I felt that he wasn’t in icky, gooey, bloody bits but with all his luscious body parts still were where they were meant to be.
Which means it was a pretty hot kiss.
All of a sudden, I wasn’t cradled in his lap but on my back with him on me, his mouth on mine, his tongue in my mouth (and, sometimes, mine in his) and his hands all over me and…
Oo la la…
And…
Me oh my…
“Matty,” That was Ash, kinda breathing heavy.
“What?” That was me, definitely breathing heavy.
My hands were roaming his luscious body because I was sure as hell going to do it while his body was still in one piece (not to mention I’d never really explored a washboard stomach and let me tell you, it felt really, really nice).
He sucked in his breath which tensed the muscles in his tummy (fascinating).
“Jesus, Matty… stop. We have to get to Harrods.”
Er, okay, whoa doggies… Harrods?
He sighed, it was a big sigh filled with big feelings which sounded to me an awful lot like regret and maybe frustration.
Then he told me, “We have to meet Seymour at Harrods in less than half an hour.”
My mind whirled but my mouth didn’t move.
Aidan!
Harrods!
(Wish he wouldn’t call Aidan “Seymour” – great last name, even better with the word “doctor” in front of it but not so good alone.)
Oo, wait, just remembered… Harrods has Krispie Kreme.
Mm.
Ash moved and I realized he was taking his weight off me so I held tight and he sighed and settled on me again.
Yay!
His face said it was only a moment’s reprieve.
Boo!
I couldn’t stop myself, too much emotion, too little sleep, the promise of Krispie Kreme, I kissed him softly on the lips and asked, “We’re never going to have sex, are we? Real, bona fide, man-on-woman action with repeated and prolonged penetration and the exchange of bodily fluids, that kind of sex. We’re never gonna have it, are we?”
When I was done, he was looking at me in an entirely differently, me: clotted cream, Ash: starving man, way.
Oh me.
Then he kissed me – hot, hard and long.
Oh my.
There was a promise in that kiss, a promise of future, real, full-blown, fantastic coital relations.
Yay!
Yay!
Yay!
Then in one, smooth movement, he was out of bed and pulled me along with him.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” he said.
Then (can you believe?) he smacked my ass and left the room.
(Ten minutes? I don’t think so.)
* * * * *
I know what you’re thinking and I’m not so boy crazy or ditzy that I don’t realize that someone tried to blow up two men that I care about very much.
The princess fortress isn’t just for hiding and worrying.
I do other things in the princess fortress.
Like plotting and planning.
I just hadn’t come up with anything yet.
* * * * *
Ash walked me through the sweets section of Harrods (more like dragged, what can I say, we were late, but I was not going to see Aidan, at Harrods (of all places) without at least a coat of mascara and lip gloss and some sheen to my cheeks).
The sweets section of Harrods is one of my most favorite places – a colorful, sugary wonderland that would make Willy Wonka green with envy.
I could spend hours in the marshmallow section alone.
I had no time even to admire, A
sh forged through the hustle and bustle like a hot knife through butter.
I followed in his wake with one of my hands curled in his belt so I wouldn’t lose him.
Being an American, I wouldn’t have made it, I would have been miles back, “Excuse me”-ing and “Pardon me”-ing and all would be lost.
* * * * *
Aside: Do not believe the whole “polite and mannered” English people myth.
English people conduct themselves in public like they have a mission and their mission is the most important thing in the entire world. The fact that you, too, might have a mission does not concern them in the slightest.
So, beware, if you happen to be in a small town grocery store and you can’t figure out if you want the organic bio-yogurt with vanilla or the bio-yogurt with peaches and wheat germ and you’re standing taking up the precious aisle space in front of the yogurts trying to decide. Beware because an English person will reach right in front of you and grab what they want, breaking your concentration and making you start your deliberations all over again.
If they happen to be walking down the sidewalk with a friend at their side and you’re walking up that same sidewalk, don’t think that one of the polite and mannered English people will drop back to allow you your own, rightful bit of sidewalk. No, they’d rather run right into you or force you into the street. And they will.
And whatever you do, whatever you do, when you approach a queue, study it and ascertain exactly where the end is and go there and only there. Do not look like you’re confused (they can smell indecision and if they do, they’ll snap). Do not allow your mind to wander to anything else but the queue and your place in it. If you enter the queue anywhere but at the end, you are likely to be beaten to death and no English judge would send your murderers to jail because you deserved it because you jumped the queue.
I am not kidding.
And, they won’t say excuse me or pardon me, there is no concern or remorse.
There is only the mission.
And in the cities, it is far, far worse.
This is not a fault, this is the culture. You get used to it and you’re supposed to “when in Rome”. Unfortunately for me, consideration is ingrained. Therefore, in busy places, I can’t get around very easily because I’m too busy being courteous.
Of course, Ash was a natural.
PS: This rule does not apply to Scots who are very nice and will chat happily with you in elevators.
* * * * *
We made it to the Krispie Kreme section which was shoulder-to-shoulder, a beacon of peace to the world as every color, culture and persuasion were represented waiting harmoniously to get their own hot, glazed donut.
I saw Aidan’s head and shoulders rising above a group of Asians chattering and queuing to get their sugar rush, their children already wearing little paper hats.
When I reached him, I threw my arms around him and gave him a happy shake. Then I grabbed his face, kissed his left cheek, his right cheek and then right smack on the lips. His arms started to slide around me when I felt Ash’s hand curl into the waistband of my jeans and he pulled me back.
Not very far back since, due to the crush, there wasn’t far to go.
So there we were, me caught in the middle of an Aidan-Ash Gorgeous Hunk Sandwich while they did another of their testosterone-induced staring matches.
I sighed.
“Are we gonna get donuts or what? I’m starved,” I blurted to interrupt the contest and so I could get my dang donut.
“No,” Ash said.
Um.
What?
“What do you mean, ‘no’? These are Krispie Kremes!” I gestured to the hundreds of donuts traversing the conveyor belt, floating through the vat of hot fat and being swathed by a solid sheet of liquefied sugar. “I am a lonesome traveler far from home and this is the food of my people!”
I stopped the drama queen tantrum as Ash turned me around and steered me out while Aidan followed us.
No Krispie Kremes.
No reciprocal hug from Aidan.
Not even a moment at the Lalique counter (just to look).
Cruel, cruel world.
I slumped down the pavement through the throngs, dragged along by Ash pulling me by the hand, my disappointment huge that I was turned away from a hot-out-of-the fat glazed donut and probably toward a fry-up or worse, some health-food crapola.
Ack!
As I passed, I stared dejectedly into shop windows that I would normally have been noting for future after-breakfast shopping reference.
And then I saw it.
Oh… my… goddess!
I stopped dead (so dead, Ash stopped with me) and pressed my face against the window.
There, in front of me, were rows and rows of mouth-watering pastries: mini-tiramisus, éclairs, thick cream slices, shiny, sugar-glazed fruit tarts, Danishes galore, cakes with fancy, fanned sheets of chocolate that were utter works of art.
And, the most beautiful of all: custard filled donuts that were the size of my hand.
Do not mistake me, not my palm, my hand, from the tip of my middle finger to my wrist and then some.
I pressed my nose against the glass hoping it would absorb me so I could fall, face first, into the cream, the chocolate, the…
“Matty?” It was Aidan.
“Here, here, I wanna eat breakfast here,” I breathed and pointed at the display.
“We are… come inside so we can get a table.”
Patisserie Valerie.
The new love of my life.
I wanted to buy a house across the street so when I wasn’t eating there, I could stare at the windows with binoculars.
A short wait and we were at a table (or, more to the point, a table that both Ash and Aidan found acceptable).
Ash sat with his back against one wall, Aidan with is back against the other wall and I faced them.
All I can say is, thank the goddess we didn’t live in the Wild West or these two would have gunned each other down in the street long ago.
Okay then.
Coffee.
Check.
Big-ass custard donut.
Check.
There I was, me and my boys and the promise of a huge donut.
Yay!
And.
Ack!
Mm, not the greatest conversationalists, these two.
“Okay,” I started. “So… bombs?”
Ash gazed at me, Aidan watched, I waited.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
“Obviously, they were trying to take you two out,” I noted. “Why would they do that?”
“What makes you think they wanted to take us out?” Ash asked.
“I had a vision… you were coming one way, Aidan the other and… then… er, kablam!”
“They weren’t trying to take us out. They were trying to take you out.” Ash, as usual not sugar-coating it, explained.
Um.
“Me?”
Ack!
“What else would you do after having that vision but run to try to save us and then, there you’d be…” Aidan broke in then trailed off.
“You and the bomb,” Ash finished.
Holy fucking shit.
Holy… fucking… shit!
“But you two –” I started.
“Just motivation to get you there,” Aidan explained.
“And, undoubtedly, a bonus,” Ash finished.
Holy fucking shit.
I wanted to cry but it was too late, the coffee and donuts arrived.
Well, not donuts per se as Ash had a salmon and cream cheese bagel and Aidan had eggs, bacon and toast. I was the only who ordered a donut.
“So, they aren’t after Josie? They’re after me?” I asked then I asked more, “I thought Josie and Rory were the targets… why were they after me?”
“With you out of the way, Josie won’t be a problem,” Aidan explained.
“And, Mathilda, you’re always the target,” Ash added.
Great. I had, in fact, forgotten that part.
I thought back to crazy Josie who was at her wits end, screaming at Rory, seriously underweight and nearly poisoned by the time I came on the scene.
This was ruining the enjoyment of my donut and that was pissing me off.
“What the hell does she do that it’s worth blowing up a fricking street and anyone on it?”
Silence.
Okay, I’d had enough. I mean, bombs were exploding.
“Oh for goddess’s sake! Just tell me. I’m tired of this secret prophesies crap. What am I risking my ass, not to mention your asses for here? Hunh?”
More silence.
“Dammit!”
Okay, I shouted, and maybe that isn’t the thing to do in Patisserie Valerie as the trendy Londoners (because, make no mistake, this was not a tourist trap) started to stare… but tell me, what would you do?
Bombs… were… exploding.
Aidan was the first to speak.
“Josie will one day be Prime Minister. She’ll introduce radical and extremely controversial reforms that will shake up industries, economies, entire nations. These reforms will be social, educational and environmental. These reforms will make the rich less rich and will, most frightening to some, work.”
Whoa.
Hold on.
Our Josie?
Angry at trash collectors one day and Robin Hood in Parliament the next?
Aidan went on, “Other countries will adopt these reforms, more people will work, more people will go to school, they’ll have more, starve less and be healthy. The earth will begin to heal itself. Josephine McShane is going to change the world.”
Whoa, part deux.
“Fuckin’ A Bubba,” I muttered.
Sorry, but that was all I could think to say.
“Indeed.” Aidan smiled at me. “She’ll also be the first leader to recognize the magical and supernatural world in any official public capacity. She’ll guide the two worlds into living together in peace.”
“Go, Josie, go Josie,” I cheered, my donut was looking good again so I took a big bite.
Please note: this was not a custard donut. This donut was stuffed with crème patisserie. This donut was divine. There were probably entire populations on earth that would worship this donut. I knew this for a fact because I was considering being the founding member of the cult.
“That will be after the war, of course,” Ash interjected breaking my donut reverie.
I choked on cream and dough.
“Uh, wha’?” I said with my mouth full.
He ignores me for days at a time.
He’s never taken me out to a movie.
To dinner.
Whatever…
One orgasm and then he thinks he can slip in bed with me in the middle of the night and he thinks…
He thinks…
Oh my goddess, I think he thought he was gonna kiss me.
His head started to descend and…
“Ash!” I screeched in my best fish wife’s voice.
That got his attention.
He winced and jerked his head back.
“For fuck’s sake, Mathilda –”
“Don’t you curse at me! You miserable,” Um? “Cad! Let me go!”
“No.” (Ash)
“Yes.” (Me)
“No.” (Ash)
“Yes.” (Me)
“Cad?” (Ash)
Argh!
“I said, let me go!” (Me)
“And I said no.” (Ash)
And that was it. I was pushing against his chest with all my strength, he was holding onto me with all of his and then it came back to me.
The premonition.
The vision flooded my consciousness with the almost Cordelia-like energy of the day before.
Just as clear.
And just as fucking unbelievably, terrifyingly scary.
In reality, I knew it didn’t happen as I saw it (thank the goddess and all her god-like friends). That Ash was there in bed with me. That Aidan was out there, able to chuckle over mobile phones and irritate me.
Yes, there was a bomb with debris, rock, dirt, pavement everywhere, people screaming, etcetera, etcetera and in the end, all was safe.
But, in my mind’s eye, the vision of what was supposed to happen was stuck. The vision that included the debris, rock, dirt, pavement everywhere, people screaming but also in my vision there was big bits of BMW Roadster, Lush Jag and little bits of the two men in my life.
Little gooey, dead bits of my once-gorgeous hunks raining on Marine Parade while I stood in the middle of the bloodbath that used to be my prospective husbands.
What’s a girl to do when something so icky, so flipping scary and so just plain horrifyingly awful pops into her head?
What else?
I gave up the fight and burst into tears.
This time, Ash didn’t seem surprised by my display or incapable of dealing with it. He rolled onto his back, wrapped one arm around me, tucked my head into his neck and stroked my hair.
“You… were… in… little… bits,” I gulped.
He kept stroking my hair.
“Landing on… mm… mm… Marine Parade,” I stammered.
Arms tightened, more stroking.
“Then… you went… away,” I blubbered. “And didn’t pick up your,” hiccup, “phone when I called.”
More stroking.
“I was worried!” I wailed and then I snuggled deeper into him and bawled my eyes out.
I have no idea how long I cried but once I started to make those mini-catchy breaths and sniffles, Ash moved. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, taking me with him so he was cradling me in his lap and reaching for something on the nightstand.
He then tipped up my chin and started to mop my face with a handkerchief.
When he was done and I had calmed down, I said, “You carry a handkerchief?”
He grinned at me.
“Better now?” he asked.
I nodded.
Pause.
“What’s a princess fortress?” he asked.
Oops.
Er, that bit was meant to be kept a secret. No one knew about my princess fortress and no one was supposed to know.
His grin broadened.
“Don’t grin at me,” I demanded.
“It was the pillow thing, wasn’t it?”
Ack!
He was teasing me.
And he was alive and breathing and able to be annoying for another day.
And so was Aidan.
And everything was okay.
At least for right then.
Thank the goddess and all things green and glorious.
And then, because I could, because I wanted to and because who knew what that day would bring…
I kissed him.
I kissed him with the exact amount of happiness I felt that he wasn’t in icky, gooey, bloody bits but with all his luscious body parts still were where they were meant to be.
Which means it was a pretty hot kiss.
All of a sudden, I wasn’t cradled in his lap but on my back with him on me, his mouth on mine, his tongue in my mouth (and, sometimes, mine in his) and his hands all over me and…
Oo la la…
And…
Me oh my…
“Matty,” That was Ash, kinda breathing heavy.
“What?” That was me, definitely breathing heavy.
My hands were roaming his luscious body because I was sure as hell going to do it while his body was still in one piece (not to mention I’d never really explored a washboard stomach and let me tell you, it felt really, really nice).
He sucked in his breath which tensed the muscles in his tummy (fascinating).
“Jesus, Matty… stop. We have to get to Harrods.”
Er, okay, whoa doggies… Harrods?
He sighed, it was a big sigh filled with big feelings which sounded to me an awful lot like regret and maybe frustration.
Then he told me, “We have to meet Seymour at Harrods in less than half an hour.”
My mind whirled but my mouth didn’t move.
Aidan!
Harrods!
(Wish he wouldn’t call Aidan “Seymour” – great last name, even better with the word “doctor” in front of it but not so good alone.)
Oo, wait, just remembered… Harrods has Krispie Kreme.
Mm.
Ash moved and I realized he was taking his weight off me so I held tight and he sighed and settled on me again.
Yay!
His face said it was only a moment’s reprieve.
Boo!
I couldn’t stop myself, too much emotion, too little sleep, the promise of Krispie Kreme, I kissed him softly on the lips and asked, “We’re never going to have sex, are we? Real, bona fide, man-on-woman action with repeated and prolonged penetration and the exchange of bodily fluids, that kind of sex. We’re never gonna have it, are we?”
When I was done, he was looking at me in an entirely differently, me: clotted cream, Ash: starving man, way.
Oh me.
Then he kissed me – hot, hard and long.
Oh my.
There was a promise in that kiss, a promise of future, real, full-blown, fantastic coital relations.
Yay!
Yay!
Yay!
Then in one, smooth movement, he was out of bed and pulled me along with him.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” he said.
Then (can you believe?) he smacked my ass and left the room.
(Ten minutes? I don’t think so.)
* * * * *
I know what you’re thinking and I’m not so boy crazy or ditzy that I don’t realize that someone tried to blow up two men that I care about very much.
The princess fortress isn’t just for hiding and worrying.
I do other things in the princess fortress.
Like plotting and planning.
I just hadn’t come up with anything yet.
* * * * *
Ash walked me through the sweets section of Harrods (more like dragged, what can I say, we were late, but I was not going to see Aidan, at Harrods (of all places) without at least a coat of mascara and lip gloss and some sheen to my cheeks).
The sweets section of Harrods is one of my most favorite places – a colorful, sugary wonderland that would make Willy Wonka green with envy.
I could spend hours in the marshmallow section alone.
I had no time even to admire, A
I followed in his wake with one of my hands curled in his belt so I wouldn’t lose him.
Being an American, I wouldn’t have made it, I would have been miles back, “Excuse me”-ing and “Pardon me”-ing and all would be lost.
* * * * *
Aside: Do not believe the whole “polite and mannered” English people myth.
English people conduct themselves in public like they have a mission and their mission is the most important thing in the entire world. The fact that you, too, might have a mission does not concern them in the slightest.
So, beware, if you happen to be in a small town grocery store and you can’t figure out if you want the organic bio-yogurt with vanilla or the bio-yogurt with peaches and wheat germ and you’re standing taking up the precious aisle space in front of the yogurts trying to decide. Beware because an English person will reach right in front of you and grab what they want, breaking your concentration and making you start your deliberations all over again.
If they happen to be walking down the sidewalk with a friend at their side and you’re walking up that same sidewalk, don’t think that one of the polite and mannered English people will drop back to allow you your own, rightful bit of sidewalk. No, they’d rather run right into you or force you into the street. And they will.
And whatever you do, whatever you do, when you approach a queue, study it and ascertain exactly where the end is and go there and only there. Do not look like you’re confused (they can smell indecision and if they do, they’ll snap). Do not allow your mind to wander to anything else but the queue and your place in it. If you enter the queue anywhere but at the end, you are likely to be beaten to death and no English judge would send your murderers to jail because you deserved it because you jumped the queue.
I am not kidding.
And, they won’t say excuse me or pardon me, there is no concern or remorse.
There is only the mission.
And in the cities, it is far, far worse.
This is not a fault, this is the culture. You get used to it and you’re supposed to “when in Rome”. Unfortunately for me, consideration is ingrained. Therefore, in busy places, I can’t get around very easily because I’m too busy being courteous.
Of course, Ash was a natural.
PS: This rule does not apply to Scots who are very nice and will chat happily with you in elevators.
* * * * *
We made it to the Krispie Kreme section which was shoulder-to-shoulder, a beacon of peace to the world as every color, culture and persuasion were represented waiting harmoniously to get their own hot, glazed donut.
I saw Aidan’s head and shoulders rising above a group of Asians chattering and queuing to get their sugar rush, their children already wearing little paper hats.
When I reached him, I threw my arms around him and gave him a happy shake. Then I grabbed his face, kissed his left cheek, his right cheek and then right smack on the lips. His arms started to slide around me when I felt Ash’s hand curl into the waistband of my jeans and he pulled me back.
Not very far back since, due to the crush, there wasn’t far to go.
So there we were, me caught in the middle of an Aidan-Ash Gorgeous Hunk Sandwich while they did another of their testosterone-induced staring matches.
I sighed.
“Are we gonna get donuts or what? I’m starved,” I blurted to interrupt the contest and so I could get my dang donut.
“No,” Ash said.
Um.
What?
“What do you mean, ‘no’? These are Krispie Kremes!” I gestured to the hundreds of donuts traversing the conveyor belt, floating through the vat of hot fat and being swathed by a solid sheet of liquefied sugar. “I am a lonesome traveler far from home and this is the food of my people!”
I stopped the drama queen tantrum as Ash turned me around and steered me out while Aidan followed us.
No Krispie Kremes.
No reciprocal hug from Aidan.
Not even a moment at the Lalique counter (just to look).
Cruel, cruel world.
I slumped down the pavement through the throngs, dragged along by Ash pulling me by the hand, my disappointment huge that I was turned away from a hot-out-of-the fat glazed donut and probably toward a fry-up or worse, some health-food crapola.
Ack!
As I passed, I stared dejectedly into shop windows that I would normally have been noting for future after-breakfast shopping reference.
And then I saw it.
Oh… my… goddess!
I stopped dead (so dead, Ash stopped with me) and pressed my face against the window.
There, in front of me, were rows and rows of mouth-watering pastries: mini-tiramisus, éclairs, thick cream slices, shiny, sugar-glazed fruit tarts, Danishes galore, cakes with fancy, fanned sheets of chocolate that were utter works of art.
And, the most beautiful of all: custard filled donuts that were the size of my hand.
Do not mistake me, not my palm, my hand, from the tip of my middle finger to my wrist and then some.
I pressed my nose against the glass hoping it would absorb me so I could fall, face first, into the cream, the chocolate, the…
“Matty?” It was Aidan.
“Here, here, I wanna eat breakfast here,” I breathed and pointed at the display.
“We are… come inside so we can get a table.”
Patisserie Valerie.
The new love of my life.
I wanted to buy a house across the street so when I wasn’t eating there, I could stare at the windows with binoculars.
A short wait and we were at a table (or, more to the point, a table that both Ash and Aidan found acceptable).
Ash sat with his back against one wall, Aidan with is back against the other wall and I faced them.
All I can say is, thank the goddess we didn’t live in the Wild West or these two would have gunned each other down in the street long ago.
Okay then.
Coffee.
Check.
Big-ass custard donut.
Check.
There I was, me and my boys and the promise of a huge donut.
Yay!
And.
Ack!
Mm, not the greatest conversationalists, these two.
“Okay,” I started. “So… bombs?”
Ash gazed at me, Aidan watched, I waited.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
“Obviously, they were trying to take you two out,” I noted. “Why would they do that?”
“What makes you think they wanted to take us out?” Ash asked.
“I had a vision… you were coming one way, Aidan the other and… then… er, kablam!”
“They weren’t trying to take us out. They were trying to take you out.” Ash, as usual not sugar-coating it, explained.
Um.
“Me?”
Ack!
“What else would you do after having that vision but run to try to save us and then, there you’d be…” Aidan broke in then trailed off.
“You and the bomb,” Ash finished.
Holy fucking shit.
Holy… fucking… shit!
“But you two –” I started.
“Just motivation to get you there,” Aidan explained.
“And, undoubtedly, a bonus,” Ash finished.
Holy fucking shit.
I wanted to cry but it was too late, the coffee and donuts arrived.
Well, not donuts per se as Ash had a salmon and cream cheese bagel and Aidan had eggs, bacon and toast. I was the only who ordered a donut.
“So, they aren’t after Josie? They’re after me?” I asked then I asked more, “I thought Josie and Rory were the targets… why were they after me?”
“With you out of the way, Josie won’t be a problem,” Aidan explained.
“And, Mathilda, you’re always the target,” Ash added.
I thought back to crazy Josie who was at her wits end, screaming at Rory, seriously underweight and nearly poisoned by the time I came on the scene.
This was ruining the enjoyment of my donut and that was pissing me off.
“What the hell does she do that it’s worth blowing up a fricking street and anyone on it?”
Silence.
Okay, I’d had enough. I mean, bombs were exploding.
“Oh for goddess’s sake! Just tell me. I’m tired of this secret prophesies crap. What am I risking my ass, not to mention your asses for here? Hunh?”
More silence.
“Dammit!”
Okay, I shouted, and maybe that isn’t the thing to do in Patisserie Valerie as the trendy Londoners (because, make no mistake, this was not a tourist trap) started to stare… but tell me, what would you do?
Bombs… were… exploding.
Aidan was the first to speak.
“Josie will one day be Prime Minister. She’ll introduce radical and extremely controversial reforms that will shake up industries, economies, entire nations. These reforms will be social, educational and environmental. These reforms will make the rich less rich and will, most frightening to some, work.”
Whoa.
Hold on.
Our Josie?
Angry at trash collectors one day and Robin Hood in Parliament the next?
Aidan went on, “Other countries will adopt these reforms, more people will work, more people will go to school, they’ll have more, starve less and be healthy. The earth will begin to heal itself. Josephine McShane is going to change the world.”
Whoa, part deux.
“Fuckin’ A Bubba,” I muttered.
Sorry, but that was all I could think to say.
“Indeed.” Aidan smiled at me. “She’ll also be the first leader to recognize the magical and supernatural world in any official public capacity. She’ll guide the two worlds into living together in peace.”
“Go, Josie, go Josie,” I cheered, my donut was looking good again so I took a big bite.
Please note: this was not a custard donut. This donut was stuffed with crème patisserie. This donut was divine. There were probably entire populations on earth that would worship this donut. I knew this for a fact because I was considering being the founding member of the cult.
“That will be after the war, of course,” Ash interjected breaking my donut reverie.
I choked on cream and dough.
“Uh, wha’?” I said with my mouth full.