Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)

Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)

Avery Flynn



To Rachel.

   You really are magic, you know.

   Xoxo, Avery.





Magic happens outside of your comfort zone.

    —Jayde Adams, Serious Black Jumper





Chapter One


    Tilda . . .


    Among the magical sects who run the country, one family has been among the power brokers since it was only the thirteen colonies—the Sherwoods of Virginia. Unto every family, however, there is a black sheep. In the Sherwood family, that person is Matilda Grace Sherwood who, despite being from one of the most magical families in the entire Witchingdom, couldn’t even pull a rabbit from her favorite baseball hat.




Hi. Waves. That’s me. Please don’t call me Matilda, it’s Tilda—or Tillie if you’re my oldest sister, Effie. Of course, she only gets away with that because she could turn me into a can of seltzer in a WitchyGram live video and she’s annoyed enough some days to do it. You, however, can stick with Tilda.

Welcome to the Salem’s Bakery and Coffee Shoppe right in the heart of downtown Wrightsville, where, in an act of na?veté or straight-up foolishness (take your pick), I’m waiting for my date. No wait, don’t look over there. I’m not the gorgeous blonde standing at the counter ordering a double half-caf soy latte with one shot of sugar-free hazelnut and a warmed-up eye of newt muffin. Nope, sorry. I’m also not the fresh-faced cutie sitting by the window with auburn hair that falls down her back in waves that just go to show that somewhere on her family tree was a mermaid. I’m the short one with the practically glow-in-the-dark red hair, pasty pale skin, and glasses sitting at the corner table in the back under a dragon’s blood tree.

Ugh. I hate these trees. Why? Let’s just say that my chair is shoved as far forward as the tiny bistro table will allow because you only need to get the tree’s sticky, bloodred sap in your hair once to learn that lesson. Ever had gum in your hair? This is worse. Imagine if that gum smelled awful and had a mind of its own. Yeah. Definitely not an ideal situation, to put it mildly. Even worse, the dragon’s blood trees seem to desperately love me. Their branches lengthen when I’m near and twist to get closer. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were totally crushing on me, but that’s bizarre even for my life.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I’m an outré. That’s what we call the rare breed of witch that has absolutely no powers.

Zero.

Zip.

Zilch.

Lucky me, right? Not only do I have the magical ability of your basic couch cushion, I attract nasty-smelling trees. And okay, that would be fine if I was really into trees (OMG, is that a real kink? If so, please don’t tell me. My brain is a weird enough place as it is without that information.), but I’m not.

What happened and why I’m sitting here setting myself up for probable disappointment is this: A few months ago, I was going on a year without a date of any kind and I made up my mind to do something about it. Not because I think my life is pointless without a man, but because sometimes I just want a hand to hold, a person to joke with, and all of the other amazing (and okay, orgasmic) things that go along with falling in love and having someone you love who loves you too.

Is that so wrong? If it is, well then that just fits right in with the rest of me, because according to many of the people in the Witchingdom, I’m a magicless freak who isn’t worth talking to, let alone dating.

So that brings us back to the reason why I’m at the bakery this morning in my cutest going-out top and casual (yet deadly awesome) jeans with the hidden elastic waistband because no one needs to spend their life with their eye-of-newt-muffin-padded gut getting pinched. I have a date. Ideally, I’d be sitting over where mermaid hair is by the window to check the possibilities as people pass by, but the instructions from the matchmaker were explicit.

Await a tall, dark, and handsome man beneath the dragon’s blood tree.

Ugh. Really, I’d rather not be sitting anywhere near this tree (trust me, it smells so much like fetid dragon’s breath that taking a deep, calming breath is not an option). But desperate times call for desperate measures and all that. My last three dates Griselda set up were . . . well . . . let’s just say, they didn’t go well.

You know how everyone has a nemesis in their life? I got set up on a blind date with mine not once, not twice, but three times, so yeah, you could say in addition to being about as magical as a dried-up tree stump, I’m also dating impaired. That’s why I went with the matchmaker. I believed with all my heart that Griselda would pick better; she is a three-hundred-year-old sprite, after all. They are beyond lucky in love. Some of that has to have rubbed off on her pick of dates for me.

Right?

So my latest date is a few minutes late. That happens. Life in the Witchingdom can be uncertain. You never know when a troll is going to block your path under the overpass and demand you solve three riddles or dance the Macarena ten times in a row. Then there are the builder gnomes, who love to be helpful whether you ask for it or not. The other week, a gnome added a bay window to Mrs. Stuckley’s house while she was napping. She’d never asked for it, let alone hired the gnomes for the job. Still, the gnome crew wouldn’t leave until she paid the bill in M&Ms, but never the red ones.

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