Page 57 of Forsaken Oath

I glance back at my Hellcat, running a hand along the edge of the hood. I’m good at the basics, but fortop shape, I need a professional. And lucky for me, my sister’s in love with one.

Looks like I’m heading to Reaper’s Garage tomorrow.

25

ELOISE

“Okay,walk me through what we’re doing here. I thought you mostly camped out in the car and survived on vending machine snacks and shitty coffee.”

I glance at Margot, the look on my face sharp enough to cut glass. She doesn’t even flinch—she just grins like the little shit she is, reading my fed-up-ness loud and clear. Sisterly bond or whatever.

She laughs, throwing her hands up in surrender and quickening her steps to catch up as I cross the street. “What? I’m not wrong. You usually video call me when you’re out on jobs, and it’s always from your car.”

“Did you ever think that maybe I only call you when I’m in the car?” I jump the last foot onto the curb just as the light turns green, cars easing down Main Street in the heart of Rosewood.

This town could be a carbon copy of Avalon Falls—small-town America in all its quaint glory. Mom-and-pop diners, family-owned boutiques, legacy bakeries, and streets that feel like a time capsule. I know big corporations are choking out places like these across the country, but here, it feels like they’re thriving. Every storefront brims with personality, littlechalkboard signs advertising homemade pies, craft coffees, or whatever else the locals are proud of.

“Oh my God, you’ve been holding out on me!” Margot’s voice drips with mock betrayal. “All this time, I thought you were roughing it while you went on jobs, but really, you’ve been gallivanting across the country, grabbing custom lattes with fancy foam art. If you tell me you’ve been eating those artisan sandwiches without me, I’m gonna riot, Louie. I’m telling you right now.”

I snort out a laugh, shaking my head. She’s been fixated on these sandwiches she saw some video of—grilled cheese with five kinds of cheese, homemade sourdough bread, and some kind of fancy garlic aioli. She’s worked herself into a state imagining them.

“Yeah, no artisan sandwiches,” I assure her, strolling down the sidewalk. My crossbody bag bumps against my hip as I adjust the strap, double-checking the weight of my phone and the burner tucked safely inside. My hand lingers there for a second longer than necessary, the memory of the Gauntlet’s text still fresh in my mind.

Margot points toward the coffee shop we’re headed for, her brows furrowed. “So . . . is this the target or not? I’m confused.”

I push the door open, a bell jingling overhead as the scent of freshly brewed coffee hits me like a warm hug. The space is cozy, with mismatched furniture and shelves lined with jars of tea leaves and syrups. “God, I wish I could get caffeine just from the smell. It’s so good.”

“Please tell me this isn’t the target,” she murmurs, her gaze sweeping the room. “It smells way too good to burn this place down or whatever.”

I jab an elbow back at her without looking. “Quiet.”

“Ow, what? Jeez, Louie. No one’s even paying attention to me,” she grumbles.

I toss her a glare over my shoulder, nodding toward a trio of women sitting in the corner. They’re in coordinated neon tracksuits, sipping iced lattes like they’re auditioning for a suburban spy movie. From the way their heads are angled, I know they’re listening. That’s the thing about small towns. We’re big enough to get visitors and tourists. But not so big that we wouldn’t get noticed loitering outside a motorcycle club all day.

“Honestly, they look so good,” Margot says, completely oblivious. “We should totally ask them where they got those. How cute would we look—me, you, and Vivie—in something like that? I’d call the pink one, though. No way I’m pulling off neon green.”

“I don’t know if anyone would look as good as they do,” I mutter as we step up to the counter.

The barista greets us with a cheerful, “Welcome to The Coffee Shop. What can I get you?”

I gesture for Margot to go first.

“No, you go,” she says, squinting at the chalkboard menu hanging above the counter. “I’m still deciding.”

“Fine. I’ll have a medium caramel latte, oat milk if you’ve got it.”

The barista punches in the order and glances at Margot expectantly.

She leans her hip against the counter, tilting her head. “What’s your favorite drink?”

The barista blushes under the sudden attention, stammering, “Uh, I drink it black.”

Margot scrunches her nose in disgust. “Yeah, no. I can’t hang with that. Okay, I’ll take, um, a vanilla bean frappé. Extra whipped cream.”

“Sure thing. That’ll be ten seventy-one.”

I pull cash from my bag and slide it across the counter, tossing the change into the tip jar with a soft clink. As we moveto the waiting area, the neon trio is gone. Bummer. I was going to ask them about their outfits. Because Margot’s right. We’d look so cute in them, even just for Halloween.

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