Page 19 of A Witchy Spell Ride
We talked about stupid things, what we’d name a pet owl (Hootie, obviously), why we both hated banana-flavored candy, and whether or not Cross was secretly dating a woman who ran a funeral home in Baton Rouge.
“Imagine him at dinner,” Briar said, her eyes wide with mock seriousness. “‘Pass the potatoes, honey,’ and she just slides a femur across the table.”
I snorted so hard I nearly spilled the cheap wine she’d smuggled onto the balcony. “You’re going to hell.”
“First class, baby.”
We laughed. Loud, real laughter. The kind that makes you think maybe the fear was just in your head.
Briar was good at that. At filling silence with noise, shadows with color. She made things lighter just by existing. I didn’t tell her that, but she probably knew. She always knew.
But later, when Briar had gone and the apartment was quiet again, I stood in front of my mirror and traced the lines under my eyes. Something had left me tired. Worn. A little more aware than I liked.
I picked up the red-threaded charm again, held it in my palm. The psychic said it was done. Said the spell would work, said love and danger wore the same face.
And still, I didn’t know which one was looking at me in the mirror.
The next morning started the way mornings always did. Coffee. Keys. A quiet scan of the street before opening the shop. I told myself I was being careful, not paranoid. Told myself the unease was leftover dream static.
Then I found the envelope. Tucked neatly under my welcome mat. No name. No stamp. Just my name, handwritten in ink that looked too red to be right. I froze. Half bent, hand on the mat, staring at the sliver of paper like it might bite me.
Briar’s voice echoed in my head: “Awkward is spilling a drink. Awkward is forgetting a name. This? This is calculating your blood type.”I hesitated.
Then opened it.
Inside was a photo. Old. Black-and-white. Me, maybe seventeen. Sitting at the clubhouse bar during one of the holiday runs. Wearing a too-big hoodie and a smirk I barely remembered having. Vex was next to me, cigarette dangling, grin sloppy. Ghost was in the background blurry, but there.
But it wasn’t the picture that made my stomach flip. It was what had been done to it. Everyone else had been scratched out. Only my face remained. My face and Ghost’s. The ink over the others was thick. Jagged. Angry. Like whoever had done it wanted them gone. Wanted me alone.
I swallowed hard. No note. No signature. Just the message burned into the edges:
This is how it should be.
My hands shook. Just a little. Just enough. The air pressed heavy against me, like the city itself was waiting for my reaction.
I should’ve called Reaper. Should’ve told Briar. Should’ve shoved the photo in someone else’s hands and demanded answers. Instead, I carried it upstairs, slipped it into a box, locked it in my drawer, and told no one. Not yet. Not even Briar.
Because part of me needed to believe this was just fear.
Not fate.
Not yet.
But something deep in my chest whispered I was wrong. And fate?
Fate was knocking. I tried to go about the day like nothing happened. Stocked shelves. Lit incense. Ground herbs until the air smelled of sage and iron. But every time the bell above the shop door rang, my chest jumped. Every time a stranger lingered too long, I felt their eyes burn hotter than they should have.
By afternoon, Briar returned, flopping across the counter with her usual flair.
“Tell me something good,” she demanded.
“You’re exhausting.”
“That’s not good, that’s just facts.”
I wanted to hand her the envelope right then, wanted to watch her face, hear her spit out one of her ridiculous one-liners that somehow made everything seem manageable. But I didn’t. The box upstairs weighed too much on my conscience.
Instead, I poured her tea and said, “Cross might be dating a mortician.”
