Page 106 of A Witchy Spell Ride
He smiled one last time, indulgent. “We’ll see.”
His hand left my face.
I flexed my fingers. Felt blood return. Felt rage settle into something surgical.
The candles trembled again.
So did he.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ghost
The tires were still warm when we got to the motel.
Cross’s intel was solid, the burner Adam used pinged at 6:52 p.m. to a nearby cell tower. Room 12A at River Grove. We were sure. Too sure.
Reaper rode up beside me, silent. Bones was already off his bike, gun drawn.
“Let’s move.”
We breached the door like we’d done it a thousand times because we had.
But the smell hit first.
Copper.
Decay.
Mildew.
Then the sight.
Adam Lane — or whoever the fuck he really was — slumped back against the dingy mattress, eyes wide open, mouth frozen mid-scream. A pool of blood soaked through his shirt. Slit from gut to chest, clean and efficient.
“No fuckin’ way,” Bones muttered.
Cross moved in, scanning the room. “Looks like he didn’t even have time to stand up.”
Reaper checked the window. “No sign of a struggle. One blow.”
“One professional blow,” I muttered.
Because whoever killed Adam wasn’t sloppy.
This wasn’t rage.
This was silencing.
I stepped back, heart hammering.
Selene wasn’t here.
And now the only suspect we had was cooling on a cheap mattress, mouth open like he’d died with her name still on his lips.
“She’s not here,” I growled. “This was never about him.”
Reaper turned toward me, fists clenched. “Then who the fuck was it?”
