Page 23 of A Witchy Spell Ride
But because, deep down, she already knew I’d been watching her all along.
At dusk, the sedan reappeared. Parked across the street this time. Too bold. Too obvious. Like a hand waving in the dark. I shifted rooftops, climbed two buildings over, crouched low behind a line of clay chimneys. From here, I could see into the car through the angle of a streetlamp.
The driver was there. Male. Ballcap low, beard trimmed. Didn’t look up. Didn’t move. Just sat. I memorized his profile. Not Banks. Not anyone I recognized from the club. Which made him worse. Because unknowns in our world weren’t just strangers. They were threats waiting to be named.
I considered moving in, dragging him out of the car, demanding answers. But that’s not how this works. You don’t show your teeth until you know where the bite lands.
So, I waited, and hours passed. The Quarter shifted moods from tourist-happy to drunk-snarling. Music rose, fell, bled. Cops rolled slow. Rats made their rounds.
Through it all, I kept my eyes on the sedan. At 11:07, the driver finally started the engine. Rolled away, slow, deliberate. Like he wanted me to see. He’d won that round. But the game wasn’t over.
I dropped back to street level, cut down the alley, and set my own markers. A thin hair across the latch of Selene’s back door. Chalk on the hinge. A sliver of mirror propped under the eave. Old tricks, simple ones, but they worked.
If anyone touched that door tonight, I’d know.
Selene’s lights flicked off around midnight. I saw her silhouette move past the window once, then vanish.
Briar didn’t come tonight. Which meant Selene was alone. And for reasons I didn’t let myself analyze too hard, that sat wrong in my chest. Sometime past two, she appeared again. At the window.
Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders. She leaned against the frame, one hand resting flat on the glass. She didn’t move for a long time. Just… stood there.
Looking out. At nothing. At everything. And for one heartbeat, I let myself believe she was looking for me. The thought burned like whiskey. Because the truth?
She didn’t know I was there.
And she couldn’t.
But some part of me, the reckless, haunted part wanted her to. The city kept breathing. The game kept playing. And me? I kept watching.
Waiting.
Ready.
Because whatever this was, whoever was in that sedan, whoever scratched photos, whoever thought they could toy with Selene like a piece on their board, they’d forgotten one thing. Ghosts don’t play by the rules.
And when the board tips?
I’ll be the last man standing.
Chapter Nine
Selene
The shop was locked.
I was sure of it.
Doors bolted. Windows sealed. Alarm set. Even the little charm Briar made last year a spell bottle stuffed with poppy seed, thistle, and a whisper of protection hung from the inside doorknob like always.
I’d just come back from the storeroom, arms full of dried sage bundles I was restocking. It hadn’t taken more than ten minutes.
But when I stepped back into the front of the shop, the air was different. Not cold. Not loud. Just wrong. And sitting on the counter, where I definitely hadn’t left anything, was a single rose. Deep red. long stem. Fresh.
Right next to it: a folded piece of cream paper. No envelope. No wax seal. Just a neat little square with my name scrawled across the front in looping black ink.
Selene.
My throat dried out instantly. I didn’t touch it at first. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. I scanned the shop, every corner, every shadow, every camera feed on my phone.
