Page 87 of A Witchy Spell Ride
“Did he touch you?”
“Only at the end when he tried to kiss me. I turned my face. He laughed like I’d made a joke and said he liked a challenge.” I swallowed. “It wasn’t violent. It was… sticky.”
Ghost’s jaw worked, slow and dangerous. “Sticky men become violent when sticky doesn’t work.”
“I know.”
The bell chimed.
I didn’t jump. A man walked in with the hesitant shuffle of a tourist who’d gotten lost and decided to let fate pick a souvenir. He looked. He left. The bell chimed again.
“Soon,” Ghost murmured, reading the cadence of the street like only men who’ve hunted in cities learn how.
“Good,” I said.
I gathered a stack of cheap tarot knockoffs from the discount bin and spread them on the counter, flipping them over one by one. Lovers, again. The Star. The Tower. I tapped the Tower with my nail. “Of course,” I muttered. “You would.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I slid The Star to the top of the pile. “Maybe we get hope.”
The door opened.
This time, the air changed.
You can feel malice. It has a temperature. It walks in a fraction of a beat off from the music the city makes.
He stepped over the threshold like a man entering a chapel, head tilted, shoulders relaxed, a new jacket that still smelled like plastic. Beard trimmed. Cap low. A face so aggressively normal you’d forget it at a crosswalk and then dream of it hurting you.
He didn’t look at me first.
He looked at the mirror behind me, caught my reflection, and smiled to himself like he’d found a private joke. Then his gaze ticked to the bead curtain. To the corners. To the ceiling where the vent sat, newly secured.
“Can I help you?” I asked, voice smooth enough to pour.
His smile widened, pleasant and empty. “Looking for a gift.” His eyes slid back to me. “For someone special.”
Ghost didn’t move. He didn’t have to. His presence bent the air.
“What kind of someone?” I asked.
“The kind who needs reminding,” he said, tapping a finger thoughtfully against a display like he was making a decision about lavender versus sage and not about whether he could get away with murder. “Of what’s good for her.”
“You want rosemary, then,” I said, and placed a bundle on the counter. “For memory. For clarity.”
He took the bundle between his fingers and breathed in. It should’ve been funny, this man inhaling herbs like a witch on a lunch break. It wasn’t. He set it down gently and leaned forward, elbows on the counter like a friend. “You’re Selene.”
“You knew that before you walked in,” I said.
“I did.” His eyes warmed in a way that wasn’t heat. “You didn’t return my message.”
“I don’t return messages from strangers.”
“We’re not strangers.” He smiled again and I watched the smile not touch anything it should. “We had dinner.”
“We had a lesson,” I corrected. “I learned to listen to my gut. You learned that ‘no’ is complete.”
A flicker. There and gone. A seam showing. “No need to be rude.”
