Page 7 of A Witchy Spell Ride
She grabs my hand and drags me toward a corner of the courtyard, lowering her voice. “Okay. So, tell me everything.”
I lean against the brick wall and look down at my boots. The leather is scuffed where I’ve leaned them against the step at the shop, where I’ve spent too many nights turning tarot cards and sweating like the cards would tell me something I wasn’t ready to hear. “I’ve found things. At the shop. At the apartment. Little stuff at first. A charm left on my windowsill. A wax figure burned at the bottom. Thought it was a prank.”
“Then what?”
“A picture. An old one. From five years ago.” My voice loses its sharpness. The memory feels like a cut I know how to hide behind makeup and jokes, but it still stings.
Briar’s face tightens. “My face was scratched out.”
She exhales slowly. “Jesus, Selene.”
“I haven’t told Reaper.”
“What the hell, why not?!”
“Because he’ll burn the world down. And I need to know what I’m dealing with first.” Saying his name makes the courtyard feel smaller. Reaper is a constant, big hands, low voice, an anger that could be a promise or a threat. He didn’t do half-measures when it came to his family.
“So, you’re just… walking around with a target on your back?”
“No. I’m walking around with knives in my boots and spells in my purse.” I try to smile, and Briar actually laughs, which eases the edge off my panic for half a beat.
She raises an eyebrow. “So, the usual.”I manage a weak grin. Then she softens. “Selene, this isn’t a joke.”
“I know.”
“Have you told Ghost?”
That one hits different.
“No.”
Her mouth quirks. “But you want to.”I look away. Briar steps in front of me. “You trust him.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“But you do.”
I don’t answer. She steps closer, all warmth and steel. “He looked at you like he wanted to burn the clubhouse down just for breathing the same air as Banks.”Heat climbs my neck. “I’m not reading into anything.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that.”
I push off the wall. “It doesn’t matter. He’s a nomad. He’ll leave.”
“Maybe,” Briar says. “But not before something happens.”I turn to her. “You think the spell was real?”
Her eyes flick to my pocket, where the charm the psychic gave me still sits heavy against my thigh. I’d been skeptical when the woman at the tarot parlor, elbows smudged with cigarette ash, voice like gravel, told me to take a ride that would change my life. I hadn’t believed in the kind of magic that rearranged your world. I believe in making your own luck, in hard work and bigger locks.
“Magic’s real,” Briar says quietly. “I think the universe likes chaos. And I think when you walked into that room, she saw something.”
“Danger?”
“Or love.”
“Same thing.”
