Page 14 of A Witchy Spell Ride

Briar walks beside me, swinging her arms like she was light as air. But I saw the tightness around her eyes.

“You didn’t have to bait him,” I mutter.

She shrugs. “I breathe; it baits him.”

“Seriously, Briar—”

“Seriously, Selene. You’re worried about me flirting when your apartment turned into a funhouse overnight?”

Her words hit hard. Too hard. I wanted to argue but couldn’t.

I thought about the vase. The charm on the rug. The unlocked door.

And I thought about the dream.

That hand on my back. That whisper in my ear. The way it felt less like fantasy and more like memory.

Maybe the witch was right.

Maybe the spell was working.

Or maybe the spell had opened a door I wasn’t ready for.

I shiver despite the morning heat.

Something was happening. I could feel it in the air, taste it in the coffee I never finished, see it in the shadows that lingered a beat too long.

And I didn’t know if I was being hunted, haunted, or hexed.

But I knew one thing for sure.

The spell wasn’t the problem.

It was the answer.

Chapter Six

Ghost

Selene didn’t know I was there.

And that’s exactly how I wanted it.

I’d taken up post three buildings down, high enough to see into the upstairs window of her apartment but far enough not to spook her. The Quarter wasn’t built for surveillance, too narrow, too loud, too alive but I’d learned to make it work. Learn the tides, learn the noise. Use the brass band on the corner as cover, let the street vendors be moving blinds, count the beads of light as a clock. That was the thing about cities like this. They hid monsters in music.

The first thing I noticed about Selene’s world was that it didn’t match the stories. You’d expect chaos, herbs everywhere, spell jars, bones hanging from windows. But her place was calm. Intentional. Shelves organized. Colors chosen. Rituals stacked like bricks to keep the world from slipping out from under her feet. She drank her coffee with both hands, like it was something sacred. Lit candles every morning, not because she believed in them, but because she wanted to. She took up space without asking. And she carried fear like a second heart, quietly. But it was there. In the way she double-checked her locks. The way she looked over her shoulder on the sidewalk. The way she flinched, barely, when someone came too close.

I saw it all.

And every day it made something in me tighten a little more.

Tuesday afternoon, she leaves the shop to grab groceries. I follow, loose and unintrusive, blending in with the street noise. She wore combat boots, a black skirt, and a vintage tee that said MAKE SPELLS, NOT WAR. She hums when she walks. Picks produce like she was reading tarot. Smiles at the old man at the register like he was the only person in the world.

And I couldn’t stop watching.

I should’ve. That was the job, observe, protect, report. Not get drawn in. Not wonder how she smelled after a shower or whether she left the window open on purpose. I was toeing the line. I knew it. But fuck, it was a thin line. And Selene was the kind of woman who blurred every edge.

The third time the same silver sedan drove past the shop in under twenty minutes, I finally stood up straighter. Tinted windows. No front plate, not illegal here, but still a choice. Dented passenger door. The antenna was repaired with black tape. Nothing to scream threat, but nothing to scream friendly either.