Page 16 of A Witchy Spell Ride

“Nothing yet.”

“Boring. Drink later.”

“After.”

After doesn’t come.

At 14:53, Selene has a delivery, a florist with a box, handwritten card taped to the top. Nice paper. Not her birthday. Not a holiday. The delivery guy rang, shrugged at an empty shop, and left the box by the door when no one answered fast enough. I'm close enough to read the logo. Uptown florist, upscale, out of place for our block. I'm two buildings away and too far to intercept without showing myself. I hate it.

Briar comes down the stairs, sees the box, glances up and around. Smart, even when playing reckless. She checks the street, then carries it inside like it might explode. The door shuts. I count. One Mississippi. Two. Thirty. I shift to the side window where the sun cuts the glare and catch the edge of her expression when she lifts the lid. Her mouth shapes a word I can’t hear. “Shit” or “oh.” She pulls out flowers, white lilies, too sweet, then a small glass bottle tied with red thread. She looks up the stairwell, calling for Selene. Selene comes down slowly, wiping her hands. She stares at the bottle like she already knows it from a bad dream.

My jaw locks. Red thread.

Briar flips the card. She reads. Her face changes, not fear, not anger. Something colder. She passes the card to Selene. Selene reads and for a second her chin dips and her hand trembles, then she catches herself and sets both on the counter like she was setting down a hot pan. She walks to the sink and turns on the tap. She doesn’t touch the bottle again.

I hate the distance between us. The job requires distance. The man doesn’t.

Three minutes later, the upstairs lights go off and on again, her code to herself. Reset. She comes back down with a small, lidded tin, moves the bottle into it using a pair of tongs, and wraps the tin in a cloth embroidered with sigils. Practical magic. Containment. You don’t fight a thing just by calling it evil. You make it small, and you make it inert.

I text Reaper: “Gift delivered. Red thread. Upscale florist. No immediate move.”

He: “Understood.”

Then: “You think?”

I: “Not a kid move.”

He: “Keep eyes.”

I burn the florist's name into my head and take a detour. A city like this, you can be across town and still be nowhere. Ten minutes on foot, one bus, two blocks. The shop was white tile and money. A clerk with clean nails and no sense. I don’t go in. I wait until a driver comes out back with a dolly and a cigarette. Men with dollies always talk.

“Busy?” I ask, like I belong. He shrugs and light up. I hold up my lighter to help; men smoke easier when they think you’re doing them a favor. “Run a lot to the Quarter?”

“Only with standing accounts.”

“You get any today?”

“Three. Hotel, gallery, private.”

“Private?” I nod toward the dolly.

He exhales. “Drop on Burgundy. Weird note. Weird chick.” He laughs, like fear is funny at noon. “People are freaky down there.”I smile like I agree and walk away, I don’t press, don’t spook the pipeline.

Afternoon turns to late afternoon, then to almost-evening, when the city’s temperature drops by one arrogant degree and the humidity decides it’s a religion. Selene closes the shop early. Smart. She locks the door, draws the shade, and walks upstairs. Lights on, off and on again. She sits on the floor cross-legged with Briar and they talk. I can’t hear it, but I can read it in their hands, quick, hard movements, then stillness. Decision.

At 19:12, she grabs a bag. Briar grabs keys. I move to cover the back exit and see my hair marker still intact. No breach today. They come out the front instead. I let them get a half-block head start, then slide into the flow.

They go to the river. Good call. Open space. Fewer corners. They sit on a bench and watch the water. Briar keeps up a patter that looks like jokes. The sun smears itself across the water like butter, and for a second, I let myself imagine the thing inside me didn’t have teeth. That's when Banks appears.

He doesn’t see them at first. He comes down the steps like a man who tells himself he’s out for air and lies well enough to almost believe it. He sees Selene and every muscle in his back bunches like a slow blow. He pockets his hands, stares at the water, then risks a look and catches himself being obvious. He turns away, his body screams want and shame at the same time.

I get closer, slide past a couple holding hands, and let my shadow swallow him. “Walk,” I say, quietly enough that he doesn’t startle. He walks, we move up the steps, into the cover of a planter.

“You like the river?” I ask.

“I like air.” Defensive.

“You like watching women breathe it?”