Page 82 of A Witchy Spell Ride

“Bones is in it, hissing show tunes. If he finds a raccoon I’m moving.”

Reaper stood at the table, arms folded, eyes flat. He watched the screen like it owed him rent. “He used the vent to get inside the circle,” he said. “That means he’s feeling the edges.”

“Then we make the edges sharper,” I said.

Briar drifted in, glitter like a crime scene on her cheekbone. She clocked the petal bag and didn’t say a word. Her hand slid into Selene’s when Selene appeared in the doorway.

Selene’s chin lifted as she looked at the paused frame. Calm. Not calm. Something better: resolved.

“He wanted me to find it,” she said. “He wanted to prove he could still get close.”

“And you told him to get ready,” I said. “Good.”

A ghost of a smile crossed her mouth. “You saw.”

“I saved it,” I said.

She didn’t blush; she didn’t have to. The warmth choked me anyway.

Reaper broke our line with a look. “Tonight, we test him,” he said. “He comes in? He doesn’t leave the way he came.”

I nodded once. “He won’t expect a crowd that knows how to move.”

“Briar,” Reaper said, “you stay sticky. If Selene breathes, you count it.”

“Already do,” she chirped, then sobered. “I’m not letting her out of my shadow.”

“Cross,” Reaper went on, “add another eye to the western vent. Anyone touches a grate; I want an alarm in my teeth.”

“Done,” Cross said, already typing.

Selene’s gaze found me again. “We’re still doing Halloween.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a declaration. I gave it the only answer it deserved.

“Yeah,” I said. “We are.”

The day turned like a crank. I took a walk I didn’t call a patrol, past the shop, past the café where the burner emails were born, past the antique store that gave us our first real angle. The Quarter wore morning well. Delivery trucks hissed. A busker tuned a trumpet with the patience of a priest. A white van idled two blocks over, ladders on top, logo magnetic and forgettable.

I gave it a second longer than casual. The driver scratched his beard, not looking at me the exact way a man looks when he’s trying to not look at me. His partner stared at his phone like it owed him a future.

I filed faces, gaits, plates. The van pulled out. I let it go. Not the time. Not yet.

Back at the clubhouse, I found Vex on a ladder stapling up Daisy’s bats with the care of a surgeon and the disgust of a man doing community service. “Tell me if these catch fire,” he said without looking down.

“They will,” I said. “And you’ll live.”

“Fair.” He shot his staple gun. “You tell Banks to stop being an idiot?”

“Once,” I said. “I won’t repeat myself.”

“Good,” Vex said. “I hate mopping blood.”

“You love mopping blood,” Briar called from nowhere.

“Not on Thursdays,” Vex called back.

I went looking for Selene because that’s what I do now: check my exits, check my edges, check my center. I found her in the quiet back hall with sunlight pooling around her boots, head bent as she drew a small sigil on the underside of the stair rail with eyeliner. Protection. Attention. Her mother’s hand in hers.