And everything inside me locks.
She’s there.
Cat ears. Tail. Skin-tight black bodysuit.
There’s a man across from her at the table. He wears all black except for the stupid crown perched on his head. I see Willow’s lips move. She smiles at him, but I’ve seen her smile enough to recognize it’s all wrong. This one is forced. There’s disgust masked in it.
She says something else, and the man across from her takes the crown off, sets it on the edge of the table, and puts both of his hands on the table between them. She speaks again, and he turns them over, placing his palms flat on the wooden surface.
My brows furrow in confusion. She’s not doing a palm reading, asking him to place his hands down like that.
But just a second later, I see the flash of something silver and fast.
Two daggers slam down, metal biting flesh and wood in one merciless thrust. The man’s scream rattles against the glass. My gut lurches as his hands spasm, pinned like some grotesque crucifixion.
Holy shit. Holy shit! I don’t move. Can’t.
Willow. Willow, my little witchy obsession, just maimed a man with precise expertise, and she’s fucking smiling about it.
I watch as Willow leans close, her voice too low for me to hear, but her expression razor-sharp. Her mouth curls like she’s reciting scripture.
She rises to her feet and walks behind the man. And without hesitation, she pulls a black bag over his head and cinches it tight around his neck.
The man thrashes. Buckles. Jerks hard enough to rock the table, knocking the crown to the floor. His muffled screams scrape against my skull.
I should leave. I should run. I should pretend I never saw this.
But I can’t.
Because she looks holy.
Drenched in rage and conviction, eyeliner wings flared, fake tail jerking around as she holds the man still. She looks like justice itself wearing a cheap Halloween costume.
And I’ve never been so horrified or hard in my entire life.
When his body slumps forward, the silence hits harder than the scream.
That’s when the sound of laughter drifts down the sidewalk.
I jerk back, heart punching my ribs, just as a pack of drunk Halloween stragglers stumble up. Angel wings crooked, devil horns flashing, one pirate hugging a six-pack to his chest like it’s treasure.
“Yo, tarot!” one of them slurs, pointing at the glowing sign. “Bet it’s haunted in there!”
Another staggers toward the door. And panic explodes in me. If they push that door open, they’ll see him. See her. See everything.
I step forward fast, throwing myself between the drunks and the glass. Hood low, voice pitched deep. “Shop’s closed. Private event.”
The pirate squints at me. “C’mon, it’s Halloween?—”
I lean close enough he can smell the chalk and pyrotechnic lighter fuel still clinging to me. My voice sharpens like a blade. “Walk away. Unless you’re looking for a future you won’t like.”
For a beat, silence. Then the angel girl laughs nervously. “Whatever, dude. Let’s hit the next bar.”
The pack stumbles off, neon glow swallowing them whole.
Relief floods me. Too soon. Because when I turn back toward the window?—
She’s staring at me.
