The Witches on BellaRow Street

3. Okay, We Need Magic

My skin dipped from the Nile Rivers made of honey...
*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ*

For a brief moment, all four of us lock eyes with the man, the tension in the air thick enough to taste. His judgmental gaze sweeps over us, landing on the body at our feet, and then back again. The alley feels colder somehow, as if the air itself is holding its breath, waiting for someone to make the first move. The weight of his stare presses on me, making every second stretch longer than it should. It's like we're trapped in some invisible standoff, frozen for the second time tonight.

But Aunt BeeBee doesn't freeze. She's always the calmest under pressure, her sharp instincts kicking in while the rest of us panic. Without missing a beat, she slips her perfectly manicured fingers into her purse. The soft rustling sound draws my attention, and I watch as she pulls out a small burgundy bag with drawstrings. Its rich color catches the dim light, and I feel a jolt of recognition. It's the bag we all know too well—the one that holds her emergency spell powders. Her steady hand and unwavering expression tell me she's already made up her mind about what to do.

BeeBee's eyes meet mine, and I immediately understand her silent signal. My stomach twists at the unspoken command. Of course, it has to be me. I'm the only one here with the gift of persuasion, the one who can make people believe what I say. And if that doesn't work, my ability to bend water would be a last resort. But I know better than to rely on soul magic tonight. Aunt BeeBee's earlier words echo in my mind: No magic, not tonight.

I clutch the bag tightly, its soft fabric warm in my hand. Persuasion has to be enough. It's all I have. The drunk man's confused gaze feels heavier now, and I realize this isn't just about convincing him—it's about keeping everything from spiraling out of control. The weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders as I take a deep breath, preparing to act.

I snatch the burgundy bag, stand tall, and walk toward the tall, lanky guy wearing Mardi Gras beads and a dark sweater. My hands tremble slightly, but I steady myself, knowing there's no room for hesitation. The bag feels light in my grip, yet the weight of what it represents grounds me. He doesn't know it yet, but between my gift and the contents of this bag, I'll have him out of here in no time. The cool night air brushes against my skin as I straighten my little olive-green dress, the fabric snug but not restrictive, perfect for moving swiftly if needed.

Fluffing my curly hair for good measure, I flash an innocent smile. "Hi, I'm Yanni," I say, my voice light and sweet, carrying just the right mix of charm and confidence. This fool has no idea what's coming. My pulse pounds in my ears, but I don't let it show. "What's your name?"

His beady eyes look over me, lingering in a way that makes my skin crawl. He has the nerve to lick his lips, and I resist the urge to flinch. "Jack," he slurs, his breath reeking of stale beer as he leans slightly closer, sizing me up like I'm part of the evening's entertainment. "What's going on over there, girl?" His gaze flickers toward my sisters and the dark shape of the body on the ground, his curiosity awakened. I force my smile to widen, knowing that keeping him focused on me is the key to keeping him distracted.

I glance back, making sure my sisters and the body are cloaked in shadows. From this distance, I hope he sees only vague shapes and movement. "Oh, do you think you could help my sisters and me?" I ask, softening my voice and batting my lashes, leaning into the tired but effective tactics women are sometimes forced to use to get their way. The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I know I have to sell this.

He grins lazily, his lips curling in a way that makes my skin crawl, and slings his arm over my shoulders like we're old friends. The weight of his arm presses against me, and I suppress a gag at the mix of beer and sweat wafting off him. "I don't see why not, Pretty Girl," he says, slurring slightly.