Page 18 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
As far as he can tell from the minimal movement he’s willing to try, that hand got the worst of it. He suspects his face is overdone too by the way his cheek sticks to the floor when he shifts but he’d rather not confirm that one, and he’s trying not to think about his hair.
His gaze travels beyond his soon-to-be-jointed fingers and focuses on the pool of white and char in the center of the office. Like a drunk memory, the feeling of something beneath his fingers urges him upright, gasping loudly as things pull and crack and ooze anew. Crying doesn’t come easily to him either, but getting onto hands and knees and then crawling into the office forces a few tears to join the mess of his face, burning on their journey down his cheeks.
In the center of the liquefying fire extinguisher spray is a black book. Not black in the traditional sense of the word, like his clothes, hair, or lipstick. Black like the stuff he spits up and bleeds, devoid of dimension, like he’s staring at a lightless, square-shaped hole in the ground. But he knows it has form. The tips of his utterly ruined stiletto nails scraped it, dragged it out.
It’s his mother’s spell book.
His tongue runs over dry lips, a cracked layer of skin sliding free, and he spits it onto the floor. The black spell book is roughly the size of his open hand—would fit so nicely there—which is how he knows it’s magic compelling him. If not for how much being on fire hurt, he’d have his fingers on it again already.
A bandaged hand descends in front of his face, and he snaps out of a daze he hadn’t realized he was in. Ophelia is squattingbeside him, and he’s surprised to find they do have gauze. A competent wrap encircles her palm, and she’s removed her lipstick entirely.
“What the hell?” she asks correctly.
“No, I know,” Mateo says, having a hard time keeping his gaze focused on her. “Do you wanna touch it?”
She lifts an eyebrow critically but looks at the spell book. “No. You do?”
“So much,” he says, licking his lips again, relieved the skin stays in place. “It’s her spell book. I can’t believe it’s here.”
Leaning over the foam, she peers at it. “It kinda looks like you. Magically speaking.”
His gaze skitters to the fire extinguisher. “Is that thing empty?”
“I didn’t use the whole thing, but I don’t know how much is left. But also. Don’t.”
“I know.” The point of coming in here wasn’t to kill himself with his mom’s evil-ass spell book—though, it’s disconcerting to realize it’s been in the house the whole time. And difficult to think around.All he wants to do is press his hands to the cover, look through the pages, hold it close.
Death card.
Focus.
Shaking himself, he says, “Before I burst into flames, I saw the address book on the top shelf.” He squints at the now normally-shadowed underside of the shelves. “I think the fire was a ward on that bottom area, not the whole thing. To keep anyone from getting the spell book out of there.”To keephimfrom getting the spell book out of there. There’s a certainty in that thought that makes his head swim, gaze losing focus.
Except, this certainty makes zero sense. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to find her spell book, not just him.
Giving the shelf a wary once-over, Ophelia gets the fire extinguisher in her good hand and braces it between bare calves so she can trigger and aim one-handed. “Try not to run around if you catch fire again. Also, I hate this.”
“Not loving it either,” he says, crawling around the foam and sitting in front of the closet shelves. The little green book is unassuming, which hopefully means no fire. “Count of three.”
“One—” she says, and he reaches for it.
Gets it.
Has it.
Neither of them moves, eyes wide and alert on each other. No fire. No nothing.
“Thank fuck,” he says, sitting back on his ass and examining the blank cover. The whole thing is less than a quarter of an inch thick. “Reading anything off it?”
“Nothing,” Ophelia says, not releasing her grip on the extinguisher.
“Count of three,” she says.
“One.” He opens the book to the middle.
And sees a name,Sven LaRue, a phone number, address, email, and the wordinútil. Useless. His mother’s favorite word. He flips through a few more pages. “This is it.”
Ophelia holds out her hand for it and he passes it over. She’s abandoned the fire extinguisher to balance the book on her lap and flip through it. “Now what?”
