Page 21 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
They’d hit the magic shop for basic supplies and then their structurally questionable hotel, ninety-nine percent glass folded in a high-gloss accordion shape in an earthquake-prone state. It hadn’t collapsed on them as they stole a nap in one of the beds of the four-whole-ass-bedrooms suite Topher inexplicably got for just the two of them. Nap was followed by reapplying protection wards and figuring out how best to look professional but not boring.
All of Mateo’s nice-enough-to-wear-in-a-Wall-Street-setting stuff is second-hand designer, purchased with great persistence of spirit on an auction site for a fraction of their actual price. Black Alexander McQueen on the legs, black Fendi button-up, and a black Philipp Plein tie—which sounds like a lot of black because it is. Ophelia only owns gauzy ankle-length dresses that hit the perfect balance of boho whimsical respectability, so she didn’t need to do anything special. Also, she’s cute, so can roll into most places in a paper sack with live birds in her hair, dropping f-bombs, and it’s fine.
Questions currently thought up to ask the dad? Zero. But at least they look good.
Topher, already waiting in the lobby, raises a hand as they approach. He’s changed since that morning, the generic tee,jeans, and sneakers traded for a dropped sleeve V-neck sweater, chinos, and wingtip boots, all in gray. It’s surprisingly stylish and transforms him into the posh rich guy he actually is. Even the afternoon sun shining through the lobby is interpreting this as a higher form of Topher, casting angelic rays only on him, his near-white hair glowing.
The illusion lasts all of twenty seconds.
Once they’re close enough, Topher speaks in an earnest theater whisper with eyes wide and vibrating at Mateo. “You look great.” Realizing he’s delivered the comment with way too much intensity, Topher starts to malfunction. “You both do, I mean. Look great. Not that you looked bad before. You didn’t look bad before now, you looked good then too, but differently good, and now you look like a different, not better but definitely different kind of good, and, I mean—”
“Looking spiffy yourself,” Mateo somehow says to stop this torrent despite never having used the wordspiffyin his life. Eager to end whatever either of them is doing here, Mateo puts a hand on Topher’s back and herds him out the exit. “Consensus is we all look amazing so let’s go.”
He’s surprised to see Quincy behind the wheel when they crawl into their ride. Maybe you rent the expensive rideshare drivers by the day? Doesn’t matter. He’s gotta think about what to ask a rich old guy about his son being cursed. Family history? Has he pissed anyone off lately? Except Mateo’s dragged from his concentration by Topher’s buzzing beside him.
He’s doing that thing where you grasp one hand with the other again and again, like a cartoon worried person or an arthritis flare. Anxious about his dad is Mateo’s guess. Relatable. Mateo always hated talking to his own mom. Only did it when absolutely necessary.
As if that was his dictate and not hers.
Plane-compassion debt still past due, he wracks his brain for something distracting, wishing Ophelia hadn’t again stolen the backmost seat, because she’s better at small talk. Or, not actually better, but not him, sothat’sbetter.
He decides he can ask about Topher’s shoes, which he’s pretty sure are obscure designer and expensive, but Quincy speaks in an unhurried deadpan. “Hold on.”
They all look forward and see a semitruck skidding across every lane of the five-lane freeway, an impassable truck-death-wall hurtling toward them.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
This vision of metal death is snatched away as they’re thrown hard to the left.
The car three-sixties across two lanes of heavy traffic.
The shout Mateo tries is cut short by the seat belt pulling taut.
They spin at high velocity for an eternity before jolting to a stop on the shoulder. The world darkens. A split second of panic that Mateo’s having another episode, but it’s the semi’s shadow as it skids by close enough to roll down the window and touch. Then they’re in the harsh California sun again. The world still spinning, Mateo whips his head around to follow the wall of jackknifed semi. It continues down the freeway in a scream of metal against asphalt. A few cars make it around the truck like they did, but none so flawlessly.
One makes it under. Which isn’t a good way to go.
The back of his throat gets sour with fear, but he turns to make sure Ophelia’s still whole and buckled in. She is, but she’s not looking toward the squealing and crunching. Her eyes are on Topher, who’s curled into a ball beside Mateo like he expects every impact to be theirs.
“Hey,” she says softly, inscrutable gaze on Topher. “I don’t think we got the curse.”
The concept of sticking around to talk to the police is floated by Topher alone, and the three nos—thanks, Quincy—have it.
Which is why they’re parked at Nystrom Sr.’s office with a despondent Topher unwilling to get out of the car, legs drawn up and forehead against knees. Can’t blame the guy. The curse is still in play, and it just sent a handful of people to critical care and the morgue. Mateo’s doing an amazing job envisioning piles of money so he won’t think about how many people just died or how close the crash was to Ophelia’s fragile human body. He wants to re-up her wards, maybe have a fight about how she shouldn’t be here, but has to deal with this first.
“Heeey. That was … a lot.” Mateo starts. Topher’s upset about hurting the people around him, so Mateo can’t feed him the platitudes that come naturally. Instead he says, “This isn’t your fault. Whatever’s causing this, it’s not you. It’s something happening to you. The best way to keep everyone safe is to figure out who’s cursed you and stop them.”
“What if nothing can stop them?” Topher says, and if Mateo wasn’t so close, he would have missed the miserable muffle.
How do you make a sad, soft boy happy?
He has no idea.
Practicality then.
Topher, jelly-limbed and without any sense of rigor, allows Mateo to peel one of his arms away and excavate the side of his face. “That’s not how this stuff works. There’s a reason for what’s happening. If we can find the reason, we can fix it.” Probably.
Topher’s eyes squeeze shut. Mateo’s afraid he’ll need a round two of this not very good pep talk, but then Topher unfurls, lowers his legs, and gives Mateo another of his very intense looks. This close, the light gray of Topher’s eyes is more pronounced, no hint of blue or green, pupils wide and dark like he’s on something. Probably near-death fear. But when Topher speaks, his voice is unexpectedly calm and resolute. “Sorry. You’re right. I’ve been upset and not doing anything for months. That doesn’t help.”
