Page 23 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
“He’s a peach,” Ophelia says.
“Seems really supportive too.” Mateo takes a seat, running his tongue along his sharp teeth. Demon doesn’t like the asshole dad much either. “Did you see what happened in the car?”
“The weird swirl of stuff on Topher exploded out right before the truck fishtailed,” Ophelia says, her gaze still following Topher. “Then it slowly came back.”
They’d been pretty sure about the curse, but now they’re for-sure-for-sure that it’s real.
“Get anything off the dad?”
“Not him specifically.” Ophelia rummages in her purse, extracting a cherry lip balm and applying it over red- painted lips before continuing. “There’s a lot of weird energy around here. I’m not sure if he’s the one practicing or it’s just someone else in this office. Or multiple people. There’s too much energy for no magic to be happening, but not enough to pin it on one person. Witches usually look like witches. Unless they know how to hide it.” She gestures at Mateo, presently sporting the very ward she’s talking about to mask his demon stank.
“Oh shit. Someone’s been doing magic but also trying to clean it up,” Mateo whispers, examining the cubicles outside the conference room. No one’s paying them any attention. Why would they? If the curser were the too-pink guy in the ill-fitting DKNY button-up in the closest cubicle, he’d have no reason to think the pair of random people left to rot in a glass box were out to get him.
A knock on the glass directs their attention to the door. It’s neither of the Nystroms. It’s a jacquard Alexander McQueen suit. Black on black, so the iconic logo pattern is subtle and only visible when it catches the light. Matching jacket and pants Mateo would murder a bus full of children going to aSad Kids Who’ve Never Known Joycharity party to wear. Beneath is a crisp white button-up. A double monk strap pair of Jimmy Choo’s with a rounded toe finish the look.
Flawless.
There’s also a guy in all that, but the wearer is an afterthought. Mateo’s never experienced someone so well dressed. Well dressed and bald. But in a stylish way. Like it’s a choice and not an outcome of genetics. Maybe both. He’s working it eitherway. He’s also staring at Mateo, waggling his fingers in greeting, and opening the door. “Hey. Sorry to interrupt. Are you guys waiting on someone?”
“Your outfit is amazing,” Mateo says because it has to be said. He can’t think past it.
Well-dressed man smiles sharp lips, wielding a cupid’s bow that could cut metal. It’s a good smile. Like he understands the soul-deep sincerity in Mateo’s words. He’s gotta be early twenties too. All these wealthy guys his age should be pissing Mateo off, but this one gets a pass because he’s now the best human being Mateo’s ever seen.
“We’re waiting for Mr. Nystrom,” Ophelia says because she’s not being seduced by an outfit.
The guy’s artfully plucked eyebrow lifts. “Really?”
“We don’t seem the type?” Mateo says and is rewarded by that smile again and the guy stepping in, offering his hand. Which Mateo stands and shakes. “Mateo Borrero.”
“Ethan Robillard. New clients?”
“Mr. Nystrom Jr. isourclient,” Ophelia says, surveying Ethan before introducing herself. It’s a surprising level of interest. Nothing about Ethan lines up with the scattershot diagram of her tastes that Mateo’s worked out over the years. She tends to like cutesy across all spectrums. Unless she’s seeing something in his aura—the thought he should have jumped to first.
“I’ve heard tales of drinks, food, andstuff,” she says, still angling for free things. Or a non-Nystrom-guided look around because she’s a genius.
Ethan seems amused. “We do indeed have drinks, food, and stuff. You’ve got time for a tour?” He asks Ophelia but then looks at Mateo.
“You tell us.” Mateo tilts his chin in the direction the Nystroms went. “Nystrom Sr. and Jr. went to chat. That an all-day affair?”
Ethan looks at his watch, one of those bulky things that represent the last stage ofrichfor any man, when they’ve run out of things they actually want to buy but recognize that the archaic devices hold power overolds. “Ten minutes until Nystrom the Senior’s in a meeting I’m also in.”
“How long will you be trapped in that?” Mateo asks.
“Scheduled for four hours,” Ethan answers readily. “Traps me till the end of the day.”
They’re being blown off by Topher’s dad. He never had a window to talk to them.
“We’d love a quick look around,” Mateo says.
With only ten minutes to spare, Ethan provides a very economical tour. The fancy-money-people office features a nap room, a chill room, and a room where one whole wall is expensive bottles of booze—where Ophelia wants to linger so Mateo gives her awe’re workinglook and she concedes.
On the main office drag, their tour guide indicates the boring old guys who can’t talk about anything but stock portfolios, the boring old guys who can’t talk about anything but tax write-offs, and a corner that holds a trio of younger guys who can’t talk about anything but sports ball of various forms. A whole floor full of people Mateo would rather fling himself into traffic than talk to, so it’s a real shock that Ethan seems so completely self-aware and funny about it.
They end up in a large kitchen-slash-cafeteria, a catered lunch still steaming in metal bins. Ophelia helps herself, awoman with no working definition of shame; she has two plates, and they both know that neither is for Mateo.
“What do you do here, other than give opinionated tours as a ruse to guide forsaken people to the free food?” Mateo asks, picking up a paper plate but not doing anything with it.
Ethan, hands in the pockets of his nice pants, looks both completely at ease and totally out of place in the harsh Walmart Superstore lighting of the space. He smiles and throws the question back at him. “For my excellent tour, you should go first.”
