Page 30 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
Now they’re staring at each other, an old argument about who should risk themselves to fix their situation sucking the air out of the room. They shouldn’t have this conversation in front of Topher and Quincy, their instability would be laid too bare, but neither of them can deny that there’s something they could each try. It’s extraordinarily dangerous to summon unfamiliar spirits—especially when one of them has a hard time staying in her body and the other has a hard time staying entirely human. Inviting an unknown into that is asking for trouble.
“We can try to find the mom first,” Mateo says. It’s a Hail Mary play. The mom’s probably dead. But if she’s not, she could know something.
Ophelia smiles without humor because Mateo’s the auto-winner of this argument, the little figure held tight in his hand and he’s not giving it over.
Looking to Quincy, Mateo says, “Beyond Topher calling, texting, and emailing, anyone have any ideas how to find her?” He’s hoping—because of the Tokyo-drifting—that Quincy knows a secret way.
But it’s Topher who speaks. “I could check her emails, see if she’s met with other people, and see if she’s been using her credit cards,” he offers almost too quietly to hear, cheeks scarlet.
“What? How?” All Mateo can think is that Topher and his mother have joint accounts, like tweens too young to have their own account sometimes do.
Worrying hands together, Topher says, “I can hack her accounts.”
Topher could have said “I’m actually my own missing mother” and it would have been less unexpected. The space between thought and speech is nonexistent in Mateo right now, so the room gets his real-time realization. “You didn’t hire someone to track me down. You tracked me down. With hacking. You hacked me?”
Topher, eyes glued to the largest window in the room, looks like he’s considering going for it to free himself from this confession.
“Cool,” Ophelia says.
“I’m sorry,” Topher says desperately to the window because he can’t bring himself to look at Mateo. “I didn’t know how elseto figure out if you were legitimate. You don’t have social media so I looked at your emails but you don’t really email anyone so I started looking at your purchase history and that was pretty encouraging but then I realized you don’t have a real birth certificate, ID, or medical records, and that’s weird but I don’t know your citizenship status and I thought if you did know magic that maybe you wouldn’t have those things anyway, like maybe you don’t adhere to the laws of man so then I thought—”
At this point in the never-ending run-on sentence Quincy puts a hand on Topher’s arm, startling him into silence.
Holy shit. This mouse boy could see his internet searches. What about texts? He has no idea how hacking works, but Ophelia and he text 24/7. The thought of someone reading those is mortifying. Also, this guy knowing about his lack of ID stuff is pretty concerning, but mostly it’s the texts. Shit. They send pictures sometimes too.
“Focus,” Ophelia says, but something in his face shows the psychic damage he just took, and she assumes the lead. “Topher, hack your mom. See if you can contact her or find someone else who knows how to or that she’s talked to lately. Any locations where she might be. Where she works. Lives. Last place she did anything. Teo, set up a date with that guy.”
“What guy?”
“Back pocket.”
Mateo pulls the card out of his back pocket. Ethan of the great suit. “Why?”
“He’s our inside man. Ask about Christopher. Ask about anything weird at work. Ask if he’s seen a wizard and can give a description. Use your wiles.”
“Wiles?” Topher repeats with the same dismay Mateo feels.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dive bars are Mateo’s thing. Chock-full of rowdy people he can talk to once and never again. Too loud to hold a proper conversation, but he can briefly feel like he’s part of the human race without actually making any meaningful connections. All while getting plastered. Wonderful. Highly recommend. Great at it, even.
Flirting at a dive bar? Not a fan.
Flirting at a fancy bar playing soft elevator music with too many lights? Mateo’s nightmare—the nonliteral kind.
It’s a thing he has zero interest in, though Ophelia swears he’s good at it. But he’s not flirting. It’s just the customer-service-honed affability he wields like a weapon when it can extort a free drink or an extra plate of fries. The second he’s aware it’s eliciting sexual attraction, he’d rather test out his healing ability against oncoming traffic.
Which is why it’s so unfortunate that he’s at the fancy hotel bar. There are totally open tables he could sit at, but Ophelia was adamant that he should let Ethan coax him to a table. He’s two drinks in and trying not to chug the last gulp of his rum and coke before Ethan shows up. Also trying not to think aboutwhat Topher hacked, that he’s suddenly involved in a murder mystery, that he keeps having demon episodes, that someone tried to blood magic him today, and that somewhere there’s still a dagger-wielding witch waiting to be dealt with.
Ophelia sits on the other side of a window, poolside, sharing a table with a twitchy Topher who was adamant he keep watch with her. She was fine with it because it meant he’d cover her bar tab. Topher’s got his laptop from Quincy’s car and is staring at it.
Quincy—not obligated to stay for what didn’t involve driving—went home for the night.
Ophelia makes eye contact and sips the bright blue daiquiri in front of her. Another sits in front of Topher but he’s ignoring it in favor of his computer, fingers clacking away at the keys.
Maybe a third drink wouldn’t hurt. As if hearing his desperation, Ethan’s impeccably dressed form pushes through the door. Mateo mourns the loss of his previous outfit, but only for as long as it takes him to realize Ethan’s now wearing Les Hommes—bomber jacket, graphic tee, unnecessary zippers all over the pants, and boots. Everything black. It’s difficult to stay on his stool, wanting to meet him halfway and run his hands over the pattern of metal studs all over the bomber. Mateo only gets truly excited about stylish clothes—and money. Ethan happens to represent both, and it’s alluring. Mateo definitely wants in his pants, just not the way that usually means.
“Hey,” Ethan says, looking Mateo up and down—okay, it’s definitely, definitely flirting—before eying his one empty and one near-empty drink. “I didn’t take that long.”
