Page 32 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
Mateo forces his plastic smile. “Everyone can do magic. It’s a natural energy in everything.”
“Bullshit answer,” Ethan rightfully says, then leans even closer so he can whisper again. It’s completely unnecessary. The background tunes are soft, ignorable Muzak, but his voice has a different quality when he speaks quietly. And he knows it, because he knows exactly how slick he is. “I think you’re trying to pump me for information but aren’t quite mercenary enough to invite me to your bed to get it. Which is too bad, because that would be effective. We can work with this, though, but you’re going to have to give me more than you’re trying to.”
Shit again. He’d flown too close to the sun and burst into flames—neck and ears hot from that too-frank assessment. The best solution would be to thank Ethan for the drink and retreat. He’s probably gotten all the office gossip he’s going to.Confirmation the dad is a piece of trash and the likely source of the curse in some manner isn’t nothing.
But Mateo hesitates.
It’s pointless to want to leave things pleasant between them. Mateo’s going back to Seattle soon. Even if he likes talking to Ethan, there is a fucking demon inside of him that’s probably going to burst out and kill him sometime soon, he’s having weird episodes where he’s saying and thinking crazy things, and he dreams about eating people. He’s not exactly a catch.
Mateo glances toward Ophelia even though he can’t see her from this angle. “Okay. Fair. Yes. I can do magic. And no, not right now. It takes preparation and ingredients that look an awful lot like cocaine, so I couldn’t bring them on the plane.”
“You’re not local?” Ethan asks, surprise registering for the first time since his mention that he was an occult specialist. Maybe disappointment too. It’s a charming reaction.
“Flew in for the dad-chat. Not sure when I’m going back. Soon.”
Ethan tips the rest of his whiskey into his mouth and sets the glass on the table. “You should call me again before you leave. And show me your magic.”
“That sounds like a line.”
“It is.”
They stare at one another, smiles threatening. Before Mateo can think of a zingy parting line so he can flee, a series of shrill screams sound from the pool area and he’s on his feet.
The only thought in Mateo’s brain as he crosses the bar and slams the door open hard enough to crack something in the flimsy hinge, is that Ophelia’s out there.
She’s inexplicably crawling out of the pool, still in the orange gauzy maxi dress she’d pulled on for her and Topher’s drink. Itand her hair are plastered to her as she stands and tries to wrangle her mane out of her face.
Other things are happening, but Mateo can’t recognize them until he confirms there’s nothing wrong with her other than the clear topography of her chest being flashed to the world through wet fabric. Without his suit jacket, he starts untucking his shirt as he crosses to her so she can cover up. Ethan presses ahead, pulling off his bomber and putting it over her shoulders.
She accepts the jacket without thanks and grabs the front of Mateo’s shirt. “I just pulled him out,” she says, holding to him tightly to make sure he understands she’s fine. Just wet.
Mateo lets out a shaky breath and forces his eyes from her. Topher’s kneeling behind her, over a man who’s wet and lying on his back. Watery Pepto-Bismol blood is seeping all around the man’s head, fanning out across the tile. Half a dozen hotel guests gawk from tables and chairs. There’s no world where Ophelia screams. One of them was likely the screamer.
She’d dragged a bleeding guy out of the pool?
“Hit his head and fell in,” Ophelia says, teeth chattering, the evening air only a little chill but it’s probably the adrenaline.
Topher has his ear to the prone man’s mouth. Unsatisfied with what he hears, he positions his hands on the man’s chest and begins an impressively professional looking bunch of chest compressions. Mateo looks around frantically for hotel staff. For the price of the rooms, every waiter should have a gold-plated medical degree. A blazered woman followed by two hotel security guards finally comes barreling through the same door Mateo did.
Topher’s hauled up by a guard and pressed into Mateo—as gently as possible because even in an emergency this hotel knows you shouldn’t push rich people. Mateo takes hold of Topher’sshoulders and bodily backs up with him. Blazer Woman is trying CPR now.
It doesn’t matter, though. She gets the same response Topher did, meaning nothing.
Another death.
That’s at least seven. Topher’s vibrating under his fingers. Probably feels like he killed that guy even though all he’d done was sit by the pool with Ophelia.
Wide eyes turn up to Mateo, wet, but not crying. There’s not even desperation there anymore, just the unfocused blankness of someone who’s just found out they’re terminal. Mateo knows exactly what this is. He’s seen it in Ophelia and himself.
He’s just witnessed Topher lose hope.
Ophelia squeegees water off her face with a hand and leans on tiptoes to speak close to Mateo’s ear. “Topher found a lead on his mom.”
It’s probably bad that the client did the detective-ing here, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He keeps trying to use money to obscure the danger here, but this is bad. It’s a lot of bodies. Now there’s blood magic and some dickhead abusive dad murderer. And he remembers the tarot. How they all pulled the death card. Death doesn’t necessarily mean death, but sometimes it does.
Why isn’t he thinking about that more when Ophelia’s right here, so easily killed?
Fuck figuring this out. They need to leave.
