Page 39 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
He wanted to taste it. Still wants to taste it, mouth salivating.
His thoughts are two frames of a movie overlaid but slightly out of sync, a double image that’s difficult to look directly at. The urge to lean forward and press his tongue to the taupe cushion is debilitating. It’s at once an obvious, natural reaction to the situation and an incomprehensible ripple of bone-deep revulsion as he forces himself to stand.
This is not the time for this bullshit. He can’t be sick in a murder scene, and Topher’s right there. Mateo forces his attention away from the blood. Anything but the blood.
It’s a comfortable living room otherwise. There’s even a fleece blanket folded poorly on the small coffee table with a book, pages-down, on top of it. Like someone got up while reading and never returned. Romance something. Smoldering guy all up on a pale lady with pointy ears who is also smoldering. It’s unsettling learning that Topher’s mother likes romantic fantasy—not because there’s anything wrong with that, but because her husband didn’t strike him as a romantic—and also, she’s probably dead.
They need to get out of this house, but they haven’t found a body yet. To his left, there’s a closed door, to his right there’s a short hall with another closed door. Moving to the door in the room, he braces for the violent stink of death and turns the knob. That fresh grass smell greets him, a large candle on a raw-edge wood shelf above the toilet. A bathroom. Tasteful marble and simple tile. No blood. No purpled and bloated form curled up in the clawfoot tub.
He pulls the door closed then realizes he shouldn’t be touching anything here. For a heart-pounding moment, he uses his sleeve to wipe the handle, and then makes a stern mental note to do the same at the front door.
One room left. Topher’s still just standing there, eyes on the blood. Mateo catches Ophelia’s eyes, moves his chin toward the hall with the last door, and she nods. Sleeve over fingers, he goes to the door and turns the knob, squinting but not actually closing his eyes because what would be the point of this if he doesn’t look?
Main bedroom. The grass scent is mixed with an artificial floral smell, like a bottle of perfume was regularly used in here. Queen-sized bed, neatly made with a floral quilt on top. It’s what he imagines moms’ rooms look like when they don’tdabble in the dark arts. Pastels, neutrals, and a jewelry stand with dainty necklaces—not a one made of bone.
No body.
Thank fuck, but also oh no. Where the hell is Linnéa Nystrom, and why is there blood in her living room?
He spends a few nervous minutes gently ransacking the place. The closest he gets to a secret is when he realizes his hands are in an undies drawer and closes his eyes in an attempt at respect. Mattress gets a thorough check but there’s no little lady figure.
Straightening up, he has nothing to show for his efforts. It’s a normal bedroom. No obvious signs of magic, white, black, or otherwise, and Ophelia hasn’t said anything, so no non-obvious signs either. Topher’s mom’s secret home is neat and cute and makes him think she’s a lovely woman who he hopes isn’t dead.
Pulling the door shut behind him, Mateo hurries back to the others. The sun is harsh on Topher’s still bowed head, making his near-white hair glow. He’s still in front of the couch, eyes on the blood stain. He hadn’t moved at all. Ophelia’s out of sight, but the bathroom light beyond Topher is on, door open. Probably looking for clues or checking out the medicine cabinet.
This idle thought—and an eagerness to tell Topher he didn’t find a body—is blown out of Mateo’s brain as the last step from hall into living room brings someone else into view.
Standing a few feet behind Topher, in the center of the living room, is a whole other person.
“What?” is all Mateo can think to say.
Topher, head snapping up, focuses wide eyes on Mateo. But when Mateo’s obviously looking behind him, he whirls to stare at the stranger.
Ophelia, wad of toilet paper in hand, steps out of the bathroom then. Whatever she was doing with the toilet paper is forgotten. Now they’re all staring at this person.
They’re in head-to-toe black, dressed like if Demobaza and a Jedi had a goth dystopian love child, with a shroud pulled tightly over the face and a hood pulled low over that. It’s not the sort of outfit you wear about town unless you’re on your way to the anonymous techno goth end-of-days wizard club that probably exists in San Francisco. They are bewildering in this sunny living room.
“Blood magic,” Ophelia says softly. Followed by, “The ward was a signal.”
Mateo’s attention sharpens, as do his teeth. He shouldn’t have needed Ophelia to say it. The candied scent of blood floats in the air. Much more than the little splatter can account for. This is the blood magic practitioner who warded the door. Maybe the table at Christopher’s office, too. They’d done something to Topher’s mom and then set a ward to let them know if someone showed up.
An accusation curves Mateo’s lips, but before he can get it out, a creak from the stairs draws everyone’s attention.
She’s in all-white again, though it’s a different outfit—a long-sleeved top and perfectly pressed wide-leg trousers that look tailored to her aggressively discerning form. The back-alley Dagger Lady from Seattle who tried to shake Mateo down about his mother stands inexplicably at the top of the stairs. No dagger in hand but everything about her demeanor conveys displeasure.
And just like that, this charmingly airy living room murder scene is crammed full of people who shouldn’t be there. Everyone stands in a baffled T-formation, Dagger Lady, the blood magic wizard, and Topher making up the stem with Ophelia and Mateo flanking Topher like whatever the top of the T is called.
“What!” Mateo repeats way louder.
“The other magic,” Ophelia says, less softly.
“That’s the lady who stabbed me,” Mateo says.
“Accidentallystabbed you,” the lady who stabbed him says like that’s better.
“What is happening!” Mateo says louder still.
“I was following you,” Dagger Lady—who is not presently holding a dagger but is still Dagger Lady in his brain—says. “And then saw the most suspicious thing ever.” She indicates the evil wizard. “So, I came in.”
