Page 4 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
Bubble Mailer Guy stuck his hand inside every mailer, found them wanting, and left, so Mateo searches online for anything about his now-faded-probably-dying-but-maybe-magic-attack headache.
Halfway through an article on negative energies, someone whispers. “What’s that?”
Topher’s directly in front of the counter.
Mateo full-body jolts in an obviously startled way that Topher doesn’t react to. Which is cool and super normal of Topher. Not that Mateo’s a master of his surroundings, but theonly noise in the shop is the smooth jazz his mind filters out due to years of inhumane exposure to the same six songs. He hadn’t heard the bang of the front door hitting the doorstop.
“Article on dark energies, according to some guy namedGoodVibesOnlyPaul,” Mateo answers truthfully, learning that his reaction to being startled is disconcerting honesty.
Topher’s bug-eyes get buggier, and he starts a full chihuahua, trembling all over. It’s the worst response—until those pale lips, barely a different color from his anemic skin, part. He’s going to say something. A spell. A threat. Random weirdness. Doesn’t matter. Mateo takes an unconscious step back, certain something he doesn’t want is about to happen.
The shop door bangs open, and a rumpled CEO or poor college student—no visual difference in downtown Seattle—stands there with a phone pressed to his ear. “You sell paper?”
CEO, then. And it’s the most beautifully brainless question Mateo’s ever heard. He vaults over the hip-high divider to get around the counter and away from Topher, ecstatic to show a person with literal stacks of paper on every side of them where the paper is.
Paper Dumbass signals the start of the after-work rush. The flow of customers is constant, and it’s five after seven before thecha-chingof the final customer brings with it the suffocating weight of aloneness with Topher.
Mateo walks to the front, flips the lights off, and pulls the security gate down and locks it.
“I just have to do the drawer stuff,” Mateo says, voice startling himself because it’s booming in the heavy silence. “Can you watch the front?” This isn’t a thing. Both the gate and thedoor are locked, but Topher bobbles yes, and Mateo flees into the back with the cash drawer.
By the time he zips up the day’s earnings into a black deposit bag and inserts it into the safe, he starts feeling ridiculous for getting worked up. The headache went away. Anything could have caused it, including something internal. There’s a demon in him, for fuck’s sake, and he’s blaming that dipshit. The only proof is coincidental timing and that Topher’s awkward, weird about guys in makeup, and never learned a single life skill that could help in a work environment.
More than that is the fact that Topher just worked an entire five-and-a-half-hour shift without a single murder attempt. Unless he’s a long-game demon hunter serial killer, odds are he’s just a nepotism-hire weirdo.
Nightly deposit done, Mateo steps out of the backroom just as Topher’s quiet voice says, “—going home. The car seemed familiar. It might be from my neighborhood.”
Easing through the door, Mateo doesn’t let it slam shut. He tries not to think too deeply about his automatic spy-mode response.
Topher is in the dark, facing the front window, bathed in the blue wash of light from the glass. A phone is pressed to an ear, his posture rigid and motionless as he listens to the other side of the call. Seeing Topher still when he’s been mild-panic-frenetic all day is unsettling.
“No. I didn’t see her face before it was …” A pause. “Off her face,” is what Mateo is positive Topher says next. Which is absolutely the fucking worst. Like that, Mateo’s certain Topher’s a demon hunter serial killer again, nonchalantly discussing his latest kill with a friend demon hunter. Or maybe the gravity in his voice means he’s reporting to his demon hunter boss. Maybe he’s in a demon hunter union. At least he sounds somber aboutun-facing a lady, like maybe if he kills Mateo, he’ll be a little sad about it.
Topher’s free hand balls into a fist at his side, and Mateo tenses. The silence extends a moment more before Topher says, “No. I won’t. This conversation was a courtesy and now it’s over. I think you should talk to my lawyer from now on.” It’s textbookmurderer deferring to lawyerapplication of the phrase, tone firm and quiet.
Topher lowers the phone and stares out the window.
Being the vessel for an ancient evil sounds impressive until you consider that Mateo’s mother forbade him from learning magic. Since her abrupt departure, he’s self-taught what anyone could if they’d spent years spying on their scary witch mom and unearthed the real spells in the glut of bullshit how-to witchcraft books on Amazon. He’s three-quarters through a practical guide on crystals he’d been feeling pretty good about until now. It hadn’t covered anything about keeping his face on his face.
With all the care he can muster, Mateo opens the door just an inch and then pushes it closed loudly as if he’s just walked in. “All done. I just gotta get the trash.”
Topher turns, blinks as if just waking up, and nods.
They spend the next few minutes wordlessly rustling around in the darkness, getting original outfits back on and bags collected while Mateo fervently hopes Topher won’t speak. But the silence is unnerving too. It’s pregnant with a nameless dread, like Topher’s head might tip back and a demon tongue will come lolling out.
He’s not sure how Topher went from demon hunter to demon—no, it was definitely theface offstuff. Topher doesn’t have any of the signs of being possessed, but strong demons are meant to be able to hide it for a while.
Is a demon possession better or worse than a demon hunter? A demon might be cool with Mateo—birds of a feather. Or might totally hate him. His body’s trapping one. That’s probably a real dick move in demon circles. Though, this might have nothing to do with magic. Topher might just be a good old-fashioned serial killer. No reason to discount a classic.
His brain is spiraling as he shoves his polo into one of the cubbies. Almost out of there. Just gotta walk out the back. Then it’s someone else’s problem. Like Doris, who he has to convince to fire this guy without explaining the real reason why. Maybe he can do ahim or methreat. Except he can’t. Too big of a chance Doris would fire Mateo. He’s paid under the table on account of not having a soc, ID, or taxable proof of legal existence and she likes to remind him she’s doing him a solid paying him anything at all. She’s fun like that.
Grabbing up the day’s trash, he motions for Topher to give him a minute. The back door is a heavy steel thing that takes all of Mateo’s body weight to shove open. Gross back-alley night air washes over him and feels fantastic. Like escape is imminent.
The only sounds as he disposes of his armloads in the appropriate bin are his boots squelching in alley-yuck and his heart thudding an experimental riff in his chest. He doesn’t want to go back inside—considers what would happen if he cut through the alley and went straight home—but that feels like Topher would still be there in the morning, waiting with his serial killer eyes and a bunch of people’s faces.
Irresolute on his escape plan, he slams and locks the bin.
“If you make a single sound,” a woman says, her voice impatient and very close as a knife suddenly enters his peripheral vision, angled at Mateo’s throat, “I’ll kill you.”
