Page 5 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
CHAPTER THREE
Mateo turns with cartoon slowness. The most displeased office lady Mateo’s ever seen stands disconcertingly close. Her black hair is slicked back so severely that it resembles paint applied directly to her scalp. She’s in an impeccably white pencil skirt, with a high-necked white blazer on top. Her dark red lipstick is perfect, eyebrows razor sharp, and her eyeliner could kill a man. She’s kind of amazing, but it’s hard to appreciate because of the knife in her hand.
No. Not knife. Dagger.
Fancy handle with intricate patterning. She’s holding it like one might if they were about to stake a vampire. Isthisa demon hunter?
“Wallet,” she demands, enunciating her point by taking an aggressive and frankly unwarranted step toward Mateo.
Okay. Not a demon hunter. Unless they multitask and mug demons first.
At six foot three, Mateo towers over her, but it doesn’t matter. She’s doing a back-alley mugging in all-white with a dagger and it’s real unstable behavior he can’t match the energy of. So, it’s with the utmost care that Mateo reaches around to his backpocket and slips his wallet out. He’s doing exactly what he’s been asked to do, but the mugger takes another step and presses the tip of the blade to the skin of his throat.
“Slow,” she demands flatly, leaning in close enough for Mateo to feel the word.
The worst he’s tested his healing against is a fractured ulna when he fell off the roof as a kid. Having his throat slit feels like a whole other level he’s not mentally prepared to explore tonight, so he doesn’t take another breath until his wallet is snatched from his fingers.
The mugger steps back and flips it open, blade kept level at Mateo. She’s way too calm, and an irrational desire for a frantic mugging rises like acid in Mateo’s throat. The sober professionalism feels fatal. A red-polished thumb riffles, looking for choice credit cards or an ID to identity theft, neither of which Mateo possesses. There’re some sandwich point cards. Clairvoyance isn’t a power Mateo has, but he’s certain that when she sees only six crumpled dollars tucked in the flap, he’s getting stabbed.
Ignoring the money, she eyes the point card for way too long, then turns her dark gaze on him. “Where’s Ignacia Luisa Reyes Borrero?”
“What?” Mateo asks way too forcefully while under knife-threat. But now he’s taking her in with proper context. The outfit, the manner, and the magic-ass-looking dagger make a specific sense. She’s a witch. It’s been a while since anyone magically inclined cropped up looking for his mother. Never so aggressively, though. Nothing about her expression says she wants to repeat herself as he puzzles over this, so he adds, “I have no idea where she is. She’s been MIA for almost five years.”
Mathematically lipsticked lips thin in displeasure. “Who are you?”
Unexpected follow-up in this very on-purpose situation. Why does she know to ask him about Ignacia, but doesn’t know Ignacia’s his mom? He opens his mouth to lie—doesn’t feel like he should tell a woman trying to knife him about his complicated familial relationships—but four things happen in rapid succession:
A deafening crash way too close. The witch lashes out. The knife stabs into the arm that he jerks up in defense. And someone grabs Mateo’s other arm and pulls.
He stumbles a few steps and realizes it’s Topher that has him, frigid fingers dragging him away from the woman and down the alley. A wild look back and she’s braced against the wall. A giant terracotta pot lies shattered at her feet, dirt and plant matter scattered about. She’s staring after them in what he can only imagine is fury but it’s too dark to see.
They explode onto the Belltown evening streets where traffic and prying eyes live. They run a block before they both start to flag. They get one more before the wordless agreement of two people who don’t workout passes between them. Mateo keeps looking back but doesn’t spot a stiletto-wearing pursuer. Rounding one last corner, they collapse against the side of a coffee shop.
Five minutes of gulping air as people walk by pointedly ignoring them, and nothing codifies in Mateo’s brain. He has no clue what just happened, and the meat of his bicep is throbbing. A buzzing tingle sits beneath the heat, like rubbing Icy Hot into a first-degree burn.
Topher is squatting beside him and having a rougher time of their extremely pathetic marathon—which causes a brief, petty, and utterly undeserved feeling of triumph in Mateo. He is better at running than someone who is also bad at running.
Focus up. Black blood is dripping down his arm. His sweater sleeve, conveniently also black, is soggy with it. As discreetly ashe can manage, Mateo starts wiping his hand on his also-black pants. Hopefully, the combination of goth and dark street means Topher didn’t realize he was slashed in the chaos. If he doesn’t draw attention to it, his new plan of walking briskly away from Topher forever might still fly.
“Did you see … what the fuck?” Mateo manages eloquently around his wheezing.
Blond head tips back, pale cheeks flushed with horrible physical exertion. “The … roof … a pot,” Topher says with effort, pausing to pull in loud breaths. “Fell. Scared her.”
Thank fuck for bad landlords who allow dangerous rooftop gardens. The timing of that was insane, though. And if it had hit anyone, they’d be super dead.
“Who mugs retail workers? Notoriously-flush-with-cash retail workers.” Mateo sounds affronted, glancing at his hand. It’s not perfectly clean, but it can pass as dirty now.
“You were cut,” Topher says.
Mateo’s gaze snaps back to Topher, huddled on the ground but staring up at him with his worst expression yet. At no point has Topher looked anything but on the verge of an existential anxiety crisis, but now his unnerving gaze is steady, saucer eyes featuring a new, glossy edge.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“No,” Mateo says too loudly. “She missed.” He offers a relieved smile. It occurs to him three seconds too late that his teeth get sharp when he heals.
Gaze still steady, Topher whispers, “I came here to find you. I think you can help me.”
CHAPTER FOUR
