Page 54 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
Ophelia grasps hold of his cheeks, looking up into his terrible face with grim determination. “You did. But it’s okay.”
He wants revulsion to overtake him, the taste of blood and salty skin still in his mouth. But he can’t summon nausea, a cold nothing where there should be a lot of some sort of complex human emotion. The absence leaves him trembling, but not properly freaked out. “I fully said I wasn’t going to hurt him,” is all he can think to say.
“You improvised. I’ll handle it.” Ophelia takes his bizarre hand into hers and pulls him with her, out the door, and back to the car where Quincy and Ethan wait.
Expectant eyes turn to them—more on Ophelia than on him because he’s still hard to look at.
“We got him to talk.” Ophelia recounts what Christopher revealed about Linnéa and Topher. She talks around Mateo eating his goddamned finger, instead saying they had to get a little rough when Christopher wouldn’t answer.
Quincy looks strangled about the revelation—finding out his boss is part magical luck spirit was not on his schedule for the day.
“This is probably where I get off the ride,” Ethan says uncertainly. It’s got nothing to do with him, so it’s exceptionally fair that he looks like he desperately wants out of the car.
Mateo gets his little medical mask back on and then struggles with the gloves a moment before getting out of the car with him. They wait quietly as Ethan summons a rideshare, Ophelia and Quincy giving them the pretend privacy offered by being inside a car with open windows.
“Sorry things got … weird,” Mateo says weakly.
Silence greets his feeble attempt. It’s not like Ethan can say, “It’s cool, no prob, we should still hang out some time.” And it’s not like Mateo can say, “Wow, wasn’t this crazy, but it’s temporary, and my whole deal isn’t normally this messed up so we should definitely talk again.”
Eventually, a black car rolls slowly toward Christopher’s front gate, the driver looking around in that way only rideshare drivers and kidnappers do. Ethan lifts a hand to the rideshare but finally turns fully to Mateo—a thing he’d been avoiding. “But, like,areyou a demon? Or witch or … warlock?” The words are difficult to get out, like he can’t believe he’s asking it but can’t not when Mateo is standing right there looking undeniably evil.
It surprises Mateo because it’s not a sprint into anonymity. “It’s complicated,” he says, which is the worst answer, and hesees Ethen’s expression close off. There’s no world where he gets into it right now, even though Ethan’s owed something like the truth.
Ethan smooths the front of his perfectly smooth button up—Armani, with fussy red piping along all the edges—looks at the car, looks at Mateo, the car, and Mateo. “Maybe once this situation, which I’ll deny all involvement in, is wrapped up, we can talk?”
“Perfect. Excellent. A plan.” Mateo just barely stops himself from a fourth confirmation, relieved at an olive branch in all this.
A crooked smile flicks across Ethan’s lips. “You are the weirdest occult specialist I’ve ever met.” And then he’s gone, into a car and out of this magical murder mystery. Which is something Mateo has to deal with so he can’t really linger on the sensation Ethan’s ambiguous and non-negative departure fills him with.
“I should drive Christopher,” Quincy says, he and Ophelia both getting out of the car. “Make sure he actually bails Topher out. Get them back here after.”
It’s an amazingly above and beyond offer. “You’re a solid guy, and I hope Topher’s paying you so freaking much an hour, but maybe you should tap out.” Mateo holds up his gloved hands as evidence of how out of control the situation is. “Shit is getting weird. And there’s at least two magic people running around causing chaos, one that threw me out a window.”
A pause, every worry in the entire world cycling through Quincy’s stalwart gaze. But then he shakes his head. “Topher’s a nice guy. I’ve been working for him for four years. It’s all I can do and the least I can do.”
Ophelia adds, “Quincy’s kept Topher whole so far.” She means the Tokyo-drifting. “And it’s not like we can chaperone.” Right. Ademon shouldn’t walk into a police station. Never mind that it’s probably a bad idea for him to be in an enclosed space with Christopher right now—also super awkward. And Christopher’s as trustworthy as a snake filled with smaller, shittier snakes. Someone should make sure he doesn’t skip town.
This plan leaves Mateo and Ophelia carless and inside Christopher’s house. Not a dynamic Christopher deeply loves, but he’s not in a position to say no. There’s a lot of question in Quincy’s eyes as he herds Christopher with his haphazardly bandaged hand into his car and away.
Sitting in the living room trying not to drip demon ichor on anything, Mateo and Ophelia regard each other.
“Don’t freak out,” Ophelia advises, and he gives her a tired smile that she probably can’t interpret as such because of his nightmare teeth.
“I’m not. Which is kind of freaking me out,” he admits, sitting back on the couch and staring at the ceiling. Three sensations war inside of him: dread, indifference, and more dread at the indifference. And they’re all useless. Actionless. Soon, Topher will be safe in this house, but it still means there’s an evil wizard somewhere out there who’s inexplicably after Linnéa and Topher. Linnéa’s still MIA. Possibly dead. And Christopher’s confession has nothing to do with Dagger Lady. Is she also after Linnéa? Or is she really after the person after Linnéa? A blood witch hunter. A new thing he has to be wary about that he hadn’t known existed yesterday.
“Phee,” he says, a wild thought occurring to him. “Do you have the address book?”
Digging in her purse by way of answering, she holds up the thin green book.
“We’d assumed that Dagger Lady was a Seattle-local, but she could be from anywhere. Look for anyone from San Francisco,” he says.
With a raised eyebrow, she starts paging through the address book. She gets a little way into the back half and swears. “Linnéa and Christopher Nystrom are in this fucking book,” she says hotly, turning it for him to see.
Linnéa Nystromsits on the left page, a note under her name that says:Mejorar o disminuir las probabilidades. Luckily, his mother’s handwriting is neat, and the internet exists. He struggles with claws on his phone for a moment before Ophelia takes over.
“It’s something like improve or diminish odds. Luck,” she says with a grimace.
“Fuck,” Mateo says. “Fuck us. We had this the whole time.”
