Page 6 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
In the dimly lit bathroom of the Downtown Expresso, Mateo’s arm is raw and angry but nowhere near as bad as it was. Only a long divot sits where the blade sunk in, and a deep heat in the meat of the muscle. A freak-out needs to happen about someone showing up at his job to violently shake him down about his mom, but he can’t deal with that yet. So he wrings the blood out of his sleeve as best he can with a dozen gauzy paper towels and then shoves them to the bottom of the trash.
Favoring his injured arm, he pushes out of the bathroom. Topher is vibrating at a table in the back of the café, a to-go cup in each hand. Mateo gives the caféa quick look for Dagger Lady, then drops into the seat across from Topher, trying to play it like this isn’t terrifying.
Topher presses both cups across the table at him. “I didn’t know what you like. I got a triple tall cappuccino and a caffe generra with whip. I can get something else, though. Anything else. Many elses. Or food. Croissant. There was a donut. It looked old.”
One of the drinks sounds like sugar, so Mateo takes it, watching Topher wrap both hands around the cappuccino.Someone should slap it away from him. The last thing this guy needs is caffeine. But the same can be said for Mateo, heart still jackrabbiting in his chest. Whatever Topher wants, he’s seen Mateo’s secret. This is now as close to discovery as he’s ever been. It requires no great imagination to get to experiments-medical- types-might-like-to-run-on-him.
Not that Topher said anything about selling him for parts to the highest bidder. He’d distinctly said he wanted help. With no idea what to say, Mateo waits for Topher to explain anything.
Topher drinks his coffee like a mouse with a prized morsel of food, both hands lifting it and a lot of small, rapid sips. “There was a WorkList ad.”
“I pulled that.” There’s no world where this is a confused, sexual proposition situation, but Mateo’s mouth moves on defensive autopilot.
“I know,” Topher says, squeezing the paper cup hard enough that the lid pops up on one side. “I just … I need help. A lot of the other magic people ads were really long and had all of these weird credentials and certificates I’ve never heard of, and I couldn’t look most of them up, and the ones I could were made on really bad free websites that didn’t even use basic website templates, so they were really ugly. Like with gifs. And your ad sounded … normal. Like, not made up or conceited. And you didn’t have any social media or a site or whatever. And the last line of the ad made me laugh.”
Mateo makes a low sound of emotional distress in the back of his throat. How can he be embarrassed, freaked out, and annoyed all at the same time? He sips his coffee while trying to pick a lane. “I didn’t list my place of employment in the ad.” Annoyed won.
Topher’s skin, which had faded back to the alabaster pallor of an anemic ghost, flushes so entirely it’s like his hue setting gotslid all the way to magenta. “I know. I’m sorry. I screen-grabbed the post before you took it down. When I tried to call, the number was disconnected, so I hired someone to look up who the number belonged to. A professional someone I mean. That sounds bad. I mean, it was bad, probably. I’m sorry. I just … I really need help, and I don’t know who else to go to.”
Most of the components of that sentence are alarming, but there was a bright shining nugget in there: Hired.
As in: With money.
New eyes consider Topher as Mateo takes another sip of his sickly-sweet drink. Topher is brandless and styleless, but maybe that’s money. There are different kinds: Gucci/Hermes/Louis Vuitton rich—which is easy to spot—versusso rich your clothes look like whatever the hell. Those kinds of rich people are so rich that a plain gray t-shirt could cost thousands of dollars.
Mateo licks his lips, trying to rejigger the situation in his head, wanting it to make sense. “But why did you get a job at the print shop?”
Topher’s gaze averts so fully that he actually whips his whole head to the left. “I … I came in a week ago to talk to you but … um. I mean, I saw you and … I mean, there’s nothing wrong with, um …” He starts and stops, looking like he wants to flee the table.
Mateo relaxes a little bit. “Right. Goth posting about magic. Looks fake.”
Topher’s head bobbles in agreement, his relief at being understood palpable.
“So, you saw my ad.” Embarrassing. “Tried to contact me, couldn’t, hired someone to track me down.” Scary, but meant money. “Popped in to talk to me but got nervous from my cool style.” Understandable given the context. “Decided the easiestthing to do was get hired and feel me out.” Insane. “Worked a shift.” It was hard not to saybadly. It was hard to sayworked.“And now we’re here?”
Topher bobbles.
“Here, meaning you want to hire me?” Mateo asks slowly.
Another bobble and Topher deflates, shoulders slumping and eyes lowering to his cup as he starts spinning it between restless hands.
Mateo gives him the moment he obviously needs. Because … money.
When Topher’s pale eyes find Mateo’s again, they’re wet. “That lady mugging you was my fault. Bad things happen around me. I’ve gotten five people killed in the past few months. Eight others really hurt.”
Mateo’s never seen someone’s eyes get so wet without tears falling. Must be the sheer surface volume available to the liquid. Some of that is bullshit, though, since Dagger Lady definitely had nothing to do with Topher.
Reading his expression, Topher’s voice gets quieter. The dam holding back the volume of water in his eye gives out, and tears slide free. It’s a silent crying that doesn’t involve the rest of Topher’s face, just twin rivulets streaming. “I know how this sounds. I tried to get the police to arrest me, then I realized there’d be people trapped in a cell with me. But something’s really wrong. It’s definitely me causing these horrible things, but no one believes me.”
This guy might be deranged. But if Topher’s story’s true, it sounds like a curse. Doesn’t take a magical genius to figure that out—which is great because that’s not what Mateo is. And it wouldn’t take a magical genius to uncurse him, either. Meaning Mateo can theoretically handle it. He can theoretically handle anything if the price is right.
“Nothing’s guaranteed. I do a consultation first. Five hundred for this talk, and we’ll figure out pricing from there,” Mateo says, tone matter-of-fact, like he does this all the time and isn’t reaching wildly for numbers.
As soon as it’s out of his mouth, he’s positive the ask is too high, but Topher nods tightly.
It would be inappropriate to cheer, what with all the death and crying, so Mateo focuses on the still-throbbing knife wound to remain sober. Money is good, but curses are a big deal. They can kill and maim. Doom bloodlines. Not that Mateo’s bloodline isn’t already absolutely fucked. Healing from a slashing seems really cool until you realize that’s magic. And that flare of magic will cost him.
Every time he uses magic, the world’s shittiest prize wheel spins. He could win: More blackouts—no clue what he does during them. More anger—going to become a real problem soon. That horrid dream—please no.
