Page 64 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
Mateo gags, slumping in his seat, the little bit of strength and focus he’d managed strips away. And for the fifth time in forty-eight hours, he passes out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“There he is,” Ethan says merrily, fuzzing into view along with consciousnesses as Mateo wakes. There’s blood smeared deliberately all over Ethan’s face. A horrible addition to the situation. The brain fog from the stink-smoke is gone, as is the chair, which one might think is an improvement but is not.
Mateo’s on his back, strapped to something metal, and he can’t move even harder. Arms above his head, legs spread some, bound at the wrists, ankles, hips, and thighs. He strains but there’s no give.
Conclusion: He’s really fucking chained to a table now and misses the chair.
“Don’t get worked up,” Ethan says at his feeble struggles, moving out of his line of sight briefly, the sound of something sliding against concrete, and then Ethan’s there again, stepping up onto the table Mateo’s strapped to. The outfit’s been downgraded. Bare feet, just the pants, and no shirt. Ethan’s chest is a series of freshly carved symbols on top of long healed ones. Mateo can’t recognize any of them, except in that way anyone can recognize bad shit and know it’s bad.
Ethan considers him from above, and Mateo realizes there’s a knife casually gripped in one of Ethan’s hands. No. A dagger. Magic-ass-looking dagger that everyone but Mateo seems to possess.
Mateo tries to thrash. It’s very underwhelming when he can only move his head. Metal chains dig tightly everywhere, including around his pelvis and high around each thigh, like horrible chain undies.
At his renewed attempt, Ethan kneels over him, knees on either side of his hips, and leans close to his face. The blood smeared all over him is still wet. Fresh. The idea that some of it’s Ophelia’s or Topher’s courses through him but is quickly dismissed. It doesn’t smell like them. Disconcerting realization as he’d had no idea he knew what their blood smelled like, but he’ll take the bizarre reassurance.
“I get it,” Ethan says in an inexplicably gentle tone, pressing Mateo’s hair out of his face with one hand. “I thought you had a pact, but that’s not it. You even told me earlier. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. But I do. It’s obvious. You’re possessed.”
Accurate assessment and in no way calming. “Ethan, what are you doing?” It comes out shakier than he means it.
“I’m going to exorcise you,” Ethan says, like it’s nothing. Like he does it every day. “I’ll get it out, and then you can make a pact with it, if you want. Which you should want. It’s been feeding off you all this time. You should get something from it. Then you’ll understand all of this. Why it’s worth it. Even if it’s a minor spirit, the power will be amazing. I’ll teach you how to use it, make it bend to your will. You can join my coven. Be my student. I’ve got a few openings as of late.” Hesmiles, like he’s not leaning over Mateo with a dagger while he’s tied down.
Mateo doesn’t want to humor Ethan for obvious, everyone-is-kidnapped reasons, but Ethan’s offering something he needs. Something he’s been desperate for his entire life. If Ethan can get the demon out, everything will be different. He wouldn’t have the slow degradation of mind and soul hanging over him, strangling all possibilities of a future. He could focus on Ophelia. Figure out what happened with her and her family, use Topher’s payment to find experts in projection, make sure she won’t just drift away again.
And if he can figure that out, they could just live.
Also, and more critical to this moment, it’s not clear Mateo’s getting a choice about this exorcism so much as it’s just happening. “Whose blood is that?” Of all the potential questions, that’s the one that forces its way to the top.
Ethan’s smile falters. “I’d think you’d be a little more excited.” Ethan looks to one side and Mateo follows his gaze as best he can. He’s startled to see Yoga Wife is still right there, standing dutifully beyond the edges of the magical circle Mateo’s still at the center of. Both arms are dripping freely onto the floor, blood running down from deep cuts at the inner elbow. “Don’t worry, she’s not real. It’s a flesh body but she’s a construct. Another gift from Marbas.”
“You’re extremely bad at being reassuring,” Mateo says, and Ethan smiles again.
“Everything will make sense after,” Ethan says serenely, catching the dagger on the collar of Mateo’s shirt and slicing all the way down to navel. He pushes the ruined shirt aside and lines up the dagger with the center of Mateo’s chest. It’s nothinglike any exorcism Mateo’s ever seen on television, which doesn’t mean a lot, except that it’s extremely distressing and isn’t helped by Ethan’s next words: “This is going to hurt.”
Like butter. Mateo’s always thought that description was a gross way to describe cutting into anything but butter. Then the blade slides into his skin and scrapes against bone exactly like a knife pressing through butter, clinking against the porcelain plate beneath. His chest offers no resistance even as Ethan drags the blade around, carving a wide circle. Black blood wells and Mateo chokes down a shout, his useless thrashing proving useless yet again, and now he understands why the chains are so tight.
Ethan pauses his downward cut, but it’s not because he’s doing a wellness check. He uses his other hand to wipe up some of the black oozing out around his blade. Completely ignores the sharp gasp and that he’s still got the blade tip buried in Mateo.
“How long have you had this demon in you?” Ethan asks, studying the tackiness of the black blood between fingers. It’s always been more viscous than actual blood, more goo than liquid. Slightly warmed putty.
“My whole life,” Mateo says raggedly, trying not to think about the blade so indelicately located in his chest.
Ethan makes a thoughtful noise, but keeps testing the blood between his fingers. “I’ve never seen this before. It’s … different.”
“Ethan, the fucking knife,” Mateo pants, and Ethan finally drags his gaze back to him.
“Sorry, that’s just—” but whatever itjust, he’ll never know because Ethan pulls the knife out, repositions it to cut more, but pauses again. Fingers run indelicately up the length of the cut he’d already made, and another expression Mateo would ratherEthan not make while trying to wield unknown dark magic settles on his face. “It’s healing.”
“So do it faster,” Mateo says with a clear edge of hysteria. It is of critical importance that Ethan not become more interested in the strange qualities of his body than exorcising him.
For a heart-screaming moment he thinks Ethan’s going to alter course, ask a dozen more questions, maybe start slicing and dicing to test him out—but then that dagger slips in.
And it’s absolutely wretched.
Mateo has no idea what he’s carving, circles and lines that are probably meaningful, but not to Mateo. Ethan works quickly, and soon the whole of his chest drips and burns with a dozen deep-carved symbols and Mateo’s not trying to be quiet about how much it hurts, gasping and panting the whole time.
When it finally stops, his vision narrows and Mateo’s afraid he’s going to pass out. Luckily, the next step of Ethan’s secret-knowledge exorcism involves pouring what feels like a cocktail of lemon, salt, and acid onto Mateo’s cut up chest. It keeps him really conscious, throat raw from screaming and chest a misery.
