Page 67 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
Hands up in surrender, Ethan says, “Hey, hey, I stopped! I stopped!”
But words don’t matter now, because Mateo can rip himself free and that’s the only way he can make sure Ethan doesn’t hurt Ophelia or Topher anymore. One of his hands is a ruin but the other is still cuffed. An animal impulse to be free at all costs overtakes him. He smears blood all over the trapped one, ignoring the naked muscles on display as he wrenches again. Blood oozes and something in his thumb cracks.
And then Ethan’s on top of him, mounting his middle, trying to force him back down onto the table.
Mateo bucks frantically, and it’s more effective this time because he’s partially unchained, but Ethan has a wealth of experience doing horrible magic shit to people—and possesses actual muscles—so he maintains his position on top.
“You just got too high maintenance,” Ethan says, and the dagger is out again.
Mateo catches the descent, but his hand is still shredded, slick with gore, missing critical muscles, and his grip isn’t good.
Using body weight, Ethan forces the point down, aiming for Mateo’s chest. Aiming for his heart. Mateo strains against gravity, trying to stop the descent but there’s so much blood. His hand isn’t doing what he needs it to. Another shout as the blade’s tip pierces skin.
“Shh, shh, shh,” Ethan says softly, though he’s shaking, straining, face red as he forces the blade deeper. It slides against bone horribly, skidding against a rib.
He can’t. He can’t die here. Not with Ophelia all dead-eyed over there, five foot nothing and only barely still alive in the first place. Not with Topher coldcocked on the floor, the least helpless most helpless person on the planet. What was the fucking point of any of this if he gets them killed? He was trying to help Topher. He was trying to get his own shit together enough to help Ophelia. And he knows life isn’t fair. He’s not deranged. But isn’t he supposed to have some horrible, evil thing inside? Something that needed to be locked away? But he’s losing an arm wrestle to a jagoff!
Hand hellish with pain, he struggles to keep Ethan’s arm up, losing his hold millimeter by bloody millimeter. Ethan will feed them both to his patron Marbas; will trade them for magic to increase his stock portfolio or however the hell Wall Street works and it’s just wildly unfair.
Ethan grits his teeth, trying to angle the blade better, to get at the black and beating heart beneath. And he’s going to do it. No amount of gumption or impotent fury can do anything about the fact that Mateo’s never worked out a day in his life.
Mateo’s only begged one other time in his life. Not when his mother wouldn’t tell him why she did this to him. Not when shecut him, hurt him, used parts of him for her spells and craft. Not even when she disappeared, leaving him without a single hope of figuring out what was wrong inside.
It was only when Ophelia died.
Curled up next to her corpse, there was nothing he hadn’t begged to. He’s not so broad with his plea this time. If he’s going to die anyway, he’d rather die for them.
“Please,” is all that makes it past his lips before Ethan has the angle right, Mateo’s bloody hold slips, and the dagger sinks in to the hilt.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ophelia screams but the body around her refuses. Not a whimper. Not a tear. She can’t even part its lips.
She can only watch from the floor, caged within the Yoga Wife, who is now devoid of whatever magic let it move. No matter how she rages, it won’t obey, and it won’t let her go. She can’t even move the eyes, only able to see what was in their line of sight the moment Ethan dismissed the spell that powered this spandex and pumpkin spice freak.
This is hell.
This is worse than hell because she’s been in hell: three days trapped outside herself, watching Mateo try to die for her.
But he’s nottryingthis time. He’s done it.
And it’s her fault. Again. If she hadn’t agreed to come in with him. If she’d made him wait for Ulla. If she hadn’t agreed to take the job in the first place, a thing he was only doing in his roundabout and nonsensical way for her. She could stop him. She could always stop him. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. That was their wholething.
But in those critical moments, she never stops anyone. Not her sister Juliet, not her mother, not her father, not herself, and now not Mateo.
And she knows why she hadn’t. Because she likes Topher. But also because of Mateo. Because he likes Topher and that’s so rare. Precious. A seedling to be nurtured, set on a windowsill, moved from room to room to follow the light without direct exposure to the elements. She’d wanted a friend for him so much. Someone more positive than her.
Somewhere in her happy and softly fucked up life with Mateo she’d forgotten the fundamental truth of herself.
Everyone else dies.
Ethan dismounts Mateo’s still form and vomits onto the ground on the opposite side of the table from Ophelia in the Yoga Wife’s body. Whatever’s wrong with Ethan, he needs a few minutes heaving. She hopes he heaves out his entire fucking guts.
Eventually, Ethan wipes at his mouth with obvious distress, gets to his feet, wobbly, and starts circling the table. What’s left of Mateo is dripping onto the floor all around her, the steadysplitchand Ethan’s ragged breaths the only sounds.
A moment of savage hope pierces Ophelia’s soul at the slow and considering way Ethan circles. Something had been happening to Mateo as he’d struggled with Ethan, that black stuff bubbling out of his eyes, mouth, nose, and ears, like his insides had liquefied and they all wanted out of his head at once. Her angle for it was bad and hasn’t improved.
She can’t see what Ethan’s seeing now. Can’t see why he leans close to the head of the table, over where Mateo’s face is. Ophelia’s world constricts to Ethan’s expressions. Is Ethan seeing movement, signs of life, something to indicate Mateo’s still alive?
