Page 77 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
Like.
So why the fuck had his brain suppliedsee yaas his departing line?
Forcing his thoughts to something actually relevant, he clutches the spell book to his chest. It’s going to take some effort, but he’s going to learn every spell in it. He’s going to learn what his mother knew. What she took from him. Maybe that’ll makehim worse, but he’s already eaten two people. How much worse can it get? And maybeworsehas always meant more of what he actually is, and maybe it’s not bad if he becomes that. Because demons aren’t evil, they just don’t interact well with the material world. It’s whatever the human involved does to get the power, or with the power, that’s capable of good or evil. And maybe he’s not actually human. But he’s also not just a demon. So maybe he can be whatever the fuck he wants to be.
He’d been on the verge of something after Ethan’s knife sunk in. And he can’t shake the feeling that the thing he’d transformed into had been a hell of a lot more informed than his current self. But being like that, knowing whatever he’d almost known, had felt like a one-way street sort of deal. If he’d walked down it, he’s not sure he’d be able to come back, and there are things here—people here—he needs.
“Talk,” Ophelia says from the front.
Talking never helps, except he’d nearly lost the ability to ever talk to her again.
So he talks. Tells her everything.
The dreams, the shadows, and the almost-knowledge he’d punted aside in that basement.
That kiss. The two before it. That they don’t matter. That they do matter. That they can’t matter. That he’d thought it was the demon who was being weird about Topher, but it wasn’t. And it’s kind of a relief because the idea of something else controlling him was horrifying. But if not something else, that means the one actually being weird about Topher is him and he has no idea what to do with that.
The Ethan stuff. So much Ethan stuff. There’s no emotional guide about what to do when you thought someone was cool and you sort of hoped they’d be your friend but instead you eatthem. He explains how he keeps waffling between knowing it was a perfectly valid response—sort of—and regretting it. And it’s double terrible because he’s crying about this while in the coolest jacket Ophelia could spot in Ethan’s closet. Balmain, double-breasted with a chunky zipper detail and an oversized cut. It’s magnificent and Mateo’s glad she grabbed it, even though wearing it makes him want to lie down on the road a little bit.
And somehow this guilt is coupled with an utter lack of guilt that is extremely wide and bone deep because he’s furious at Ethan for touching her. For touching Topher. For seeming cool and being shitty. For trying to help and then trying to kill him. For actually succeeding in killing him.
Most nonsensical of all, he’s mad at Ethan for dying.
And beneath that Mateo has a blindingly bright fear. That he’ll do it again. Eat someone again. Because a week ago he thought he was human and today he knows he’s not. He’s something else and that something is hungry. But it’s also not a fear, it’s a certainty. He definitely will eat someone. He knows he will. He’s excited that he will.
He spews out all the things he’s kept from her for years and years for no reason other than that saying them makes them real but it’s all real anyway so he might as well say it.
And when he finishes, she says, “We’ll deal with it.”
And he says, “I love you.”
And she says, “I know.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“Nice lipstick.”
Mateo Borrero pulls an earbud out, muting the furious screeching and synth to see if the comment was sincere or sarcastic.
Difficult read.
Three guys in Seattle-chic—flannel, jeans, and beards—stand in a loose pack in front of a coffee shop that boasts butter coffee and acai berry bowls. The one who’d probably spoken holds a smoothie in one hand and has a half-smile on his lips.
Mateo almost shoves the earbud back in, not wanting to deal with this. Harassing or flirting. Doesn’t matter which. He doesn’t want it. But the guy’s manner is ambiguous enough, so he chances an answer. “Nyx Cosmetics. Got it at Walgreens.”
“Cool,” the guy says, and Mateo slowly turns around, deciding to count to ten before putting his earbud back in. He gets to eight.
“Hey.” Closer now. Smoothie guy. The one in blue plaid and blue jeans stands just to his right. A guy in some guy clothes. About to use his guy mouth to say some guy things. “You busy this weekend?”
Comparatively, it’s probably the better option, but it’s the one that makes Mateo inwardly cringe the hardest. If he’d been being an asshole, Mateo could have just eaten him.
It’s his own joke, but he hates that he made it.
“Seeing someone,” Mateo says instead.
“No worries,” the guy says, which is also probably the better option, but same joke about eating him.
The ping of the crosswalk sounds and Mateo crosses without incident. Which is fantastic because he doesn’t have time for anyone’s bullshit today.
