Page 37 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
It’s the most words he’s heard Topher speak in succession without backpedaling or corrections, and it’s disconcertingly earnest, and very concerned about Mateo’s feelings in a way no one but Ophelia has ever been. It’s not just nice. It’s an out.
All of the money and none of the risk.
He’d been a foot out the door just last night. Could probably get Ophelia to accept it if Topher weretellingthem to go. No reason in the world not to take it.
Except it leaves Topher to figure this out alone.
“For the record, it didn’t occur to me for even a second that you might pressure me, and that’s not because I lack imagination,” Mateo says, neck heating at even alluding tothe event. “Also, for that same record, it’s notinsane. You’re a nice, smart guy with a pretty choice wardrobe. I’m not, like, offended or anything. I’m just not very—”Humanis probably the best way to end that sentence, but he can’t say that. “It’s fine. Really. You don’t have to get out of here. We’re cool. It’s cool. I’m cool and you’re cool.”
Finally bobbling his head in a nod, the unhappy downturn of Topher’s mouth smooths away. “Okay. Okay. Great.”
“Also, you did buy me dinner, so,” Mateo for some reason jokes, even though he’d totally managed to smooth this over already.
Topher’s eyes go briefly very wide, and Mateo’s horrified he’ll have to frantically explain that he makes stupid jokes as social lubricant. That he’s not really implying Topher felt like he owed him something for paying. But then a smile flickers across Topher’s lips. “Actually, I bought you breakfast too,” he says, skirting around Mateo to leave the room but calling back, “Which we should probably go eat.”
Every time Topher jokes back, Mateo’s wholly unprepared for it, but seeing that smile loosens the pressure he hadn’t realized was building in his chest. It takes him a moment to recognize the pressure as heat; the heat as how his body feels when he’s getting angry in a demon-esque way.
Except he’s not angry.
Tongue to teeth, he confirms they’re sharp.
Had staring at Topher’s doe-eyed contrition made the demon mad? A really concerning reaction, demon. What is that supposed to mean? Does the demon hate apologies? Does it just hate seeing Topher upset?
Or maybe it hates idiots who turn down free money.
Unclear how he’s feeling about that exchange, Mateo follows Topher to eat his cold eggs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ophelia clocks it as soon as they exit the car. Mateo catches the coppery sweet and decaying yogurt sour smell within a few feet of Linnéa Nystrom’s beautiful row home. It’s just like at Christopher’s office. Four dark smears along the doorframe, crusted into brown from age.
There’s a blood ward on Topher’s mom’s front door.
“Same magic as at the office,” Ophelia says, all three of them keeping a few steps away from it in the sheltered porch. Quincy’s waiting in the car two blocks away but Topher’s vibrating beside them, gaze locked on one of the blood smears on the frame. Mateo hadn’t wanted Topher there, but it’s his mother and he’s worried. Couldn’t be dissuaded—even though the most likely discovery within is her body.
“Can you tell if it’s, like, offensive?” Mateo asks, scouring the frame with his eyes, trying to understand the symbols. Anything to give him a clue what it does.
“I don’t think it is,” Ophelia says slowly, that subdued quality to her voice that means she’s not entirely with them. “Theone in the office would have done something. This one’s … passive. Not very much intention to it.”
Mateo doesn’t know any passive blood magic spells. Anything he’d ever seen his mom do was of the maim variety. The wards on his own house were technically passive, but they were non-blood spells altered with blood to be more murder-y.
Meaning, there’s only one way to find out.
He slaps his palm flat on the door.
“It reacted,” Ophelia hisses, and Mateo braces, expecting flames or knives or something.
But nothing happens.
Glaring, Ophelia says, “We don’t know what that did.”
“Then we better be fast.” He says it like he’d been confident.
Pushing him aside, she crouches in front of the door while he stands extremely conspicuously between the covered porch where she’s forcing the lock and the rest of the world.
“Got it,” Ophelia says, rising from her crouch and backing up.
Mateo moves in front of the door and pushes it open. Nothing happens, so he steps in.
