Page 50 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
Figuring out how to find andscareChristopher.
“Do you think—” he asks, mentally shaking himself and awkwardly digging his phone from his hoodie pocket. His hands have an unnatural length and it’s difficult to find purchase on glass with sharp tips covered in cheap glove. “—Christopher would answer someone from work?”
They both turn to regard him, Quincy nearly breaking, eyes flitting between Mateo’s hands—which seem wrong—and the mouth he can’t see because a mask is hiding it. Blackness is definitely seeping from the edges.
But Ophelia speaks first. “Ethan? That’s quite the ask.”
“My wiles,” Mateo says, as if he possesses any. Especially right now. But they could drive all the way to Christopher’s house, bogged down by traffic, and Christopher might not be there. Every minute wasted is another minute the most beat-up-able and super-cursed guy in the world is trapped behind bars with other people.
He fumbles with his phone, trying to get to the call menu. It’s not the kind of situation you can text about. Ophelia crosses to him and takes the phone, dials Ethan, puts it on speakerphone, and holds it out for him to talk.
Two rings and a voice says: “You still in town?”
Mateo does a probably horrific wide-mouthed grimace beneath the mask to get the words out clearly. “Yeah. Trying to help.” Only sounds a little like he’s talking around a hoagie.
“And you’re calling me in the middle of that because of the oppressive guilt you feel about stealing my jacket even though your boss is in jail?”
He keeps forgetting Ethan’s exactly the kind of guy who’d call him on every bullshit thing he tries. It’s gotta be straightforward. “I need a favor.”
“He needs a favor,” Ethan repeats, but he doesn’t sound put out so Mateo presses on.
“A big favor.”
“Not really selling it … but now I’m curious.”
Mateo meets Ophelia’s eyes briefly. There’s no good way to ask this so he just says it. “I need to talk to Christopher. In person. But he’s not answering my calls and he’s not at work.”
A long pause. “You want me to call a senior broker at the place I work and wheedle out of him his physical location so you can …?”
It’s such a reasonable question and he can’t possibly answer in a reasonable fashion. So, he doesn’t. Ethan hadn’t seemed that weirded out about the possibility of magic existing. He hopes that holds true. “Topher hired me because he’s cursed; his mom is either dead, missing, or is the evil wizard who just tried to kill me; and Christopher knows way more then he’s saying. I wanna strong-arm him into telling me what the hell’s happening.”
An even longer pause. “I sure do think you’re hot, Mr. Occult Specialist, but I’m going to need a little more than these mad ravings and promises of assault to put my job at risk.”
It’s not like he’s suddenly developed a deep bond of trust with Ethan. That takes more than some flirting and a pseudo-date that ended in someone drowning. Hell, he’s not sure what that takes. The person going back in time and being Ophelia, probably. But Ethan’s been alright so far. Enjoyable, even. Understanding in a weird situation. Against all odds, Mateo kind of likes talking to him. There’s a brief reticence at incinerating that tiny kernel of something like friendship, but this is an emergency. They’re out of options and have zero leads. Christopher’s the only one who might know what’s happening, so they need to get to him.
Executive decision, then. It’s his horrible secret. Might as well use it to convince a broker that magic’s real so he should help them.
Mateo pointedly doesn’t look at Ophelia as he asks Ethan, “Can you come to my hotel?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Holy shit,” Ethan says, back pressed to the closet, as much distance between himself and Mateo as possible. He would have gone for the door if Quincy wasn’t standing in front of it.
Speaking of, Quincy watches the reveal with a widening of eyes and thinning of mouth, but is otherwise unmoved. Consistently solid. Mateo would applaud the man if not for the claws.
He lets Ethan have a good long look—even though the cornered and strangled cat expression on Ethan’s face is hurting Mateo’s feelings. Like, not really, but also, kind of.
Not that he blames the man.
Pitch-black talons sit at the tips of eerily long fingers, which are themselves a disconcerting hardening of dark flesh without real transition from skin to nail. A matte black that’s difficult to look at extends from claws, up arms, and fades into the normal tone of his skin near his shoulders. Oily orbs of shadow replaced his eyes, no whites or brown irises visible, and they’re leaking Mateo’s black blood. It’s running down his face and smeared across his cheekbones from him trying to keep it in check. Dark mist is lazily rolling out of his hair, off his skin, and even comingfrom his mouth if he leaves it open long enough. Ophelia said it smells like a snowy day, which is the most normal thing about the new look.
The teeth are the worst of it—which is saying something because it’s all bad. Rows and rows of razors, his mouth a black-hole nexus of scary the human eye can’t stand to look at. Mouth, tongue, and teeth are the eye-averting black stuff, so it’s difficult to understand what’s happening there. A realBabadooksituation, but not so sausage-gloved.Edward-Scissorhandswith less metal and more nightmare-horror-made-flesh-and-teeth.
In short: It’s a lot.
“Sorry,” Mateo says after a moment, the act of talking making Ethan flinch. “There’s not a good way to preface: I look like a demon.”
“You could have just said you look like a demon.” Ethan draws in a breath and lets it out noisily. Doing a passable imitation of Topher’s google-eyes. “Areyou a demon?”
