Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Before they can decide what to do about the unknown yet ominous magic blood circle, Topher’s pasty form appears in the doorway.
“I have some bad news, dad wants to resche—” he starts but Mateo has a hand on Topher’s back, herding him out of the conference room and down the hall double time, Ophelia in their wake.
Topher, incapable of stopping anyone from doing anything, allows this, not managing a question until they’re in the elevator and heading down. “Did something happen?”
“Saw the writing on the wall,” Mateo says, hitting the button for the lobby with too much force.
He’s sharp-toothed and mighty keen to get Ophelia and Topher out of here.
It’s not that he wants to keep Topher in the dark so much as ominously and futilely telling him, “There’s defo a scary witch running around your dad’s office, and we have no idea who it is, but they just tried something” doesn’t feel super helpful at this juncture.
Leaving very quickly feels more prudent.
“I’m sorry,” Topher says in distress, letting Mateo continue to usher him around, out the elevator, through the lobby, and into the too bright day. “He’s just … he’s having a hard time with things since mom left. But he said he’d come home after work and talk.”
Wants it in the private space of his home. Almost like he doesn’t want to talk to two magical specialists about curses while at work.
Which, honestly, could be a perfectly reasonable stance if you don’t believe in magic and think your son brought two con artists to your place of business.
But also, it looks sus as hell and someone is definitely doing magic in that office.
“It wasn’t a total loss. We got free food,” Mateo assures him as they pile into the waiting car, giving Topher another awkward knee pat once they’re seated. The wide-eyed look shifts from apologetic to normal-near-panic, which must be better. “We wanted to check out your house anyway.”
Mateo uses the ride to puzzle over how and why someone went for them in the scant few minutes they’d left the conference room.
Coincidence feels unlikely, but anything but a coincidence also makes no sense because no one knew they were coming.
Was the target Topher? He might have been on his dad’s calendar.
This thought keeps his teeth distressingly sharp the whole traffic-laden trip across town.
Eventually, Quincy parks in a cobbled driveway split down the middle by a fountain filled with naked lady statues endlessly pouring water from vases.
It’s Topher’s dad’s mansion. Ophelia’s out of the car first, taking pictures.
Topher’s fuchsia again, looking like he wants to pull Ophelia away but wouldn’t dare touch her.
“Sorry about the, uh …” He can’t bring himself to say “naked ladies” so trails off, then powers ahead.
“They came with the house. Mom hates them. Dad … he likes them, so …” Topher’s taking psychic damage standing near the statues, so he hurries to the front door, punching in a code on a keypad to let them in.
Mateo’s still trying to think through this blood magic complication, but there’s an honest to God foyer on the other side of the door.
Marble floors, gaudy frames featuring more unclothed women doing manual labor, and no obvious use for the large space.
Until Topher opens an unseeable closet to one side of the door and indicates they should de-shoe.
Ophelia has on those girl shoes that are made of half an inch of fabric and wishes so she kicks them off into the closet like an animal, then walks ahead into the house.
“Holy shit,” Ophelia’s mild voice calls as he follows Topher into the living room.
More pale marble and questionable art abounds.
Cutouts in the walls hold things like a single sterile white apple.
An L-shaped couch sits in the center of a slate-gray rug, and neither looks like something a human ass is meant to interact with.
A low coffee table made of glass threatens in front of an open fireplace that runs the length of one wall.
It’s the most actively hostile room Mateo’s ever been in. A nightmare of a deathtrap, every surface high-gloss or sharp, and they’re standing in it with a cursed guy.
But that’s not what Ophelia was reacting to.
She stands in front of a wall-to-ceiling window and stares into the yard, where a pool dazzles in the dying San Francisco light. “I’m going to investigate the backyard,” she says to no one because she doesn’t wait for a response before wandering deeper into the house.
Topher takes a step as if to follow, but Mateo catches his shoulder.
“She’s fine on her own. Looking for auras and trace magics.
” Ninety percent chance she goes directly into the pool without doing anything else.
“When I got background information from you, you said you didn’t really know any of your dad’s associates, right?
” A bobble of agreement. “Have you ever interacted with any of them, though? Not best friend stuff. A handshake. Quick conversation. That kinda thing?” A curse could be cast in a million different ways.
“I only really talk to the receptionist,” Topher says, still looking worriedly after Ophelia. “But just to ask where my father is. And only a few times. I don’t go to his offices often.”
“Any of your dad’s suited peers been around the house?” he tries. Considering the MIA mom and that Topher’s the one cursed, one of Christopher’s rivals might be trying to hurt the man. Get him off his game for business reasons Mateo can’t guess at because he doesn’t know how finance jobs work.
Topher nods. “Some. I don’t really, um, I mean, dad has an office here, but I’m usually in my room.” Right. The naked-lady house with the least human-friendly living room known to man didn’t imply a close family dynamic.
“Show me around,” Mateo says, steering Topher deeper into the house. “Since someone cursed you, there might be signs of it in the house. Maybe even a focus to amplify the effect.”
“Oh. Yeah. Yes. The … uh, whole house, or?” The panic of a layperson asked to disarm a bomb overtakes Topher.
“I mean, the whole house is fine. It’s just, there’s a lot of rooms. We don’t use most of them.
They’re guest rooms. Except we never have guests.
And there’s a lot of bathrooms. Fifteen.
More bathrooms than rooms. Do you want to see the bathrooms? ”
A sheen of sweat sits on Topher’s brow, and Mateo’s realizing that without direction, a faucet spins wide open and Topher spews uncertainty. “Let’s start with your room, then check out your dad’s office.”
It gets Topher moving, and Mateo follows through two more living rooms, a can-sit-the-last-supper-twice-over-sized dining room, and a massive and functionless area before the stairs. Topher provides stilted narration as they walk, also unclear about the function of most of the rooms.
Hand on knob, Topher goes to lead him into his bedroom, but then stops so abruptly that Mateo bodily bowls into him and has to catch himself on both Topher and the doorframe.
“Sorry. Sorry,” Topher says, arms spread wide, also braced against the doorframe. “I didn’t, um … I mean, I left in kind of a hurry. I don’t know if, I mean, it’s probably fine, but …”
Mateo backs up a few steps, hands raised in surrender. “You can make sure your room isn’t a mess. I’ll hang out right here.”
Hunted mongoose eyes vibrate in desperate gratitude, and then Topher slips into the room, pulling the door shut soundlessly like he stood there with both hands on it and eased it closed with breath held.
A real loathing starts in Mateo’s gut about a dad he only saw for twenty seconds, and he has to yoga breathe his teeth back into bluntness.
They’re getting sharp at everything today.
Which isn’t great. In the past few days, he’s done a lot of minor magic—and a lot of healing.
He’d napped at the hotel, and it had been dreamless, but he’s dreading tonight.
Topher opens the door, and it’s clear that rich people are exhibitionists, another curtainless floor-to-ceiling glass wall that overlooks the backyard.
All the furniture’s matching matte gray, the bed huge and neatly made and stacked high with nonfunctional pillows.
This whole house is an impersonal yet expensive hotel.
There’s almost nothing that could be out of place so Mateo can’t imagine what Topher cleaned up.
The only signs of life are a neat stack of math books on the dresser beside a framed photo of Topher, his dad, and what must be his mom.
Walking to the frame, Mateo picks it up.
Mom’s gotta be Mateo’s height or taller, towering over her tiny son and normal-dude-height husband.
Long, colorless hair flows down to her butt.
She’s like if a high-fashion model got upscaled—meaning she’s not just large but a little weird looking.
Thin mouth, small nose, high cheekbones, and a narrow chin.
The air of a startled bird with the same large, watery eyes as her son.
He doesn’t need to ask, but he does to be conversational. “This your mom?”
Topher nods, back pressed to the window, giving Mateo as much space as possible.
Setting the frame down, Mateo squints around the room. “I’m going to rummage around. Is that okay? The focus I mentioned could be anywhere.”
Topher hesitates, eyes darting around like he’s trying to remember where he’s stashed every sordid secret.
He eventually nods, and Mateo begins his riffling, desperately hoping he doesn’t run into anything weird.
There’s something wildly unpleasant about shoving your hands in someone’s underwear drawer while they mutely watch you, so Mateo gropes for conversation.
“You really haven’t talked to your mom in three months? Since the curse started?”