Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Shit,” Ophelia whispers from behind. Her hand finds the back of Mateo’s arm, holds on at the elbow as she peers around him.
As much as he’d been convinced that something had happened to Linnéa Nystrom, the blood still startles him. He’s seen a good amount of death in his twenty-three years, and he doesn’t even know if the owner of the blood is dead, but his pulse quickens at the thought of the likely outcome.
Ophelia and Topher are behind him, so he shifts his stance so neither can get past on the stairs.
Break into the blood-magicked house—this really was his worst idea yet. Topher’s seconds away from seeing blood that must be his mother’s. Seconds away from losing the little bit of family he has who actually cares about him.
Mateo turns to Ophelia and whispers urgently. “Both of you go back to the car. Please. I’ll check up here, and then we’ll figure out what to do.”
Displeasure surges behind cerulean eyes, red lips in a tight line. “No.”
“What’s happening?” Topher whispers.
Ophelia turns and catches Topher’s shoulders. “There’s blood.”
Topher goes very still, blinks hard twice, and then finds Mateo’s eyes. “I want to see.”
The irrational desire to protect Topher takes hold, but if her body’s somewhere in here, it’s not like he can hide it from Topher for long.
They all step into the living room and approach the blood-splattered sofa. Up close, it’s grim. Blood’s like that. A russet splatter, worse than if it was bright red because that means it’s been sitting there a while. Whatever caused it has fully happened.
Ophelia stays beside Topher, his hand held in hers while Mateo regards the splatter from a few different angles like he can CSI it.
He ends up squatting in front of the main streak.
It’s not someone bled out here amounts, but it’s also not minor accident quantity.
Looks like a cup at least. A splatter of something that gushed.
His fingers get less than a millimeter away before he realizes what he’s doing and yanks them back.
Why was he trying to touch it?
But he knows why.
He wanted to taste it. Still wants to taste it, mouth salivating.
His thoughts are two frames of a movie overlaid but slightly out of sync, a double image that’s difficult to look directly at.
The urge to lean forward and press his tongue to the taupe cushion is debilitating.
It’s at once an obvious, natural reaction to the situation and an incomprehensible ripple of bone-deep revulsion as he forces himself to stand.
This is not the time for this bullshit. He can’t be sick in a murder scene, and Topher’s right there. Mateo forces his attention away from the blood. Anything but the blood.
It’s a comfortable living room otherwise.
There’s even a fleece blanket folded poorly on the small coffee table with a book, pages-down, on top of it.
Like someone got up while reading and never returned.
Romance something. Smoldering guy all up on a pale lady with pointy ears who is also smoldering.
It’s unsettling learning that Topher’s mother likes romantic fantasy—not because there’s anything wrong with that, but because her husband didn’t strike him as a romantic—and also, she’s probably dead.
They need to get out of this house, but they haven’t found a body yet.
To his left, there’s a closed door, to his right there’s a short hall with another closed door.
Moving to the door in the room, he braces for the violent stink of death and turns the knob.
That fresh grass smell greets him, a large candle on a raw-edge wood shelf above the toilet.
A bathroom. Tasteful marble and simple tile.
No blood. No purpled and bloated form curled up in the clawfoot tub.
He pulls the door closed then realizes he shouldn’t be touching anything here. For a heart-pounding moment, he uses his sleeve to wipe the handle, and then makes a stern mental note to do the same at the front door.
One room left. Topher’s still just standing there, eyes on the blood.
Mateo catches Ophelia’s eyes, moves his chin toward the hall with the last door, and she nods.
Sleeve over fingers, he goes to the door and turns the knob, squinting but not actually closing his eyes because what would be the point of this if he doesn’t look?
Main bedroom. The grass scent is mixed with an artificial floral smell, like a bottle of perfume was regularly used in here.
Queen-sized bed, neatly made with a floral quilt on top.
It’s what he imagines moms’ rooms look like when they don’t dabble in the dark arts.
Pastels, neutrals, and a jewelry stand with dainty necklaces—not a one made of bone.
No body.
Thank fuck, but also oh no. Where the hell is Linnéa Nystrom, and why is there blood in her living room?
He spends a few nervous minutes gently ransacking the place. The closest he gets to a secret is when he realizes his hands are in an undies drawer and closes his eyes in an attempt at respect. Mattress gets a thorough check but there’s no little lady figure.
Straightening up, he has nothing to show for his efforts.
It’s a normal bedroom. No obvious signs of magic, white, black, or otherwise, and Ophelia hasn’t said anything, so no non-obvious signs either.
Topher’s mom’s secret home is neat and cute and makes him think she’s a lovely woman who he hopes isn’t dead.
Pulling the door shut behind him, Mateo hurries back to the others.
The sun is harsh on Topher’s still bowed head, making his near-white hair glow.
He’s still in front of the couch, eyes on the blood stain.
He hadn’t moved at all. Ophelia’s out of sight, but the bathroom light beyond Topher is on, door open.
Probably looking for clues or checking out the medicine cabinet.
This idle thought—and an eagerness to tell Topher he didn’t find a body—is blown out of Mateo’s brain as the last step from hall into living room brings someone else into view.
Standing a few feet behind Topher, in the center of the living room, is a whole other person.
“What?” is all Mateo can think to say.
Topher, head snapping up, focuses wide eyes on Mateo. But when Mateo’s obviously looking behind him, he whirls to stare at the stranger.
Ophelia, wad of toilet paper in hand, steps out of the bathroom then. Whatever she was doing with the toilet paper is forgotten. Now they’re all staring at this person.
They’re in head-to-toe black, dressed like if Demobaza and a Jedi had a goth dystopian love child, with a shroud pulled tightly over the face and a hood pulled low over that.
It’s not the sort of outfit you wear about town unless you’re on your way to the anonymous techno goth end-of-days wizard club that probably exists in San Francisco.
They are bewildering in this sunny living room.
“Blood magic,” Ophelia says softly. Followed by, “The ward was a signal.”
Mateo’s attention sharpens, as do his teeth.
He shouldn’t have needed Ophelia to say it.
The candied scent of blood floats in the air.
Much more than the little splatter can account for.
This is the blood magic practitioner who warded the door.
Maybe the table at Christopher’s office, too.
They’d done something to Topher’s mom and then set a ward to let them know if someone showed up.
An accusation curves Mateo’s lips, but before he can get it out, a creak from the stairs draws everyone’s attention.
She’s in all-white again, though it’s a different outfit—a long-sleeved top and perfectly pressed wide-leg trousers that look tailored to her aggressively discerning form.
The back-alley Dagger Lady from Seattle who tried to shake Mateo down about his mother stands inexplicably at the top of the stairs.
No dagger in hand but everything about her demeanor conveys displeasure.
And just like that, this charmingly airy living room murder scene is crammed full of people who shouldn’t be there.
Everyone stands in a baffled T-formation, Dagger Lady, the blood magic wizard, and Topher making up the stem with Ophelia and Mateo flanking Topher like whatever the top of the T is called.
“What!” Mateo repeats way louder.
“The other magic,” Ophelia says, less softly.
“That’s the lady who stabbed me,” Mateo says.
“Accidentally stabbed you,” the lady who stabbed him says like that’s better.
“What is happening!” Mateo says louder still.
“I was following you,” Dagger Lady—who is not presently holding a dagger but is still Dagger Lady in his brain—says. “And then saw the most suspicious thing ever.” She indicates the evil wizard. “So, I came in.”
“You fucking followed me from Seattle?” Mateo is shouting now.
It almost drowns out Topher’s soft, “But who’s this?”
This—the evil wizard—turns back to Topher.
There’s a beat where no one does anything but look at each other. Dagger Lady at Mateo, Mateo at Dagger Lady. Evil Wizard at Topher, Topher at Evil Wizard. Ophelia at Mateo and Mateo at Ophelia, and then both of them at Evil Wizard and then Topher.
Then the Evil Wizard lifts a black-gloved hand in the direction of Topher like they want Topher to stop where he is.
The same part of Mateo’s brain useful for avoiding bar fights and maneuvering around customers’ shit moods realizes something’s about to happen.
It’s not a rational thought based in anything concrete, but it comes with a wash of rage, teeth sharpening further in his mouth.
Whatever this Evil Wizard fuck’s about to do, it’s directed at Topher and that’s an outrage.
Mateo surges toward Topher and shoves him sideways, at Ophelia. Topher yelps, Ophelia swears, and both are propelled through the still open bathroom door.
With Mateo now standing where Topher had been, something hits him.
It’s exactly like what slamming into a wall at freeway speeds would feel like, a solid force knocking air out of lungs and his footing out from under him.
The bloodied couch is right beside Mateo.
What was once a secure and sturdy obstacle between himself and a large window overlooking the backyard, becomes a comical tabletop situation.
His body slams into it somewhere around the knees and sends him tumbling over it and face first into the window.
And then rapidly face first through the window.
And then rapidly face first into the charmingly concrete paver backyard three floors below.