Chapter 32 #2
They were completely savage and senseless about one another.
So he hates whoever is audacious enough to pose with her.
The meat is tall and skinny, with dark eyes, well-shaped brows, black hair in a messy shag swept to one side, black eye makeup and lips, and a really slick jacket with a fluffy collar.
Oh.
It’s the other him.
No.
The human him.
The only him.
Him.
The picture is replaced with Ophelia’s face, her fingers in his hair. “There you are. It’s okay,” she whispers, her words suddenly coherent.
“What the hell?” he manages around an inability not to breathe like he’s just been forced to run a mile.
But he can already tell what the hell because the arms he wraps around Ophelia aren’t claw-tipped.
No blade-teeth meet his tongue. He reaches to his eyes, which are still wet, fingers coming away with black, but Ophelia assures him softly that they look normal again.
“Interesting,” Ulla says in the tone of someone who doesn’t find it interesting at all but has other things to do because it’s not her drama. “What’s the plan now?”
“Give him a minute,” Ophelia snaps.
Where she touches feels like what he imagines being irradiated feels like, electric and hot in every cell as if too much pressure might make it all slough off.
He can’t stop wiping his cheeks, amazed that he’s only smearing around what was already there.
The leaking had felt natural, like of course shit just comes out of his face all the time, and now it’s weird not to have it.
His life is so messed up. “How did you know that would work?”
“Lucky guess,” Ulla says with a raised eyebrow. It’s such a bad joke.
“Okay. Human-faced again. Thanks for that,” he says, trying not to stare at his hands. They feel wrong even though they’re the hands he’s had his whole life. “Quincy took Christopher to bail out Topher. When they’re back, we get everyone in the same room and talk.”
“Pedestrian,” Ulla says, which isn’t a rebuff because she doesn’t follow it up with a counter or complaint. She might be incapable of enthusiastic agreement. Her gaze shifts to Ophelia. “You. What do you do?”
“Astral projection,” Ophelia says readily, uncharacteristically willing for interrogation.
“Possession?” Ulla asks. A flicker on Ophelia’s face. Surprise? Then thoughtful.
“No,” but Ophelia doesn’t say it firmly. It’s almost a question.
“I cannot believe this is the help I’ve found.
Infants who don’t know how to do anything,” Ulla complains, but it’s nowhere near the heat of the complaints about her sister.
She starts pacing, another cigarette between her lips two steps in.
“Fine, fine. Topher will be safest here. My sister is annoying, but she loves her son. The house is warded a particular way that isn’t obvious unless you’re well versed in my sister’s flavor of protection craft.
It won’t allow entrance for anyone with ill intentions against Topher. ”
She gives Mateo a pointed look. And suddenly he knows why she’d agreed to meet them so easily. Just being in the house meant he was on Topher’s side. The first good thing to happen in fully 72 hours. Magic had actually helped them prove their intentions.
“Every day I expected this house to expel Christopher,” Ulla gripes, blowing a perfect smoke ring. “But he cares about Topher in his own horrible way. He’s just also an asshole.”
An earlier disquiet returns, one he should have thought of before he sent Christopher off to get Topher, but there’d been a detached certainty to a lot of his actions of the past few hours. “Are we sure Christopher isn’t involved in whatever’s after Linnéa? I heard tales of abuse.”
Critical, storm-cloud gray eyes turn to him. “Bullshit. He used to worship the ground she walked on, and when that faded, he recognized the free ride she was. She fell out of love with him as soon as he made it clear he was a poor father, but they had an understanding.”
Huh. Mateo had only been in Christopher’s presence a few minutes total, but the narrative seemed sound.
It was easier to think that Linnéa hadn’t been honest with her sister.
In his mother’s book, Christopher’s entry had said useless, but his mom was also an asshole.
Useless could mean dangerous to other people.
“Linnéa wanted out of their contract. Could you see him getting abusive then? That could have been Christopher in the evil wizard outfit. We couldn’t see who was in the outfit and they were tall. ”
“Who’s Quincy?” Ulla asks, ignoring his concern entirely.
“Topher’s driver,” Mateo says, knowing what she’s getting at. “He doesn’t have anything to do with any of this but volunteered to help.”
She doesn’t need to say anything for the expression on her face to make him feel like a fool.
If you don’t know Quincy, sure, that weak-ass defense sounds suspicious.
But Quincy had been so consistently solid and helpful.
He’d been cool with everything. Including magic existing and Mateo’s demon state.
And.
It’s weird that he was so cool about it, isn’t it?
Ophelia’s phone bings. “Quincy,” she says. “Says Topher’s being processed for release.”
Mateo gives Ulla a look. Like see, I’m right about Quincy, who he’s suddenly feeling defensive about. He really had helped a lot. Or it’s that it would be amazingly ironic if, after all of this, they’d sent the evil wizard right to Topher. But he wouldn’t text if that was the case.
Ulla makes a displeased noise but there’s nothing to do but wait, so she wanders away to do whatever angry luck spirits do in their sister’s ex’s homes when no one’s around.
Mateo and Ophelia lie down on the gray living room couch. It’s L-shaped and Ophelia’s short, so she takes the arm of the L and Mateo takes the stem, the tops of their heads nearly touching. It’s not a comfortable couch but he’s exhausted, and Ophelia can always sleep.
Curled on his side with eyes closed, the weight of the past few days somewhat slides off of Mateo.
Topher’s nearly free. Sure, there’s a whole murder charge to deal with, but maybe Topher’s rich enough that it’ll just go away.
Mateo’s demon thing is seemingly in check too.
Nothing’s fixed, but at least it’s no longer actively broken.
These are good things. Great, even. They should mean sleep.
But his brain is trying to relive the past few days in a way he has zero emotional capacity to deal with.
Maybe it’s just that the demon can’t relax until Topher’s in this hideous house.
Mateo has no idea how long processing takes, but he imagines Topher’s arrival should be any moment now.
Quincy hadn’t texted that everyone in jail was dead or anything—he’d have led with that—so hopefully Topher’s brush with incarceration was uneventful and not extremely traumatizing.
“You’re fussing,” Ophelia says, and Mateo tips his head to see her also tipping her head and staring at him.
“You’re fussing,” he counters like a child.
“You’re worried about him,” she says, which is a response out of absolutely nowhere. That she means Topher but hadn’t said his name and that he was actually just thinking about Topher makes it embarrassing.
“You’re worried about him,” he counters again like a child.
“I am. I like him. He’s weird,” she admits easily, as if they’re people who admit feelings. She studies his face from her nearly upside-down-to-him vantage point. “Are you heartbroken?”
“Should I be?” He doesn’t mean to ask it, but she’s forcing him off balance with her upsetting eyes.
Or maybe being a demon all day did something to his wiring.
He doesn’t want her answer. Doesn’t want words put to whatever it is they are to one another.
If they never say it, it’s not something else for them to lose.
Her horrible azure gaze studies him critically, mouth tilting into one of her more scathing smiles. “You’re so stupid.”
Something in his chest loosens. “Yeah,” he agrees, looking away from her, admiring the ugly décor. Loving how gray and square and featureless it is.
She takes pity on him just long enough for him to think she’s dropped it. “You like him, too,” she says. Proving she is trying to catch him off guard.
“Totally. His most attractive feature is his bank account, and who doesn’t love a murder rap.
If anyone likes him, it’s the demon. It’s being so weird about him,” Mateo says with too much forced glibness in his voice.
“Why the hell do you think I like him? He’s alright.
I’m not saying I hate him or anything. If I were into nervous mice that are ninety percent eyes, he’d be my first pick. ”
“You’ve described him as at least seven different animals to me.” She says it like it explains anything, but when he turns and stares at her like she’s the dim one, she adds: “You don’t describe anyone to me. You don’t notice anyone but me. Outfits don’t count.”
Huh.
Floundering for a denial, all he can think of is that he’d even searched animals with large eyes on his phone to add to the mental list.
He’s saved from inner reflection—thank fuck—by Ulla walking loudly into the room.
“This is taking too long,” she declares.
Mateo and Ophelia both sit up, dig out phones, check against the clock, but they honestly don’t know what’s too long here.
So they start texting.
And they wait.
And wait.
Mateo even forgoes text for horrible actual call.
Six rings and a leave a message. Quincy should have answered.
Even if he were driving, he’d have answered.
He had that phone-through-speakers thing Ophelia’s car is three decades too old to have.
He tries Topher’s cell too, in case it’s back in his possession, but no dice.
He even tries Christopher, but it goes right to voicemail.
No one’s picking up or texting back.