by Amy Fecteau
“All right,” said Joan. “As long as you understand how hard as ass this was.”
“We all appreciate your hard work,” said Alistair. “Don’t we? I said, don’t we?”
A chorus of half-hearted yeses answered him.
“See?” said Alistair, his smile taking on the manic edge of a veteran camp counselor.
“Yeah, whatever.” Joan flipped lever into place with a thunk. The circuit board popped, a tiny shower of sparks tumbling into the darkness. “Son of a―”
Joan yanked down the lever, muttering to herself. She ripped off the electrical tape, twisting the bare ends into new connects. “Fucking cheap-ass… can’t even… there.” She slammed the lever up.
Light flickered, then solidified into a steady glow. The radio Gwen had purchased fizzed with static. Up and down the hall, Joan’s group had hung Christmas lights of every color. Heaters clicked on, chargers beeped, clocks blinked 12:00 in greens and reds. Extension cords hung from the ceiling, a spider web connecting each of the rooms to the circuit breaker. Cables, bundled with a zip tie, ran through a hole in the boards to the library above. Not the prettiest setup, but it worked.
“Yippee,” said Matheus. “Now all we need is indoor plumb―ow!” He hopped on one leg, out of Alistair’s stomping range.
“It’s great,” said Alistair, looking at Joan. “Excellent work.”
“You kicked me,” Matheus said, leaning in to hiss in Alistair’s ear.
“Shh!” Alistair elbowed Matheus in the gut.
“Nobody touch this,” Joan said, gesturing to the circuit breaker. “It’s live.”
“Only thing in the room that is,” said Milo.
Matheus forgot about his war-wound. “Holy shit, was that a joke?” He twisted around to face Milo and held the back of his hand to his forehead. “Catch me, I’m feeling faint.”
“It won’t happen again,” said Milo, with a look that said he’d do worse than crush a few toes if Matheus swooned onto him.
“So, are we done?” Blanche asked, the massive stone in her ring catching the light as she waved her arm.
Matheus had asked, before discovering Quin’s donation to the cause, why they didn’t persuade Blanche to sell the ring and share the profits. The huge emerald had to be worth quite a bit. Blanche had been one of Grigori’s favorites; the ring had been a gift. Except, Grigori’s generosity, like everything else about him, seemed to be about appearances. More valuable rings had been found in Cracker Jack boxes.
“Leave if you want, blondie,” said Joan. “I didn’t want you here anyway.”
“Well, I didn’t want to come,” said Blanche, with a toss of her hair. She stood, stalking toward the front of the room. “As if I care about your grubby little lights. Pathetic, us groveling for scraps.”
“Fuck you,” said Joan. “Like I didn’t see that hair dryer you snuck in. Stuck-up bitch.”
“Children!” said Alistair. “Behave yourselves.”
“I thought maturity came with age,” said Matheus.
“Guess not,” said Milo.
Blanche sneered, looking down the length of her nose at Joan. “You’d do anything for a pat on the head, wouldn’t you? Stomping around here like―”
Joan introduced Blanche to her fist.
“Are you going to stop them?” Freddie asked .
The crowd surged forward, everyone craning for a better look.
Alistair, Milo, and Matheus exchanged glances.
“No,” they said together.
“Children,” said Heaven, casting a disproving gaze over the three men.
A shift started in the back of the room, sweeping over the crowd. The sensation leapt from person to person, excitement dimming, tension tightening the air. The hairs on Matheus’s nape stood at attention. Someone snapped off the radio; only the grunts and thuds of Joan and Blanche broke the silence. Matheus turned slowly.
“Hello again.” Quin stood at the top of the stairs, his elbows resting on the railing. He wore a suit of cheap, shiny material. The jacket swamped his narrow shoulders, the shirt billowed out with excessive fabric, but he had the air of a man in Armani. “I want to talk to you.” Quin smiled.
As one, the group took a step backward. Matheus caught Eamon’s shoulders as he stumbled into him. Eamon glanced behind him, scowling. He jerked away, slipping an arm around Gwen’s waist. Salvatore moved in front of both of them, taking up a wide stance.
The stairs creaked as Quin made his way down, long fingers trailing along the railing. Brianne, standing nearest the bottom, squeaked and covered her face. Quin ignored her, never looking away from Matheus.
“This isn’t good.” Alistair clutched his clipboard to his chest, his knuckles going white.
“Throw a bucket of water on Joan and Blanche,” said Matheus. The crowd parted as he walked toward Quin.
“We should―” Matheus said.
Quin shot his hand out, grabbing Matheus by the throat. He squeezed, his thumb digging into Matheus’s carotid artery. “I said, I want to talk. Not vice versa.”
Matheus choked. He clawed at the arm, his raggedy nails sliding uselessly over Quin’s skin. The shouting behind him became dim. Quin’s face blurred, a black haze filling the edges of his vision. Why the hell wasn’t anyone doing anything?
“Mr. Saturnius,” said Heaven’s at Matheus’s right. “This is not a wise course of action.”
“Why’s that?” asked Quin in a lazy drawl.
“Look around.”
The grip on Matheus’s neck loosened, but didn’t release. Matheus took a ragged breath, blinking rapidly.
Quin glanced around the room, his eyebrow arched. “And?”
“And if you don’t let go of him right now I will personally remove your liver with a hatchet,” said Alistair from Matheus’s left. “Then I’ll let them have the rest.”
“Alistair, I didn’t know you had it in you,” said Quin.
“A dull hatchet.”
“Hmm.” Quin shrugged. “Fair enough.” He let go of Matheus, then patted him on the head.
Matheus slapped Quin’s hand away. He rubbed his throat, stepping out of Quin’s reach. Not that something as simple as mere distance stopped Quin.
“Let’s go for a walk,” said Matheus. “I think you’ve lost the audience.”
The group had a distinctly pointy impression around the mouth area. The promise of bloodshed smothered the air. The moment balanced on the point of a needle, ready to swing either way. Matheus wanted Quin as far away as possible. Sure, they outnumbered him twenty-to-one, but Matheus still didn’t like those odds.
“I’m going too,” said Alistair.
“No,” said Matheus.
Alistair stepped between Matheus and Quin. He prodded Matheus in the chest, glaring up at him.
“I’m not leaving you along with him,” Alistair said.
“I’ll be fine,” said Matheus. “I have a cell phone.”
The crowd leaned forward. Matheus and Alistair moved closer, forming the classic “couple fighting in front of the children” pose. Quin leaned against the newel, watching them with vague amusement. He flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve. Dark stains spotted the lapels of the jacket, leftovers from the previous owner.
“Oh, yeah. What good is a phone going to be when he rips off your hands and uses them for shadow puppets?” Alistair gave a demonstration, finger-bunnies hopping in front of his chest.
“I’ll dial with my tongue.” Matheus rolled his eyes.
“Matheus, this is serious. He’s dangerous.”
“He has a point,” said Quin. “I do like shadow puppets.”
“Shut up.” Matheus turned to Alistair. “He’s not going to hurt me.”
“He just strangled you!” said Alistair.
“Again, the little irritant has a point,” said Quin, with a flick of his wrist. He grinned as Alistair turned to glare at him.
“Okay,” said Matheus. “He’s not going to kill me. Are you?”
&nbs
p; “I haven’t decided yet,” said Quin.
“You aren’t helping,” Matheus said. “Just be quiet and let me deal with this.”
“You don’t seem to be doing a very good job.” Quin frowned at a stray thread sticking out of a button.
“You cannot stop this.” Heaven laid a hand on Alistair’s arm. “It is best Mr. Saturnius is away from here, and he will not leave without Matheus.”
“Quin doesn’t remember him!” Alistair said. “All the magic Quin-taming voodoo he had is gone.”
“Magic what?” asked Quin.
“You’re insane,” said Matheus to Alistair. “I’m going now.” He grabbed Quin’s sleeve, tugging him up the stairs.
With a bemused look, Quin followed him. He wiggled his fingers at Alistair.
“Matheus!” Alistair said.
“Leaving!” Matheus yelled back. He pushed Quin through the door to the library.
“I’m burning your clothes!” Alistair shouted.
Matheus increased his pace to keep up with Quin. Their footsteps crunched on the snow-covered road. Tall trees with laden branches loomed overhead, sighing and creaking in the wind. Matheus shivered. They’d been walking for close to an hour, the lights of the city growing steadily brighter.
“What have you done to Alistair?” Quin asked.
He walked with his hands in his pockets, his head down. Matheus kept sneaking glances, hoping Quin didn’t notice. Quin moved the same way, long, smooth strides. He had the same gestures, the same expressions, but his voice had a distance Matheus had never heard before. The cool, razor-edged tones hadn’t changed, but Matheus sensed a missing piece, a hollowness to Quin’s words. It matched the hollowness in his stomach. Every time Quin spoke, the hole grew bigger, until Matheus feared he’d be swallowed into nothingness.
“I haven’t done anything,” said Matheus.
“He’s different.”
“You mean he acts like a person instead of an obsequious toady?” asked Matheus.
“Yes, I mean that,” said Quin.
“Seriously, that’s what you look for in a partner? Why don’t you just buy a Real Doll?”
They’d reached the outskirts of the city. Strip malls and fast food joints lined the street, brightly lit signs reflecting off the snow. They passed a Dunkin’ Donuts, a small huddle of people gathered around the iced-over picnic table. Puffs of smoke billowed up. Matheus inhaled, drawing in the thick, skunk smell of weed. The smokers didn’t play them any attention. Matheus had the impression of static time, the entire area trapped without a future. A plow drove by, splattering slush over the cracked sidewalk. Matheus grimaced, shaking off his soaked shoes.
“Partner?” said Quin. “I wouldn’t call Alistair my partner.”
“What then? Boyfriend? Sex toy?”
“Where’s my money?” asked Quin.
“Right,” said Matheus. “Change of subject. I still think you’re an ass, by the way.”
“And I think you’re going to find out what it feels like to be run over by a five-ton plow truck if you don’t answer my question.”
“You’re not going to like it,” said Matheus.
They’d reached the Gerhardt tunnel. The road split, part going underground to the main highway that crossed the city proper. The other rose upward, over the tunnel, a high metal fence separating the sides of the road. Matheus continued along the sidewalk. The low commercial buildings grew taller, motels replacing the strip malls, mid-range restaurants instead of fast food.
Quin snapped a twig off the shrubbery in front of an Applebee’s. He plucked off the needles, letting them fall onto the snow-dusted sidewalk.
“Why do you keep making me threaten you?” He tossed the bare twig aside. “It’s getting tiresome.”
“It’s how we communicate. I insult you, you threaten me. It works for us.”
Quin cast him a quick look. “There’s an us?”
“No,” said Matheus, more sharply than he had intended.
Quin grabbed his arm, forcing Matheus to stop. They stood in a pool of blue light cast by the Motel 6 sign overhead. In one of the motel windows, a television flickered, random flashes too distance to decipher. Snow-covered cars filled the parking lot. Through the glass doors to the lobby, Matheus glanced at the clerk, his head rolling forward, then jerking upright as he woke. Quin’s grip felt firm around Matheus’s wrist, his thumb resting along the delicate bones of his hand.
“Who are you to me?” Quin asked.
Matheus stared at the clerk. He yawned, then stretched, leaning back in his chair.
“I don’t know,” said Matheus.
He swore as Quin wrenched him around, fisting his free hand into his hair. Matheus squirmed, but a sharp yank brought tears to the corners of his eyes. Quin leaned in, all the familiar details of his face sharpening into focus, so close Matheus thought he felt the brush of Quin’s eyelashes against his skin.
“You don’t know?” Quin asked in a voice cold enough to shatter diamonds.
“I―” Matheus swallowed. Not my Quin. Not my Quin. Adrenaline beat against his eardrums, hormones zigzagging between fear and lust. “It’s complicated.”
“Explain it,” said Quin.
“I can’t,” said Matheus. “Just drop it, okay? I have your money.”
Quin released him with a hard shove.
Matheus stumbled. His heel formed an alliance with the ice, performing a coup d’état together. Matheus scrambled for stability, but not even a UN peacekeeping force could have saved him. He landed in the bushes surrounding the Motel 6 parking lot. He flailed, slapping branches out his face, only to have them return the favor. A dark shape blocked out the blue glow of the sign. Quin stood over him for a long moment, then crouched down, resting his arms on his thighs.
“I’d rather not kill you,” said Quin. “I’d have to kill all your little friends as well, and really, I just don’t want the hassle. So you are going to return my money, and then I won’t have to rip out your intestines and slap you with them.”
“I didn’t steal it,” said Matheus, spitting out a branch. “You gave it to me.”
“And why would I do that?” asked Quin.
“Because… because you’re you.” Matheus waved his arms, destroying the hopes and dreams of an innocent shrub.
“I’d hate to think I was someone else,” said Quin, propping his chin up in the palm of his hand.
“I think… I think you knew you weren’t coming back,” said Matheus, looking away.
“It wouldn’t be the first time. Doesn’t explain why I would just hand over a fortune.”
“I mean, never coming back. To anywhere.” Matheus stood up, brushing snow and leaves off his clothes.
Quin rubbed his forehead. He stared at the ground, distance in his eyes. “I can’t… None of this makes any sense.”
“You’re telling me.” Matheus looked down at Quin, an uneasy tingle creeping up his spine.
“Something keeps pushing at me.” Quin lowered his hand. He stretched his fingers out, then flipped his palm up.
Matheus wondered what he saw there. Did he expect to read his memories in the lines? “Maybe you’re starting to remember.”
Quin looked up. “I don’t think so.” He rose in a smooth movement and leaned toward Matheus, tilting his head as he searched Matheus’s face. “What is your name?”
“Matheus.”
“It doesn’t suit you.” Quin reached up, twining a lock of Matheus’s hair around his finger.
Matheus froze.
“No,” said Quin. “There’s something else.”
Oh, yes, I used to be called Mattias Schneider. You know, like that guy who turned you into a human pet. I’m his son. Would you like to brutally murder me now, or just torture me for a bit?
“Nope.” Matheus backed away, shaking his head. “Just Matheus.”
“It’s right… there… I can almost…” Quin’s eyelids half-closed, his irises disappearing beneath them. His fingers drifted through
the air, forming vague shapes.
“No, you can’t!”
“It starts with―”
Matheus’s phone buzzed. He scrabbled at his pockets, nearly dropping his phone in the snow.
“Alistair!” he said. “What’s wrong? Or did you call just to chat? Which is completely okay.”
“And it’s gone,” said Quin. He slipped his hands in his pockets, walking a few feet away.
Matheus walked into the Motel 6 parking lot, making sure to keep Quin in sight. “Alistair? You still there?”
“Why are you babbling?” Alistair asked. “Never mind, it’s not important. You need to get back here now.”
“What happened?” Matheus asked, watching as Quin scuffed his feet in the snow.
“Apollonia’s goons got Salvatore and Eamon. Gwen is losing it. Heaven dragged her back to the house, but I don’t know how long we can keep her here.”
“What? Why did they go out?” Matheus closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye socket.
“Salvatore needed to eat,” said Alistair. “Gwen called me sobbing. I could barely understand her. Heaven, Thomas, and Malcolm picked her up. She’s… she’s not good, Matheus. We had to lock her in.”
“Wha―mmmph!” Matheus jumped as a hand clamped over his mouth.
“Matheus? Matheus, can you hear me?” asked Alistair.
“Shh,” said Quin in Matheus’s ear, lowering his hand. “To your left. Don’t look.”
“Why did you tell me if you didn’t want me to look?” Matheus hissed. The parking lot looked empty. Inside the motel, the clerk had finally given in to sleep. He slumped in the chair, only the top of his head visible behind the tall counter.
“Matheus?” Alistair sounded uncertain. “Are you―?”
“Turn around slowly,” said Quin. “Keep your eyes on me. And hang up the damned phone.”
“I have to go,” said Matheus, twisting around to face Quin. “Something’s come up.”
“What? Is something wrong? What is―?”
Matheus snapped the phone shut, and crammed it into the pocket of his jeans. Despite Quin’s warning, he glanced to the left, searching the shadows between the cars. “I don’t see anything.”