by Amy Fecteau
“Then I need a phone.” Matheus folded his arms and tried to look stern. A whipped werewolf. Ridiculous.
“I have a phone,” said Milo from the hallway. He crossed the room, and handed Matheus a sleek-looking smartphone. “It’s secure.”
“Thanks,” said Matheus. He ducked under Freddie’s outstretched arms, taking a seat on the steps.
Freddie retreated to the couch, his frame tense. He perched on the edge of the cushion, watching Matheus. Milo sat next to him, resting his elbow on the armrest. He propped up his chin in his hand, staring into the dark corners of the room. Apparently, Alistair’s retribution in case of Matheus’s escape failed to concern him.
The conversation with Fletcher went as well as Matheus expected. She answered on the first ring, her voice tight. Concern gave way to anger, then silence. They finished the call with careful words, each avoiding saying aloud what they both thought. Matheus hung up. He leaned forward, head hanging down, an exhausted ache running down his spine. He glanced up when Milo plucked the phone out of his grasp. Matheus sighed. He wondered how many times he’d have the same argument with her before whatever still remained between them finally broke. Each time, another weight strained the connection. Matheus didn’t know how much the bond could hold.
“What’s with the new people?” he asked, pushing away the thought of Fletcher.
Milo turned over the phone in his fingers.
“Milo?” asked Matheus, straightening. “What’s going on?”
“Apollonia’s turning an army,” Milo said. “Some are slipping through the cracks.”
“And they’re slipping here?”
“Better with us than her.”
“How many?”
“Maybe twenty. Alistair’s been keeping track.”
Matheus leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. “And what aren’t you telling me?”
Milo pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his pinky. “You survived a day in the sunlight.”
“I did realize that, Milo,” said Matheus. “I was there.”
“People are saying… Protos.”
The name sounded familiar. Matheus frowned, trying to remember where he’d heard it before. He closed his eyes, chasing down the memory, something Quin had said, months ago. Protos, the first of their kind, sent to check the spread of humankind or something like that. Matheus didn’t know what that had to with him.
“Have you heard the legend?” asked Milo.
“Yes,” said Matheus. “But, why―?”
“Some think he’ll return,” said Milo.
Matheus stared at him. He opened his mouth, closed it, raised his hands, lowered them, then finally shook his head. “Are you seriously telling me people think I’m some kind of undead Jesus?”
“Some,” said Milo. “Not me.”
“Well, thank God for that, at least. I can’t even―really? Has there been a rash of head injuries while I was out?”
“No one comes back after a trip to the woods with Apollonia. People think you might have a chance. They’re switching sides.”
“I buried myself in the snow,” said Matheus. “I dug a shallow hole with the chain, then covered myself in snow. And it’s not like I woke up all daisy fresh. My fingers fell off!”
“I am not the one saying it,” said Milo, with careful distinction.
“First person who tries to worship me is getting a smack in the gob,” Matheus said, his voice raising as he stood and waved his finger at Milo. “There is a line and I’m drawing it. Right here. There, there is the line.”
Milo raised his eyebrows at Matheus’s imaginary line. He turned away, head bent over his phone as he walked across the living room.
“Respect the line!” Matheus shouted after him.
From the couch, Freddie gave a snort of laughter.
Milo paused in the hallway entrance, speaking to someone out of sight. He spun to the side, his back pressed against the wall as Alistair sprinted past him.
“Matheus,” he said. “Oh, Lord, you’re awake. Are you all right? Let me look at you.”
“I’m fine.” Matheus batted away Alistair’s hands, and retreated up the stairs. He glanced at Freddie over the railing. Freddie perched on the edge of the sofa, watching Alistair with a single-minded intensity. Being the recipient of a werewolf’s affections was not a position for the easily rattled. “Alistair, I’m okay. Look, fingers, arms, legs, all limbs present and accounted for. See?”
Alistair paused on the first step and gave him an up-and-down scan. Matheus’s shirt hung off Alistair’s slender frame, and his head had worked itself into a state of disheveled frenzy. He wondered when Alistair had showered last. He decided not to say anything, since the definite scent of char hung around him.
“You’re all right,” said Alistair softly.
“Yeah.” The stairs creaked as Matheus walked toward Alistair.
“Good,” said Alistair, and slapped him.
Another snort of laughter came from the couch as the slap cracked through the room.
“Ow! Jesus! What the hell was that for?” Matheus rubbed his cheek. He blinked, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. Alistair had a slap like a brick wall. Matheus ran his tongue over his teeth, checking for loose molars.
“For being a goddamned idiot!” Alistair yelled. “What is wrong with you? You went shopping?”
“Is this because I didn’t take you shopping?” Matheus asked.
Freddie gave a low whistle.
“It was a joke,” said Matheus, stretching his lips into an exaggerated smile. “See?”
Alistair didn’t smile. He shook, fury rolling off him like the heat of re-entry. Matheus really didn’t want to be the one hanging on to the outside of the shuttle.
“Did you consider that Quin might be the one turning you over to Apollonia?” Alistair asked. “Don’t you ever think?”
“I considered it,” said Matheus. “Then I made an educated decision that you’d have to have the mental capacity of a walnut to think Quin’d work with Apollonia.”
“Then how did she―?”
“She had an informant on the police. A human. Not Quin.”
“Quin did hand you to the cops,” said Freddie from the couch.
“You are not helping,” said Matheus.
Freddie grinned at him. “Wasn’t trying to.”
“God, then shut up!”
“Don’t yell at him.” Alistair poked Matheus in the gut. “You’re the one who messed up.”
“Yeah, I know, all right. You’re right, I’m wrong. I get it. Being roasted into Cajun pork tends to drive home the point quite well.”
“Prick,” said Alistair, some of the heat draining from his voice.
“I know.” Matheus cupped Alistair’s cheek, rubbing away a streak of mud.
Alistair sighed, his shoulders dropping. He tilted forward, resting his forehead on Matheus’s chest and gripped his biceps as though he expected him to fly away. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“It wasn’t part of my plan,” said Matheus.
“Since when do you have a plan?” Alistair laughed, wild around the edges.
“I could have one, if I wanted one.”
“You’re so full of crap.”
“I―” Matheus glanced up as someone coughed. He looked over the crowded room, the stares made even eerier by the silence.
Freddie had curled into a tight ball, crammed against the arm of the couch. He held his knees to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs. Strain lined his face. Matheus didn’t blame him. He wanted to grab Alistair and make a run for the door. He recognized some of the people, but not the expressions of mingled desperation and hope. Taking a step up the stairs, he sought out Milo in the back of the room.
Milo bent over his phone, typing with both thumbs. Matheus exhaled. He could always count on him for total indifference. He considered it one of the best things about the man.
“Umm, yes,” said Alistair, following Ma
theus’s gaze over the room. “About that…”
“Milo told me. Protos.”
“I tried telling them, but…” Alistair gave a one-shouldered shrug. “If it turns people against Apollonia, then I’m not going to argue too much.”
“That’s a little mercenary,” said Matheus.
“You think it’s the first time someone has manipulated other people’s belief in war? I don’t want to die, Matheus.”
“I might be naïve, but I’m not that naïve.” Matheus squirmed, feeling the weight of three dozen stares on his skin. “Still, you’re not the one they’re looking to save them.”
“No,” said Alistair. He released Matheus’s arms and gave him a bittersweet smile. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
The crowd shifted, clothing rustling, feet shuffling over the dirt floor. Matheus wished they’d sneeze, or whisper, or anything really. Fangs might be more obvious, but nothing screamed Not Human like the total immobility of the undead. Matheus picked out the younger ones in the crowd, with their lingering twitches of humanity, but even they had a stillness to their faces. No wonder the hunters had picked him out the minute he’d walked into their bar.
A pathway appeared as the crowd parted. The whispers started, but they didn’t make him feel any better. A stray image popped into his head, the big reveal at the end of a teen makeover movie, when the poor unfortunate duckling shows up as a swan. Except with a heaping serving of restrained violence. Matheus tried to picture Quin in a prom dress; a stabbing pain started behind his left eye. Perhaps, better not to meddle with forces beyond his ken. Although, Alistair did sport the bitchy popular girl look quite well.
Quin paused at the bottom the stairs. He ignored Alistair’s glare, which only made him glare more. Matheus wondered how they’d both managed to survive the past week and a half. He should have woken up in a smoking crater.
Quin’s lips parted.
“I need to talk to you,” Matheus said, before Quin uttered a syllable. He squeezed Alistair’s hand, and pushed past him to grab Quin’s wrist. Head ducked, he avoided the eyes of the crowd as he dragged him across the room. Matheus pretended not to notice Quin’s wave to Alistair, a smirk twisting his lips. Discretion the better part of valor, and all that. Besides, Matheus was happy enough that Quin decided to put on pants before coming into the living room. Small victories.
id you see Alistair’s face?” Quin asked.
“This wasn’t for your amusement.” Matheus closed the door after him.
“Too late, I’m already amused.”
Matheus leaned against the door, his arms folded. Something about Quin jangled his nerves. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought him sloshed. Quin still moved with the same fluid, controlled movements, but his voice held a bright looseness that he associated with an evening of double scotches. He narrowed his eyes.
“Are you trying to look stern?” Quin leaned against the opposite wall, mimicking his pose.
“You have to stop this thing with Alistair. One of you has to be the adult and you’re older.”
“First day as the Second Coming and you’re already giving orders. My, your head swells fast.”
“Don’t even,” said Matheus. “I know you’re not a believer.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you told me.”
Quin gave him a smile full of broken glass. “Maybe I found religion.”
“Or maybe you’re just trying to change the subject,” said Matheus. “Alistair. You. Knock it off.”
Quin straightened, bitter smile dropping away for something darker. He started across the room, but stopped midway. He waved dismissively, gazing over Matheus’s shoulder. After a second, he lowered his arm, expression dropping away, eyes vague, a statue of flesh.
Matheus coughed. “What are you doing?”
Quin blinked once. “I really don’t know.” He kept staring at the spot in the distance.
“Would you like to threaten me?” Matheus asked. “That always seems to make you happy.”
Quin’s gaze flicked to his face. “Nothing makes me happy.”
Matheus rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. Where’s the happy-go-lucky psychopath that murdered me?”
“You fucked with my head!” Quin’s scream exploded in the small room.
Matheus pressed against the door, close enough to feel the grain of the wood despite his clothes. He curled his fingers, ragged nails dragging over the door. “You fucked with mine first.” His jaw ached.
Quin took a step toward him.
Matheus tilted his chin up, the bitter taste of adrenaline filling his mouth. He waited, ignoring the push to run, to call for help. Quin’s eyes glittered. Matheus had seen him kill; he knew the monster underneath the tailored suits. But he didn’t recognize this madness, and that frightened him more than anything else the man had ever done. He didn’t know how much of the old Quin remained. The urge for flight raced down his limbs. In the store, he had called him sunshine. Something of Quin’s former self had to have survived, locked away inside.
Inhaling, Matheus forced himself to look away. He dropped his gaze to Quin’s feet, long, brown toes curling slightly on the cold dirt floor. He stretched out his fingers, spreading his hand over the rough-cut wooden door.
“Ow.” Matheus jerked his hand away, a splinter lodged in his index finger.
“Got a boo-boo?” Quin asked, with childish spite.
“I’ll survive.” Matheus picked at the splinter, but it only wormed its way deeper into his finger.
“Yeah, you seem good that.”
“I’m sure if I’d burnt, you would have thrown a party.” Matheus scowled at his finger. He’d broken off the edge of the splinter, leaving two-thirds still buried in his flesh.
“You would think so.”
Matheus glanced up, his insides squirming at the expression on Quin’s face. The bitter twist to his lips didn’t quite match the confusion in his gaze. He had always been so sure of himself, never doubting his choices, his mind. Quin, his Quin, might be amoral, but he’d never questioned his sanity. Although, his old therapist might argue his definition of sanity. “Thanks for the sweater.”
Quin stared into his eyes. Matheus’s gaze slid down to rest on the curve of Quin’s collarbone. “Freddie told me. Granted, it is a bit creepy that you went back there. I mean, it was a crime scene, what with the murdered clerk, and the dead cops, and all, so you probably had to break in. Unless they cleaned up, but I don’t think Apollonia is the―”
Matheus dug at the splinter buried in skin.
“You’re welcome,” said Quin. “Want me to get the splinter out?”
“Umm… sure.”
He flinched as Quin grasped his hand, thumb pressing into his palm. His gaze on Matheus’s face, Quin raised the finger to his mouth. His fangs snapped out.
“Hey―son of a bitch!” Matheus yanked his hand free.
“Splinter’s gone,” said Quin, with the barest hint of a smile.
“There’s a great bloody gash down my finger!” A droplet of blood rolled over his palm, dangling off his wrist for an instant before splashing onto the floor.
“Maybe Alistair has a Band-Aid.”
“You prick,” said Matheus.
“I was just trying to help.” Quin blinked at him, all wide-eyed innocence. Well, as close to innocence as he ever came.
“Right.” Matheus stuck his bleeding finger into his mouth. The rotten taste of his blood overwhelmed the more familiar notes of salt and copper. Not an exhilarating sensation. At least Quin no longer looked as though he balanced on top of crumbling foundations. From behind the door came the occasional drift of voices, nothing distinct. Matheus wondered how much longer before Alistair burst in. He guessed ten, maybe fifteen minutes. He glanced up, biting down on his finger as Quin darted forward. His face hovered an inch from Matheus’s, frozen, unblinking. A wave of déjà vu swept over Matheus, bringing him back to that first day he’d woken
up dead.
“If I killed you, what do you think would happen?” Quin asked. His pupils expanded, leaving behind only a sliver of hazel. His lips parted, fangs catching on the soft flesh.
Matheus swallowed, grimacing as the foul blood slid down his throat. He lowered his hand. Without breaking eye contact, he groped for the door handle.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said.
“That’s adorable,” said Quin. “You think your opinion matters.”
He studied Matheus like an entomologist examining a pinned moth.
“It could kill you too.” His fingertips brushed the cool metal handle.
“According to you, I initiated the bond. Why make myself vulnerable like that?”
Matheus grasped the handle. He rose onto the balls of his feet, the muscles tightening in his legs. A faint crash came from the living room. He hoped Freddie hadn’t chosen this moment to lose control. Did everything wait until he’d woken up to return to chaos? Maybe he should think about putting himself into a coma.
Quin leaned closer, drawing his lips back, fangs long and white. He snapped his jaw, grazing Matheus’s flesh.
Okay, think about comas later.
“I don’t know,” said Matheus, his eyes crossing in an attempt to keep Quin’s fangs in sight. “You do know jack-shit about claiming someone.”
“In general,” said Quin. “What makes someone”―his gaze flicked up and down Matheus’s body―“worth that risk?”
“Sex,” said Matheus.
Quin drew back a fraction, his eyebrows rising.
“I mean, not us.” Matheus waved the hand not clinging to his escape route. “Just, you know, in general. That’s what I was told, anyway. You protect me, I provide you with orgasms. But, umm, not us. That’s just an example. A totally abstract, not at all literal example.”
“Is that so?”
“We don’t… that’s not our arrangement. We don’t have an arrangement. You claimed me against my will.” Matheus poked Quin in the stomach. “Bastard.”
Quin’s eyebrows lowered, the set of his mouth relaxing. Although, Matheus noticed he kept his fangs on display. “Very convincing. You seem very upset.”
“This is an academic conversation. But if you want to make it personal…”