by Amy Fecteau
One eyebrow rose, this time.
Matheus winced. He closed his eyes, rocking his head over the wooden door. “That was supposed to be threatening.”
“Didn’t sound threatening,” said Quin.
“Well, it was.” Opening his eyes, Matheus glared at Quin. “Put your eyebrow down.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t like what it’s implying.”
Quin let out a sound that might have been a laugh in another lifetime. Matheus glared harder. He really needed to practice more. His glaring muscles felt stiff. Maybe he should have stretched first.
“You want me to believe that I claimed you, putting myself at great risk, for sex? With you?”
“You didn’t have to add that last bit,” said Matheus. “I got it.”
“I wanted to make things clear.”
“I said, I got it.”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“I can’t tell you something I don’t know.”
Quin slammed his palm against Matheus’s chest. He pushed, the heel of his hand digging into Matheus’s solar plexus. Ribs creaked. A throbbing pain spread through his flesh, sinking into his lungs. He focused; the pain abated. He frowned. Quin clearly didn’t have his heart in this. Matheus felt a little disappointed.
“You never told me,” he said. “Maybe if you didn’t go around being mysterious at everyone, I could tell you.”
“You’re saying this in my fault?”
Matheus paused. The pressure against his chest steadied, the pain fading into the background. He looked at Quin, fangs looming, eyes dark with fear disguised as anger, and felt something snap.
“You know what? Yeah, I am saying that. You’re the one that claimed me. You’re the one who never told me anything. You’re the one stupid enough to get himself captured.”
“You―”
“What?” Matheus slammed the heel of his palm into Quin’s shoulder, rocking him backward. “I what? Turned you back? Yeah, I did that. You’re fucking welcome.”
“I should rip out your heart,” said Quin in a hoarse whisper.
“Then stop stalling and do it already,” Matheus said. “Because I’m getting goddamned sick of your whole existential crisis thing.”
The pressure on Matheus’s chest increased. He inhaled sharply, the pain spiking as his ribs bent into his lungs. If Quin pushed much harder, he’d break Matheus’s ribs. A distant cast lit his eyes, as though Quin watched a private movie projected on the inner rods and cones. A creeping sensation wormed up his spine, vertebrae by vertebrae. He shivered, a chill winding its arms around his neck and drawing him close. The moment balanced between two futures. Matheus tensed, waiting to see which one Quin chose.
“I―” Quin stopped, then sniffed. He stepped back, looked down at Matheus’s feet.
“Now what is your problem?” Matheus asked. He’d been unconscious for ten days. Did Quin expect him to smell like daffodils? He yelped as Quin dragged him away from the door.
“Look,” said Quin, pointing.
A thin wisp of smoke crept between the door and the frame, tendrils stretching and curling along the earthen floor. Keeping Matheus behind him, Quin pressed a palm against the door. His other hand crushed Matheus’s wrist, certain to leave bruises.
“A fire?” Matheus asked. He twisted his arm, but Quin’s hold didn’t slip. Inching toward Quin, Matheus inhaled. The smoke smelt acrid, with a chemical aftertaste that coated Matheus’s tongue.
Quin shook his head. “I think it’s a smoke bomb.”
“Apollonia.” Matheus pinched Quin on the back of the hand. Quin swatted him away, not loosening his grip.
“Keep low.” Quin dropped into a crouch. He opened the door.
A fresh wave of smoke rolled in, and Matheus gagged. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. Matheus squinted as wet drops slid down his cheeks. He followed Quin in a limping half-crawl, pausing to wipe his face and spit every few seconds. He felt like a bawling infant, face scrunched up, mucus pouring out of far too many orifices, tears drying into a salty crush on his skin.
“This would be easier if I had both hands,” he said.
“Quiet,” said Quin.
Matheus turned, spitting out more of the foul taste. “A minute ago, you were planning on killing me.”
“So I’m fickle.” Quin slashed his hand at the smoke-filled air. “Shut the hell up.”
Matheus considered making a snarky retort, but the smoke burned down his throat, performing nauseating somersaults in his gut. He barely made out the strands of lights through thick, black smoke. Hazy spots of gray ran along the ceiling, doing nothing for visibility. His eyes stung. He closed them, tears squeezing out from beneath the lids. Ten minutes passed, or maybe only ten seconds. He stumbled. His chin scraped along the floor. Wincing, he touched the raw flesh. He didn’t know if he felt tears or blood on his fingers.
“Is there another way out?” Quin asked.
“No,” said Matheus. “I think it was on the to-do list.”
“Seriously?”
“In retrospect, we probably should have put it a bit higher.”
“Well, consider this a learning experience,” said Quin.
Matheus laughed, and bit hard on his lower lip. “They’re trying to drive us out, aren’t they?”
Before Quin answered, a blast wave of sound ricocheted down the hall. The quick rat-a-tat echoed in Matheus’s chest. For a second, he thought he felt his heart beat. The silence rang, notes of sound hanging in the air, like afterimages.
“What the fuck was that?” Matheus asked.
“Assault rifle,” said Quin. “Come on. We have to get out of here.” He stood, pulling Matheus after him.
“No, wait.” Matheus leaned back with all his weight. His heels dug furrows in the dirt. “I have to make sure the others get out first.”
“Screw the others,” said Quin.
“Let go.” Matheus yanked, finally wrenching his wrist free. He shot past Quin, only to have his nose bounce off the floor. “Bastard!”
Quin withdrew his foot. Grasping the back of Matheus’s sweater, He hauled him upright. “Sunshine, we don’t have time for this.”
“Either help me or get lost,” said Matheus. “And don’t call me Sunshine.”
A litany of curses came from the smoke. Matheus waited for Quin to call his bluff. They both know that Quin didn’t need Matheus’s cooperation. He’d have no trouble hauling Matheus out of the basement whether or not he objected. More shots came from the living room, multiple guns muddying the deafening staccato.
“Fine,” said Quin. “Fine.”
“Thank y―” The rest of the word stretched into a howl as Quin grabbed him.
They flew down the hall, running blind in the smoke. Frantic voices came from the living room, spilling out in the gaps between the gunfire. Alistair shouted orders, but contradicted himself every other sentence, sometimes even within the same one. After each round of shots, Alistair’s voice pitched up another half-octave. The smoke thickened as they approached the main room. Someone ran past Matheus, knocking him into Quin. Matheus squinted, discerning only the hazy outline of a person. He or she bounced off Matheus, turned, and continued to sprint down the hall.
“Stop!” Matheus yelled. “Not that way.” He coughed, bent double, chest aching. “Don’t let anyone go down the hall,” he said to Quin, squeezing the words out of his burning throat.
“I’m staying with you,” said Quin.
“Please, Quin,” said Matheus. “Just stay here. I need to find Alistair.”
A burst of gunfire ripped over the room. Matheus hit the floor, a heavy weight his back.
“Don’t give them a target,” Quin said, his lips brushing the shell of Matheus’s ear. He rolled away, settling into a crouch at the end of the hall. The smoke shifted as someone ran toward him. Quin snapped an arm out, catching the runner around the ankle.
“Everyone, pay attention!” Quin’s voice somehow rose abo
ve the bedlam without seeming raised. “Don’t panic, don’t run for the hall, and stay close to the walls.”
“Saturnius?” called a woman to his left.
“Heaven?” He crawled toward the voice. His head bumped against the arm of the couch. Groping over the upholstery, Matheus felt his around to the back. The blasts of gunshots, while jarring, didn’t last very long. In movies, bullets lasted as long as the narrative required. In real life, an AR-15 burned a magazine in less than three seconds. The gunmen didn’t appear to be very hot on aiming either, although that might have been the result of the smoke. They seemed more bent on sowing terror, which Matheus had to admit, they did quite efficiently.
A small hand slapped against his face, patting its way up to his hair.
“My apologies,” said Heaven, withdrawing her hand as Matheus crawled closer.
“So what does the universe have to say about this?” Matheus asked.
Heaven waited for the next round of shots to finish.
“It says we need to leave. The smoke is clearing.”
Matheus gripped the back of couch, peering over the top. He didn’t hear Alistair anymore. In the opposite corner, someone wept, choking on the thick sobs. Most of the screaming had died down, with people huddled in small groups, waiting for the next round of gunshots. Matheus searched the thinning smoke, but didn’t see Alistair or Milo. Although, with his corneas burning, they might have been standing right beside him, for all he knew.
“Where’s Lenya?” he asked, dropping down next to Heaven.
“The succubus took the child away,” said Heaven. “The night of your rebirth.”
“Oh, God,” said Matheus. “Please, not you too. I’m not―”
Gunfire swallowed the rest of his sentence.
“Why are they shooting?” Matheus asked in the ringing silence. He shouted over the bells in his ears. “Bullets don’t kill us.”
“Hurt like hell, though,” said Quin. “Enough to slow us down and make us think twice about rushing them. Lazy bastards.”
“Yes, if only the people trying kill us were more proactive,” said Matheus. “I told you to watch the hallway.”
“I did,” said Quin. “Don’t worry, it’s not going anywhere.”
“You―”
“Sunshine, no one is moving. You need to give orders.”
Matheus opened his mouth, then closed it. Orders implied he knew what to do. Orders were official. He’d rushed in, expecting things to happen, never realizing he’d have to be the one to make them happen.
“Shit,” he said.
“Hey―”
Quin spun, driving his fist at the shadowed figure approaching the couch.
“God-dammit,” said Milo, his voice muffled.
“Oh, there you are,” said Matheus.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Milo said.
“That was Quin.”
“Obviously.”
The guns clicked as fresh magazines slotted in place. Matheus jammed his fingers into his ears until the volley ended.
“Okay,” he said. “We have to get out of here. Anyone got a way to get past the NRA-fetishists up there?”
“You’re asking us? I thought you were in charge?” Quin’s voice held the edges of smile, but the smoke obscured the details of Quin’s expression. The mocking Matheus picked up on loud and clear, though.
“I’m delegating,” said Matheus. “Should we make a run for it?”
“No,” said Milo, Quin, and Heaven.
“Wait,” added Heaven.
“For wha―?” The rifles stepped on Matheus’s words. The gunmen aimed high. Bits of ancient wood rained down, snow drifting in from the new ventilation system.
“Eventually, they have to run out of bullets, right?” said Matheus.
“This is America,” said Milo.
“Good point.” Matheus glanced through the fading haze at Quin, nodding in a steady rhythm. His fingers tapped on the floor. “Milo, you still have that pistol?”
“Not on me,” said Milo.
“Shit.”
Bullets slammed into the sofa, shredding the cushions. The frame splintered; cotton filling flew in all directions. Matheus flattened himself, covering his head with his arms. He felt a bullet whistle past, lodging in the dirt next to him. A cool wetness slid down his skin. Matheus tightened his hands in his hair as a line of fire spread across his arm.
The ratchet click of empty magazines being ejected filled in the silence. Matheus raised his head. The couch, never the best shelter, now had the blocking capacity of a lace curtain. The shattered wood and bent metal springs offered a clear view of the gunmen reloading. Three stood at the top of the stairs. Each carried enough ammunition to take over a small South American country.
“This isn’t good,” said Matheus. “Quin, can you―?”
“Excuse me.” Quin leapt over the remains of the couch. He sprinted for the stairs, long legs swallowing three steps at a time. He reached the top before the gunmen even realized he’d moved. Matheus winced as Quin grabbed the barrel of the rifle. He knew the metal had to be scorching, but Quin didn’t react. He rammed the butt of the gun into the man’s face, then kicked him as the man staggered.
“Eeeh.” Matheus flinched. Beside him, Milo let out a low moan. Some injuries translated between people with a physical empathy.
“He was never going have children anyway,” said Heaven.
The second gunman lunged at Quin, while the third fumbled to reload . Quin ducked the man’s first wild swing. He drove the butt of the gun at the man’s knee. A howl followed the crack of bone. Quin ripped a new magazine out of the man’s vest, flipped the rifle over, and rammed it in place. The man scrambled backward, his hands waving in front of him. Quin raised the gun and fired once. The bullet tore through the man’s hand like construction paper. Meaty construction paper that sprayed blood and shards of bone. The bullet demolished the man’s eye, exploding out the back of his head. Brains splattered over the wall.
Quin swung the rifle around to the third gunman. The man lifted his rifle as Quin turned. They faced each other for a second; the man pulled the trigger. Quin hurled his rifle. The man dodged instinctively, raising the barrel of his weapon toward the ceiling. Quin dove for his legs as the bullets went wild. They hit the floor in a tangled mess. The wooden steps creaked, groaning under their weight.
Matheus rose onto his knees, trying to get a better view. “Should we help him?”
Quin rolled to his feet. Blood dripped down the side of his face. Bracing his weight against the railing, he kicked the fallen gunman. Whimpers mingled with the dull thuds of his heel turning the man’s organs into pâté.
“He’s fine,” said Milo.
One last kick, and the abused railing broke. The man hit the floor with a heavy thump. Quin pirouetted, grabbing the first man as he started to rise. A second thump followed. Quin walked to the edge of the landing, looking down at the two men lying in crumpled heaps on the floor. He jumped, landing on his feet. Bending down, Quin grabbed a fistful of the first man’s hair.
Matheus squeezed his eyes shut, but that didn’t block out the crunch of bone or the wet sound of ripping flesh. When he looked again, Quin stood beside two headless bodies. He tossed the second man’s head aside, and grimaced down at his hands. Carefully, he wiped off the blood with the dead man’s shirt. He glanced up when Matheus stood.
“I’m not sure about the other one,” Quin said, nodding at the man with the extreme trepanning. “But he won’t recover anytime soon.”
“Uhh,” said Matheus. “Okay. Thanks.”
Quin grinned at him. He gave a sweeping bow to the room. One by one, people crept forward. Many had wounds; all looked as though they’d aged ten years in ten seconds. The smell of rotten blood and cordite filled the room. Footsteps thudded on the floor above.
Matheus froze as the survivors turned toward him, questions written across their faces.
“Umm.” He looked at Quin.
�
��The others waiting will have swords and crossbows,” Quin said. “These three were just to soften us up. I suggest you don’t try to fight. Run for cover. Move quickly and maybe you’ll last the night.”
“Time to go.” Heaven rose. “Good luck.” She kissed Matheus on the forehead, then patted his shoulder. With a flutter of her white skirt, she disappeared up the stairs and through the door.
“Milo, we should―Hey!”
The crowd headed for the exit parted as Quin dragged Matheus across the room. He had to admit, they did have some impressive reaction times. A concrete wall wouldn’t have stopped Quin. He moved like the unholy combination of cheetah and bulldozer.
“Wait,” said Matheus, trying to search the faces as they whipped across his sight. “I need to find―”
“We’re leaving,” said Quin.
“I have to―”
“No.” Quin stopped at the base of the stairs. He loomed over Matheus. He’d never thought of Quin as much of a loomer, but who said an old dog couldn’t learn new tricks? “We. Are. Leaving.”
Matheus swallowed back the automatic reply. Quin walked a fine edge, every waver flashing across his face. The brief euphoria of violence had passed, leaving behind the erratic confusion. Matheus didn’t understand; the more Quin remembered, the more his grasp on himself loosened. That didn’t make any sense. Remembering brought him closer to himself, not further. He pushed aside the thought of Alistair. He’d have to wait. Guilt settled in his stomach, stirring up a tempest in the acids. He nodded. The tense line of Quin’s shoulders relaxed. His lips parted, but he shook his head and looked away.
A red glow poured down the stairs. Quin took the steps two at time, Matheus struggling to keep up. Outside, the wind whipped up, sending fine snow flying. The remains of the house burned. Embers drifted into the night sky, golden luminaria amongst the stars. Dark shapes flitted around the flames. People ran around Matheus, heading in all directions. He looked for Alistair’s blond hair as he followed Quin, but didn’t see him. Freddie, either. Matheus hoped that meant they’d stayed together. He’d feel better if Alistair had Freddie with him, even if Alistair didn’t really need the protection. Occasionally, light flashed off a blade, or a gush of flame lit up a brief tableau. An arrow whizzed by Matheus’s ear, nicking the lobe.