by Amy Fecteau
“They wanted her alive,” Joan said. “She took a few punches, but they didn’t cut her or anything?”
“What about the baby?” Matheus asked.
Joan shook her head. “There were a lot of them. Kicked the door in, and went for the three of us first. Don’t know how many, more than I could count. I saw a couple of others dragging Fletcher out of the room, then I got a fucking sword to the chest. I passed out, I think, maybe a couple minutes before I woke up and got the hell out of there. Found a place to hole up and called Milo.”
Matheus nodded, but he’d only heard every third word. His mind spun, tipping from side to side, like the Tilt-A-Whirl From Hell. At the center stood Fletcher, the only stationary point, the only thing to focus on. Fletcher, alone, hurt, and pregnant.
“I’m really fucking sorry,” said Joan. “I―I―should’ve―I could’ve done something. Fuck, Matheus, I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I know,” said Matheus, his voice distant, constrained inside the carnival ride raging around his head.
“Fuck, I liked her.” Joan rubbed her face, which only had the effect of smearing more blood over her skin. “I really liked her. She was tough, you know. Scared as fuck, but she wouldn’t back down.”
“Yeah.” Matheus turned away, his arms folded so tight, his bones felt like iron rods. He walked without seeing. If the crowd hadn’t moved, he’d have run straight into someone. Footsteps followed him. At the bottom of the steps up to the theaters, he stopped and stared at the fading carpet, memorizing patterns of the threadbare patches. Most people climbed the steps on the right; more carpet had been worn away on that side. That made sense. People tended to go to the right in the U.S.
“Matheus?” asked Alistair.
“Yeah?”
“Can you stop staring at the stairs? People are starting to get freaked out.”
“Yeah.” Matheus rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“What are you going to do?” Alistair asked.
Matheus shook his head. “I don’t know. I have to find her, but I just―I don’t know.”
he air hung heavy and still. Matheus leaned back to rest his head against the wall, the soft thud swallowed by the thick silence. His hands lay forgotten in his lap. An hour ago, he’d been lying on the floor, exhaustion pooling in his joints, Quin draped around him, both of them lingering in the moment. If he closed his eyes, he tasted the mingled traces of their time together. The memory seemed out of place in a room like this one. How many years had the dust sat undisturbed? Spider webs built on the wispy remains of their predecessors, spiraling designs intact with no breeze to set them swaying free. A room going quietly to ruin.
Matheus wondered when he’d become accustomed to such rooms. Months spent hiding the forgotten places of the city, worried every minute of who might find him―when had the adjustment happened? He exhaled, letting his shoulders slump. Bit by bit, the gray rooms ate into his nerves, wearing them down, until he became just as vacant, just as lifeless. The lethargy worked into him, non-thinking, non-feeling, empty of all. Out the room, things needed to be done, plans had to be made. Inside, nothing.
“Matheus?” A square of light fell over the floor.
He stared at the bright shape, watching it shrink away to a sliver, swallowed into the darkness. Muffled footsteps crossed the room, measured out like the ticking of a clock.
“Matheus,” Quin repeated, no longer a question.
He stirred, letting his head fall forward. He inhaled the musty air, looking through the torn carpet to ten years ago. To another dark room, another woman taken, another him. Quin’s shoes stopped, the toes pressing into his field of vision. He tried to think of what to say. He felt naked, his shield stripped away, all defenses lost. Quin meant conflict, and fire, and passion, but Matheus didn’t think he’d manage to muster the energy. So he said the one thing he’d kept locked inside, sometimes even from himself, for the last ten years.
“When I was eighteen, my father told me to kill a woman,” Matheus said. “He brought me down to the basement and told me to kill her. And I think I did.”
Quin knelt in front of him, placing his hands on Matheus’s knees. He rested his palms there for a second, and slid them upward, wrapping his fingers around Matheus’s wrists. Skin lay cool and rough against his, thumbs caressing the delicate, blue-veined flesh.
“It smelled terrible,” said Matheus. “She’d been there awhile, and there wasn’t any―you know. So, she’d gone in the corner. I can’t remember what she looked like. Just the smell. And the crying. Not proper crying, just a sort of phlegmy choking.” Matheus stopped for a moment, the memory lodging his throat. “She―she grabbed my arm, and I shoved at her. My father liked that. I didn’t want to hurt her, she just smelled so bad.”
Matheus closed his eyes shut, fingers curling, nails biting into his palms. “My father kept talking to me, something―something about her being tainted. I wasn’t―I’d taken something, I can’t remember what. I couldn’t understand him. I knew―I knew a little about his work. It was a family tradition. But it wasn’t―I didn’t… it was only bits and pieces. Sometimes I heard things from the basement, but I―it wasn’t discussed. Ever. But, I guess, since I was eighteen, I was old enough to start…” Matheus shuddered. “He―he put a knife in my h-hand, and I―”
Matheus stopped.
“You what?” asked Quin, his voice soft, but rumbling, coursing through the still, dead air.
“Nothing.” Matheus jerked at his hands, but Quin only tightened his grip.
“Sunshine,” he said. “Keep going.”
“Fuck.” Matheus glanced away, blinking at the pile of forgotten film canisters, rusting creeping up their sides. “I was so strung out. I can’t remember what happened. I came to in my bedroom, hung over and crashing. I don’t know what I did. I had the knife, and my father was pushing me, pushing, pushing, and the smell―maybe I did k-kill her. At that point, I didn’t much care. I didn’t much care about anything.”
Quin loosened his hold, just enough to stroke the inside of Matheus’s arms. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss first to one wrist, then the other.
Matheus held his breath. He waited for Quin to raise his head, to look at him. He waited for the contempt in Quin’s gaze. He waited for the rejection. Matheus had imagined this moment for the last decade, the moment of exposing the buried regret and shame. Even at his most romantic, Matheus hoped for, at most, a distancing pity.
Shifting, Quin moved higher, kissing the inside of Matheus’s elbows, the top of his collarbone, one earlobe, then the other. He pulled away without letting go. Tilting his head to the side, he looked at him, one hand smoothing a stray blond lock around Matheus’s ear. No contempt, no pity, only the same mixture of exasperation and amusement, laced with something deeper; the way Quin always looked at him. His expression broke over Matheus like the rushing waves of a tsunami, scouring his flesh with salt and leaving him raw and hollow and clean.
Matheus inhaled, swallow and wavering. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Quin and burying his face into the crook of his neck. His shoulders shook, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
“He has Fletcher,” he said, voice cracking.
Quin smoothed circles over Matheus’s back, whispering nonsense syllables into his ears. He didn’t say everything would be all right. He didn’t say they’d rescue Fletcher. He didn’t offer the comforting lies Matheus found so irritating. He offered only himself, and for the moment, he didn’t need anything else.
They passed a long, quiet time together. Slowly, his shaking subsided. He shifted, propping his chin up on Quin’s shoulder. Light seeped in around the door, highlighting motes of dust as they drifted on unknowable currents. Matheus wiped his eyes.
“You know…” Quin patted Matheus on the back. “You’ve killed about twenty more people since then.”
“Oh, God,” said Matheus. “That isn’t the point.”
“I’m just thinking,
if you’re going to have an existential crisis about all of them―”
“Shut up, Quin.”
“Yes, love.”
Matheus pulled away, glaring in the face of Quin’s grin. “I don’t think I like you.”
Quin shrugged. Rising, he nibbled at Matheus’s scowling lips until they turned soft and pliant.
“I still don’t like you,” said Matheus, after he’d regained his breath.
“Whatever,” said Quin.
Matheus glanced at the door. “What are they doing out there?”
“Well.” Quin settled onto the box next to Matheus. He stretched, crossing his legs at the ankles, his arms behind his head. He slid downward, his butt just resting on the edge of the box. “You disappeared. Alistair isn’t telling them anything. Heaven keeps repeating something about the stars. The Viking with the beard―”
“Thomas,” said Matheus.
“He’s trying to organize defense parties, but everyone is ignoring him. Mostly, they’re worried.”
“I’m not going to make them do anything,” said Matheus. “This is my problem.”
“That is what they are worried about,” said Quin. “This is why I don’t get involved in covens. Too many complications. Too much responsibility.”
“What are you talking about?”
Quin tilted his head, looking at Matheus out of the corner of his eye. “People are worried.”
“I know,” said Matheus. “You just said that.”
“They are worried about you.”
“Me?” A creeping feeling of guilt soured in his gut. He hadn’t meant to scare anyone, he just had to get away, away to think clear of the faces that kept asking questions he didn’t know how to answer. “What? Did you all draw straws to see who’d come in here to make sure I wasn’t committing hari-kari with a film projector.”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Quin.
“Seriously? Is that what you―did you really think―?”
“I thought you were in here moping. And behold―” Quin spread his arms wide. “The world holds no surprises.”
Matheus eyed the stack of film canisters, wondering if he’d be able to grab one off the stack and throw it at Quin’s head before he noticed. Regretfully, he decided not. Maybe he needed to invest in a bag of marbles for the future. After all, they had eternity together. He had no doubt many occasions would arise in which Quin deserved to have objects thrown at his head.
“But what did the others think?” he asked.
“Oh, the same thing,” said Quin. “And that you were going to run off alone and do something stupid.”
Maybe not marbles. Maybe golf balls. Or a BB gun.
“Why would they think that?” asked Matheus, wondering what stores in town sold BB guns.
“Past evidence.”
“You’re one to talk.” Matheus gave him a poke in the biceps. “At least when I run off I don’t get captured.” The memory of Carruthers and son came back to him. “I mean, I don’t always get captured. Most of the time. Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Quin, his eyebrows raised. “Does your babbling have something to do with the scars on your stomach?”
“What? No. We’re not talking about this now. You’re the one got captured by my father―twice―and all humanified.”
“Actually, Apollonia caught me the second time. She thought with Zeb gone, I’d make my move to take over the city.” Quin shook his head. “Her objectives merely dovetailed nicely with your father’s. Charming man. He made sure to stop by and say hello before they strapped me in.”
“I’m sorry,” said Matheus. “That I didn’t tell you.”
Quin turned toward, eyes wide. “Did you just apologize? Out loud, in actual words, of your own freewill? Are you a doppelgänger? Where is my surly, obnoxious Sunshine?”
“You’re an ass.” Matheus scowled, crossing his arms.
“Oh, there he is.” Quin laughed, dodging the fist aimed at his shoulder. “Stop that, Sunshine. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“You know what, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you, and your stupid, alpha male―”
“No, we were talking about you,” said Quin. “Remember? Impulsive, doesn’t listen to reason, refuses to ask for help before running off like a brain-dead lemming―you.”
“If I didn’t ask for help, it’s only because I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
“That is the same thing Alistair said.” Quin brushed a speck of dirt off his pants. One speck among thousands. “He’s very besotted with you.”
Matheus narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like the way Quin said “besotted,” like a society matron referring to her servant’s home as “rustic.” Even Matheus picked up subtext after it’d been underlined six times and highlighted in fluorescent pink. And if he knew what Quin really meant, then sure as hell so did Alistair. After everything that happened, Alistair deserved better than being treated like a low-rent floozy.
“Do you have a problem with that?” Matheus asked, undoing the careful enameling work of his dentist.
Quin gave him an easy, satisfied smile. “Not anymore. Alistair and I had a… talk.”
Nothing good ever came from a…significant pause…talk. Matheus frowned at Quin, weighing the possibilities in his mind. He didn’t think Quin had killed Alistair, but Quin didn’t have many hard limits, and he definitely had his creative moments. Especially when it came to violence.
“A talk about what?” Matheus asked slowly.
“Not much. It was a short talk.”
“What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing.” Quin drew out the vowels, tapped his tongue on his teeth for the hard consonants.
A second ticked by.
“You son of a bitch.” Matheus jerked upright, catching his jeans on a nail jutting from the box. He yanked, tearing himself loose. A strip of denim swung against his leg. Dust puffed around his feet as he ran out of the room. He took the narrow steps two at time, bouncing like a pinball between the walls. He tripped on the last stair, bursting through the door and straight into Freddie.
Freddie let out an oof. He staggered backward, before grabbing Matheus’s shoulders and setting him upright.
“Where’s Alistair?” Matheus demanded.
“Theater Six,” said Freddie. “What are―?”
Matheus darted around him. He sprinted toward Theater Six, imagining Alistair with broken fingers, amputated feet, van Gogh ears. His footsteps thumped down the ramp, the ruined screen looming larger and larger. He saw the top of Alistair’s head, part still neatly in place. Further atrocities filtered in his brain: nostrils split, eyes swinging free, and―
Matheus thudded to a halt. He stared down at Alistair sitting there with nothing wrong with him at all. Eyeballs in place, fingers intact, and ears unmailed to prostitutes.
“Why aren’t your arms broken?” Matheus asked.
“Are they meant to be?” Alistair asked.
“Yes!”
Alistair gave Matheus a familiar look. The look that said, “I can’t believe that you are the person to whom I have entrusted my undead existence.” The look that combined worry, scorn, and affection into one surprisingly eloquent expression. Matheus got that look a lot. Sometimes he thought Alistair’s face had stuck that way.
Matheus rubbed the back of his neck. “Quin said he talked to you.”
“He did,” said Alistair. “He said, ‘I’m going to drag out Matheus.’ I said, ‘okay.’” He stretched, wiggling his non-broken fingers, and swung his non-amputated feet onto the bar in front of him. “What does that have to do with my arms being broken?”
Petty impulse warred with better judgment, the inner equivalent of the United States attacking Belgium. His sliver of maturity gave a valiant effort, but ultimately retreated in the face of thermonuclear weapons. He shoved Alistair’s feet off the bar, gave him the finger, and stomped out of the theater. He slapped open the door to the hall, and walked str
aight into Freddie.
“Tell everyone to gather in the main room,” Matheus said, once he’d extracted himself.
“Is that an order?” Freddie asked.
“Yes, it’s a goddamned order. And if you see Quin, tell him he’s an asshole.”
“Just an asshole?”
“Feel free to be creative,” Matheus said. “I’m not in the mood right now.”
“Just how many people are you sleeping with, Sunshine?”
Matheus spun around. He pointed a warning finger at Quin, who smiled the smile of baby angels in return. Baby angels raised on a steady diet of devil’s food cake and harvested souls of the nonbelievers.
“Keep it up and it’s going to be none,” said Matheus. “Asshole.”
Freddie slipped away. Presumably to relay Matheus’s order, but he had a feeling Freddie’s departure had more to do with his sense of self-preservation. Or maybe just his desire to maintain working eardrums.
“I’m confused,” Quin said. “Are you angry with me because I didn’t go into a jealous rage and rip Alistair’s arms off? Because that possibility is still on the table.”
“No, it isn’t.” Matheus turned, stalking down the wide hallway toward the main room.
Quin fell into step at his side, long legs moving in an easy, lanky stride, his hands stuck into his pockets. His bare feet padded over the threadbare remains of the carpet. Matheus made a mental note to find him some shoes, than took his mental pen and scribbled it out. If Quin wanted shoes, he knew where to buy them. Of course, he didn’t have any money, but Matheus didn’t think that’d be a problem. He flicked a glance at Quin. His jeans looked like only a thick layer of grime held them together. Matheus’s didn’t look any better. The denim stuck to his legs as he walked.
Matheus un-scribbled his mental scribble. After things calmed down, they had to go shopping. And for once, he didn’t plan on uttering one peep of complaint.
“Be reasonable,” said Quin. “They’d grow back.”
Matheus sped up, cut in front of Quin, and stopped. He turned, crossing his arms. “Seriously, what are you going to do about Alistair?”