by Amy Fecteau
“Well, I’ve never made a shrunken head.” Quin waved his hand about. “I’m sure I can find instructions on the Internet.”
“Quin―” Matheus slapped his palm against Quin’s chest, punctuating key words with a fresh hit. “I have too”―slap―“much”―slap―“shit”―slap―“to worry about without you plotting some kind of Saw-esque revenge scenario. Besides, Alistair is so old, if you cut off his head, it’ll just turn to dust.”
“Who said I was going to cut it off first?”
“I’m sure it’s one of the requirements.”
“Oh, I’m very resourceful,” said Quin.
With a groan, Matheus let his forehead land on Quin’s chest. “Please,” he mumbled into Quin’s shirt. More a tessellation of stains than a shirt by this point.
“Since you asked nicely.” Quin set Matheus upright and kissed his temple.
Matheus felt like a child worried about being arrested because he’d stolen a pack of gum. He aimed a vicious blow at Quin’s midsection that Quin deflected without effort.
“I think your mood swings are getting worse, Sunshine.”
“Are you…deliberately trying to make me angry?” Matheus asked.
“Yes.” Quin sighed. “But there’s really no sport in it. Like those faux safaris rich men go on to shoot some sad, toothless rhino that’s spent the better part of its life in a zoo being gawked at by fat tourists in khaki shorts. It’s much too easy.”
Matheus decided to ignore that Quin had just compared him to an aging rhinoceros. At least he wasn’t one of the fat tourists in khaki shorts. “For fuck’s sake, why?”
“Why is it easy?” Quin cocked his head to one side. “I imagine it’s because you’ve built up a shell of rage in order to―”
“Do not psychoanalyze me!” Matheus shouted, startling a small group making their way to the lobby. As one, they turned, staring at Matheus and Quin with wide, nervous eyes.
Quin waved, and they broke into a run.
Closing his eyes, Matheus recited the Hail Mary, in German, then again in English. He might be an atheist, but a back-up plan never hurt.
“Why are you trying to make me angry?” he asked with forced calm.
“Because if you’re angry, you’re moving.” Quin ran his fingers through Matheus’s hair. “When you’re angry, you burn like the sun.”
“Oh.” Matheus blinked. He stared at Quin’s Adam’s apple, then up at the water-stained ceiling. Raising his hand to his mouth, he chewed on his thumbnail. When Quin looked at him like that, his brain turned to static. An electric buzzing warmth that overwhelmed cognitive functions and left him with the impression that his bones had turned to toffee. He flicked a glance at Quin. “Have I mentioned that you are absolutely, certifiably insane?”
“Many times,” said Quin. “I fear it is going to be the constant litany of our years together.”
“Right. Years.” Matheus resisted the urge to hook his fingers in Quin’s belt loops and tug him closer. “Because that isn’t presumptuous at all.”
“I’m an optimist.”
Matheus rolled his eyes. “And I think we’re all going to be brutally murdered in the next forty-eight hours.”
He walked away, knowing Quin would follow him, knowing Quin would follow him anywhere, and with the growing suspicion that he’d do the same for Quin. A sickly, bugs-under-the-skin anxiety mixed with a chest-bursting happiness.
“Sunshine?”
“Mmm?” Matheus asked, still trying to settle on one emotion before chucking the whole idea away as an exercise in madness.
“If you were planning on making an inspirational speech…” Quin twisted his wrist as he trailed off.
“What?”
“Well, I wouldn’t,” said Quin.
“Asshole,” said Matheus.
Matheus stood in front of the assembled group, an overwhelming sense of déjà vu blocking out his hastily planned speech. Not that he’d written the Gettysburg Address or anything, but he needed something. A phrase to hang onto, maybe even building into an entire sentence. Matheus looked over the expectant faces, and sighed. He’d failed his public speaking course at Bayhill for a reason.
The second time, at least. The first time involved an unfortunate accident, and Matheus had no idea how that three-day-old mackerel ended up in his professor’s car.
Okay, he did know. But in his defense, he was eighteen, fresh out of rehab, and really anything that didn’t involve something going up his nose counted as acceptable behavior. Looking back, he wasn’t sure that the fish had been the problem. His professor might have objected more to Matheus carving “fuck you” in the shiny new paint job of his 1970 Camaro. A lot of therapy had gone into turning Matheus into the sangfroid person he was today. For a given value of sangfroid, of course.
In the long run, neither the fish nor the keying made a difference. Matheus passed the second time around, but that didn’t make a difference either. Here he stood with a public speaking opportunity, and his brain had snuck out for a quick smoke.
“Matheus,” Alistair whispered, leaning in. He stood next to him, clipboard at the ready. Matheus had no idea how Alistair managed to acquire a clipboard, when he himself didn’t even have a pair of shoes. Undeath turned out to be as unfair as life. “Say something already.”
“Umm,” said Matheus. “Hello.”
From the front, Heaven smiled and nodded encouragingly. She had missed her calling as a kindergarten teacher. Then again, he didn’t see many kindergarten teachers with blood-soaked feet and fangs to shame a rattlesnake.
“Erm,” said Matheus, because it seemed too soon to say “umm” again. “So…”
A hand pressed against the small of his back, a solid presence, steadying his nerves. Quin didn’t move or speak, didn’t touch Matheus apart from that one firm hand, but the physical connection alone offered more comfort than an entire army of hugs and brandies. The claim. He’d have to get used to that unspoken feeling of protection from Quin as a fact of life. Or unlife. Next to him, Alistair made a soft noise, barely audible to Matheus, let alone anyone else in the room. Matheus glanced at him, catching a glimpse of an odd expression before Alistair looked away.
“Okay,” said Matheus. “Okay. Right.” He pushed the worrying image of Alistair out of the way. “Okay, so… so, here’s the thing. I’m going after Apollonia. I mean, for good.”
Tension rippled across the room. People moved closer together, exchanging looks with their neighbors, making soft exclamations to each other. Alistair stiffened, clutching his clipboard to his chest. Freddie watched him, waiting for the moment Alistair needed him, something Matheus didn’t have in him. Rescue Alistair from an exploding building, not a problem. From his worries and fears? Not even a little. Maybe that’s what Alistair had realized.
One of the people in the crowd stepped forward, a woman, thirties, dark red hair and a sallow complexion. She’d been one of Grigori’s followers. Matheus searched for a name, something to do with Shakespeare. Ophelia? Beatrice?
“What would you like us to do?” she asked in a rich, caramel cream voice.
Matheus wondered if he’d ever heard her speak before. He thought he’d remember the distinctive tones.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “Uhh, Desdemona.”
The woman didn’t correct him, so Matheus assumed his stab in the dark had struck an artery. She glanced behind her, gauging the crowd. Turning, she and the others around her formed a huddle. Vague whispers emerged. After a few minutes, the small group broke apart. Individual huddlers went off into different directions, forming new huddles.
Matheus looked at Alistair, who shrugged, then at Heaven, who smiled. She’d been in the original huddle, but she offered Matheus no hint as to what had been discussed.
“Umm,” said Matheus, raising his voice to be heard over the rampant whispering. Thomas argued with a skinny Asian boy he didn’t recognize. “Guys. Hello?” He waved his arms. “Come on!”
From behind him, Quin let out an ear-splitting whistle. Matheus yelped, while setting a nice record for the stationary high jump.
“What the hell was that?” he asked.
Quin lowered his fingers. “Your audience is waiting.” He nodded toward the silent crowd.
“Right,” said Matheus. “Just, warn me before you do that.”
“What would be the fun in that?” asked Quin.
Alistair snorted. Matheus wondered if he needed to reconsider forcing Alistair and Quin into a truce. A future with the two of them ganging up on him did not seem appealing.
“We want to help.”
Matheus’s attention snapped back to Desdemona. A large fraction of the crowd nodded. A smaller part looked less certain. Thomas stood with his arms crossed, glowering at Desdemona. He guessed his opinion hadn’t been included in her statement.
“Apollonia has ruined all of our lives. She’s taken our home―homes,” continued Desdemona. “At least when Grigori was alive, we didn’t have to worry about being killed every minute. If you’re going to challenge her, then we want to help.” She raised her chin, as though daring Matheus to contradict her. “We aren’t giving you a choice. You have to stop sheltering us.”
“I―I wasn’t,” said Matheus, shaking his head, feeling as though he’d missed a step and tumbled down a three-story spiral staircase. “Really. I mean… didn’t you just say you were afraid of being killed? That’s not―”
“You are the master,” said Heaven. “It is your will that turns our universe.”
“If you say hide, then we hide,” said Thomas. “We take our cues from you.”
“But―” said Matheus.
“We weren’t ready before,” said Desdemona. “But now we’re sick of hiding. We want to be able to work openly again.”
A murmur of assent followed her words.
Matheus threw up his hands. “You could have said something. Like, ‘Hey, you know that evil bitch who’s making our lives a living hell? Let’s kill her.’”
“You seemed busy,” said Malcolm, another one of Grigori’s.
“We were scared,” said a short, dusky-skinned brunette. Matheus didn’t recognize her. “We didn’t know you were―” She dropped into a whisper. “Protos.”
“I’m―I’m not Protos,” said Matheus, but the crowd seemed unconvinced. A few of the older ones who’d been with him longer looked skeptical. He hoped that meant repeated exposure would put a stop to the Protos reincarnation belief. If people wanted to believe their undead Adam had been reborn, fine. He just didn’t want it to be him. “So I am to take it, you’re all on board with Operation Take-Out Betty Crocker?”
A general chorus of yeses filled the room. Thomas didn’t appear enthusiastic, but he did give a single, grudging nod.
“You realize we’re probably all going to die horribly,” said Matheus.
“Aut vincere aut mori,” said Quin.
“Yes, thank you, Quin. You know, that was never my favorite saying.” Matheus looked over, for better or worse, his army. “You all know my sister was taken. I’m not going to pretend that this isn’t about that. I mean, it’s about other things too, but Fletcher… I guess she’s the breaking point.”
“We understand.” Heaven bounced on the balls of her feet like a kid about to get a treat.
“Umm, right,” said Matheus. “So, I have some ideas for the attack, but I don’t want Apollonia killed. At least not right away. I need to ask her some questions.”
Someone near the back raised his hand. Matheus pointed toward him, the tinge of the absurd threatening to break within him. He bit his cheek, the twinge of pain driving away the manic giggles for at least a few moments. He forced his features into something approaching maturity and wisdom, and tried to ignore Alistair sniggering behind his clipboard.
“What do you need to ask?” the man in the rear asked. “Won’t she have your sister at her house? That’s where… he was.”
The slight hesitation on “he” left Matheus with no doubt who the man meant.
“I doubt Apollonia has Fletcher,” he said. “She might have arranged her capture, but she’d have no reason to keep her. She had, umm, personal reasons for keeping Quin.” A low, primeval growl crept over Matheus’s shoulder. He cleared his throat, hoping that he’d been the only one to hear Quin, but knowing otherwise. The people in the front had all taken a half step backward. “So, umm, probably not at Apollonia’s place. I think she handed Fletcher over to my father, but I don’t know where he is. Apollonia’s been working with him, so she should know how to find him.”
A long, silent moment passed before Thomas raised his hand.
“What the hell does your father have to do with this?” he asked.
“Oh,” said Matheus. He rubbed the back of his neck. Apparently, the whole story hadn’t gotten out, or at least, not to everyone. He shrugged. “Right. Everyone might as well sit down. This is going to take a while.”
atheus loved Alistair, and his magic clipboard. If he needed something done, he told Alistair, and Alistair made a note. Ten minutes later, the task, whatever it happened to be, had been taken care of. He didn’t think he’d really appreciated the man’s incredible capacity for organization.
“I have three groups out raiding the liquor stores,” Alistair said, tapping the tip of his pen on his list. “Freddie went with Malcolm and Aiko to the gun sh―”
“They can’t just steal whatever they want,” Matheus said. “We’re trying to avoid attention, remember?”
“They’re not hurling a brick through the window and grabbing everything in sight.” Alistair gave Matheus a look over the top of his clipboard, negating the need to add, “You’re an idiot.” “With luck, the owners won’t even realize anything’s been taken. Until an inventory, anyway.”
“It’s not like stealing stuff from a Walmart,” Matheus said. “Gun stores usually keep track of stuff like gunpowder.”
“It’s fine, Matheus. Everything is under control.”
Around them, people bustled back and forth, carrying a bizarre assortment of items. In the center of the room, like the eye of a hurricane, Milo sat at his computers. He’d agreed to help with the attack, for an additional fee. Voices buzzed, tension piled up to the gilded ceiling. A few people had slipped off, or secreted themselves away in the abandoned theaters. Matheus ordered them to be left alone. He refused to force anyone to fight.
“All right.” Matheus leaned back, the wooden railing creaking beneath his weight. He paused a second, his luck with railings and staircases not being the best, but the old wood held up. “What about you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Alistair, curt rather than reassuring this time.
Matheus picked at a bit of the paint remaining on the railing. Blanche and a man he didn’t recognize walked past, each carrying one end of a rattling box. Alistair stepped closer to him, as the pair weaved their way up the stairs. Despite her permanently scrunched nose, Blanche hadn’t complained once. Apparently, she’d work for vengeance, if not for cleanliness.
“I know you don’t like, umm, explosions and―” said Matheus, once Blanche and her companion disappeared around the corner.
“I said I’m fine.” Alistair made a slash though something on his list. “Go find Joan. She wanted to talk to you about an idea she had.”
“Alistair―”
“Matheus. Go talk to Joan.”
“Yeah, okay.”
He jogged down a couple of steps and paused at the bottom. He turned, looking up at Alistair, still standing on the middle stair, scribbling on the clipboard. A lock of blond hair kept falling into his eyes. He’d push the hair behind his ear with the end of his pen, only to have it tumble forward again. Alistair made a noise of frustration, yanking on the stubborn lock.
Matheus smiled. “Do you think this will work?”
Alistair raised his head, frowning. He braced the clipboard against one hip, twirling the pen between his fingers. “It’s not the most subt
le plan. A secret military genius, you are not.”
“You’re the soldier,” said Matheus.
“I was a medic. I didn’t come up with the strategy. I spent most of my time slapping bandages on people and trying not to get shot.”
“Yeah, but you still had to go through basic training, right?” Matheus had only a fuzzy idea how the U.S. military worked. Or any military, really.
“Darling, this is not a situation covered in basic training.” Alistair skipped down a couple of steps. On the last riser, he stood the same height. He leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek, lingering a while, his skin cool to the touch. He pulled away with a soft sigh. “Freddie will be with me. During the fighting. I’ll be all right.”
“You know that if I could―”
“I know,” said Alistair.
Matheus scuffed at a tear in the carpet. “I couldn’t ask anyone else to do it.”
Alistair gave a small laugh. “Oh, lord. I doubt anyone else is stupid enough.”
“Chainsaws,” said Joan.
“Chainsaws,” repeated Matheus.
They stood in the former manager’s office, Milo’s box of random clothes between them. A manic light burned in Joan’s dark eyes. Matheus imagined her namesake had had a similar look the first time God exhorted her to battle.
“Fucking right.”
Matheus scratched his head. “Maybe you’d like elaborate a bit more.”
He averted his eyes as Joan bent down, the torn edges of her shirt falling open. The box of misfit clothes had so far produced jeans and a jacket for Freddie, socks for Matheus and a pair of polyester pants that Quin had taken one look at, and declared grunge was making a comeback. He kept his jeans; even pure filth ranked higher than polyester.
Joan had missed the general meeting, being preoccupied with exsanguinating three different donors. Matheus guessed someone had filled her in, hence the chainsaws. At least, Matheus hoped that explained the chainsaws.
“So, we’re fucked.” Joan held up a faded men’s work-shirt. “The bitch in the pearls has a fuckton of followers, pretty much guaranteed to be armed to whack-job cult levels. And we’re making do with Molotov cocktails and whatever Freddie scrounges up.”