by Amy Fecteau
The swordsman zigzagged, stepping into his path with a swing. Matheus dropped to his knees. He tore the bolt snagged in Thomas’s clothes free.
The swordsman raised his arm for another blow. Matheus slapped the bolt into place as the blade winged toward his face. He swung the bow up, firing before he had a chance to aim. His shot went wild, piercing the man’s collarbone, and spinning off into the darkness. The swordsman grinned. He lifted the sword, driving the blade down like a hatchet.
Matheus panicked. He flung the crossbow at the man. The blade clanged against the carbon-fiber stock, tangled in the crosspiece. Cursing, the man dropped the sword, the shock of the collision jarring his grip. With a primal cry, Matheus lunged, grabbed the hilt, and backed away. He clutched the sword in a two-handed grip. The tip wavered; the muscles in his forearms trembled.
“I know you,” said the man. He crouched low, his gaze riveted on Matheus. The whites of his eyes gleamed. “You’re the one they call Protos.”
Matheus’s arms floated at the end of long tethers. His eyes stung, drying in the heat, bombarded with ash.
“If I kill you, I’ll get any reward I ask,” continued the man.
“Try it.” Matheus wished his voice didn’t sound so reedy. He adjusted his grip, the leather slick beneath his palm.
The man rushed forward. Matheus jerked to the side, stumbling as he swung. His blade bit into skin, dragged on neck muscles, and struck bone. Matheus’s weakened stance showed. The sword click-clacked like ratcheting gears as the blade slid against vertebra.
A thick rope of blood seeped out, viscous and shiny dark in the flickering light. The man slumped to his knees. His eyes rolled in his skull, gaze turning toward Matheus. Bubbles formed in the gash as he tried to speak.
Matheus planted his feet. He raised the sword, squeezing his eyes shut at the last second. The grotesque, wet snap of bone followed; vibrations moved along the blade. Something landed on his foot with a thump. Yelping, Matheus kicked it away. He dropped the sword. He’d reached the limit on decapitations for one day. His limbs weighed as if packed with iron shot as he bent to pick up the crossbow. For a moment, he contemplated staying that way, but remembered what Apollonia would do to him if this night didn’t go to plan. He straightened, groaning at the pop from his spine. Thomas’s quiver rattled when he picked it up. He loaded a single bolt into the crossbow, and started for the trees.
The crossbow slapped against his chest as he ran. The woods extended to Worthing Street, a tiny patch that survived the sprawl of the city. The thick layers of evergreens obscured the glow of the 7-Eleven sign and blinking street lights. Among the trees, the noise of the battle seemed muted. The firelight, pale orange and stilted, filtered through the needles. His footsteps crunched, breaking the crust of ice over the snow. He slowed as pinpricks crawled across the back of his neck.
“Who’s there?” he called. A branch snapped; a giggle flitted among the trees. Matheus clutched the crossbow, twisting his head from side to side. “Juliet?”
“Hello, pet.”
Matheus jumped. She had appeared to his right, without even the rustle of twigs to announce her arrival. She grabbed his arm, dragging him farther into the small wood.
“You must hurry,” she said. “We cannot keep them back for long.”
Shadows shifted among the trees. He caught a flash of blue and a glimpse of a face. A woman’s face, not human. She licked her lips as Matheus passed.
“Don’t look too closely, pet,” Juliet said. “You might see something you shouldn’t.”
“Christ, Juliet, what’d you do?” Matheus asked, catching a branch before he ended up with a mouthful of needles.
“Just called in a few favors.” Juliet twisted, smiling at him over her shoulder.
And how long before she calls in this favor. He preferred Milo’s method of asking for payment up front. He didn’t think owing favors to Juliet ended well for anyone besides Juliet. Matheus thought of people he’d be less happy to be indebted to, but the list didn’t have a lot of names. On the other hand, she was family. A twisted, dysfunctional family, but he wouldn’t know what to do with a normal one.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Juliet stopped. “They’re coming.”
The trees swayed as the dark shapes ran between them, branches bending and cracking, voices wailing from a dozen directions. The same voice, the same words, cloned and echoed in the dark. Matheus shivered. He stepped closer to Juliet.
The immature succubae formed a loose circle, twenty little girls straight out of a Japanese horror movie. Matheus picked out Lenya, smiling her broken-glass smile. She waved a black-nailed hand, bouncing on the balls of her feet. He recognized Juliet’s brood, and maybe two others. Although, Matheus had trouble telling one girl from another. The girls all stared in the same direction, their hands opening and closing in unison. A woman screamed; their expressions sharpened, lips drawing back. They leaned forward, like runners ready for the crack of the pistol. Or wolves, waiting to attack.
Branches crashed as the rest of the baby succubae drove the screaming woman into the circle. The girls closed in, blocking any escape. Apollonia snarled, lunging at the slightest gap, only to fall back in the face of small, sharp teeth and grasping claws. The circle tightened. Apollonia retreated to the center, only inches out of arms’ reach of the children.
A few twinges of sympathy fired in Matheus’s brain. His fingers cramped on the crossbow, tight enough to feel the grain of the wood. Apollonia’s slip hung haphazard below her skirt, ripped and stained with mud. A multitude of snags and unraveling threads dotted her tasteful cardigan. Evergreen needles stuck in the wool; missing buttons revealed a pale pink camisole. She turned, absently stroking her bare neck as she watched the succubae children.
Matheus stepped forward, staying behind the line of girls. He leveled the crossbow at Apollonia, and waited. He ached everywhere. His ribs pulsed out a steady beat. Holding the crossbow pulled at the gash across his back, a constant stinging that spiked with each movement. His legs sent urgent requests for relief forces, while his knees seemed to have popped off to the officer’s club for a brandy. He resisted the urge to lie down right there in the snow and closed his eyes, thinking of Quin and how much stronger he felt with him by his side. Stubborn defiance drowned the thought with the ferocity of a crocodile, but he didn’t deny the bond remained in place, unable to be fully ignored.
“Mr. Taylor!”
Matheus opened his eyes. Apollonia stared at him over the heads of the girls. She shouted over the inhuman wailing, but stood with a stance straight out of a royal painting.
“Miss Parker,” Matheus said.
Apollonia inclined her head with the poise of French aristocrat waiting for her turn on the guillotine. “I am afraid I am unacquainted with your friends.”
“Where’s my sister?” Matheus had never been long on patience, and this night had used up the last of his supply.
“I’m sorry, but I’m unable to help you with your inquiries.” Apollonia’s fingers traced the curve of her collarbone.
“Lose something?” asked Matheus, thinking of the ever-present pearls.
Apollonia jerked. She lowered her hand, looking at her fingers as though she’d never glimpsed them before.
“I―”
The young succubae moved in; the keening rose and fell like the wind in a cave. Juliet clasped Matheus’s arm, claws digging into his jacket. Tension lined the skin around her lips. She’d lost her mask of humanity, her mouth pinched, bracketed with deep wrinkles.
“They won’t hold back much longer,” Juliet said, facing Matheus, but pitching her voice for Apollonia’s benefit.
“Okay,” said Matheus. He shook his arm, but Juliet only strengthened her grip. “Apollonia!”
“Ms. Parker, please!” Apollonia’s voice rose a half-octave. Her neat bob stuck up in wild spikes and snarls.
Matheus recalled a time his father had taken him hunting. He’d
gone before; the Schneiders had a long history full of animal carcasses. In the past, they’d been infamous as poachers. After his great-grandfather made his fortune, the poaching epithet vanished, but the tradition of hunting remained. He had gone with his father many times, but he’d never had to track a wounded animal before. Apollonia had the same bright, shell-shocked visage as the deer, a heartbeat before his father’s bullet tore open its throat.
He felt another twinge of empathy, and reminded himself that the deer had probably not kept a child chained in his own filth, just in case it got peckish.
“Tell me where my sister is, and I’ll shoot you before they start chewing,” said Matheus.
Apollonia laughed, high-pitched and unraveled along the edges.
“Mr. Taylor, I think you’re confused.”
“You’re going to die,” said Matheus. “How you die is up to you.”
He wondered when he’d turned into the villain in a B movie. He watched the calculations flash across Apollonia’s face. A lock of her hair blew into her eyes; she brushed it away with a sharp gesture.
“Order them to release me, and I’ll tell you what you wish to know,” she said.
“No.”
Juliet squeezed. The tips of her claws pierced his skin. She shifted closer, the swell of her breasts compressed against his arm.
Apollonia’s lip curled. “You’re pathetic. You think you can frighten me with these”―she waved her hand―“children.”
“Yes.”
“Hurry,” Juliet said, her whisper harsh in his ear.
“Tell me where you took my sister.” Matheus formed each word with a concentration he hadn’t required in years. He struggled to hold back the screaming. Every second twisted taut, plucking at his jittering nerves.
“I threw her out with the rest of the garbage,” Apollonia said. “I wrenched out her brat and drained it dry while she bled out in front of me.”
The world collapsed into howling silence. Matheus felt the crossbow drop out of his hands. He blinked, once, an infinity of time.
“Take her,” he said.
Apollonia shrieked as the succubae rushed in. They tore at her clothes, her flesh, leaving long rivulets of raw muscle, deep red against her skin. Apollonia fought, not like a lady, but like a feral cat, wounded and trapped. Matheus heard the crack of bone, saw one girl thrown clear of the melee, her head snapped completely around. The girl rose, untwisting her neck with a sound recorded in Jeffery Dahmer’s nightmares before darting back into the clawing mass. Apollonia jerked, pulled down by too many hands; tiny, razor teeth shredding her body into strips of meat.
“Stop!” she screamed. “Stop!”
“Pull them back,” said Matheus.
Juliet shuddered, shaking her head.
“Please,” Matheus said. “Juliet, please.”
Juliet exhaled. She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead on Matheus’s shoulder.
The mass of girls fell apart, allowing Apollonia to stand. Any resemblance to human children had disappeared. They clustered around Apollonia, following her movements, funhouse mirrors with teeth.
“Your sister…” Apollonia coughed, blood spilling over her lips. She tugged on the tatters of her sleeve, daubing at her lips with shattered fingers. “I misled you. I was requested to recover her for your father. We had an―arrangement.”
“I know. Where did you bring her?”
Apollonia shook her head, and drew in a sharp, pained breath. “Release me first.”
“No.”
“Then your sister is lost.”
Matheus looked up at the canopy of evergreens. How many hours until dawn? Four? Sirens approached from all directions and growing louder. He wondered what took them so long, even with Milo’s tampering. The sounds of explosions had stopped, with only the occasional burst of gunfire. How long had passed since he’d crashed through Apollonia’s front door? Less than an hour? Half an hour? He rubbed his knuckles over his forehead, around his eye sockets. Milo had found his father once; he’d do it again, even if Matheus had to rob Fort Knox to pay him. He turned, his shoulders slumping.
“Wait!” Apollonia called. “Wait, please!”
Matheus stopped. He sighed, then turned toward Apollonia. The young succubae had advanced, some already latched onto Apollonia’s limbs. She struggled to stand, desperation etched in deep lines on her face.
“I met Mr. Schneider in neutral locations,” she said. “I… had him followed, but… lost―”
One of the girls reached up. She yanked at Apollonia’s hair, trying to force her off-balance. Apollonia cried out, eyes clenched shut as another girl tore the flesh from her finger. The girl gnawed at the remaining tendons, spitting the tiny bones onto the ground.
“…pay phone,” said Apollonia. “…traced him… always Kendell… First.”
“Matheus,” said Juliet. “We can’t―” she gasped, shaking so violently that Matheus worried she might be having a seizure.
The girls, the last of the mental restraints falling away, launched themselves at Apollonia. She collapsed as they sank their fangs and claws into her flesh. The smell of rotten blood overwhelmed the scent of fire. The slippery, slopping sounds of chewing filled the spaces between the sirens.
“Mr. Taylor!” Apollonia shrieked.
Matheus snatched at the crossbow. He aimed, but the girls blocked any shot to Apollonia’s heart.
“Juliet, pull them back.”
“I can’t,” said Juliet. “You need to leave. Now.”
Matheus cursed. Apollonia screamed his name, again and again, turning the syllables into a chant, a supplicant beseeching the Heavens. Without thinking, he waded into the fray.
“No!” Juliet yelled. “You stupid, stupid… man!”
Tiny hands grabbed at his legs. Matheus ignored the claws ripping his jeans, scratching at the skin beneath. He placed the tip of the bolt against Apollonia’s chest. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Choking on blood, Apollonia gasped out her last words. Matheus fired, and she went limp.
“You moron!” Juliet seized Matheus’s arm, yanking him free of the frenzy. She pulled him away, into the trees, keeping up a constant stream of abuse. She cursed him, his breeding, his gender, and anything else that popped into her head. The smell of blood faded, only a whisper beneath the ash and charcoal. Matheus didn’t look back. When they reached the edge of the copse, Juliet flung him forward, toward the open air.
“Don’t let anyone you want to see again come this way,” she said.
“Right,” said Matheus. He dropped the crossbow, and stared down at where it stuck in the snow. “Thank you.”
“You owe me,” said Juliet. “Keep that in mind.” She turned, but paused. “What was it that Apollonia said to you?”
Matheus exhaled. “She said, the city is yours, Mr. Taylor.”
“Well, well.” Juliet smiled at him over her shoulder. “Your stock is rising, pet.”
“What does that mean?” Matheus asked. “It doesn’t mean what I think it means, does it? Juliet?”
“Don’t worry. Quin will explain it to you.” Juliet flicked her fingers. “Ta, pet.” She disappeared into the tangle of evergreens.
“Scheiße,” Matheus said.
uin waited at the edge of the woods, a long, bloodied sword propped against his shoulder. He’d fashioned a rough splint, a stained shirt with the sleeves tied at the back of his neck. Splatters of blood and mud coated his clothes and skin. He grinned when he saw Matheus, a gap where his snaggletooth usually resided.
“Hello, Sunshine,” he said. “Is the bitch dead?”
“She’s dead,” said Matheus. “What are you doing here?”
“You called me.”
“I did not.” Matheus looked across the lawn, at the charred pile of timbers. A few flames still leapt gleefully into the air, but the roaring mass had died away. No more charming, time-trapped cottage with its rotten innards. People staggered around the lawn, a handful still fighting. Oth
ers just sat, weapons forgotten on the ground next to them. Some had fled already; Matheus watched two distant figures heading for the street, lugging a third between them.
“You did,” said Quin. The sirens rose and fell, constant and overlapping. “You must have wanted me for something.”
“No.” Matheus shook his head. “That’s―” The sirens vibrated around his skull. “This isn’t the time. I need to find Alistair.”
“Milo has a flare gun, too,” said Quin.
“So you look for Milo, and I’ll look for Alistair.”
“How about I look for―?”
“Quin! In about two minutes, the entire Kenderton police force will arrive with guns, and Tasers, and I don’t know, catapults.”
Quin shrugged.
“And I’d rather you didn’t have to murder them all,” said Matheus, his eyes narrowed.
“You need to learn to have fun, Sunshine,” said Quin.
“Just go that way, okay?”
Matheus marched off in the opposite direction he’d indicated. He scanned the scarred lawn for Alistair’s blond hair, the needles in his stomach twisting deeper with every second. As he neared the smoldering remains of the cottage, he spotted a crumpled figure. Matheus picked up his pace. Alistair raised his head when Matheus approached, but didn’t look away from the limp, fur-covered body. The smell of fresh blood stung his nostrils.
“I tried to stop the bleeding.” Alistair had his hands pressed against Freddie’s throat. “There was a sword. In his carotid artery.” He looked at Matheus. “I tried to stop it.”
“I’m sorry, Alistair.” Matheus knelt, placing a hand on Alistair’s shoulder.
Alistair shuddered. He stroked Freddie’s body, his fingers leaving lines in the thick fur.
“He knocked me out of the way. There was an explosion, and I froze. I just…” Alistair exhaled in stages, as though the air stuck in his throat. “There was a sword, and a man standing over him, and he didn’t get up.”
“Alistair, I’m sorry, but I need the flare gun,” said Matheus.
Without releasing Freddie, Alistair dragged the flare gun out of his coat pocket.