by Amy Fecteau
The front door opened. Matheus dug his fingers into his thigh, forcing himself to remain still. He didn’t want to attract attention. A tall figure stepped onto the porch. A thatch of blond hair caught the light as the wind whipped the strands. Matheus watched as the man turned up his collar, taking precise steps down the wooden stairs.
One of the guards stepped forward, speaking too low to hear. Matheus’s father listened for a moment, and dismissed the guard with a wave.
Matheus felt his back teeth grind together. His father left the guard to melt back into the shadows. He walked quickly, but without hurrying. Matheus had searched for a possible car already, looking down the adjacent streets. He knew his father’s taste in vehicles: sedate, elegant, and expensive. He doubted his father walked everywhere in the city, so he assumed he had a car in a parking garage close-by. Matheus wondered why his father didn’t have a driver. Perhaps he spent too much on grenades and mercenaries. Grandfather’s fortune had to dry up sometime.
His father paused at the corner before turning left. Matheus counted to five hundred, and crept away. He’d hidden behind the shed of the house across the street. A low fence divided the backyard from the front. He slipped through the gate, swallowing a curse as his foot landed on a toy dump truck.
Only a few houses had lights still on. Most of the driveways held one or two sensible mid-range cars, with infant seats in the back and Whole Foods stickers on the bumper. He circled around the block, pausing out of sight of the guards. He turned up the collar of the coat he’d liberated from a Goodwill store on the way over. The wool had taken a beating, and the liner had rotted away, but the cut matched his father’s coat. In the dark, with the right attitude, the guards might mistake him for Carsten.
If Matheus got lucky, and the guards were dumb. Or drunk. Matheus hoped for drunk.
Matheus straightened his spine, throwing his shoulders back and chin up. He lengthened his stride, quickened his pace. His heels hit the pavement with hard, regular beats. He cleared his throat, calling up memories of his father’s voice. Deeper than his own, laced with the guttural accent Carsten never quite lost despite his years in England. The mechanical tone, driven by the precise formation of each English word. Indifference and arrogance, mingled into one.
One of the guards came forward as Matheus approached. He didn’t have a gun, at least not one in sight, but a long hilt extended behind his shoulder.
“Open the door,” Matheus said in his father’s voice. He didn’t slow, walking down the path with total confidence in his authority. On the outside, anyway. If Matheus’s heart still beat, his ribs would have a carotid-shaped hole in them already.
“Sir?” The guard paused, narrowing his eyes at Matheus. His fingers twitched.
“I have mislaid my key. Open the door.” Matheus climbed the porch steps, clucking his tongue when the guard didn’t move fast enough. He stopped just outside the pool of light. The steps creaked as the guard came up behind him. Matheus’s amygdala screamed at him to run. Thank God for his father’s rigid posture; his petrified stance didn’t raise the guard’s suspicions.
Matheus stared straight ahead, trying to project an air of impatience without fidgeting. He had the impatient part down, but the fidgeting took some work. He stared as the guard stooped to unlock the door. The guard turned the handle and held the door open, waiting for Matheus. The light continued to glow, bright and steady. Matheus knew he might pass for his father in the dark, but now came the real test. Clenching his jaw, he took a step forward, then another, and another. Walking into the house felt like falling down a long flight of stairs. He couldn’t have stopped himself even if he wanted to.
“Sir,” said the guard.
Matheus caught the nod out of the corner of his eye. He gave a slight nod in return. The high, turned-up collar of the jacket covered the lower half of his face. He hoped the guard only paid attention to the wind-tossed, distinctive blond hair, and let his memory fill in the rest.
The light stung his eyes and he blinked. His foot landed on carpet. Three more steps, and the door swung shut behind him. He stood in the dim of the foyer, gripped by a giddy anxiety. He bit his lip, choking back the bubbling laughter. He didn’t have time for hysterics. He had to find Fletcher and get the hell out of there before they both ended up in pieces. Matheus clamped down on a fresh wave of laughter.
Even if he survived, Quin was still going to kill him.
Yesterday
“Are you sure that’s the right place?” Matheus asked. He leaned over Milo’s shoulder, examining the image of the old-fashioned farmhouse. Certainly not his father’s usual style. Maybe he planned on adding marble lions, or a moat to keep out the commoners.
“It’s the only house in the neighborhood sold within the last year,” said Milo. He rolled his chair to the side, the corner digging into Matheus’s stomach.
Matheus took the hint. “But you haven’t actually seen him going into it.” He backed away.
“It’s an educated guess.”
“Which is still a guess.”
“Yes,” said Milo. “Unless God starts replying on WikiAnswers, a guess is the best you’re going to get.”
“No need to get snippy,” said Matheus. “I was just asking.”
Milo turned, staring up at him, his gaze flat behind his glasses. “I tracked one man through a city using only CCTV feeds. Do you realize how difficult that is?”
“Well, you did have help.”
For a second, Matheus thought he’d gone too far.
Milo spun around to face the monitors. He closed the image window, and called up a file full of code. “Go away.” Keys clattered as he typed.
“Maybe if you hacked in the DOD…” Matheus waited, but Milo didn’t take the bait. “You’re absolutely sure that’s the right place?”
“Go.” Milo extended one arm, a single finger pointing toward the stairs.
“Can you at least print me a picture? Matheus asked.
“No.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate your skills,” said Matheus. “My brain has been warped by Hollywood’s view of computers. Truly, you are a genius beyond reckoning and were I not already paying you a horrifically massive sum, I would certainly offer you the bonus a mind such as yours deserves.”
“Thank you,” said Milo.
“Now can I have my picture?”
“No.”
Matheus debated the merits of kicking Milo’s chair across the room. He bet a good, hard shove would send Milo to at least the concession counter. On the other hand, he doubted Milo had any compulsions about shooting him.
“What’s going on?” Alistair stopped beside Matheus. “Why are you glaring at the back of Milo’s head?”
Milo picked up a folder from the top of the stack he kept on his desk. Still typing with his right hand, he held the folder over his left shoulder. “Here’s your picture. Go away.”
Matheus snatched the folder out of his hand. Inside, Milo had printed out the original real estate listing, along with an 8x10 photo of the house.
“I don’t think it’s big enough,” Alistair said. He rested his head on Matheus’s arm, peering at the print-out.
“It’s my father’s evil lair of doom,” said Matheus.
“Your father’s evil lair of doom has scalloped trim,” said Alistair.
“It’s in disguise.”
“There’s a wreath on the door.” Alistair tapped the picture. “See?”
“Milo says this is the one.”
“Your father took time out of his busy schedule of kidnapping and arson to hang Christmas decorations?”
“Even insane kidnappers enjoy Christmas, Alistair,” said Matheus. “And he probably had the maid hang it.”
Alistair frowned. “I’m not sure―”
“Stake it out,” said Milo. He pushed his glasses up with his pinkie finger, then bent forward, sorting through the files on his desk. “It would be more productive than standing there, bothering me.”
“Yes,” said Milo.
“And?”
“I decided the return wasn’t worth the investment.”
“No,” said Matheus. “Fletcher could get hurt, not to mention I’ve already asked people to risk their lives in a fiery assault once this week. I think another one three days later might be pushing things.”
“Do I need to explain the definition of lord to you?” Quin asked. “You don’t ask.”
“In that case, Quin, I order you to go drown yourself in the river. The part downstream of the paper mill.”
“Aw, Sunshine.” Quin leaned across the table and patted Matheus on the head. “You’re so cute when you’re bitter and delusional.”
Matheus slapped Quin’s hand aside. “I was making a point.”
“I know.” Quin propped his chin up in his hand, lips curving into a crooked smile. “I chose to ignore it in favor of patronizing you.”
“I loathe you.”
Quin’s smile widened. “That’s what makes the sex so hot.”
“I am still here,” Alistair said loudly.
They all sat around the table in the manager’s office, which rocked from side to side, one leg bent in the middle. White enamel covered the top, a netting of rust building in the cracks. One of Drew’s band of teenagers had gone scavenging. She returned with the table, a lamp in the shape of a bordello madam, and futon sans mattress. She presented the table to Matheus, but refused to surrender the lamp. The futon she gave to Drew, who accepted with glee, for reasons Matheus did not understand. Nor did he ask. Teenagers belonged to a whole separate genus. Deciphering their motives required a Ph.D. in cryptology and the genius of Alan Turing.
“We were having a serious discussion.” Alistair rested his elbows on the table, swaying the weight to his side. “Matheus? Your sister? Pregnant damsel in distress, remember?”
“What’s the matter, Alistair?” Quin pushed down, rocking the table. “I thought you liked to watch.”
Alistair gave him a sickly sweet smile. “I hope rats chew off your nipples while you sleep.”
“Enough!” Matheus slapped the top of the table. The broken leg creaked, the table tilting another degree. “Can the both of you try to pretend that you are reasonable adults?”
“I’m very reasonable,” said Alistair. “What are you, Quin? Are you reasonable?”
“The definition of,” said Quin.
Matheus stared at the chipped enamel. He picked at one of the cracks with his thumbnail. He wondered if he’d end up with amnesia if he whacked his head hard enough. He flicked the flecks of enamel across the table. Ever since what Quin referred to as “the truce,” and what Matheus thought of as “the moment my life became a terrible romance novel,” Alistair and Quin had been not-fighting. That is, fighting, but denying it when Matheus called them out. Both of them looked at him with wide, innocent eyes, and smooth, unsmirking lips, refusing to admit that anything even approaching a fight had occurred. He gave himself another week before he started drooling and eating his own hair.
“Umm, Matheus?” Drew hovered in the doorway. He held a thick folder, messy with scribbles and bits of paper sticking out the sides. “Do you have a sec? I found some houses―”
“Absolutely.” Matheus jumped up, his chair toppling over. “You two―think of something that doesn’t involve homemade napalm or stealing rocket launchers from the army base, okay? Try for subtle. Artful. Think Odysseus.”
“I’m sorry,” said Alistair. “Whose idea was it to crash a truck full of explosives through Apollonia’s front door? It’s right on the tip of my tongue. M-something. Oh, yes, that’s right. It was you.”
“You are bitchy when you’re not getting laid,” Quin muttered.
Matheus leapt over his fallen chair, and grabbed the back of Alistair’s shirt, catching him as he lunged for Quin.
“We’ll be right back.” He dragged Alistair toward the door. “Drew, why don’t you show the houses to Quin?”
“S-sure,” said Drew.
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Quin. “I only bite if you ask nicely.”
Drew glanced at Matheus. “Do I have to?” he asked in a low voice.
Alistair laughed in a way that made Matheus’s nerves cringe. “He won’t do anything. Has to play Happy Families now. Can’t upset the wif―”
Matheus shoved Alistair into the hall, and slammed the door after them.
“I know you’re grieving, Alistair, but I swear to God, if you ever refer to me as the ‘the wife’ again, I will…” Matheus trailed off as Alistair slumped against the wall, his whole frame going slack. “Well, it will be really horrible.”
“I’m sorry,” Alistair said, gnawing on his lower lip. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just―he’s such an ass.”
“He’s spent the last seventeen centuries being an ass,” Matheus said. “It’s coded into his DNA by now. He’s not going to change just because Freddie―just because of Freddie.”
Alistair tilted his head down, his hair falling over his eyes. A new tightness marred the softness of his lips. Where he used to pout, now he frowned, pressing his mouth into a thin line.
“Can you please just ignore him?” Matheus asked.
“It’s only bickering.”
“It’s not bickering, it’s fighting.”
“They’re synonyms.”
“There are differences,” said Matheus. “Bickering implies… It doesn’t matter. You know what I mean.”
Alistair sighed. He looked up at Matheus through a blond screen. Matheus thought if he ever missed the sky on a sunny day, he could look at Alistair’s eyes instead.
“I really am sorry. You’ve been so patient with me.” Alistair’s voice thickened into syrup. He moved forward, sliding the palm of his hand up Matheus’s chest. “Forgive me?” He raised his head, the tip of his tongue tracing his upper lip.
“What is wrong with you? Knock it off.” Matheus stepped back, pushing Alistair’s hand aside.
The honey-laden haze around Alistair snapped. His whole body stiffened, hands curling into fists at his sides. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
The prickling heat of anger spread across the back of Matheus’s neck. “I want you to be normal!”
“Well, I’m not feeling very normal right now!” Alistair shoved at Matheus, forcing him to the other side of the hallway. “Watching you and him―I thought it was going to be all right. I thought I could have Freddie, and that was okay, because it meant things were going to be different. I was going to be different. And it wasn’t―it wasn’t what I―but it was fine, and I thought, ‘this is going to work.’ I was content, Matheus, and I never had a whole lot of that in my life. Then Freddie went and―Lord, why did he have to do that? It’s so fucking stupid. And now, and now there’s just me and I watch you and Quin, and I just hate you both. I hate you so much, and you don’t even realize. You don’t even―” His breath hitched in his throat. Falling backward, he slid down the wall, hitting the floor with a thump.
“Alistair…” Matheus raised his hands, but lowered them. The anger turned to ice, dripping down his spine. “I…”
“I’m sorry.” Alistair drew his knees up to his chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I don’t hate you. I’m sorry.”
Hesitantly, Matheus knelt. He crawled across the frayed carpet, stopping in front of Alistair.
“It’s okay.” He risked a touch to Alistair’s knee.
“It’s not,” said Alistair. “I really didn’t mean it.”
“I think you did,” said Matheus.
“No.”
“It’s okay, Alistair. You can hate me. I don’t mind.”
Alistair shook his head. “I don’t want to hate you. I don’t want to be that.”
“I didn’t say you could hate me forever,” Matheus said. “Eventually you h
ave to get the fuck over it.”
Alistair laughed, startled, but less bitter than earlier.
“Would you like me to recommend a therapist?” Matheus asked. “I know several.”
“What would I say?” Alistair asked. “I fought in World War II, haven’t aged in sixty-five years, and am having trouble dealing with my werewolf boyfriend’s death?”
“Yes,” said Matheus. “Except for the parts about World War II, not aging, and the existence of werewolves.”
“I thought you were supposed to be honest in therapy.”
“You can be honest without asking to be fitted for a straitjacket.”
“Hmm,” said Alistair. Matheus moved over, sitting next to him. “What about Quin? Can I hate him?”
“Until the sun goes supernova, if it makes you happy,” said Matheus. “And, umm, forget about the stuff I said earlier. Except the wife part. I meant that.”
“Something really horrible,” Alistair said. “I’ll remember.”
“Good.”
They let silence fill the air between them, still and quiet, two people sharing the same space for one infinite moment.
“I feel old,” Alistair said, softly, as if to protect the delicate bubble that encapsulated and connected them.
“You are old.” Matheus bumped his knee against Alistair’s.
“But now I feel it. I don’t think people are meant to survive as long as we do, Matheus. We were human once. Maybe part of what we were lingers, a little piece of humanity that keeps us from accepting eternity.”
“But there are lots of us even older than you. Look at Quin. And Heaven was twice his age.”
Alistair shrugged.
“Perhaps they’re anomalies. There’s a genetic quirk that keeps them going. Or maybe it’s something in their personality. I don’t know. I just know I feel old.” He looked at Matheus and smiled. “Now I’ve made us both depressed. Come on, let’s go back in. I promise to be on my very best behavior.” He stood, brushing off his pants with brisk movements.