by Amy Fecteau
“Sunshine.” Quin rubbed a hand over the back of Matheus’s neck. “We need to leave.”
“I’m sorry,” said Matheus. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Come on.” Quin pried himself free and propped Matheus upright. “Okay?”
The smoke stung his eyes. He blinked, staring down at his bare feet. His body ached, as though his insides had been sucked out, run through a blender, and funneled back into him. Alistair’s gaze bored between his shoulder blades. Matheus debated lying down and letting the fire swallow him. He wiped his face, leaving streaks of dirt and blood on his cheeks.
“I’m fine,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” said Quin. “Come on.” Taking Matheus’s hand, he led them down the hall to the front entrance.
The feel of Quin’s callused palm steadied him. The raw edges of his nerves retracted, leaving only a vague, jittery sensation. His thoughts evened out, coherence returning piece by piece. Fletcher. He still needed to find Fletcher.
“Wait.” He stopped.
“Sunshine, the house is on fire,” said Quin.
“My sister. She’s here. I know she’s here.” Matheus shook free and ran for the main staircase. From behind him came a long stream of angry Latin. He ran faster, out of Quin’s grasp. Grabbing the wall, he flung himself around the corner.
“Oof!” Matheus bounced backward.
“Fuck!”
“Joan?”
“What the fuck is your problem?”
“Sorry?” Squinting, Matheus tried to pinpoint Joan’s location. The smoke had darkened, thick clouds billowing out of the front parlor. Quin and Alistair stopped at his back. At least two people stood behind him, and since they didn’t try to stab him, he assumed Quin and Alistair had caught up. “What are―?”
“Hey, where are you going, fucker?” Joan grunted, the sound accompanied by the dull thwaps of a fist striking flesh. “Boss-man, I caught one for you. Didn’t want to leave you out of the fun.”
A face thrust out of the smoke. A choked whimper crept from Matheus’s throat. Even with the bruises, he recognized the man in the gray flannel suit. His eyes widened as he saw Matheus, his mouth moving to form words of pleading, of excuses, mercy, please mercy.
Alistair touched Matheus’s shoulder. “Who is it?”
Matheus snatched the gun out of Alistair’s hand. His arm swung up, the barrel dug into the man’s forehead. Locked in his mind, Matheus watched with academic interest. His finger tightened on the trigger. A bang exploded the air; flesh and bone splattered over the floor. Pain vibrated up Matheus’s arm, muscles aching as the kickback sent the gun flying. Matheus hissed, and clutched his wrist as the gun clattered away into the smoke.
“You idiot,” said Alistair. “You could have broken your wrist.”
“I think I did,” Matheus said, his voice travelling from very far away. He flinched as Alistair took his arm.
“Oh, man, you didn’t even play with him,” said Joan. “Last time I get you a fucking present.”
“It’s just a sprain,” said Alistair. “What the hell were you thinking? You can’t shoot a gun that big with one hand.”
“Sorry.” Matheus cradled his injured arm to his chest.
“Sunshine.” Quin wrapped an arm around Matheus’s waist. “We need to go.”
Matheus followed along, one step, two steps. “No!” He twisted away. “I have to find Fletcher.”
He ran for the stairs, slipping on a patch of blood and brains. The banister jammed into his stomach, nudging his sprained wrist. Swallowing back the tirade of curses, he sprinted up the steps, taking them two at a time.
“Son of a bitch!” Quin yelled.
“Fletcher!” Matheus ignored the shouts from downstairs. “Fletcher!”
The first door opened to the modified bathroom. With a dry retch, Matheus slammed it. A narrow hallway ran the length of the second floor, three doors on the right, one on the left, with the bathroom off the landing. Matheus reached the next room, then shrieked as someone threw him into the wall. He landed in a stunned pile, blinking up at Quin.
“You―you―you―” Quin shook. Both hands slashed the air. “You―stop being crazy!”
“But Fletcher―”
Quin let out a burst of Latin, speaking too quickly for Matheus to translate. He wondered if he looked like that when he lost his temper and reverted to German. Hobos handing out mimeographed fliers on street corners looked more sane.
“Lord,” said Alistair. “I think what Quin means is we’ll help you search.”
Quin shot Alistair a dark look, then helped Matheus to his feet. Following Matheus to the first door, he continued his Latin mumbling. The room was a makeshift barracks, with bunk-beds crammed side-by-side. Matheus called for Fletcher, opening the closets, although he knew he had the wrong room. Heat radiated up from below, the boards creaking beneath their feet. Matheus wondered how much longer before the floor gave out. In the window, red and gold glimmered over the snow outside. Matheus glanced down. Flames licked up the side of the house.
“She’s not here,” said Quin, as they left.
“I know.”
“I mean, she isn’t here in the house. Your father lured you into a trap. You really think he’d risk losing his prize? What if you had succeeded?”
Matheus paused, his hand on the doorknob of the next room. “My father. Did anyone find him?”
“Not unless he went to the back door,” Quin said. “Milo’s out there.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’d remember him.” Quin smiled, bloody fangs curving over his lips. “It’d be a… memorable meal.”
“Shit!” Matheus turned as Alistair opened the last door. Metal flashed in the smoke.
Alistair staggered backward, his hands pressed to his throat. Matheus didn’t even realize he’d moved until Alistair’s weight dropped into his arms. Blood ran down his arms, cool against his blistering skin. With a gurgle, Alistair’s hands dropped away, his head lolling back. A gash sliced his throat, dark-red flesh swelling around his severed esophagus.
“Sunshine!”
A blade swung toward Matheus. He watched the arc in slow motion, his legs locked in place. The moment dragged on, seconds stretching into eons. Then, like the snap of a rubber band, reality returned. Still clutching Alistair’s body, he rolled, the blade nicking his ear. He sat up, placing Alistair on the floor. Quin fought the guard, the smoke swirling around them. The guard had been dosed with undead blood. He matched Quin’s speed, dodging his punches, and landing a few of his own. Matheus winced at the crack of bone. The guard collapsed, but lashed out with his good leg. Quin shook off the strike and drove his boot into the guard’s face.
A flicker of movement distracted Matheus. A shadow stood in the doorway. Matheus squinted. He thought he saw―
“Quin!” he yelled as the crossbow twanged. The bolt lodged in Quin’s back. He staggered, then crumpled, hitting the floor with a thud.
Dizzy, nauseated, Matheus rose. The click of the crossbow being reloaded preceded a crash of timber. He glanced over his shoulder at flames dancing upon the remains of the staircase. The figure stepped out of the doorway.
“What will you do now, dämon?”
With a scream, Matheus lunged for his father. Pain burst in his shoulder as his father’s bolt went wild. Grabbing the crossbow, Matheus shoved the stock into his father’s chest. Together, they tumbled to the floor, Matheus’s fangs snapping for purchase in his father’s flesh. Beneath them, the boards cracked, warped by the fire. Matheus wrenched the crossbow from his father’s grasp. He raised the bow and drove the stock toward his father’s face. Carsten twisted away. The stock slammed into the floorboards, one indignity too much. The floor gave way with a crack, and together they fell into the flames.
Matheus woke up in hell. Flames surrounded him, flickering at the black smoke. Burning wood scorched his flesh and dried his eyes. He didn’t k
now where he’d fallen. Staggering to his feet, he screamed as pain exploded over him. Burning, he was burning, the fire consuming his body from the inside out. He slapped at his arms and legs, his skin sticky with popped blisters.
No. Not him. If he stayed there much longer, Matheus would burn, but the pain he felt belonged to Quin.
Quin was burning.
Overhead came a crash, barely audible over the roar of the fire. Boards rained around him, lit with embers. One struck his head, bringing with the smell of singed hair. With a shriek, he beat at the flames. Unbearable heat spread over his scalp, the skin raw and gummy. He moaned, as his fingers slid over bone, smooth and slick.
This is not real, this is not real, this is not real.
A fresh wave of agony snapped Matheus out of his trance. He needed to get out. Panic later, get out now. Dropping to his knees, he crawled forward, unsure if he headed deeper into the fire. Broken tiles and timber covered the floor; support beams crisscrossed the room. Broken glass sliced into his knees and palms.
From the smoke came a sob. Quin! Matheus veered, heading toward the sound. Inching underneath a support beam, his hand landed on charred flesh. A scream pierced the air. Ignoring the embers dropping on his back, Matheus crawled toward the man’s head. A large beam crushed the man’s chest, too heavy for him to move. He clambered over, too wrecked to feel the flames dance over his stomach.
“Oh, God. Oh, God.” Matheus stared down at his father, his hair burnt away, skin reddened and warped, flames consuming the remains of his fine suit.
Carsten opened his eyes. His eyelashes had been singed away. Matheus didn’t know how much his father still saw. He shook, clinging to the last pieces of consciousness.
“Mein Sohn,” Carsten whispered, his voice seared with smoke and fire. “Bitte, Mein Sohn.” He raised his hand, a burnt, twisted finger stroking Matheus’s cheek.
Tears evaporated on his skin before they had a chance to fall. Matheus groped in the debris around him. The black haze threatened, closing in around him. He knew now he wouldn’t get out. Quin burned. His father burned. He had time for one last act. His fingers closed around a shard of glass. The edges cut into his palm. Blood sizzled over the smoldering floorboards.
With a sigh, Carsten closed his eyes. Matheus pressed the edge of the glass to his father’s throat.
“Forgive me.”
He sliced his father’s flesh, severing his carotid artery. Blood pumped out, coating Matheus’s arms, his face, and his chest. He dropped the shard, swaying from side to side. After the heat of the fire, his father’s blood felt cold on his skin. A few seconds later, the flow stopped. Matheus rested his hand on his father’s chest, but no heartbeat stirred. With a sigh, he collapsed into the cool dark.
lood, hot and salty, pulsed into his mouth, coating his face and neck. Matheus gulped, unable to move, an inferno devouring his skin, pain spiking down to the bone. Voices floated around him, distorted and undecipherable. He gasped as something icy dropped onto his scorched limbs. The source of the blood slipped away, replaced a moment later. The taste changed, more copper. Fresh snow piled onto him, smothering the heat. He sucked in the last drops, whimpering as his meal was pushed aside. A shadow fell over his face, but his vision only produced vague shapes.
“We have to move him. Those sirens are getting close.”
“I’ll get the truck.”
Hands gripped his arms and legs, hoisting him out of his frozen bed. Matheus protested, but only dull croaks emerged. His head spun; his brain sloshed from side to side as he was carried. Pain flooded his body, his skin cracking with every movement. Tears pooled in the corner of his eyes before overflowing.
Time passed in skips and jumps. He lay in the bed of a truck, the engine rumbling. Someone held him in place. They bounced, one tire hitting a pothole. His body smacked the metal frame; an agony of fire raced over his back. Time leapt ahead. A car door slammed shut. More hands, tugging him off the truck bed, carrying him, voices all around. People crowded around, then disappeared. Another time shift.
“Bring him over here.”
“He’ll need another one.”
“I know, but it’s too close to sunrise. Tomorrow.”
More blood dripped onto his face. He opened his mouth, letting the liquid slide down his throat. The pain diminished, but didn’t vanish. The details around him cleared. A thin carpet lay beneath him; the glow of a computer screen lit the room. A freckled arm pressed against his mouth. The flow of blood stuttered, the heartbeat slowing to a halt. He tilted his head. The arm joined the freckled shoulder of a man slumped against the wall. Joan’s face appeared above him.
“Hey, fucker,” she said. “You awake?”
“Quin?” Matheus’s voice came out a hoarse wheeze.
Joan looked at someone to his right. “We didn’t find him.”
“No.” His whole body throbbed. With effort, he raised his hand, touching his chest. “Feel him. Not dead.”
Milo’s face replaced Joan’s. Soot streaked his skin, ashes caught in his dark curls. At some point, he’d lost his glasses. “He ran back inside for you. He didn’t come out.”
“No.” Matheus’s eyes drifted closed. The bond pulled at him, transmitting Quin’s pain, mixing with his own. He didn’t know where one ended and the other began. “Alistair?”
“We’ve got him,” Joan said.
“What happened?”
“Later. You got to rest, now.”
“Find Quin.” His words slurred together. “Have to find Quin.” Gray haze coated his thoughts. He sank inward, Milo’s response drifting away. “Find… Quin.”
With a groan, he woke up again, rose, and landed in a heap. After sorting out his limbs, he realized he’d fallen out of bed. Since when do we have beds? The carpet felt plush; the air lacked the smell of mold and age. He staggered to his feet, swayed, then collapsed with a thump onto the mattress. The unfamiliar room had a high ceiling, with tall windows covered by dark blue drapes. Victorian-style furniture decorated the space. Matheus decided to explore later.
He ran his hands over his body. The burns had healed scar-free with the exception of the area around his mouth. His fingers skimmed over the puckered flesh. Eamon’s tainted blood had left its mark. Using the wall for support, he circled around to the floor-length mirror.
The scars covered his mouth and chin; one rivulet ran through his lower lip. He let out a rough laugh. At least he didn’t have to shave.
Sounds of someone moving around came from beyond the closed door. Matheus tensed, scanning the area for a weapon. A current of electricity shot along his nerves, overriding higher brain functions. His fingers wrapped around the neck of a vase. The artfully arranged flowers landed in a sodden heap. He found himself standing next to the door, watching the narrow crack grow, the urn held ready to strike.
“Math—oh!” Alistair blinked up at him, frozen in the doorway. His gaze travelled from Matheus’s face upward, then down again. “So you’re awake.”
The vase thudded on the thick carpet. Matheus backed away, his whole frame trembling. He sank onto the mattress, curling his fingers into the duvet, the crunch of feathers beneath his palm. The door closed with a gentle click.
Alistair returned the vase to its home. The mangled flowers hung limply over the side, a handful of petals scattered on the floor. He seemed to be waiting for Matheus to speak.
The space between them swelled, the air too heavy to shift with mere words. Adrenaline still flickered in his veins. Fear dueled with embarrassment for supremacy, a healthy dose of confusion mixed in for flavor. He cleared his throat.
“I wasn’t sure… I thought you might be—”
“Dead?” Alistair tugged one of the high back armchairs closer to the bed and sat down. The collar of his plaid shirt gaped, revealing a jagged line nicking the bottom of his Adam’s apple. The warped flesh cut across the tangle of scars left by Bianca’s claws. “So did I. Until I woke up.”
“What happened?”
> “With everything, or just me?”
“Just you.” Matheus didn’t know if he wanted the whole story yet. An ache pulsated inside his gut, the vibrations extending down to his fingers and toes. His body had healed, at least on the outside, but the sensation remained. A constant reminder of the bond.
“Quin pulled me out.” If he noticed Matheus’s flinch, he didn’t say anything. “When the second floor collapsed, he landed in the yard. Joan yanked the bolt out of his chest, and, of course, he pops up screaming about saving you.” Alistair offered a wry smile. “So he went running into the building, looking for you. Except he found me first. I don’t know what he said, Joan won’t tell me, but he convinced them to help dig me out. I guess a support beam had fallen on me. According to Milo, Quin said that if I died, you’d never forgive him. So, thanks for that.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
Alistair shrugged. “I suppose it’s how you look at things.”
“Yeah.” Matheus glanced away.
Clothes rustled, the mattress lowered. The smell of unfamiliar cologne tinged the air. A gap remained between them.
“Milo and Joan are okay? Fletcher?”
“They’re okay. Fletcher’s in the hospital. Your dad had kept her in a storage locker.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“The police arrested the doctor taking care of her. His medical license had been revoked for malpractice, so he’d been working the black market side for a while. When he heard about your dad’s death, he ran for it. Left Fletcher behind. She’d been drugged up to keep her quiet, but the narcotics wore off. The owner heard her banging on the door a couple of days after the fire.”
Ice chilled Matheus’s veins. He leaned forward, curling his arms around his head.
“She’s okay,” said Alistair. “I mean, abandonment and amputation aside, the guy had taken good care of her. She was hungry and a little dehydrated.”