by Martha Woods
“We weren’t almost burned alive,” I say, “because you are a warlock who can control fire. There was never even a small chance of us burning alive.”
“That is not the point, Amy,” Tariq says. “Those people were calling for our blood. They will just round us up for laughter again if they see us.”
“No one will expect us to go back,” I say. “And plus, they are all running scared for the moment. They did not expect you to push the fire out on them like that. And I think that rally was not supposed to be public. There were no cameras, no press. Now the fire department and police will be here, and Quick will have a lot of explaining to do.”
“I guess that’s a good point,” Tariq says.
“I mean, we’ll still have to be careful,” I say. “But I don’t think they’ll be looking for us right now.”
As we reach the back alley behind the building, we can hear the sounds of the fire and emergency vehicles. It occurs to me someone may have been hurt in the melee but I can’t worry about that right now. I see the door open a crack and grab Tariq’s arm. The only place to go is behind a dumpster, but as we run for it, a car starts to pull into the alley from the other direction.
“We’ll be seen,” Tariq whispers.
I look at the dumpster and say, “Push me up.”
Again, Tariq looks at me as if I am crazy, but does as asked, pushing me up so I can flop gracelessly into the dumpster. He follows, deftly maneuvering the high wall and landing next to me. Thankfully, this area is mostly industrial, so the only thing in this rusted-out hunk of metal is a pile of boxes and packaging peanuts.
A rusted hole in the side allows us a perfect view as a limousine slowly pulls up, the gravel crunching under its tires. Then we hear the door squeak open.
“Sir, I’m very concerned about your hand,” a woman’s voice says. “And you’ve got a fairly substantial gouge on your cheek. You have filming on Monday; should I call and ask for a delay?”
“I’ll be fine,” Quick’s voice grumbles. “It’s just a scratch. Just call the healer and ask her to meet me at the house.”
“The police seemed to buy your story, that you were doing a practice rally and there was an electrical fire,” a young man says. His voice is eager, like he very badly wants to please his boss.
“They will investigate, and they will find out that there was no electrical fire,” Quick growls. “This will come back to us. We will need to deal with the police officers that are involved. And burn this place to the ground. No evidence left.”
The young man’s eyes go wide. “You want…you want me to deal with the police?” he asks, his voice quavering.
Quick levels him with a burning stare. “Find someone who can deal with them. And come back tomorrow to torch this place.”
The young man says, “Sir, I got into politics to do good for the…”
All of the sudden, the man’s eyes go wide and his lips contort in pain. His body folds backward, his back arching and his hands and arms splayed wide to the side.
Quick gets in his face. “When you signed on to this mission, you promised to do everything necessary to help advance this agenda. You begged for a chance to work for my administration. Begged. Do you remember that?”
The young man nods his head. Sweat beads his forehead.
“So, do it, or you’ll feel pain much worse than this.”
Quick holds the man like that for a few more moments, finally releasing him to a crumbled heap on the ground. The female opens the limousine door and Quick slides in. The woman follows, leaving the door open.
The young man stands and dusts himself off. He looks around, his face a mask of anxiety, worry. And better yet, second-thoughts. He does not want to do Quick’s bidding.
“Get in, Thorne,” the woman barks.
Thorne gets in and shuts the door. The limousine pulls away.
I turn to Tariq. “Thorne is our in. We need to get him to help us from the inside.”
Tariq nods. “He will probably be too afraid,” he says. “But I agree. It seems he is not full on board with the agenda of genocide.”
“Well, he certainly doesn’t want to kill cops and burn down buildings,” I say. “The genocide part remains to be seen.”
Tariq helps me climb out of the dumpster and we go back into the building. There are a few police and firefighters still standing around, but the fire is out and all of the participants are long gone. We quietly work out way up the stairs, and once the coast is clear, we check the podium and stage area. There is no sign of my phone.
“Damn,” I say. “I needed that evidence.”
“He probably took it, Amy,” he says. “If he knew we were up there, then certainly he realized you were filming him. He probably took the phone to erase the evidence.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “I am trying to sort through my memories of the moments when we were taken. I vaguely remember dropping the phone. I doubt those goons would have thought to pick it up, if their directive was to knock us out and bring us down for slaughter.”
Tariq shrugs. “Well, it’s gone now, so let’s get out of here. Where is your car?”
I look around the space one more time and sigh before leading my new friend out of the building and down the six blocks to where I parked my car. I’m not even thinking as I drive, and when I pull into the lot at my apartment, I’m surprised to find Tariq sitting in the passenger seat.
“Oh, shit,” I say. “I should have taken you home.”
“It’s no bother,” Tariq says. “I could see you were deep in thought. I can catch a bus from here.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Come on in for a minute. Clean up. I’ll make you some coffee or tea.”
Tariq nods and says, “Tea, please,” as we head upstairs. As he walks into my kitchen, he takes notice of my various white boards and articles, the walls filled with evidence of my obsession with this case, and my abilities.
“You are an analyzer,” he says, mostly to himself. “Constant thought in that brain of yours.”
“I have been told I overthink things,” I say. “So, you weren’t necessarily wrong in your first impression, as much as it pains me to admit. And that I am emotionally detached until those I care about are in peril. Then I spring into action, often without concern for my own safety.”
“Everyone likes to pretend that they know what or how others should act. They like to put people in boxes, to make them fit in with everyone else,” Tariq answers.
“And you do not?” I ask, starting water for tea on the stove.
“I prefer to let people be who they want to be. For better or worse. It leads to more authentic connections, more fulfilling relationships and experiences. It doesn’t mean it’s not fun to try to figure them out, just to see if I’m right.”
“Hmm,” I grunt. “Yeah, psychoanalysis is real fun.”
“I would think that, in your business, you would enjoy figuring out what makes people tick,” he says.
“No, I’m a clue-finder. I like to follow leads and find things others can’t. For me, it’s less about the why than the how.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Tariq says.
“So, tell me about you,” I say. “You grew up in Pakistan?”
“I did,” he says. “Very normal parentage. They are not witches or warlocks. I am not aware that anyone in my family ever was.”
“Is that normal? I ask as I start the tea kettle. “I mean, I don’t think my parents were either. It must not be a genetic thing?”
“There’s that curiosity about the how,” Tariq says with a wink. “I don’t know if there is a genetic link, or if the power is independent of family history. It might be an interesting study someday.”
“Yes, someday when a crazy warlock isn’t trying to take over the world,” I agree. “Did your parents know you were a warlock?”
“No,” he says. “I was Awakened by a local elder in my village. She owned the shop where I work and taught me about apothecary arts. She recognized the
ability in me. Unfortunately, she died very shortly after my Awakening, and I was left with no one to assist in my training.”
“And you didn’t know anyone else like you?” I ask.
“No. My culture is not one that openly embraces the different. I hid my abilities, for the most part.”
“That must have been hard,” I say.
“It was challenging, but mostly because I nearly killed myself trying to learn the limits of my abilities. I nearly caught my father’s house on fire once, and almost drowned myself as well.”
He says all this with a bit of humor in his voice, as if this is nostalgic for him. He tells me a little more about his life. He had two sisters, and while he was allowed to go to a rural school with other boys from the area, his sisters were not. They were both married at very young ages, and he regrets he could not help them escape that fate.
I find his stories fascinating, even more so his sunny outlook on life. I could stand to be more like him, honestly.
I make us two cups of hot tea and we sit at the table, where my laptop is already open. “You know,” I say, “that woman who works for Quick said something about how he has to film on Monday. She was concerned about the scratch on his face. And I am telling you, Matthew Quick the actor looks identical to him, and even talked about the culling.”
Tariq takes my computer and does some research while I go to check on Damon. He’s still asleep. I push his hair away from his brow and watch him for a while.
“I know this is hard for you,” I say quietly. “I know you came home ready to take me away from all of this. And you weren’t expecting to find out I’d been bound to Vincent. But know that I did it to protect myself, so that I can end this threat. This is who I am. And I know I can be rash. I can be hyper-focused on my work. I know I’m not perfect, but I do care about you. I do want you to be okay. So, when you’re ready, come back to me and we will figure all of this out.”
I find that my eyes are wet with unshed tears as I finish talking. I realize I haven’t really spoken to him since he’s been like this. I’ve distanced myself, and that’s not fair to Damon. Not at all.
As I wipe the tears away with my shirt sleeve, I get up and head back to where Tariq sits at the computer.
“Matthew Quick is indeed set to start filming a feature here in Los Angeles on Monday,” he says. “I think you may be right. These two men may be the same person. Which is strange. Neither of them has any connection to each other. I might have assumed they were twins, though nothing I can find on either of them says anything about family. Nothing about parents or siblings. It is very odd.”
“People in high profile roles almost always have bios and they talk about growing up in Podunk, Iowa or whatever. Doesn’t IMDB have something like that for Matthew?” I ask.
“No,” Tariq says. “There is a very brief bio talking about his work, but nothing else. Not where he studied acting, not where he grew up. No personal information of any kind, really.”
“I just feel like…how could these be the same person and no one has noticed? Are there any conspiracy blogs out there? People asking why Matthew Quick and Alvin Quick look the same and have the same last name but aren’t related? No one is asking these questions? And why? If they are the same person, why? Plenty of politicians come from non-political backgrounds. Plenty of entertainers have run for office. Why the separation of personas?”
“Maybe he has multiple personality disorder,” Tariq ventures.
“Maybe,” I say,” but I doubt it. Alvin Quick seems to have a plan. Being Matthew Quick the actor must be a part of that plan, somehow. We just need to find out how, and why. I’d be so shocked if there wasn’t something out there questioning this. Often, these conspiracy theorists are ignored and treated like they are crazy, but they usually are on to something.”
“I will keep researching this for you,” Tariq says.
“Thank you,” I say. And then I make eye contact and say again, more forcefully, “Thank you. Seriously. Having you there tonight probably – no, definitely – saved my life. I’m thankful that you were there.”
Tariq says, “I think we are meant to be friends, Amy McCartney. I am happy to help you fight this battle.”
“Win this battle,” I correct.
He just nods.
Chapter 6
“Quick mentioned that you sleep with vampires,” Tariq says. “Is that true?”
The side-eye is what he gets in return. “That’s a silly question. Surely Faye’s told you all about me?”
“Faye is not very verbose,” Tariq says. “She shares only what she deems absolutely necessary.”
I laugh out loud at this. “That’s an understatement. And the answer is yes, obviously.”
“The mark on your hand was recognizable, but I did not want to assume.”
“My relationship with Vincent is complicated. I guess. My relationship with relationships is complicated, truth be told. I have – had – a boyfriend. He’s a Hunter, and I met Vincent around the same time, as the two were tied to a case I was working on.”
“Had a boyfriend or have? Past or present?” Tariq asks.
I shrug. “He left more than a month ago after he was possessed. Quick mentioned it tonight; I was meant to be one of the sacrifices for his spell. But I survived. And Damon couldn’t live with what he’d done to me, so he left. I never thought I would see him again until he showed back up here a few days ago. He’s been sort of semi-comatose ever since, so we haven’t really figured out all the relationship stuff.”
Tariq looks appropriately horrified. “Semi-comatose? Why?”
“I told him I was bonded to Vincent,” I say. “I trusted a coven of vampires to assist me in unlocking my abilities and they…abused the agreement we made. Vincent offered the bond as a way to protect me from other vampires. It’s not the first time vampires have used my abilities against me. It seemed to be the only way for me to stay safe.”
He eyes the mark on my finger. “May I…look at your hand?” he asks.
I hold out my hand and he inspects it with great interest. “Did you know,” he asks, “that magical bonds actually enhance abilities? When one creature bonds with another, it makes both of them stronger, their powers more intense.”
“I was not aware of that, no…” I say
“Most aren’t,” Tariq says. “It is specific to bonds between creatures of different species. Vampire-to-vampire bonds create a scent, right? They ward off other vampires from trying to mate with them. Vampire-to-human bonds do relatively the same, and also allow the human an opiate-like response that keeps them docile, happy, pliable for the vampire. But neither of these bonds makes them any more powerful. However, when a vampire bonds with another creature type, a werewolf, a witch, a faerie…then both of them experience a surge in magical ability, strength, stamina, even sexual desire.”
“Why do you think that is?” I ask. “And how do you know all of this?”
“Well, it is rare for these permanent bonds to be forged between creatures, so there is not a lot of evidence as to why, but my theory is that there is actually value in intermixing the species. That it broadens and strengthens the gene pool. For offspring.”
“But vampires are undead…they can’t…can they?” I feel how my face must look, eyebrows knitted together, lips pursed.
“There have been stories…” Tariq says. “None substantiated, though.”
“Whoa,” I say.
He shrugs. “As for me, I too was bonded to a creature. A werewolf, specifically. We met in our home country. Her family did not approve. They had already arranged a marriage to the son of another werewolf family. It was political, of course. I worked in an apothecary and she came in to buy herbs for stomach distress. We flirted, sort of inconsequentially, and then she left. But she kept coming back, and I found myself falling for her. On the eve of her wedding, we ran. We took everything we could carry and got on the first flight out of the country.”
“Wow,” I say. �
�That’s intense. Where is she now?”
“She has passed on,” he says. “We got to America, settled in. Local werewolf families came to us, asked her to go back, but we were resolute. And we wanted to start a family so when she found out she was pregnant we were overjoyed. We performed the bond right away. Sadly, both she and our daughter died in childbirth.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, putting my hand on his arm. “How long ago was this?”
“Three years,” he says with a big sigh. “I miss her still, but I was lucky to have loved her for as long as I did. I remain hopeful that I will again experience that type of bond.”
“Really?” I ask, sounding sharper than I intend. “You want to feel that again? That heartbreak?”
“The heartbreak I could live without, but surely the joy is worth it? The companionship? The contentment?” he asks. “I suppose I am a bit of a romantic. I love the idea of love.”
I shake my head. “I’d love to say I agree with you, but I just don’t…I’m not sure we’re meant to spend our lives with just one person. And in my experience, the joy is fleeting but the heartbreak seems to come like waves, over and over again. I am not sure it is possible to experience real happiness in a relationship. Especially not with another creature.”
“I disagree,” Tariq says. “I think that your view of love and commitment is skewed by your past experiences, by your biases, even by your work. I think that true love does exist, and that soul mates are real. If you’re open to finding and connecting with them. Vampires bond for eternity. I have met many bonded vampire pairs who feel love as acutely as humans. More acutely, I might wager. And they can settle into very normal, human-like lives. They can allow the human parts of themselves to emerge, if they want to. They are not beholden to this debauchery that they often play out to the masses.”
“Debauchery is a good word for it,” I say. “But they can’t love. I’ve been told that time and time again, that they cannot love like we can.”
“You’ve been lied to, Amy. Bonded pairs do love, and they would do anything to protect the ones they love. There is no way that a vampire would bond with a human just for safety. This is a serious bond, Amy. It is eternal. He would only do that for love. I do not think he is being truthful with you about his feelings, this Vincent.”