by Amy Fecteau
“No,” said the man. “Just don’t feel like engaging in an act of homoeroticism at the moment. You are still naked.”
“Then give me some damn clothes!”
“So you can kill me?”
“Don’t worry,” Matheus said, voice thick with mockery. “It’s like getting a shot.”
The man sighed. “I can see there’s going to be no talking to you for a while. I’ll return later, after you’ve had a chance to calm down.”
The door opened. Matheus could make out nothing more than the same general shape: tall, lean, and male. Not that it made a difference what his murderer looked like. After Matheus killed the man, he could stare at his corpse all day long.
The man stepped out, closing the door behind him, leaving Matheus to sulk alone in the dark.
“Calm down,” Matheus said, glaring at empty shadows. “Bastard.”
The light around the edge of the door looked like a still from a sci-fi movie, right before the aliens burst in for the big abduction scene. Matheus blinked, trying to will his eyes to adjust faster. A few second passed as Matheus cursed out his rods as lazy SOBs. Or did the cones provide night vision? Biology class had been a while ago. Matheus hadn’t decided the issue when he realized he could see the pale green of the carpet. He stared. Matheus should not have been able to tell that. At this level of light, everything should be a hazy grey, but the carpet insisted on its greenness.
Matheus needed a closer look. He climbed off the massive bed, tripped over the tangled blankets, and ended up with a much closer look than he had intended. Groaning, he sat up. Matheus massaged his nose gingerly. Against all odds, he’d never broken his nose, and he wanted to maintain that status quo. Satisfied that he didn’t need a splint, Matheus freed his feet and stood up.
More and more details sharpened into being. Posies covered the treacherous blanket, which matched the blue sheets and cream-colored pillowcases. Delicate carvings decorated the wooden bedframe; the designs resembled those popular in the mid-nineteenth century. Matheus specialized in prints and lithographs, not furniture, but he knew enough to tell that the bed would fetch a high price at auction. He didn’t care. A nice bed did not make up for assault and kidnapping.
The rest of the room contained a dresser carved to match the bed, a padded bench pushed against one wall, and a pair of nightstands on either side of the bed. They were all old pieces, no IKEA to be found here. Gold and ivory wallpaper, faded and curling with age, covered the walls. Matheus had the impression of several rooms at once: the wallpaper in the first one, the green carpet in the second, and the matching furniture in the third. An old house, Matheus thought, with a series of owners.
The molding around the door belonged with the wallpaper, but the thick paint covering it went with the carpet. Matheus didn’t understand why people insisted on mutilating perfectly good woodwork. He added the molding to his list of things he hated about the room. Another thing for his list: the locked door. Matheus beat the wood with his fists and achieved nothing. He threw his body against it, with the same result. His newfound super-powers did not include supernatural strength.
Matheus gave up on the door and turned his attention to the dresser. The drawers were empty, as were the two nightstands. The feeling of being exposed began to grate on Matheus’ nerves. He returned to the bed and wrapped the flowered blanket around himself, sarong-style. He started a new list, cataloging the many and varied ways to kill his murderer. He might need to do a bit of research first, but Matheus had confidence he could find a way. Impalement, Vlad-style, on wooden spikes led the list when the door finally opened.
“Sitting in the dark?” asked the man, framed by the hall light. “How melodramatic.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Matheus replied. “You locked me in here.”
“Hmm.” A click, and light flooded the room. “Light switch. Marvelous invention. Maybe you’ve heard of them?”
Matheus did not blush, but only because he lacked the blood flow to produce one. He considered strangulation as a method of revenge, dismissing it when he realized leaping from the bed would almost certainly end with him face-planting into the carpet. Instead, he glared. Matheus excelled at glaring. He could have glared professionally if he hadn’t decided to go into art history instead.
“Still naked, I see.”
Resisting the urge to cover his chest, Matheus increased his glaring level.
His murderer appeared unmoved. He tossed a pile of clothes onto the bed.
Matheus recognized one of his shirts and the jeans he wore on the weekends.
“Put those on,” the man said. “I promise not to look. Of course, I did already see everything when I bathed you.” He grinned.
Matheus reconsidered strangulation. Could he strangle someone who didn’t breathe?
“Pervert,” he said. His tone lacked the physical violence he craved, but the sheer venom his voice contained provided consolation.
The man raised an eyebrow, continuing to grin. “Oh, did you want to remain caked in your own filth? So sorry.”
“Turn the fuck around,” Matheus snapped.
The man shrugged and turned to face the open door.
Matheus yanked on the jeans and shirt, nearly ripping off two buttons and a fingernail in the process.
“Done?” the man asked.
“Done.”
Matheus felt better now that his nipples were hidden away, and junior wouldn’t be popping out for a surprise visit.
His murderer turned around, taking a few steps toward the bed.
For the first time, Matheus got a clear look at him. Matheus’ eyes widened. The modern myth, stuck in his head, led him to expect an air of dark sensuality combined with brooding good looks, someone who looked good on the cover of a Bronte novel.
“Something wrong?” the man asked.
“You look like an accountant,” Matheus said. His murderer smoothed a hand down his tie. He wore a bespoke grey suit and waistcoat tailored to the exact angles of his frame; Matheus wouldn’t have been surprised to see a watch fob. The suit probably cost more than all of Matheus’ clothes put together. “A highly paid accountant,” he added.
“You were expecting Robert Pattinson?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” His murderer rolled hazel eyes. He had short, neatly cropped black hair and Mediterranean coloring. His face held a collection of angles: ship’s prow of a nose, high, rising cheekbones, dark slashes for eyebrows, and a jawline that sloped into a sharp, triangular chin. Not even his mother would call him handsome, but people would have a hard time forgetting his features.
Matheus tilted his head to the side, lips pursed.
“Maybe a corporate lawyer,” he said. “I can see you foreclosing on orphans.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say.” His murdered looked caught between amusement and annoyance. Or perhaps Matheus just projected the annoyance.
“I thought you all were stunningly gorgeous,” he said. Matheus aimed for insulting, but landed closer to sullen teenager than he had intended.
“You all includes you, too, Sunshine.”
“Don’t call me that,” Matheus snapped. He needed a heartbeat, not a stupid pet name.
His murderer took another step toward the bed.
Matheus edged away. Something about the man made Matheus’ nerves contract, drawing into themselves as though they were trying to minimize contact with outside sensations. He looked away, but not for long. He imagined people who looked away for too long did not have happy endings.
“Why not? It suits you,” said his murderer, once Matheus looked back.
Matheus treated this ridiculous statement with the respect it deserved, and ignored it.
“People are going to be looking for me,” he said. “They’re going to notice when I don’t show up for work.”
“No one is going to notice,” the man said. “That’s why I chose you. No family, no close friends. You keep to y
ourself. No one is going to give your disappearance a second thought.”
Matheus felt a needle of anger pierce his generalized rage. The man’s words were a small thing after the indignity of being drained dry in an alley, but truth sharpened the edges. Matheus had no one in his life. He ignored all his co-workers’ attempts at friendship; he belonged to no groups or clubs. In college, he focused on getting his degree as quickly as possible, leaving little time for a social life. Mostly he walked, read, and ate takeout. He preferred things that way. Fewer questions to answer, and responsible only for himself. Still, that didn’t stop the anger from rising.
“Bastard,” Matheus spat.
His murderer waved his hand with a slashing motion.
“It isn’t my fault you’re pathetic. You don’t even have a pet. Your apartment is depressing, by the way. I was going to be nice and get some of your personal belongings, but you don’t seem to own any.”
Clenching the blanket in his fists, Matheus stared at the floor. Trying to speak would only result in more humiliation. Matheus irritated easily, but rarely to the point where he lost his grasp of the English language. He felt the syntax slipping away, so he pressed his lips together and stared at the floor.
“My name is Quin,” said the man. “Quintus Livius Saturninus, but I prefer Quin.”
By extreme force of will, Matheus managed to exhale. He struggled, but managed to follow up with an aggressively even inhale. Given his situation, he probably required neither, but he felt better. At least he remembered how to format his verbs properly.
“I could not care less,” he said. “Unless you’re telling me so I know what to carve onto your tombstone.”
“Oh, stop with the death threats. You can’t kill me. Even if you could, murdering me wouldn’t be in your best interest.”
“Why’s that?”
Quin made the slashing motion with his hand again, and Matheus realized what set his nerves on edge. Aside from his deliberate movements, Quin remained completely still. His chest didn’t move, his fingers didn’t twitch. He stood, straight-backed, in the same position he’d stopped in. He smiled or raised his eyebrows in distinct, discrete movements, separate from the rest of his body. Matheus found himself staring at Quin’s eyelids, trying to determine if he blinked in a regular pattern.
“In case you haven’t noticed, you aren’t exactly human anymore,” Quin said.
More human than you, Matheus thought.
“I can figure it out on my own,” he said aloud. “I’m good at that.”
“You’d be a pile of ash within a week.”
“No sun,” Matheus said, holding up his hands and using his fingers to tick off his points. “I got that one. I can still say God and Jesus, so crosses and holy water won’t be a problem. I’m in a bed, not a coffin, so there’s another thing I won’t have to worry about.”
“That’s a good start, Sunshine, but that’s not everything.”
“I can see better in the dark, but regular light doesn’t hurt my eyes.”
Quin gave a soft, pleased laugh. “This isn’t normal light,” he said, smiling into Matheus’ scowl. “It’s quite dim, really. If you went into a department store, you’d be blinded. I recommend sunglasses until you adjust.”
“So, I literally have to wear sunglasses at night,” Matheus said. “I’m going to look like a prat.”
“You’re a grown man who wears sweater vests,” said Quin. “You already look like a prat.”
“Go die in a fire.”
Quin continued to smile at him. A chipped front tooth sat at an angle to the others, catching slightly on his lower lip. A fine dusting of stubble, not immediately noticeable against his olive-dark skin, covered his jaw.
Matheus stroked his own chin. He had shaved yesterday morning, but a fresh crop of hair hadn’t grown in. He wasn’t a shave-twice-a-day type of man, but there should have been some growth after this long. Matheus let his hand drop. There went his shot at growing ironic facial hair. He hadn’t been so inclined, but the lack of choice irked him.
“Okay,” said Matheus. “So, sunglasses. I’ll add that to the list.”
He tilted his head back, trying to look down his nose at Quin. He failed for two reasons: firstly, because Quin topped Matheus’ height by two inches; and secondly, Matheus still sat on the bed. Rumpled sheets and a fluffy duvet did not lend themselves to an air of imperiousness.
“This shouldn’t be too hard,” Matheus added.
“What about silver and stakes? Beheading? Being buried at a crossroads? Glamours? Can you eat normal food? How do you hunt? How do your fangs work? How often do you have to feed? How you get money? Find shelter? Fake IDs? Do you sleep? Or just die at sunrise? Can you still have sex? What happens if you get injured? Will it heal on its own? Does your hair still grow? Will you ever need a bathroom again? What—”
“Stop, stop,” said Matheus. “I get it.”
“I don’t think you do.”
Matheus jumped as Quin appeared in front of him, an arm on either side of Matheus, palms flat on the bed, teeth bared. Matheus could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. He did not look like an accountant, or a lawyer, corporate or otherwise. Matheus’ ability to breath deserted him again. He went as still as Quin, convinced that if he wanted to survive the next few minutes, he should make no sudden movements.
“From now on, you are dependent upon me for everything.” Quin’s eyes held steady, his voice flat and empty. “The only thing keeping you alive is my goodwill. Understand?”
Matheus nodded, too terrified to do anything else.
“Now,” said Quin, pulling away, his calm smile returning. “Are you going to behave, or do you want to continue bleating about ending my undead existence?”
Matheus never realized how much noise the human body produced. Most of the time, the ambient decibels of the world drowned out the smaller internal sounds. While alive, he hadn’t appreciated the aural background his body provided. He missed the sound of his digestive tract working. Quin told Matheus he would adapt, that his hearing would be strange for a month or so, but Matheus still wished he could hear his stomach growl at least one more time.
After three days, the first two of which Matheus refused to speak, Quin let him out of the room he’d woken up in. He followed Quin, trying to listen and search for exits at the same time. Quin lived in a three-story townhouse, decorated with an I-got-it-cheap-at-an-estate-sale style. His clothes had devoured all sense of aesthetics Quin possessed, leaving none for décor. In another state of mind, Matheus might have approved. The furniture was good; solid pieces, comfortable, and built to last generations. Matheus liked old things; too much grandeur made him feel small. The compromise suited him. However, the house belonged to Quin, tainting Matheus’ approval.
Boards covered all the windows. Some were bright, new planks, and others had faded to a delicate, streaked gray. A layer of dust covered the kitchen, thick over the countertops and abandoned appliances. The refrigerator door hung open at an angle, lacy webs strung over the gap. Muddy footprints started at the window and ended in the middle of the floor. The pale, rust-colored stain on the cracked linoleum made him think otherwise gave him a clue as to why.
The first floor contained the kitchen, a living room, and a dining room converted into a depository of antique weapons. Some attempt at order had been made, before being abandoned in favor of lazy chaos. Only a few of the weapons approached auction quality. The room looked like the stall of a deranged flea market vendor. Matheus kicked a rusted mace, raising an eyebrow at Quin.
Quin shrugged. “You get bored,” he said.
“This is all junk,” Matheus said.
“Of course it is,” said Quin. “What is your point?”
Matheus shook his head, and followed Quin up the servant’s staircase. The second floor consisted of a study messy with stacks of papers and books, and a large, empty bedroom with a master bath attached. They skipped the third floor. Quin didn’t use it, and Matheus had alread
y seen enough spider webs for the night.
He trailed after Quin to the basement, then pushed past him, skipping the first door, Quin’s room, and going into his own. Matheus’ anger ebbed away, leaving behind a dull emptiness. With a sigh, he dropped face-first onto the bed.
“Would you like to be alone?” Quin asked.
“Mmm,” said Matheus, refusing to lift his head. He tugged on the blanket, enveloping himself in thick dark, trying for the illusion of ignorance. He heard Quin shift, the smooth planes of his suit brushing together, then a soft click as the door closed. Matheus didn’t move again, still trapped under the blanket when the sun rose.
Matheus understood why the boarded-up windows didn’t attract attention. Quin lived in a run-down neighborhood, the surrounding buildings abandoned for decades. A few people were out, squatters from the nearby houses. They nodded at Quin, surprisingly unfazed to see a man in designer jeans and a five-hundred-dollar leather jacket. Matheus received the odd glance, but mostly, people ignored him. He was okay with that. People with enough jewelry in their face to appear in National Geographic made him nervous.
“Where are we going?” Matheus asked. He felt like a slob walking next to Quin. He wore ten-year-old jeans, desperately out of style, and stained with India ink from a drawing class he’d been forced to take as an undergrad. He had better clothes, but he’d already been wearing the jeans and couldn’t be arsed to change.
“To get dinner,” Quin said.
“You mean…I can’t!” Matheus paused mid-step, the implication of what Quin said hitting him.
“You can. Or you’ll starve.” Quin didn’t stop, and Matheus had to jog to catch up.
“Can’t I eat, I don’t know, cats or dogs or something?” he asked.
“No. You need human blood.”
“Why don’t why we knock over a blood bank?” Matheus tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.
“It has to be fresh. Drinking donor blood is like living off Twinkies. Besides, it tastes like plastic.” Quin made a disgusted face. He turned the corner, heading in the direction of Hanners Street. Packed with bars and clubs, and nestled between two colleges, Hanners had infamy in spades. No place better to forget a day or six.