by Amy Fecteau
“I can’t believe you paid that woman,” Matheus said, unable to keep silent any longer.
“Not now,” said Quin. He addressed his words to Matheus, but kept his attention of the girls.
Matheus flipped on the signal to turn with a sharp slap.
“You should have made her wear a collar like a—”
“I said, now not.”
“Ripped off her head and—”
“Sunshine!” Quin snapped. “You are not helping.”
Matheus glanced in the rearview mirror. A sinkhole formed in his stomach. In a span of twenty seconds, he’d managed to undo any good Quin might have done.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just…. Sorry.”
Quin turned back to the girls, his calm mask back in place.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Everything’s okay. He just has issues expressing emotions other than anger.”
Matheus figured Quin directed that more at him than the girls. “Do not,” he muttered.
Quin ignored him. Over and over again, he told the girls they were okay, they were safe, a constant stream of reassurance. The girls swayed with the movement of the car, the one in Matheus’ jacket watching Quin as her sister tugged on her hair.
Matheus listened with one ear, caught glimpses in the rearview mirror when he couldn’t help it. The girl’s lips moved, opened and closed without forming any identifiable sounds. Her eyes fixed on Quin’s mouth, mimicking its movements with her own. The road grew blurry again and Matheus had to blink rapidly to clear his vision. He pulled up to the hospital’s emergency room, the neon-white floodlights around the automatic doors offering a convenient excuse.
“Wait here,” Quin said. “Leave the car running.” He climbed out and opened the rear door, coaxing the first girl out with the strange calming influence. She dropped to her knees, hair hanging over her face, fingernails scraping over the rough pavement. The second girl, the one in Matheus’ jacket, hesitated. Her lips bent and parted, puffs of air escaping with each new shape. Quin leaned into the car, holding out a hand. The girl leaned forward, her chin resting on the top of Matheus’ seat. Her breath whispered across his ear, carrying a sound on the edge of hearing.
The leather squeaked as the girl slid over the seat.
Matheus held his head down, jumping at the slam of the rear door. He counted in English, focusing with singular intensity on each number. He thought about watching American television as a teenager, sitting for hours, rewinding the same scenes hundreds of times, straining his tongue until the words flowed out naturally, matching the movement of his lips to the actors on the telly. He thought about what language meant.
The car shook as Quin opened the door and folding himself into the seat, fitting his long legs into place beneath the dash.
With numb fingers, Matheus steered the Merc through the parking lot. He tried to stop thinking.
“What did she say to you?” Quin asked.
Matheus glanced at him, then at the road. An ambulance swung into the parking lot, red lights reflecting in the Merc’s mirrors. Matheus flicked on the right turn signal, but keep his foot on the brake.
“Are you sure they’ll be all right?” he asked. Stupid question, but he asked anyway. “Maybe we should stay with them.”
“Do you want to be arrested? They’ll be fine. What did she say?”
Matheus sighed. “Brenda,” he said, turning out of the hospital parking lot.
Quin’s fingers skimmed over his cheekbone, too quickly for Matheus to react. “Christ, you’re a softie,” Quin said, rubbing his thumb over his wet fingertips.
Matheus tightened his grip on the wheel. “Shut up,” he said.
“Matheus Taylor, defender of the innocent.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“A thin layer of brittle anger and gooey marshmallow inside.”
Matheus slammed on the brakes. His seatbelt snapped tight across his chest. Quin slid forward with a violent jerk, his head bouncing off the dashboard. The car behind them honked, the driver giving them the one-fingered salute as she veered around the Merc.
“What the hell?” Quin asked. He pushed himself up, dropping back into his seat. A faint mark crossed his forehead, the Mercedes logo imprinted next to his right temple. Another car zoomed around them, narrowly missing the SUV in the other lane. Quin reached for Matheus’ wrist, but Matheus bashed his hand away.
“You knew what Apollonia was doing and you didn’t do anything,” Matheus said. He recognized his voice, but it felt as though a long tunnel separated his words and his mind. “You just let that happen. Fuck, you couldn’t even tell me beforehand. If it weren’t for this connection thing, I swear to God I would kill you.”
“Sunshine—”
Matheus shuddered.
“Don’t. Don’t say they were just humans. God, they’re barely even that anymore. Is this what passes for acceptable behavior in the otherworld?”
“In some places,” said Quin.
Matheus looked at him, and wished he hadn’t. The distance closed in an instant, bringing everything he held at bay into the forefront. Shaking and dizzy, Matheus climbed out of the car, slamming the door after him. Quin followed a half-second later, one arm resting over the top of his open door. Matheus took a few steps down the street, feeling as though bands were being tightened around his chest.
“Get in the car, Matheus,” Quin said.
“Fuck you!” Matheus whirled around. “You fucking, psychotic….” He broke off, turning around again.
Quin’s shoes scraped over the pavement as he left the car. A beat-up Toyota passed, slowing down for a good look. Black smoke billowed from its tailpipe, leaving behind the smell of exhaust.
Matheus heard Quin stop behind him.
“I know what we have to do to survive,” Matheus said, speaking to the empty street before him. “But that doesn’t include degrading people and treating them like animals. We aren’t better than them and if you think we are, then…then you can fuck off. I’ll find someone else.”
Quin sighed. “You’re right,” he said.
“And don’t tell me—what?” Matheus twisted, tangling his feet together in his haste. He tilted sideways, fumbling for his footing.
“I said, you’re right.” Quin caught Matheus’ sleeve and tugged him upright. He let go as soon as Matheus regained his balance. He shoved his hands into his pockets, giving Matheus a small shrug.
“Then why?” Matheus asked, anger lost in the confusion.
“Apollonia is strong, stronger than Grigori. She’s held this city for the last two hundred years. Attacking her would mean starting a war. A lot of people would die, including humans. Sometimes things have to be overlooked.”
“It’s awful,” said Matheus. “I hate this.”
“We’re not that different from humans,” Quin said. “Being what we are doesn’t make us evil. Some of us are decent, some aren’t. Everything is gray, Matheus. Eventually you’ll figure that out.” He flicked his arm out, glancing at his watch. “Come back to the car.”
Matheus trudged after Quin, sinking into the Mercedes’ warm leather with a soft sigh. He clicked on his seatbelt, then started the car. Wrapping his hands around the wheel, he waited for a couple of cars with out-of-state plates to pass. They turned right at the stop sign, the wrong way down a one-way street.
“Can we go home?” Matheus asked. “Please?”
“We can’t,” said Quin. “We still have to see Zeb.”
“I don’t think I can take much more,” said Matheus. He noticed Quin put on his seatbelt this time.
“Zeb’s one of the decent ones. You’ll be okay.” Quin rubbed the back of Matheus’ neck, calluses rasping over sensitive skin. A whole new feeling slid into Matheus’ bones, warm and liquid and disquieting. You’re safe. You’re protected.
Matheus wondered if he’d ever be able to trust his own emotions again. Relief and disappointment warred for supremacy when Quin took his hand away.
“We’
re going to Mayfair,” Quin said, naming one of the neighborhoods near Matheus’ former apartment. Like a lot of the named neighborhoods, Mayfair had been a village before being swallowed up by the sprawl of the city. Over the years, Mayfair had gone from being low-income, blue-collar homes to a quirky arts center with more vegan restaurants per square foot than anywhere within a hundred-mile radius. Matheus had walked through Mayfair every day on his way to work, guaranteeing a bad mood for at least three hours.
“Okay,” Matheus said. “Sorry.”
“What for?” Quin asked. He rolled up his cuffs, pinching the edge to create a sharp line. Stretching out his arms, he examined the cuffs, adjusting one slightly.
“I don’t know.” Matheus dropped his hands to his lap, holding the wheel in a light grip. He spayed out his fingers on his right hand over the sleek fabric of his suit. “For saying I would kill you.”
“Don’t be,” said Quin. “Nobody yells at me anymore. It gets boring.”
“What about Juliet?”
“She doesn’t yell at me. Just near me. There’s a difference.”
Matheus didn’t see one, but the thought of arguing just made him feel even more tired. The Mercedes hummed, turning delicately at Matheus’ touch. No more weaving through traffic or racing the lights; Matheus just wanted to finish this last visit and go home. The car answered his request, hiding away raw power, running as docile as a lamb. Traffic thinned, the late hour sending everyone but the night owls to their beds. Closer to the colleges, more people might be out, taking advantage of the bars and nightclubs, but here, quiet reigned.
“So you’re saying I should feel free to shout at you whenever I get the urge?” Matheus asked. He didn’t sound as teasing as he planned. He hoped Quin didn’t notice.
“Sure,” said Quin, and Matheus knew he had. “Of course, I may smack you, but that’s a risk you’re going to have to take.”
At least Quin made an effort. Matheus exhaled away some of his tension. His mouth relaxed, not smiling, but not grimacing either.
“You’re weird,” he said.
“Most people are,” said Quin.
Matheus double-parked next to a late model Chevy Malibu. He looked out the window at Zeb’s house, then back at Quin.
“Here?” he asked. “The guy lives here?”
“Yes,” said Quin. “Why?”
“I used to walk down this way,” Matheus said. “I called this the hoarder-house.”
“You’re not that far off.” Quin exited the Mercedes, nicking the Malibu’s paint with his door. He didn’t leave a note, but Matheus doubted Quin bothered with things like insurance anyway. The man didn’t even have a phone, for Christ’s sake.
A high fence topped with barbed wire surrounded Zeb’s house; various talismans and bric-a-brac hung in chaos on the wire. Matheus recognized protection symbols from a half-dozen religions and mythologies. Strings of beads wound around the gate, bright, cobalt blue. As Matheus got closer, he realized they were Turkish evil eyes. He’d never gotten a good look at the house before, usually in a hurry to reach the coffee shop before the morning rush.
Quin pushed open the gate, gesturing Matheus inside. A path of flat stones led up to the front door. More occult charms covered the tiny lawn, ranging from person-sized statues to delicate witching balls the size of oranges. The windows were shuttered with old-fashioned metal plates, the iron bands rusted over. Barbed wire circled the base of the house as well. Matheus wouldn’t have been surprised to see a pit of spikes out back.
A copper design, green with age, twisted over the massive front door, sprouting a doorknocker in the shape of a faun. Quin ignored the knocker, pulling on a wire running flat across the brick instead. He stepped back, tilting his head up toward the lintel. A whirring noise followed.
Matheus copied Quin, and spotted the tiny red light of a video camera. Minutes passed with no sound except the tinkle of the wind chimes hanging from the eaves of the house.
“I like that doorknocker,” Matheus said.
Quin eyed the faun. The ring ran through its crossed legs, a panpipe held to its mouth. Stylized leaves and vines circled around, forming a general teardrop shape.
“Really?” Quin asked.
“It’s classic,” said Matheus.
“It’s ugly.”
“Shut up.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, I promise not to buy you one,” said Quin.
“Loads,” said Matheus. “How much longer are we going to stand out here? It’s freezing.”
Before he finished speaking, a loud clunk came from behind the door. Another soon followed, then another, moving from the top of the door to the very bottom. The door shuddered, then opened with a drawn-out squeak straight out of a black-and-white horror film.
Behind the door stretched a long, cluttered hallway, the end fading into darkness. Stacks of newspapers, chairs piled onto end tables, metal footlockers with U.S. Army stenciled on them, and other assorted junk narrowed the hallway to a single-file path.
A short, slim blond wiggled out from behind the door. He looked about thirty, with the kind of face usually found on porcelain dolls. Large blue eyes dominated his small features, a Cupid’s bow mouth forming a natural pout. Matheus knew women who’d kill to be half as pretty as the man.
“Quin,” said the blond. “How lovely.”
Quin shifted his weight from side to side. He tugged on his cuffs some more while the blond beamed up at him.
Matheus looked from one to the other, his eyes narrowed. Juliet did say Quin preferred blonds.
“Alistair,” Quin said. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking after Zeb.” Alistair gave an elegant shrug. His limbs seemed to float through the air. Matheus couldn’t see Alistair running into a tree. Then again, looking at Alistair, Matheus didn’t think he’d ever run at all. He imagined Alistair as the kind of person who owned more types of moisturizer than books.
“Oh,” said Quin to the doorjamb.
Alistair looked him up and down with a lazy smile. “You’re looking well,” he said.
“Thanks,” Quin said.
Matheus resisted the urge to knock both their heads together. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, wishing for just a shred of body heat. Life was wasted on the living.
Alistair stepped onto the stoop, letting the light from the streetlamp catch on his hair. He had to tilt his head back to look at Quin’s face. His lips parted with a subtle puff of air.
Matheus seriously considered braining him with a lawn gnome.
“It’s probably terribly gauche for me to say this, but,” Alistair glanced away, then back at Quin. “I’ve missed you.”
“That’s super,” said Matheus, reaching the end of his far-from-infinite patience. “Meanwhile, it’s bloody cold out here and I don’t have a coat.”
Quin pressed his lips together, hiding a smile.
Bastard, Matheus thought.
“Alistair, Matheus,” Quin said with the appropriate hand gestures. “Matheus, Alistair.”
“Still cold,” said Matheus.
If looks could kill…. Actually, Alistair offered Matheus a polite smile, nowhere near the fawning look he gave Quin, but friendly, nonetheless.
“Please,” he said. “Come inside.”
Quin ducked his head, walking past Alistair into the house.
Alistair’s smile dropped. He glared at Matheus with the venom of a thousand black mambas. His pretty features should have been a handicap, but the juxtaposition only served to heighten the effect of the scowl. Matheus edged around him, hoping Alistair didn’t carry anything pointy with him. The space between his shoulder blades tingled as Alistair trailed after him.
“I reminded Zeb you were coming tonight, but he’s probably forgotten. If you want to wait in the library, I’ll go hunt him down.” Alistair steadied a stack of teetering newspapers, then reached around Quin to open a door.
Unlike the hallway, the library was a picture of order. The s
helves gleamed, books arranged in neat rows, gold lettering imprinted on the leather spines. Dark green curtains covered the shuttered windows. A pair of matching armchairs sat in one corner, with an oak desk in another. Matheus circled the room, tracing his fingertips over the neatly arranged books. He recognized more than one rare first edition; one had only two other known copies. If real, this copy would be worth a small island in the Pacific.
“Those are very rare,” Alistair said. “Please don’t touch them.”
“Matheus is an appraiser,” Quin said. “He won’t hurt them.”
Alistair simpered at him.
Matheus suddenly appreciated his inability to vomit.
“Of course,” Alistair said. “If you say so.”
Behind Alistair’s back, Matheus clasped his hands together and fluttered his eyelashes at Quin. Then he stuck his finger down his throat, miming vomiting over the fine Persian rug.
Quin shook his head at him, not amused.
Alistair turned around, and Matheus jerked upright, dropping his hands to his sides. Alistair gave him a long look that Matheus returned with one of his own. Matheus claimed victory as Alistair broke away first.
“Excuse me,” Alistair said. With a lingering look at Quin and a swing to his hips, Alistair left. Matheus glared as the door swung shut behind him.
“Of course,” he mimicked. “If you say so.”
Quin wandered over to the desk, shifting through the notebooks stacked neatly in the center. “Jealous?” he asked without looking up.
“You can do better,” said Matheus.
Quin raised his head. “What?”
“You heard me.” Matheus used the end of his sleeve to lift the page of an illuminated manuscript. Bold colors covered the vellum, the gold leaf preserved despite the years. Matheus let out a long rush of air. The design placed the manuscript in the tenth century, probably from northern France. Many manuscripts from the Middle Ages survived, but with the quality of this one, any museum director would commit mass murder to claim it. Matheus contemplated sticking the manuscript under his shirt and walking out with it. At least he had the sense not to leave thousand-year-old books sitting around in the open air.