by Amy Fecteau
Matheus knelt in front of her, placing his hand on her chest below her collarbone. She sighed softly, closing her eyes.
“I don’t think she can go anymore,” Matheus said, glancing at the others.
“No, I’m fine,” said Bianca.
“Bibi—”
“We can stop,” said Quin. “It’s sunrise soon anyway.”
“You want to stay here?” she asked. “You may have forgotten, but I don’t turn into a lump of flesh when the sun comes up.”
“I didn’t forget. I just don’t care.” Quin walked over to Milo, and sat down. Milo retrieved his laptop; together they examined something on the screen.
Alistair came up behind Matheus, pushing him aside. As Matheus watched, he peeled off the bloodied bandage, tossing it into the water. He doused the wound with alcohol, earning a sharp curse from Bianca, then taped a fresh bandage in place.
“I can’t do anything else here,” he said, digging in his bag. “Take a couple of these. They’ll help with the pain.”
“I love you,” said Bianca. “Oh, come here, you beautiful darlings.” She swallowed the pills, then leaned her head back.
Alistair took a seat on the ground a couple of feet away. He crossed his legs, Indian style, resting his hands on his ankles.
Matheus patted Bianca’s shoulder. She reached up, gripping his wrist for a moment, then dropped her hand to her side. She blinked in his direction, and tilted her head toward Alistair. Matheus made a face, but kept his mouth shut. He walked over to Alistair, arranging himself on the sticky floor.
“Hey.”
“Go away,” Alistair said.
“But I’m already sitting, and I’m tired.” Matheus propped his elbows on his knees, keeping his hands in the air. He wanted to go as long as possible without touching anything.
“I don’t need you judging me.”
“I just want to sit,” said Matheus.
“Sit somewhere else.”
“Stop being an asshat. What is your problem now?”
“I’m a coward,” said Alistair softly.
“Jesus Christ.” Matheus rolled his eyes. “Because you freaked out in a burning building? So what? It was terrifying. There were grenades. Besides, you fought, right? You kept that guy from shooting me.”
“Yeah. I fought.” Alistair sighed, rubbing the back of his hand over his forehead.
Matheus hesitated. He picked up on social signals with the awareness of a diseased banana slug, but even he could read layers piled on with a backhoe. “Were you in a war?” he asked.
“World War Two,” Alistair said. “I was a medic.”
“So you don’t like it when things go boom. That’s fine.”
Alistair bent his head. “I’m weak,” he said in a voice so quiet, the sound of the water drops nearly smothered his words.
Matheus searched for something to say. He opened his mouth, inhaled, then closed it again. He scratched the back of his neck. Bits of glass fell out of his hair. Leaning forward, he shook out his shirt.
Alistair continued to stare at the floor.
Matheus flicked a sliver of glass into the darkness. “Oh, get over it,” he said.
Alistair’s head snapped up. “Eat shit,” he snapped.
“Thank God,” said Matheus. “You’re back to normal.”
Water dripped onto Matheus’ forehead. He opened his eyes, blinking up at slime-covered bricks, waiting for memory to click into place. Oh, right; explosions, house burning down, fleeing for his life, sewer. Up to speed on the current horror in his life, Matheus propped himself up onto his elbows. At least the nightmares had taken the day off. On top of everything else, they would be the arsenic icing on the crushed-maggot cake.
“Mat? Is that you?”
“Yeah,” said Matheus. He staggered to his feet, holding his hands outward. The flickering LEDs of Milo’s laptop gave off enough light for Matheus to make out the others. “Oh, God.”
“I know,” said Bianca. “I was going batty with all these corpses. This is not what I had in mind when I went to work with Zeb. Not even my parents imagined this.” She shifted, plucking at her shirt. Muck plastered the fabric to her skin. “Can you come here? I think I’m bleeding through my bandage again.”
“I’m not sure I should touch anything. It’s filthy down here.”
“No kidding,” said Bianca. “Mat, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” said Matheus. He nudged Alistair with his foot, jumping back as Alistair groaned.
“What the hell?” Alistair rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself onto his hands and knees.
“Evening,” said Matheus.
“We’re in a sewer,” said Alistair.
“Oh, he’s a clever one,” said Bianca. She grinned in his general direction. “I think I need a new bandage.”
Matheus offered Alistair a hand. After a second, Alistair took it, pulling himself to his feet in a flowing movement. He crossed over to Bianca, checking her wound with quick, sure gestures. Matheus scowled at his back. Even covered in shit and slime, Alistair managed an air of grace. Life held no fairness.
A couple minutes later, Milo pulled out his phone, holding it as he typed with his thumbs. Tucking the phone away, he sat up. He collected his laptop, slinging the bag over his shoulder. Without the LEDs’ glow, Matheus’ ability to see dropped to nil.
“Can we please get out of here?” he asked the blackness. Beside him came the sound of tape ripping off the roll.
“I’m ready,” said Bianca. She let out a sharp gasp.
“Sorry,” Alistair said. Something clattered over the stone floor. “Shit!”
Matheus knelt, feeling along the stone floor. He located a package of sample pills and a roll of bandages.
“Here,” he said, waving them in the direction he thought Alistair was.
“I can’t see you, jackass,” Alistair said. Matheus heard him shuffle forward. “What happened to the—”
Details rose into clarity. Milo held his phone over his head.
“Thanks,” said Alistair. He snatched the things out of Matheus’ hands, then collected the rest of the supplies.
“Are you done?” Milo asked. “It smells terrible.”
“Yes.” Alistair helped Bianca to her feet. She towered over him, but supported most of her own weight.
“Quin’s still out,” said Matheus.
“Drag him,” Milo said.
Matheus looked down at Quin’s corpse.
“Yeah, okay,” he said.
Ten minutes and two turns later, Quin woke up.
“Grugha?” he said.
“Good evening,” Matheus said in a chirpy voice. “Sleep well?”
Alistair snorted.
Quin raised his head, and said, “Urhk,” which Matheus took to mean, “Where the hell are we, why am I being pulled along by my feet, and what is that god-awful smell?”
“Care to walk?” Matheus asked. “Or would you prefer to babble some more?”
“I found a map,” said Milo, farther along the tunnel, walking with his head bent over his phone.
“Well, puh-rayze Jeee-sus,” Bianca said.
“Please, don’t do that again,” said Alistair.
“Spoilsport.”
“There’s a turn…here.” Milo stopped, pointing to his left.
“Put me down,” said Quin.
“A complete sentence,” Matheus said, dropping Quin’s ankles. “And in English, too. Congratulations.”
Quin groaned. He dragged himself upright, then draped himself over Matheus like a damp, fleshy blanket.
Matheus heaved Quin away; he hit the wall, slumping into the shape of the zigzag Tetris piece.
“Are you all right?” Alistair asked him, syrup thickening his voice. “Do you need anything?”
“He needs to wake the fuck up,” said Matheus. He glared at Alistair, who ignored him.
“I can—”
“Where were you going?” Quin interrupted, inching aw
ay from Alistair’s dripping concern. He stepped into a puddle, foul water splashing up his leg. He grimaced, holding out his leg and shaking it.
“Out of here,” said Milo.
“Then where?”
“We didn’t get that far.”
Quin set his foot down. He straightened, and pulled at the back of his shirt. The cloth made a squelching noise as it separated from his skin.
“Plans can wait,” he said.
“How did you find this place?” Matheus asked, rubbing a towel over his hair. He dropped onto the sofa beside Quin and swung his feet up onto the glass-and-steel coffee table. Two loveseats sat perpendicular to the couch, all three pieces covered in white leather. Along one wall were bookcases, filled with ornate glass sculptures interspaced with the occasional knickknack, and not a single book. A wall-to-ceiling painting offered the only color in the room: a white canvas with a slash of red from corner to corner. Everything Matheus hated about modern design shoved into one house; if he hadn’t spent the day in the sewer, he’d have run away, screaming.
“It belongs to one of Faust’s clients,” Quin said. “He had to leave the country unexpectedly.”
“That explains the clothes.” Matheus frowned at his ironically retro t-shirt. It billowed on his frame, making him feel like a kid in his dad’s clothes. “Are you sure Faust won’t tell anyone we’re here?”
“No.” Quin tugged on the bottom of his pants. A solid four inches of skin was visible above his ankle. He’d opted for a dress shirt that shimmered between blue and green, from the slimmer of the former tenants, but he’d had no luck with the pants. Matheus offered up a pair of sweatpants identical to the ones he wore. Quin gave him a look like Matheus asked if he wanted to try some delicious baby stew. Matheus had considered telling Quin that he’d picked out a woman’s shirt; the look convinced Matheus otherwise.
“So you put us all at risk in exchange for a hot shower?” he asked.
“Basically,” Quin said.
“Well.” Matheus laid the towel over the arm of the couch. “I can’t argue with that.”
Milo glanced over at them, shook his head, and returned to his laptop.
The house Faust provided belonged to a string of McMansions on the west side of the city. While it lacked the overwrought glitz of Grigori’s estate, the house did boast three bathrooms, one with a tub big enough for diving competitions. Matheus called dibs, but Alistair hustled Bianca inside, emerging only to demand more alcohol.
“What were those guys who attacked us?” Matheus asked.
Quin stopped fussing with his pants. He turned sideways on the couch, leaning his back on the armrest and burying his bare toes between the cushions. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Matheus looked at him for a moment, trying to decide if this was deliberate obtuseness or a genuine request for clarity. He decided to give Quin the benefit of the doubt. Besides, there appeared to be nothing of actual entertainment value in the entire house. Not even a TV, which was downright un-American. Although, given the décor and the address, Matheus assumed a sixty-inch flat screen lurked somewhere behind some Japanese-inspired artisan curtains.
“They moved too fast for humans, but you killed some of them,” he said. He thought for a minute. “I mean, actually dead. As in, they were alive and walking about, but now they’re dead and stationary.”
Quin wiggled his toes, the movement transferring to the cushion Matheus sat on.
With a dark look, Matheus moved to an empty loveseat.
Quin smiled at him, and stretched his legs the length of the couch.
“Blood,” said Milo without looking up.
“Fascinating,” said Matheus. “I feel so enlightened.”
“Our blood.”
“You know what are great? Complete sentences. You should try them sometime.”
“Why?” asked Milo.
“Why?” Matheus raised his eyebrows. “You seriously want to know why complete sentences are a good idea?”
“Wasn’t talking to you,” said Milo. He looked at Quin over his laptop, then tilted his head toward Matheus.
Quin shrugged. “It seemed like the right thing at the time,” he said.
“Fuck you both,” said Matheus. “Are you going to answer my question or just sit on your asses, mocking me?”
“Oh, Sunshine,” said Quin. “I can do both.” He caught the towel Matheus threw at him. “If you inject a human with our blood, they get a…boost, I guess you could call it. Of course, it also kills them within a couple of weeks. Injecting yourself with dead stuff is not a wise life choice.”
“Right. We have the supernatural equivalent of PCP in our veins. Isn’t that just super.”
“Honestly, it’s not an issue that arises very often.” Quin waved a hand, turning the towel in lazy circles. “Most of the humans who do know also know it’s a death sentence. Chances are, whoever gave the blood to the soldier didn’t tell them about the side effect.”
Matheus sank lower in the loveseat. He pushed his hair out of his face, scowling as the wet strands fell back into his eyes.
“Right,” he said. “Mr. Upsets-the-Balance is kidnapping people, stealing our blood, and using it to fuel his super-soldiers. Eventually, he’s going to run out of volunteers, yeah? I mean, if everyone around you keeps dropping dead, you might get the hint that it’s time to look for other employment.”
“Maybe,” said Quin. “Or maybe they’re zealots. Maybe they think they’re martyring themselves for the greater good.”
“But why—”
“Quin,” said Milo. “Look at this.”
He set the laptop on the coffee table, turning it to face Quin.
Matheus half-rose out of his seat, stretching to see the screen. The angle obscured the image; Matheus made out vague lines and nothing else.
“It fits the criteria,” Milo continued.
Quin shifted, swinging his feet onto the floor. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers hovering above the keyboard. “This can’t be the only one,” he said.
“Only one what?” asked Matheus.
“Only one owned by a foreign holding company,” said Milo.
Quin’s fingertips brushed the keys. He jerked his hands back, folding them underneath his chin. “So he is here,” he said.
“Could be a franchise,” said Milo. “He’s got a couple of kids. Family business?”
“I don’t think he’d trust anyone else. This is too important.”
“Does he have a name?” Matheus asked. “Or do you get off on all this mysterious bullshit?”
“Sunshine, go check on your friend.”
“Why don’t you just give me a spanking and send me to my room?”
Quin looked at him. “If that’s what you want,” he said, in a slow, cool voice. “I’d be happy to oblige.”
The words lingered in the air, flowed like syrup laced with ice crystals through the curves of Matheus’ ear straight to his central nervous system. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, trapping his initial response of yes, along with the follow-up answer of please. He gripped the loveseat’s cushion and glared at Quin. Then, unable to formulate a response that would not result in his immediate need to commit seppuku, Matheus stood up and stomped out of the room.
He really needed a quiet minute to sit down with his libido and explain some things. If only people stopped attacking him long enough for that to happen.
“Hey, Bibi.”
Bianca lay ensconced in a glorious mound of pillows. Small pillows, large pillows, square pillows, circular pillows, pillows with embroidery, pillows with tassels, pillows with tassels and embroidery and lace—a cornucopia of stuffing and fabric.
“Wow,” said Matheus. He stopped, his toes just outside the doorway, and leaned into the bedroom.
“Come sit next to me,” Bianca said, waving at him.
“I’m not sure there’s room.” Matheus burrowed into the pillows, tossing them left and right until he’d car
ved out a space big enough for an adult male. He looked around the room; he’d never felt so aggressively masculine in his life. A pair of teddy bears in gingham stared at him from the vanity. Matheus shifted, but their beady black eyes followed him, watching, waiting. He forced himself to look at Bianca, trying not to search for movement out of the corner of his eyes.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Oh, lovely.” Bianca gave a long, singsong sigh. She continued to wave her hand through the air. “Alistair gave me some more of those pretty little pills.” She sighed again. “I love Alistair. He’s pretty, too.” She frowned. “It’s sad.”
Gently, Matheus lowered Bianca’s hand to the bed. He kept his hand on her wrist, his thumb resting over her pulse-point. “What’s sad?” he asked.
“Hmm?” Bianca swung her head around. She blinked at him, eyelids taking an eternity for the round-trip.
“You said, ‘it’s sad’,” said Matheus.
“Oh. Nothing.” She tilted her head to the side. “I never told you about the dreams.”
“You don’t have to tell me now.”
“I feel like talking.” Bianca leaned forward, her temple resting on a large, cream-and-rose pillow trimmed in lace. “Besides,” she added in a stage whisper, “I think the bears are plotting something.”
“You might be right,” Matheus said, casting another glance at the stuffed animals. He swore the one on the left had moved closer.
“You’re pretty, too,” said Bianca. Her hand resumed waving. “Come here.”
Matheus bent his head, and after a few passes, Bianca managed to pat him on the ear.
“…wish you hadn’t…never wanted….” She mumbled.
“Bibi?”
Bianca straightened with a light laugh. “Sorry. Everything is all…floaty.”
“You don’t say,” said Matheus. He tossed more of the pillows onto the floor and slid across the satin duvet cover. He held up an arm. Bianca wiggled underneath it, laying her head on Matheus’ chest.
“You smell like a girl,” she said.
“You smell like cheap booze,” said Matheus.
“Gosh, Mat, why hasn’t some lucky—” Bianca yawned, the bones in her jaw cracking. “Never mind, I’m too zonked for insults.”