by Amy Fecteau
“Thanks,” she said. “I wasn’t quite feeling like myself.”
“Right,” said Matheus. “Should I leave some snacks on the nightstand tomorrow? I don’t want to wake up with my legs gnawed off.”
“Oh, Mat, you should be able to recognize an idle threat when you hear one.” Bianca leaned forward, adjusting her pillows. She sat back with a sigh. “But yes, that would be lovely. I reckon you lot forget not everyone’s on the liquid diet.”
“How are your stitches?”
“Still holding my guts in,” Bianca said cheerfully. “Alistair left a bag on the dresser. Check and see if there’s any more of those wonderful little pills.”
“I’m not sure you should take any more.” Matheus dug through the bag of supplies, and pulled out the last remaining sample pack. The pills rattled in their plastic containers. “Aren’t these addictive?”
“Most likely. Gimme.” Bianca held out her arms, opening and closing her hands.
Matheus tossed her the package. One more dose wasn’t going to transform her into a meth addict.
Bianca swallowed the pills dry. She tugged the blanket up, tucking it around her thighs and hips.
Matheus dropped the shopping bag onto the vanity. A handful of decorative bottles tumbled over, tinkling against one another. Carefully avoiding his reflection in the oval mirror, Matheus set them upright.
“Have you heard anything about my father?” he asked, nudging the bottles into line.
“Why?” Bianca asked.
Matheus glanced at her in the mirror, then back at the bottles. He shrugged.
“I only know what my parents have told me,” said Bianca, turning to stare out the window. She plucked absently at a fringed pillow, shaking the freed threads onto the bed. “He leaves us alone, the enemy of my enemy sort of thing. Too focused on your lot. Some big names have disappeared. It’s chaos over there.”
She worked her way around the corner of the pillow. “I saw him a few times before I left. He always looked so tired.”
“So he is still in London.”
Bianca blinked. She shook her head slightly, then smiled at Matheus. “As far as I know,” she said. “Why are you asking? Have you heard something?”
“No. I’m just being stupid,” Matheus said. Some of tension bled away. His father didn’t have the monopoly on baroque crucifixes. Ten years had passed since Matheus was last in his father’s office. The past blurred. Probably any gold cross of that type would trigger the same memories.
“Mat,” Bianca said slowly.
“Hmm?”
“I’m not saying I agree with him, but maybe…maybe you should talk to him.”
“And say what, exactly? ‘Gee, dad, sorry I vanished a decade ago. Now that I’ve become the embodiment of everything you’ve spent your entire life trying to destroy, let’s reconnect. Oh, and I might fancy blokes. Haven’t quite sorted that part out yet, but I’m definite on the bloodsucking part. What’s that? You want to lop off my head and bury it at a crossroads? Excellent, I love father-son bonding.’”
“Yes, all right,” said Bianca. “But, one hears things, you know. Mum says—wait, you might fancy blokes? Drugged up for two days and I miss all the juicy bits. Did the Quin introduce you to the joys of the love that dare not speak its name?”
“No,” said Matheus. “Jesus. There’s something wrong with you, you know that?”
“Alistair? A slap, slap, kiss kind of thing?”
“Oh, God, no. Never.” Matheus shuddered.
Bianca frowned. She picked up some of the orphaned fringe, running the strands through her fingers.
“Not Milo,” she said. “One hates to make assumptions, but I get the impression—”
“It wasn’t anyone.” Matheus slapped his hand on the vanity. The tiny bottles rattled against one another. “Okay? Leave it alone.”
“Mat, love, if you wanted me to stay out of it, you never would have mentioned it in the first place,” said Bianca with an irritatingly fond smile.
Matheus crossed his arms, and looked away. He scowled at the remaining hatboxes scattered amongst the pillows. Down the hall, a door opened and closed. Matheus held his breath, but the footsteps passed the door without stopping, fading down the staircase.
“Would you say I’m useless in bed?” he asked, the memory of Juliet’s words surfacing. Not that they had far to rise. Things like that tended to float, bobbing in and out of conscious thought.
“Well.” Bianca coughed. She bent forward, arranging the strands into the beginnings of a braid. “Yes. But, bless your heart, you gave it your all.”
“What?” Matheus dropped his arms with a whoosh. They dragged his shoulders along. His mouth decided to join in, for kicks. “I—really?”
“Don’t fret about it. You were fifteen. Teenage boys are not known for their lovemaking skills.”
“Yeah, but…I mean…. You made some pretty convincing noises!”
“I was fifteen, too,” said Bianca. “I thought that’s what it was meant to be like. Porn can be very deceptive, you know.”
Matheus covered his eyes with his palms, massaging his forehead with his fingertips.
“Right,” he said. “Fine. But I want it noted that I did get better.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any evidence to support that,” said Bianca. “Until I see a notarized testimony, the record stands.”
A second door opened and closed. Footsteps travelled down the hall, stopping just past the room. The bathroom door opened and closed, followed by the sound of running water. Matheus wondered if anyone would notice if he threw Bianca out the window. She was tall, but scrawny. He could take her.
“Why are you asking now?” Bianca asked.
Matheus lowered his hands. He tried to look at Bianca, but found his gaze drifting down to where her feet mounded the blanket. Leaning one hip against the vanity, he brought his index finger to his mouth, absently gnawing on the nail.
“Did I seem, I don’t know, unenthused?” he asked.
“You aren’t exactly a fount of bubbly excitement,” said Bianca.
“I meant in bed.”
Bianca held her braid in front of her face. She squinted at it for a moment before laying it over her leg. Gathering more strands, she weaved them into the braid.
“It’s been quite a while,” she said. “You seemed enthralled by my breasts, if I remember correctly. Not that I have much to be enthralled by.”
“Well, they were new,” said Matheus. “It’s not like I have any of my own.”
“True. Though with modern surgery—”
“No.”
Bianca laughed. She tossed the braid aside, drawing her knees up. She patted the mattress next to her.
Matheus dragged his feet over the carpet. He dropped onto the bed, making Bianca bounce.
“Stop it,” she said, slapping his shoulder. “I’m still injured, prat.”
“Why haven’t the painkillers kicked in yet? I like you so much more when you’re incoherent.”
Matheus pulled himself upright. He leaned against the headboard, stretching out his legs. He wiggled his toes, then shoved his feet under a pillow.
“I sort of provoked Quin into jumping me yesterday,” he said.
“Ooh.” Bianca clapped her hands. “Was it nice?”
Matheus stared at her. Slowly, he pushed her wrists down to her lap, then covered her hands with a satin pillow.
“No,” he said. “Just…no.”
“No, no, no. That’s all you ever say.” Bianca pouted.
“Because you’re a crazy lady.”
“Yes, fine.” Bianca waved away the question of her sanity. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Milo interrupted.”
“Damn Milo.”
Matheus shrugged. He started on his middle finger, the nail on his index finger bitten down to the nub. In a couple of days, the nail would regrow, starting the cycle over again.
“So, you are gay,” said Bianca.
&nbs
p; “Maybe, I don’t know. I can’t think about it, everything’s all mixed up.” Matheus sighed. He closed his eyes, banging the back of his head on the headboard. “I thought people were just supposed to know.”
“I guess some people do and some people figure it later. Maybe you repressed it. God knows, your father wouldn’t have approved.”
“Yeah,” said Matheus. The door to the next room over opened. “I don’t think—”
A series of bangs shook the door in its frame.
“Get up, Sunshine!” Quin yelled.
“Fuck off!” Matheus shouted back.
Unintelligible curses leaked through the gap beneath the door. A low bang vibrated the door; Matheus guessed Quin gave it a kick before stomping off. He turned to see Bianca raise an eyebrow at him.
“We have a complicated relationship,” Matheus said.
Matheus paused before stepping into the living room. He let the door swing shut behind him. Arranged on the three couches, from left to right, were Quin, Milo, and Alistair.
Quin sprawled over the loveseat, one bare foot tapping against the arm. He watched Matheus, then glanced at Alistair before zipping his gaze back to Matheus.
Alistair sat with his legs and arms crossed. A heavy pout obscured his features, turning his face into a caricature of a child’s doll. He narrowed his eyes at Matheus, but that glare paled in comparison to the true object of his loathing. Edging around the broken coffee table, Matheus sat next to Milo, a Switzerland wedged between Germany and France.
“What’s going on?” He whispered, trying to keep both Quin and Alistair within eyesight.
Milo picked up his laptop, shifting six inches down the couch.
“I don’t have cooties,” said Matheus.
Milo adjusted the screen of his laptop. Light reflected and refracted off his glasses. He began typing, ignoring Matheus’ scowl.
“We need to find somewhere else to stay,” Quin said, still looking at Matheus. “It’s not safe here. We’re too vulnerable during the day, and Faust’s loyalty is not unlimited.”
“Where do we go?” Matheus asked. “Do you have a safe house?”
“We could ask Grigori or Apollonia for protection,” said Alistair.
“Yes,” said Quin. “Why don’t you do that? Take the girl with you.”
“Bianca,” Matheus said. “And we’re not splitting up.”
“You’re not the one making the decisions, Sunshine.”
“Neither are you.”
“You’ll go where I tell you go,” Quin said.
“I’ll go wherever the fuck I please,” said Matheus.
“I can check my contacts,” Milo said. He looked up from his laptop. “What about the traitor?”
Matheus grabbed Alistair as he jumped toward Milo. With a grunt, Matheus shoved him back onto the loveseat. He stood over Alistair, holding his hand palm outward.
“I’m not the traitor!” Alistair said. He leaned around Matheus, directing his shouts at Quin, even though it’d been Milo who spoke.
“It’s either you or the girl,” said Quin.
“After I stitched her back together? Are you serious?”
“Her name is Bianca,” said Matheus. “And you are not helping.”
“Helping was not my intention,” Quin said.
“Lord, you’re an arrogant bastard,” said Alistair.
“No kidding,” Matheus said.
“Enough,” said Quin. “Matheus—”
“I’m not leaving Bianca, and she needs Alistair, so he stays, too. Milo can do whatever he wants.”
“Thanks,” said Milo. “I appreciate that.”
“You know what I mean.”
Quin straightened; he slashed a hand through the air, while he slammed his other palm against the back of the couch.
Behind Matheus, Alistair sank into the loveseat. Matheus glanced at him; Alistair stared at the legs of the coffee table, his eyes hidden. Milo had stopped typing. He held the laptop cover, looking from Matheus to Quin with air of a man ready to bolt.
“Sunshine—”
“Quin.”
They stared at each for a second. Matheus looked away first. He flicked the hair out his eyes, then scratched the back of his head. He sighed.
“Can you…?” He trailed off. He circled around the coffee table, and grabbed Quin’s wrist. Tugging sharply, he jerked his head toward the door.
“What—”
“What? You can do it to me, but I can’t do it to you?” Matheus asked. He felt Milo’s and Alistair’s gaze creeping across his nape. He tugged again. “Come on.”
Wearing an expression of bemusement, Quin allowed Matheus to pull him out of the room.
Matheus released him as soon as the living room door clicked shut. He leaned against the wall, facing Quin. The walls seemed closer together, impossibly tight. Matheus wondered if the previous owners had installed a Star Wars-esque compactor to mess with guests.
“All right,” said Quin. “What did you want?”
Matheus closed his eyes. “Please,” he said. “I’m asking nicely. Don’t send Alistair and Bianca away.”
“You’re asking?”
Opening his eyes, Matheus scowled at him. “Yes. Nicely.”
Quin stared at a spot on the wall just to left of Matheus. He circled one wrist, fingers loose and dangling. The moment dragged on until Matheus wondered if Quin had had a stroke. He watched Quin’s hand turn, the movement disconnected from the rest of his body. Quin’s gestures were like India ink on paper, not muddying the stillness, but highlighting it with the starkness of black on white.
“Fine,” said Quin. “Stay together. But don’t be stupid. Watch both of them.”
“See, was that so hard?” Matheus asked. “Maybe if you learned to compromise—”
“If I learned to compromise?” Quin took a step forward, his gaze snapping to Matheus’ face.
Matheus flattened himself against the wall. “I compromise,” he said. He winced as his voice cracked.
“Oh, sure,” said Quin, one side of his mouth rising into a crooked grin. He pressed his palms to the wall on either side of Matheus’ head. “You’re a master of cooperation and concession.”
“All those words start with c,” Matheus whispered.
“Very good, Sunshine.” Quin leaned closer. “Do I get a reward for being so compromising?”
Matheus tried to melt through the plaster. His nails scraped over the wall, his heels thudded on the baseboard.
“Don’t,” he said. He pushed at Quin’s chest, a token resistance.
Quin wrapped his fingers around Matheus’ wrist, the tips overlapping. His hand felt solid, the pressure undemanding.
“Why not?” Quin tilted his head to the side.
“Because,” said Matheus.
“Because why?”
Matheus squirmed. He opened his mouth, and closed it. His head felt as though it’d been filled with helium. His brain floated around his skull, vibrations shimmering through with each bounce off bone.
“Because I asked nicely?” Matheus said.
With a short laugh, Quin stepped back. The helium leaked out. Matheus felt his mind settle, heavy in his skull. He slumped, letting his head loll against the wall. “It’s the claim,” he said softly.
Quin looked away. He adjusted the hang of his shirt. Flicking out his wrists, he smoothed the crumpled cuffs. “Whatever you say, Sunshine,” he said.
“Gin,” said Alistair. “Nines, jacks, and a run of three.” He snapped the edges of the cards as he laid them on the table.
“Jesus.” Matheus tossed down his hand. “I used to be good at this game.”
The tip of Alistair’s pencil waved as he counted under his breath. He scratched out some figures on the notepad, the numbers as neat as if he lined them up with a ruler. His handwriting looked familiar. Matheus assumed he’d been the one to write Zeb’s welcome letter.
“So, you owe me eight hundred forty-three dollars and sixteen cents,” Alistair sa
id. “Care to play again?”
“Yeah, fine,” said Matheus. They didn’t have much else to do.
After shouting out some dire warnings about sentient teddy bears, Bianca had passed out. Milo vanished to the upper levels of the house, and Quin just vanished. No goodbye, no note, just walked out. Milo knew where to, but he’d ignored Matheus’ questions.
Matheus tapped his heel on the rung of the stool, and tried not to think about it. Quin was a grown man. If he wanted to be an inconsiderate ass, that was his choice.
“Double the bet?” Alistair tapped the cards into a neat pile, then executed a flawless riffle shuffle and bridge.
“You know I’m not going to pay you,” said Matheus, watching Alistair deal out the cards.
“You’ll pay me,” said Alistair. He picked up his cards, rearranged them, then laid them face up on the countertop. “Gin.”
“Are you kidding me? I haven’t even looked at my cards yet.”
Alistair smiled and scooped up the cards. “You’ve played with Quin?” he asked.
“Yeah. He teach you?”
“I taught him,” said Alistair. “You need to learn how to cheat.”
“You’re cheating?”
“Obviously.”
“I am definitely not paying you,” Matheus said. He snatched the deck out of Alistair’s hands. “You’re not allowed to deal, either.”
“That’s adorable. You think I need to deal to cheat.”
“Fine.” Matheus threw down the cards. They skittered over the polished granite, some tumbling onto the floor.
“What is your problem?” Alistair asked. He hopped off his stool, scrambling to pick up the cards.
“You’re cheating!” Matheus began tapping with his other leg, alternating between them. A low buzzing built in his ears.
“It’s just a game. You don’t need to throw a hissy fit.”
“You are telling me not to have a hissy fit?”
Alistair slapped the cards onto the counter. “You—” He stopped. He leaned toward Matheus, grabbing Matheus’ chin when he turned face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Matheus jerked out of Alistair’s grip. He pushed away from the island, his stool crashing onto the tiles. He circled the room, drumming his fingers on the counters, the cabinets, the refrigerator. He opened the doors to the hall, only to slam them shut.