by Thomas, Ian
“What’re you talking about?” Jason looked at Mouth oddly. Mouth mirrored the look back him, thinking Jason was too upset to see straight, uh, clearly.
“Over there,” he gestured to the front lawn before him. “Matteo? Eddie? McLachlan? McLachlan’s brother with the gun?”
“Where?” Jason looked around wildly.
“There,” Mouth said firmly, trying to keep his voice down. “Ya see Rowan?”
“No.”
Stunned, Mouth gestured wildly with his arm. The one holding Rowan’s hand bag. Seeing the bag, a thought occurred to him. “Here, hold this,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“Just do it.”
Reluctantly, Jason took the bag from Mouth, surprised when his friend held onto it. When he touched the bag, Mouth nodded toward the figures on the lawn.
“What the hell?”
“Must be a cloaking spell,” Mouth said. “I guess the bag’s a connection to Rowan.”
“Does that mean we disappeared as well?” Jason asked.
Mouth looked at him and sighed. “I’m going to remember how traumatic this funeral is for you and merely remind you I was visible to you a second ago.”
“Oh right, yeah.” Blushing, Jason looked at the figures on the lawn. “Who’s the homeless guy?”
“I thinking it’s Ben,” Mouth replied. “Wow has he let himself go. Man, I have never been happier in my life.”
“How are we friends? Wait, don’t answer that.”
In a squeaky plaintiff voice, Mouth said suddenly, “please Matteo, I’ll be a good boy. I won’t shit on the rug again. Please let me come home.”
Now with a deeper John Wayne tone, “listen pilgrim, you done us wrong. You’re a no-good, treacherous, traitory, turncoat.”
“Nice alliteration,” Jason commented.
Continuing as John Wayne, “Best you git and don’t come sniffing ‘round here no more.”
“Why is Matteo John Wayne?” Jason asked.
“That was McLachlan,” Mouth replied. Then started breathing noisily. In between breaths, he growled Darth Vader style, “Ben.” Heavy breathing. “You’ve gone to the dark side.” More heavy breathing. “There’s no hope for you.” Further heavy breathing. “You’re lost to me. Like my inhaler.” Last heavy intake. “Now fuck off.”
“Ya know,” Jason said, his tone hard and incongruous with his words. “I love you like the brother I never had, and you’re the best friend I always wanted. But, sometimes, you need to know when humor is needed. And when it’s not.”
Was Jason angry with him? His friend’s face was cold, eyes more so. Yet he didn’t walk away. Instead, he turned back to the drama before them. Mouth went to speak but felt the crowd move around him. Looking about, he saw funeral ushers moving through the crowd with bunches of white balloons. Hardly a festive sight, they were handing one each to those assembled. Through the crowd Mouth saw Rebecca and signaled her over, his hand no longer holding Rowan’s bag.
“Hey,” he said, thankful to see her.
“Hey,” she sighed, the weight of the funeral very much upon her. She rubbed Jason’s back for a few moments. “Where is everyone?”
“Touch this,” Mouth said.
“Not falling for that one again,” she replied.
“He means the bag,” Jason said flatly, handing it toward her. Unaware of what they meant – or what she had walked into, the tension palpable – she touched the bag and followed Jason’s eye.
“Shit,” she said and rushed past the boys toward the scene. No longer touching the bag, she took a second to register that her vision was distorted, then pushed forward. Mouth watched her go. An usher handed him a balloon and one to Jason. Wordlessly, Mouth stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend, hoping Jason understood.
VIII
Calmly Rowan reached for the gun. “I don’t think there’s any need for that, Dylan.”
“You disappeared,” he gasped, having held his breath. “Just gone.”
“A spell.” Rowan’s voice was calm but her words came quickly. “Like at the Iron Works. Funeral’s hardly the place for this.”
“Not…not the Cult?” Dylan asked, his voice choking, and realizing what she was saying.
“No.” McLachlan put his hand on his brother’s forcing the gun down. “Now Ben–”
“Was just leaving,” Matteo finished.
“Don’t you see?” Ben demanded. “He’s poison to us. Just like the silver in that gun.”
McLachlan looked to Dylan. The sudden clench of his brother’s jaw was confirmation enough. Taking a long deep breath, McLachlan turned to look at Ben.
“A mistake,” he said. “A very stupid one for which I’m deeply sorry. I’m also sorry you think I’m so toxic. I would never–”
“Don’t. Apologize to him,” Matteo said. “He’s done more damage than you – or anyone – ever could.” He leaned close to Ben’s face, his voice leaden. “You are dead to me. Betrayal of our family is unforgivable. Leave and never look back, because if you do, I will end you.” Matteo turned his back on Ben and started to walk away. Rowan and Hayley were the only ones to see Matteo’s stony façade falter, his eyes burning. The women looked at one another. Would this impact Matteo’s recovery? Ever since The Ordeal, he’d been quieter, less like himself. Occasionally there were moments – gregarious, warm, light hearted – but they had been rare. Without addressing Ben’s betrayal or even mentioning his name, no one had properly gauged how Matteo felt, assuming he would be open about the matter as he was with everything else. Rowan guided him toward Rebecca who stood not far away bewildered.
“You heard the man,” Dylan said finally. “Best you get.”
Ben looked angrily between them, his claws splayed. Looking to leap after Matteo, Dylan raised the gun at him. “Think we’re past politeness at this stage.” Furiously, Ben shoved Eddie aside and ran for the road.
Taking a breath, Hayley strode forward and punched Dylan. “The fuck were you thinking?!” McLachlan caught the gun and slipped it from his brother’s hand as Eddie caught Hayley. “Silver? Where the hell did you get silver bullets?!”
“Hayse,” McLachlan said, trying to settle her. And also speak up before Dylan did. “It’s all good now. We’re good. Dylan’s gonna go now. Ben’s gone.”
“Hey,” Eddie said softly, meeting her eyes. His suit hung looser on him now, the change having subsided. “Let’s just go find the others.”
Unconvinced, Hayley let him turn her from the brothers.
Eddie reached out and put a hand on Dylan’s shoulder. He may not have been thrilled at the idea of a silver bullet but Dylan certainly had diffused the situation. Possibly even saved a life.
“So…”
“You disappeared,” Dylan said.
“The spell.”
“One minute you guys are there, then the next you weren’t,” he said quickly. “I didn’t know if it was the Cult or something else entirely. I just–”
“Had my back,” McLachlan finished. They started walking to the car. With each step, Dylan regained more of his composure though he was remained somewhat sheepish.
When McLachlan turned fourteen, the demon stain and puberty began battling for dominance. To occupy his idle hands, Frank had started buying him model kits. The pride and joy being a replica Millennium Falcon. Opting not to attach the landing gear, he’d sealed the fuselage and suspended it from nylon fishing wire above his bed.
At the time Dylan was eleven.
And was trying out for his middle school baseball team.
Walking back to the car, Dylan was the same as he had been the day the Falcon went down.
“I get that. And I appreciate it,” McLachlan said. “The thing is you had silver bullets before any of that went down.”
Dylan stopped and looked at McLachlan, every inch the ashamed eleven year-old hiding on the roof.
“You’re mad?”
“Understatement.”
“Sorry.”
&nbs
p; “That’s not how it looks.”
“No, I really mean it. I wasn’t thinking.”
“But you were,” McLachlan said. “You’re always thinking, Dylan. It’s what you do. And you thought about getting actual silver bullets. I know you’re sorry but that's not how it looks. Not to them.”
Dylan stared at his feet.
“The sad thing is you weren’t wrong. You proved just how much of a threat Ben is.”
“Didn’t help your case any.”
“Like I give a fuck what he thinks,” McLachlan said. “He’s not the one I’m worried about.”
“Matteo?”
McLachlan nodded. “I thought Ben and I were friends. Saved each other’s back probably more times than either of us should admit. But this…” He shrugged. “Who knows.” In the distance, the mourners released white balloons into the cold September afternoon.
“Time to go,” Dylan said.
“I’ll come with,” McLachlan said, walking to the other side of the car. “Just with Ben out there, I want you safe.”
“Uh, I have this,” Dylan said, patting his coat.
“Not on a plane you don’t. He’s…broken. I just want to be safe.”
“But you’re still mad at me?”
“Hell yes, just not enough to let him kill you is all.”
“Good to know.”
Soon enough, Dylan was safely on his flight to DC via Chicago and Indianapolis before heading to London. The multiple legs were his idea to throw Julie and the Cult off his trail. Two legs of which were booked using the fake passport of Leonard Shelby that McLachlan appreciated but didn’t want any knowledge as to how it was obtained.
Waiting for the others to arrive from the funeral, McLachlan decided he needed to spend time with Matteo. Understandably, Dylan had occupied his time since The Ordeal. And of course Rebecca, despite not quite getting to an actual second date. Had he neglected Matteo, he worried. He voiced as much when they boarded the flight to JFK.
“It’s been a strange time for all of us,” Matteo said graciously, despite being crammed into an economy seat for the first – no, second time in his long life. “I haven’t felt neglected.”
“Maybe we should hang out. Ya know, patrol the city, spar a couple of rounds. Even hit the gym,” McLachlan said.
“I appreciate the gesture,” Matteo replied. “But I kinda need some time to clear my head. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Sure, yeah.” McLachlan caught Rowan looking at him across the aisle, concern etched on her face. She shared a look with Eddie, seated in front of McLachlan, then back to McLachlan. This was a conversation they needed to have at a later date. Once Rowan had returned her attention to her book McLachlan touched Rebecca’s hand, drawing her out of her own book.
“Hey, maybe I’ll hang out at the station with you tonight? That cool?”
“Of course,” she said.
“Yay,” Mouth cheered from behind them. Rebecca’s face flushed as she shook her head. “No really,” Mouth said. “I’m all good with that.”
“Can you two just have a second date already?” Hayley asked over the headrests. “I feel like you’re gonna touchdown in the friend-zone before we touchdown at JFK.”
“That’s rich,” Rebecca muttered under her breath.
“You say ‘bitch’ like it’s a bad thing,” Hayley replied.
Even Matteo laughed.
IX
Death awaited him inside.
Or rather, the dead.
The frozen ground unnoticed beneath his bare feet, Matteo regarded the stable with dread. He knew what was in there, the slaughter staying with him across the centuries, yet he continued forward.
A dream, he thought. I’m home. In bed. Not here, not now. Annah is beside me. Wake up!
Not a dream.
A nightmare.
In truth, a memory.
Waking with a start, Matteo clutched his chest. Seconds passed before he knew where he was.
In bed, in his New York home.
Not standing in a frozen field outside Marseilles.
His skin slick with sweat despite the room’s moderate temperature, he pushed the sheets back and took deep breaths to calm himself.
Next to him, Annah stirred. A sleep moan escaped her as she pulled the cover tighter. Matteo looked over at her, feeling no connection to the woman at all. They had been going out for two years and soon enough he would need to end it with her, least she learn he was a werewolf. Which would leave him alone. Again.
Better to think about that than the nightmare.
“Not a nightmare,” he muttered.
A memory. No less horrific.
She stirred again. Sighing heavily, he got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. In the mirror he saw his eyes were black and gold, canines slightly extended. This happened on occasion. If sleep troubled him or a memory plagued him, his defenses flared. Claws or fangs, such a change could hurt Annah, he thought, shocked to realize in that moment he didn’t care. Calming himself, the changes subsided and he felt a sudden urge to pee. Focus on the immediate, stay in the present, he felt the pressure easing in his bladder as he stood over the toilet bowl. Closing his eyes, he took in the sensations of the moment. The air temperature was pleasant, just sufficient to stave off the cold night outside. He heard sirens in the distance, possibly closer yet muted by the glazed windows. His ears picked up Annah’s breathing in the bed, while his nose caught the scent of lavender he had come to associate with her. Otherwise the house was still.
The cold marble beneath his feet brought the memory back to him. Matteo remembered the ground as icy, the grass dry and sharp as he moved closer to the stable. Copper tainted the air around him. The smell of blood. Enough to breach the frozen, still night air. A flaming torch burned somewhere in the stable, its light flickering through the rough-hewn walls. He didn’t want to see inside. He couldn’t.
Staggering, Matteo caught himself on the sink. He was in his home. Not Marseilles. Not then. Quickly, he washed his hands, splashing water on his face, and left the bathroom. The feel of wool beneath his feet settled his mind. Standing on the rug at the foot of his bed Matteo knew why the memory lingered so close.
The funeral and Ben’s appearance.
Betrayal.
Across five centuries he had known more than his fair share of betrayal. Some of which had been his own. Glancing over his long life, however, he knew he had been betrayed far worse than he had ever been the traitor. Of course, he would think like that. Anyone would, he conceded. Though there was a point – usually about two hundred years of age give or take – where an immortal became self-aware enough to accept their own shortfalls, see their own place in the ebb and flow of time, and accept their accountability. Matteo could never do what had been done to him.
“Matteo?” Annah stirred in the bed. “You okay?”
“Uh, no, I think,” he paused. “I think I picked up a bug on the plane.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I feel pretty lousy.”
“Have you had some water? Taken something for it?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “But you should probably go.”
“Oh,” she said, caught off-guard and suddenly awake.
“Sorry, I just – don’t wanna get you sick is all.”
In the silence, Matteo could hear all of her arguments in his head. Maybe sleep in a room downstairs. Perhaps he shouldn’t have had so much wine at dinner. Or the scotch afterwards. Was this why the sex hadn’t been as…good? But these weren’t her thoughts. Wolves weren’t psychic after all. No, this was his own guilt at dismissing her.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
“No,” she said firmly. “Of course not.” She threw back the covers, suppressing her anger. Scooping up her clothes, she strode past him into the bathroom. He heard her pee, then curse him under her breath as she pulled her clothes on. A second later she exited the bathroom and grabbed her boots. “Hope you feel better,” she said coldly and stormed down the sta
irs. He almost called ‘thank you’ after her but tact got the better of him. He wouldn’t have meant it cruelly. Merely, thankful for her departure. Hearing her stomp down so many stairs though was almost comical. A mirthless thought he hoped would somehow lessen his shame.
When the door slammed, Matteo felt very alone. He could run after her, but she deserved better than that. Looking back at the bed, he knew she had deserved better than to be dismissed like some courtesan from his past.
Or the previous nights.
Angry at himself, Matteo returned to the bed.
Following Ben and the Cult’s…well, following that, Matteo had tried to divert his grief. Alcohol was the easiest method. He did own wineries after all. And then there was Eddie’s craft brewery. Sex had been next on the menu. Seemingly, his appetite was ferocious. When Annah had struggled to keep up with him he had sought affection elsewhere, an assignment in San Francisco opening a space in his bed. There had been the girl from the coffee cart at Vinaio. A redhead he bumped into at the Met. The blonde from the subway. The other blonde from the market in Union Square. And those were the ones he could remember. Matteo hadn’t been so sexually indulgent since…well long enough ago he couldn’t recall.
Yet still he was plagued by an unsettled mind.
Drugs were an option though past experience had interfered with the wolf to devastating consequences. That said, he had been tempted such were his wounds. Luckily, he was a lusty drunkard making the bottle a safer escape.
Possibly shutting out his friends was not the best course of action either, having little impact on his werewolf nature or form. Talking to them, though, letting them in on his pain would only bring up matters he’d rather not face.
Was Ben right?
Was McLachlan more of an enemy than a friend? Even unknowingly, McLachlan’s connection to a bunch of demon-worshipping nutjobs – not to mention a very real demon – was troubling in the least. Matteo had to believe his friend was not a threat.
While most supernaturals were afflicted by bite, birth, or curse and certainly there were other ways to engage with the occult; robes, candles, chanting, and sacrifice weren’t high on the list. Disregard and distrust of cults stemmed from their motives. Money, prosperity, vengeance. The list was long and self-serving. Matteo had always considered cults to be children playing at being adults. Or more reductively, playing dress-up. They wanted to be supernatural but lacked the experience or fortitude for it.
