by Amy Fecteau
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© 2017 Amy Fecteau
Cover Art by Eugene Teplitsky
http://eugeneteplitsky.deviantart.com/
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ISBN 978-1-62007-801-3 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-811-2 (paperback)
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ou don’t know who I am?” Matheus asked. A numb sensation started in his spine, creeping down to his fingers, and up the back of his neck to his cheeks.
Quin ignored him. In a fluid movement, he rose, wrapping the blanket around his waist. Folding his arms over his chest, he loomed over Alistair. “What am I doing here? Why am I naked?”
“Not so funny when it’s happening to you, huh?” asked Matheus.
The edges of the blanket dragged along the floor as Quin turned around. “Where are my clothes?” Icicles hung off his words.
Matheus stood and clenched his arms over his chest, fingers digging into his biceps. A sandstorm waged in his mind, emotions whipping past before he had time to process them. Quin didn’t remember him? He’d imagined a lot of possibilities, but that had never occurred to him. Quin’s gaze held him at arm’s length, the distance stretching vast between them, and Matheus had no idea how to close the gap. He thought he’d found Quin, only to have him snatched away again. Matheus didn’t know what to do. His mind grabbed at the swirling winds, latching onto anger, and let it build a wall around him.
“I threw them away,” he said, assuming his best imitation on his father.
“Why?” asked Quin.
Alistair inched toward the door, his gaze switching from Quin to Matheus like a spectator of a tennis match. One played with live grenades.
“They were coated in shit and vomit,” said Matheus. He fed into the anger, but underneath, a hollowness lingered. He heard the difference in voice, wondered if Quin heard it as well. But then again, this Quin had never seen Matheus angry. “As were you. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what, exactly?” Quin took a step forward.
Matheus locked his knees in place. “Saving your sorry ass.” Alistair, behind Quin, sighed. “Again.”
Quin slashed a hand through the air. The blanket hung around his hips, held in place by a rough knot. With every movement, the fabric loosened, dipping lower.
Matheus’s fingers twitched. He wanted to rip away the blanket, although possibly to strangle Quin with it. He didn’t understand why, when yesterday he’d had nothing to look at but Quin’s nakedness, he fixated on the steady downward crawl of the blanket. The tops of Quin’s pelvic bones appeared, and Matheus had to bite hard on the inside of his cheek.
“I don’t know you,” Quin said. And I don’t want to. He didn’t say that aloud, but Matheus got the message nonetheless.
“Yes, you do,” said Matheus. “You just don’t remember me.”
“Is that so?” Quin raised his eyebrows. “Do you know what I do remember? Pants.”
Alistair let out a high-pitched giggle, that cut off in a strangled gurgle when Quin looked at him.
“I’ll go find something for you to wear,” Alistair said.
“Wait,” said Matheus. “Alistair―”
“Good luck, darling!” Alistair wiggled his fingers at Matheus before disappearing into the hall. The door clicked shut after him, locking in the silence.
“So,” said Quin after a long minute. He pulled out Milo’s chair and took a seat, facing Matheus. He crossed his legs, the blanket slipping to one side. His foot bounced in the air. “Am I a prisoner?”
“No, of course not,” said Matheus.
“The last thing I remember is a lovely meal in Venice,” said Quin. “Are we still in Italy?”
“America. You don’t remember anything?”
Quin tilted his head to the side. “I remember many things. Not you.”
Matheus’s grip tightened around his arms. His teeth ground together until his jaw ached. “What year is it?”
“1960,” said Quin.
“Christ.” Matheus’s mouth dropped open. He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “You’re about fifty years off.”
“I must have been hibernating,” said Quin.
“You weren’t hibernating! You were out killing people and committing heinous acts!”
“Heinous? Really?”
Matheus glared at him. “It’s a perfectly legitimate word.”
“Of course it is. There’s no need to get defensive about having a broad vocabulary.” Quin waved his hands about, then stopped. He stretched out his fingers, frowning. “My nails have grown.”
“They look the same to me,” said Matheus.
“My nails haven’t grown in seventeen hundred years. I know what they should look like.” Quin skimmed a hand over his head. His hair stuck up in short spikes. “My hair is longer, as well.”
“About that,” said Matheus. “ Umm, well… You were human for a while.”
“That’s impossible,” said Quin. “Who are you?”
“Matheus Taylor.” Matheus waited, but his name prompted no reaction. “I didn’t―”
The door opened. A hand thrust through the crack, waving a pair of jeans like a flag of surrender.
Matheus grabbed the pants, yanking open the door with his other hand.
“Oh,” said Alistair. “Hi. How’s it going?” He leaned to the side, peering around him at Quin. “Not so good, huh.” He patted Matheus’s shoulder. “At least he hasn’t killed you.”
“Yet,” said Quin. He stood, the blanket clinging to decency by a thread. “Tell me what is going on right now.”
Matheus shuddered. The threat shone on the edges of Quin’s words. Time had dulled the memory of the razorblade voice, the one that sliced skin and bone, and hijacked neurons.
“Matheus will explain,” said Alistair, and fled.
“Coward!” Matheus yelled after him, before slamming shut the door.
“I’m waiting,” said Quin.
Matheus turned, rubbing his palm over the back of his neck. “It’s difficult to explain.”
He blinked. A blast of air rushed over the room, knocking Matheus into the wall. He yelped, shock vibrating his shoulder blades as Quin pinned him in place.
Quin leaned in, close enough to feel the breath on his face. “Try.”
Matheus licked his lips. He slid to the side, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and Quin. Quin’s fingers dug into his biceps, squeezing down to the bone. Matheus expected to find a pair of hand-shaped bruises on his arms later. He had the drowning sensation of déjà vu, but with the world flipped upside down.
“I, uhh… do you have to stand so close?” Matheus asked.
“Proximity produces results.” Quin grinned, snaggletooth catching on his lower lip.
Matheus remembered Quin’s grin, knowing and wicked, with an odd touch of childlike delight. But this grin offered an invitation to run, not join in. A predator’s grin, designed to reduce its prey to a fleshy mass of nerves and jelly. Matheus wondered why he’d never noticed the difference before.
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“Very pithy,” he said. “You should sew that into a pillow.”
Quin’s grin dipped, his eyebrows wrinkling together.
“You say that I know you. Do I think you’re funny?”
“Yes,” said Matheus. “You like me.”
“Are you sure about that?” Quin asked.
“You turned me.”
He took a step back, still holding Matheus in place. After scanning Matheus up and down, he frowned and released him. Quin crossed his arm over his chest, catching his elbow in the palm of his hand. His free hand circled in the air, fingers forming delicate arcs as he gave Matheus another once-over. “You’re a bit tall, and…” He held his palms parallel, moving them apart horizontally.
“Are you calling me fat?” Matheus asked. “I am not fat!”
Quin gave a one-shouldered shrug. “You’re not thin.”
“If by thin, you mean scrawny to the point of emaciation, then, yes, you’re right.”
“I meant slender,” said Quin.
“Gosh,” said Matheus. “I’m so sorry I’m not your ideal body type. I’d starve myself for your oh, so specific approval, but darn it, you killed me, so that’s out.” He hurled the jeans, smacking them into Quin’s face, the legs wrapping around his neck.
Quin yanked the jeans away. He twisted the denim in his hands as though imagining wringing someone’s neck. Matheus figured he didn’t need three guess to figure out whom. At least some things never changed.
“You―” Quin stopped, narrowing his eyes at Matheus. “Have we slept together?”
“Maybe,” said Matheus.
“We haven’t.”
“How would you know? You’re Mr. Amnesia.”
A corner of Quin’s mouth quirked upward. “I’d know.”
Matheus scowled. “Well, we have slept together, and you know what? You were shit.”
Quin laughed. “You’re lying.”
Matheus kicked him in the shin, a little surprised when his foot made contact.
Quin looked down at his leg, then up at Matheus. He raised an eyebrow.
“Are you trying to play footsie?” he asked.
“I’d rather saw my foot off with a dull penknife,” said Matheus.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” said Quin. “Do you know how long it takes it cut through a limb? Ages. Especially once you hit the bone.”
Matheus pressed his fingertips to his eye sockets. “Stop talking. Every time you talk, I want to strangle you until your eyeballs pop out of your skull.”
“That only happens in cartoons. If you really want to remove an eye, you have to―”
“Stop! For the love of God, just shut up!”
Quin hitched up the slipping blanket. He scratched his stomach, fingers tracing the thick scar over his abdomen.
“This conversation has run away from me,” he said.
“Look,” said Matheus. “Can we skip the threatening bit? You’re very scary. I’m suitably terrified, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”
“You are quite strange.”
“At least I don’t know the proper method of popping out someone’s eyeballs.”
“Scientia potentia est.”
“But ignorance is bliss,” said Matheus.
“Hmm.” Quin returned to Milo’s chair, holding up the edge of the blanket like a bridal train. He draped the jeans over his lap, picking at the frayed hems, frowning.
“Can’t you remember anything?” Matheus asked. “Do you know what the machine behind you is?”
“It’s a computer,” said Quin.
“Really? Have many of those in nineteen-sixty?” Matheus waited while Quin contemplated the monitor.
“No,” Quin said after a long pause. He smoothed his palm down the jeans. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
Matheus felt an uncharitable sense of glee. Sure, other emotions vied for dominance, but a definite strain of schadenfreude flavored the mix.
“Do you remember Carsten Schneider?” he asked.
“No.”
“He’s…” Matheus hesitated. “He’s a human. Doesn’t like us much. Wants to end our unholy existence, that kind of thing. He developed a, I don’t know, serum or formula or something that turns us human again. You, umm, well, you wanted to bring him down.”
“Am I cop in an eighties movie?” asked Quin, amused.
“You said he was upsetting the balance,” said Matheus. “You were rather obsessed. Stop staring at me like I’ve suddenly announced I’m a piece of treacle, it’s true.”
“Did he also develop a perpetual motion device while he was at it?”
“Are you just going to ask sarcastic questions all night?” Matheus asked.
“Depends. Are you going to keep lying to me?”
“I’m not lying!”
“Then you must be a lunatic,” said Quin. “Don’t worry. Straitjackets are surprising in their comfort.”
Matheus wondered why, exactly, he’d wanted Quin back.
“If I’m a lunatic, it’s only because you infuriate me to the brink of madness,” he said. “So, please, please, allow me to retain the last bit of sanity I possess by shutting the hell up.”
“Fine,” said Quin. “Continue with your fairy tale.”
Stockholm Syndrome, Matheus decided. That had to be the reason. He considered leaving Quin in here to stew, but eventually Milo would want his room back, and delaying the inevitable only made it worse.
“So, my―Schneider is working with Apollonia Parker. Ring any bells yet?”
Quin shook his head. He wore the patient expression of a parent listening to their child try to explain how a stampede of elephants broke Grandma’s antique vase.
“She’s the lord―lady of the city. Kenderton, this city. She has it in for you.”
Quin shrugged.
“Yeah, I know,” said Matheus. “Who doesn’t? Anyway, she keeps human pets, and uhh, she decided you’d make a good one.”
“A good what?” asked Quin.
“Pet,” said Matheus.
Quin made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. He half-rose from the chair, the jeans tumbling to the floor.
“Schneider must have captured you, then given you the serum,” said Matheus, talking at double-speed, backing away. “I don’t know what happened. We had, umm, a disagreement.”
“A disagreement.”
“A great bloody row,” said Matheus. “You stormed off and left me in a graveyard.”
“Why were we in a graveyard?” Quin started across the room. No one should be that menacing while wrapped in a baby-blue fleece blanket. Universal laws strained to the point of breaking.
“Your house burned down. Schneider again. He does that a lot. Then some other things happened, but I’ll explain that later.”
“Explain now,” said Quin.
“I’m trying!” Matheus yelled. “You won’t listen, you stupid, inconsiderate asshole!”
Quin paused in his slow march toward Matheus’s demise. “You keep shouting at me. It’s not an especially effective form of communication.”
“And threats are?”
“Usually,” said Quin. “You seem oddly immune.”
“It’s a gift,” said Matheus. “Look, a lot of things happened, okay? I can’t go into all of them now. After we fought, I didn’t know where you went. I thought you left me. When I found out Apollonia had you, I—I mean, Alistair and I rescued you. Then I turned you back. Which was disgusting, by the way.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word for all of this?” Quin asked.
“Alistair can verify it,” said Matheus.
Quin’s face made clear his opinion of Alistair hadn’t changed.
“Or Faust,” said Matheus. “And Juliet. Do you remember them?”
“I remember,” said Quin. “How long ago am I supposed to have turned you?”
“About four months.”
“And, assuming you aren’t totally insane, how long did I spend as a human?”
> “Umm,” said Matheus. “A month or so? I’m not sure of the exact dates.”
“A month? You let me parade around like a dog for a month?”
“Other things came up. Besides, you are quite annoying when you’re being rescued.”
“You waited a month to rescue me because I can be bit peevish?” asked Quin.
Matheus clenched his fists, pressing his knuckles into his thighs.
“I didn’t know where you were! You never told me anything! We were being attacked on a regular basis and I didn’t know what the hell was going on. You disappeared and I had no home, no money, and no friends. You left me. I didn’t know what to do.”
Matheus’s voice broke. He forced himself to stop, digging his nails into his palms. Closing his eyes, he counted in German until he remembered the English numerals. With a sigh, he opened his eyes, still shaking, still not sure if he trusted his tongue.
“Interesting,” said Quin.
“Fuck off.”
For the second time in an hour, Matheus found himself becoming intimate with the stone walls. He shoved, but Quin caught his hands, holding his wrists between them. Matheus froze. No threat came from the gesture. His grip held firm, but not crushing. His gaze searched Matheus’s face, looking for something….
“Tell me about being human,” said Quin in a quiet voice.
“I don’t know what you want to know,” said Matheus. The muscles in his arms twitched as he fought the urge to pull away. “Apollonia wanted revenge. She put you in a collar, and made you walk on all fours. You, umm, didn’t have clothes. She called you Gino.”
Matheus had just signed Apollonia’s death warrant with a great big flourish.
“And you turned me back.” Quin clipped his words short, his jaw pulsing against his cheek. “How did you know it would work?”
“I didn’t.” Matheus cleared his throat, addressing Quin’s chin. “I wanted you back. The serum doesn’t… it doesn’t work quite right. You become human, but you lose all freewill. You know those Hoodoo zombies? It’s like that.”
“I don’t believe any of this.” Quin shoved him toward the desk.
Matheus stumbled over the chair, one of the arms digging into his stomach as both of them tumbled into the desk, and the edge caught him across the forehead.
“Asshole!” He kicked at the chair as he attempted to disentangle himself. He rubbed his forehead as he stood. No blood, but yet another bruise to explain.
