by Amy Fecteau
Quin paced the room, the blanket whipping around him with each turn. “I need to see Juliet.”
“I’ll get someone to find her,” Matheus said. “Sit down before you give yourself an aneurism.”
“Don’t bother.” Quin stopped in the middle of the room. His hands flew randomly as he stared into the corner. In a blur, he spun and reached toward the door.
Matheus darted across the room, slapping his palm against the wood a quarter-second before Quin opened it.
“You can’t go out there alone,” Matheus said. “You don’t know what’s going on.”
“I can take care of myself.” Quin gave the handle a hard tug.
Matheus lunged forward with all his weight, banging the door shut.
“Right,” he said. “That’s why you keep getting captured. You know, for a millennium-plus badass, you really suck at sneaking around.”
“That isn’t your problem,” said Quin.
“It is my problem! You are my problem, you arrogant, pointy-faced pain-in-the-ass!”
The muscles around Quin’s mouth tightened. He released the door handle, and for a brief second, Matheus thought he’d won. Then Quin’s fist landed in his gut, stunning him. He doubled over, wheezing, and staggered a few steps before hitting the floor on all fours. His stomach felt like a popped balloon. Saliva dribbled from his lip as he tried to regain his ability to move.
Quin planted a foot on his shoulder and pushed, rolling him onto his back. He leaned down, surveying Matheus’s choked gasps with disinterest. “I’m not going to kill you, but don’t test me a second time.”
He opened the door. Matheus made a grab for his ankle, but his fingers closed around empty air. The door swung shut with a soft thump. Groaning, Matheus slung his arm over his eyes.
I really should have seen that coming.
atheus?” Alistair peeked into the room, and swung the door wide open after a second. “Oh, lord, Matheus, what happened?”
He knelt, dropping his clipboard, and glided his hands over Matheus’s chest, pressing at random spots. Random to Matheus, at least. He assumed Alistair knew what to look for. Smushed organs, maybe.
“I’m fine.” Matheus batted Alistair’s hands away. “I just had the wind knocked out of me.”
“And since you were already lying down, you decided to take a little rest?” Alistair sat back on his heels, elbows on his knees. “I heard Quin tore through the living room. Why aren’t you chasing after him?”
“Because I wasn’t in the mood to get punched again.” Matheus sat up, suppressing a groan at the ache in his gut. “Once was more than enough.”
“Are you going after him now?” Alistair’s gaze followed Matheus upward. His expression exemplified neutrality, the platonic ideal of non-involvement.
Matheus appreciated the effort, but he didn’t buy it. “Nope. He’ll be back.”
“How do you know that? If he doesn’t remember you… I mean, he’s not going to come back for me.”
“Well, for one thing, he hasn’t got any money. For another, he’s wearing a fuzzy blue blanket.” Matheus righted Milo’s chair, then plopped down into it.
“He can get more money. He’s not exactly helpless. Or ethical. How do you think he got it in the first place?”
“You have a point,” said Matheus. “But he’s still going to be really peeved when he finds out he can’t access his bank account.”
“Oh, so you’re going to wait around for Quin to return and rip out your spine.” Alistair rolled his eyes. “That makes perfect sense.”
“He gave the money to me.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t remember that.”
“So? That doesn’t make it less true,” said Matheus.
Alistair sighed. “Didn’t anyone tell you not to poke a hornet’s nest?”
“No. Does anyone need to be told that? Are there hordes of people out there riling up hornets?”
“It’s just a saying,” said Alistair, sounding taken aback.
“Anyway, it’s too late. Quin’s going to find out sooner or later.” Matheus rose, pushing the chair underneath the desk. He walked toward Alistair, but paused in mid-step. “Umm.”
“What?” Alistair stood and put his hands on his hips.
“Can I ask you something? I want a serious answer. Don’t take the piss, yeah?”
“I can honestly say that I have no desire for your piss,” said Alistair.
“Alistair.”
“Oh, just ask me already.”
Matheus inhaled. “How does my face look?”
“Lord. Are you kidding me?”
“It’s a valid question!”
“I never realized you were so vain,” said Alistair.
“I’m not vain,” said Matheus. “It’s my face.”
“Which you are vain about.” Alistair smiled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. A pen stuck out from his ear, ink smudged along his fingers. He stooped, picking up his clipboard. He smoothed his palm over the crumpled paper. A few particles of dirt trickled down to the floor.
“Okay,” said Matheus. “I’m vain. I’m Captain Narcissus. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.” Alistair tucked his clipboard under his arm. His fingertips brushed over Matheus’s chin, along his jaw. “There are marks. I can feel them, but they’re faint. I think if the light hits them right, they’d show up more.”
He traced a finger down Matheus’s throat.
Matheus swallowed, his Adam’s apple swollen to Granny Smith size. “Does it look bad?”
“Why so concerned?” Alistair stepped closer, his free hand coming up to rest on Matheus’s hip. “I don’t mind them.”
“Right,” said Matheus.
The planes of Alistair’s face hardened. He dropped his hands and moved away, the metal clasp on the clipboard snagging his sweater. The thin threads snapped, splitting into a tiny tuft.
“It doesn’t matter what I think, though.” Alistair held the clipboard to his chest, his arms crossed over it. “Goddammit.”
“Alistair, I―”
“Don’t. Please, don’t. I already know how this conversation ends.”
Matheus rubbed the back of his neck. He stared at the floor, scuffing at the dirt with the toe of his sneaker. He pictured Alistair stacking bricks between them, the wall growing higher every second. Sometimes, he left gaps, spaces in his distance for Matheus to reach through. But the gaps closed, with him on one side, and Alistair on the other. He understood why, but he missed his friend, and beneath the guilt ran a thread of resentment toward Alistair for taking himself away. Matheus realized that made no sense; emotions rarely obeyed the rules of logic.
“Alistair―”
“Joan needs help with the wiring.” Alistair looked down at his clipboard and tapped the point of the pen against the paper. “We’ve had some more newcomers, and frankly, we’re running out of room. There are a few more that can be cleaned, but we really must get some decent beds in.” He scribbled a note, then ticked his pen down to the next item on his list. “Thomas wants to have a meeting about the defenses. He thinks he’s found a hole. And someone has to do laundry. It’s getting ridiculous.”
Matheus pushed away thoughts of walls and resentments, swallowing back the things he wanted to say. He straightened, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I volunteer for laundry.”
Alistair flicked a glance at him over the top of the clipboard. Gold lashes cast a shimmer over sky-blue irises. A window appeared in the brick wall, and he smiled, lifting the sash. “You just want to sit in the laundromat and read. No, you have to talk to Thomas.”
“I can’t stand Thomas,” said Matheus. “He’s a pedantic ass.”
“Which is why you put him in charge of defenses.”
“No, I put him in charge so he’d stop following me around,” said Matheus. “He’s probably going to suggest something ridiculous, like putting in a layer of concrete to keep people from tunneling into the basement.”
“Actually, I think
he wants to talk about Freddie.” Alistair tucked his pen behind his ear. “Come on. You can at least be useful before Quin does a jig over your face.” he reached for the handle, but jumped back when the door swung open.
Milo stepped in. He looked from Alistair to Matheus, then at his sleeping bag in a tangled mess on the floor. His gaze returned to Matheus.
“Quin stayed in here,” said Matheus. “But he’s gone now, so you get your room back. Welcome home.”
Milo pushed his glasses up his nose with his pinkie finger. He set his bag on the desk. The zip growled in the silent room. He eased a narrow black box out of the bag, and laid it delicately next to the keyboard.
“What’s that?” Matheus asked.
“Computer tower.” Milo pulled out a neat twist of cable bound with a yellow zip tie.
“Where’d you get that?”
“I need a high-res scanner.” Milo turned to Alistair. “I’ll give you the specs later.”
“Wait, you don’t just get to―” said Matheus.
“All right.” Alistair made a note on his clipboard and tugged on Matheus’s sleeve. “Come on.” “He doesn’t get to order whatever he likes.” Matheus twisted to wave his finger at Milo as Alistair dragged him out the door. “I’m already paying you. You can buy it your―”
The door swung shut, nearly taking off the tip of his finger.
“If I’m in charge, why doesn’t anyone listen to me?”
“Because you’re an idiot,” said Alistair. “Come on.”
“You’ve endangered us all by bringing him here.” Thomas paced in front of Alistair’s desk, his hands locked behind his back. “You should have consulted me.”
“I can handle Freddie,” said Matheus.
Thomas stopped. “I’m not talking about him. We are more than capable of defending ourselves against a single werewolf. I’m referring to your insistence on bringing Saturnius here without proper security in place. I should have spoken sooner, but I had been informed you had ways to control him. However, since he no longer possesses memories of your… relationship―”
“Hang on,” said Matheus. “How do you know that? Alistair?”
“I didn’t say anything.” Alistair rested his elbows on the desk, propping his chin up in his hands.
Thomas straightened. “It is my duty to be informed of everything that may cause a security breach.”
“No, it’s your duty to shut the he―”
“What Matheus means to say is that we appreciate your dedication,” said Alistair, with a smile like an oil slick. “We are handling the Quin situation. At the moment, we believe he doesn’t pose a serious threat.”
“He is aware of our location,” said Thomas. “And we have no means of guaranteeing his loyalty. If he decided to ally himself with Miss Parker―”
“Quin won’t do that,” said Matheus. “Apollonia’s the one who kept him in a cage, remember?”
“He has only your word for that. For all he knows, you are the one who captured him. I realize you are young, but trust me when I say Saturnius is not known for his forgiving nature.”
Matheus curled his fingers around the desk, the metal edge biting into his flesh. “I will take care of Quin. He’s not your problem. Understand?”
“You cannot take this lightly,” said Thomas. “We must―”
“Is there anything else?” Matheus stared at Thomas, unblinking, daring him to mention Quin one more time.
Thomas pressed his lips into a tight line and thrust a sheaf of papers at Matheus. “Here are the recommendations for security upgrades. I’ve included the projected budgets as well.”
“Thank you, Thomas.” Alistair reached around Matheus for the papers. “We’ll review these and get back to you.”
“Very well.” Thomas took a step back, then gave a sharp bow. Spine stiff, he marched out of the tiny office.
“What. An. Ass,” said Matheus.
“He has a point,” said Alistair. “You don’t know what Quin is going to do.”
Matheus pushed himself off the desk. He turned, crossing his arms. “You really think Quin is going to join Apollonia?”
“No.” Alistair twirled his pen as he scanned Thomas’ papers. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t come back here and slaughter us all.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Matheus, the Quin you knew is not the one that came back,” said Alistair. “Thomas is right, if he thinks we had anything to do with―”
“Fine,” said Matheus. “What do you want me to do? Hunt him down?”
“I didn’t say that. Just… be ready.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know,” said Alistair. “Oh, lord.”
“What?” Matheus dropped into the chair crammed into the corner. The legs groaned beneath his weight. A broken spindle in the back stabbed into his kidney. Matheus slid forward, bracing his arms against the walls as the chair teetered.
“Thomas wants to install a steel floor covering,” said Alistair. “That’s a no.” He drew an X over the page and flipped to the next one. He muttered to himself as he read, sometimes pausing to take notes. A single lantern hung from the beams overhead, casting long shadows over the room.
Matheus swayed with the chair. He pulled the thin cushion from beneath his butt and stuck it under the short leg. The chair lilted to the left; his shoulder pressed against the wall. From outside the cracked door came the sounds of activity. The quick thuds of the nail gun, the occasional scream, voices overlapping, Lenya shrieking as Salvatore chased her up and down the hall.
“What do you think about Milo?” Matheus asked.
“I don’t, as a rule,” said Alistair. The lantern swung, picking out streaks of bright gold in his hair.
“He’s very… contained.” Matheus rubbed his foot over the dirt floor. “We should buy carpets.”
Alistair looked up. “I thought we were talking about Milo.”
“Don’t you think carpets would be nice?” asked Matheus.
“Yes, of course. I just don’t see what that has to do with Milo.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with him. Did you know he was married?”
“Lots of people were married.” Alistair leaned back, his face cast into shadow.
“I didn’t think he liked, you know, people.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like you. Sometimes, I don’t like you very much myself.” Matheus threw the cushion at him.
Alistair batted it away with his clipboard. “If you’re bored, I can find you something to do.”
“I’m not bored,” said Matheus. “I’m inquisitive.”
“If you want my advice―”
“I don’t.” Matheus waved his arms, trying to balance the chair on three legs. He tilted to the right. The chair hovered in place, then toppled. Matheus tumbled to the floor, the chair landing on top of him.
Alistair snorted. He folded his hands on the desk, watching as Matheus detangled himself. The chair sat in a forlorn heap, a leg snapped off, the back hanging on by a single bent spindle.
“Please stop ruining my furniture,” Alistair said.
“It was already broken.” Matheus rotated his shoulder, and winced. He perched on the corner of Alistair’s desk, scooping up Thomas’ paperwork with the arm that didn’t feel like he’d just tried to play rugby with a pack of grizzlies. “Has he asked for a moat?”
“Not yet.” Alistair snatched the papers. “If you want carpets, why don’t you go buy some?”
Matheus shrugged, and grimaced, rubbing his shoulder. “Milo never talks about himself. Or anything, really.”
“Oh, we’re back on Milo now?” Alistair poked Matheus with his pen. “You’re not exactly forthcoming with your history. People have pasts. Sometimes they don’t like to talk about them. Why the sudden burning curiosity?”
“I don’t know,” said Matheus. “I just… He had a wife.”
“That bothers you?”
“No. Yes.” Matheus picked up Alis
tair’s stapler. He opened the top, sliding the staples back and forth with his fingertip. “It’s not what I expected.”
“Nobody gets to see all of a person,” said Alistair. “They’re like puzzles, with some of the pieces missing. You fit the pieces together as best you can, but that’s all.”
The stapler snapped shut on Matheus’s fingers. He yelped, the stapler clattering onto the floor.
“How long did it take you to figure that out?” he asked, digging the staple out his finger.
“Many, many, many years,” said Alistair. “Now go away. I’m trying to work.”
Matheus wandered into the living room. Cables ran along the floor, down the hall. Joan’s minions darted back and forth, carrying either power tools or medieval torture devices. In one corner, Gwen, Blanche, and possibly-John sorted a massive pile of laundry. A deep snoring came from the sofa. Freddie lay on his back, Lenya draped over him. She opened her eyes as Matheus approached.
“Warm,” she said.
“I imagine he is,” said Matheus. “Compared to the rest of us.”
Freddie’s eyelids fluttered. His lip curled, snore deepening into a snarl. He clawed at the sofa, his legs twitching. Lenya rose and fell with each breath. She patted Freddie’s cheek, and he shivered, thick eyebrows drawing together.
Matheus gave Freddie a nudge. Freddie blinked up at him, slow, heavy sweeps of his eyelids.
“Hey,” said Matheus. “You were―”
Matheus hit the ground under a whirl of fury and claws. Freddie pinned him down, lips curling back to reveal teeth far too large to fit into a human head. His face contorted, trapped between man and wolf. Dark fur sprouted on his arms. He growled, a thick strand of saliva dripping out of his mouth. Matheus squeaked, trying to angle his face out of range. Freddie’s claws tightened on his throat. He leaned closer, his breath warm and moist, the faint smell of raw meat still lingering.
“Bad dream?” Matheus asked, Freddie’s claw scraping his skin as he spoke.
Freddie’s eyes widened. He drew back, his face shifting into its human state.
