by Amy Fecteau
“I―”
In a flurry of speed, a dozen hands latched onto Freddie, and dragged him backward. He disappeared from sight as the mob fell upon him. Freddie howled. The coppery, bright tang of blood wafted by.
“Stop!” Matheus yelled, scrambling to his feet. “Stop now! I said, stop!”
The shout echoed off the walls, bouncing back and forth until finally sinking deep into the earth. His rescuers froze, curious gazes turned in his direction. A few had blood smeared over their mouths. For a long moment, no one moved. Then, from where she had fallen, Lenya clapped her hands.
“Again!” she said. “Again, again!”
“Jesus Christ,” said Matheus. He strode into the mob, shoving people aside. Blanche held fistfuls of Freddie’s hair; clumps filtered down as she released him.
“Matheus…” Gwen placed her hand on his arm. Blood had splashed across her cheek. “Be careful.”
“He’s not going to attack me,” said Matheus. “Freddie? Hey, Freddie.”
Freddie groaned. Blood dripped from his temple. A hammer lay on the floor next to his head. Matheus snatched it up, brandishing it at the crowd around him. “Seriously? You have fangs, and you attack him with a hammer?”
“Sorry,” whispered a petite Asian woman named Aiko. Matheus recognized her as one of Joan’s crew.
“What is going in here?” Alistair asked, framed in the doorway. His eyebrows rose as he took in the tableau before him.
Freddie, bruised, bleeding, surrounded by six people looking at their feet. Matheus waving a hammer at them. Lenya, grinning and clapping.
“Umm.” Matheus lowered the hammer. “There was a misunderstanding.”
Alistair put his hands on his hips. “One that involved bloodshed?”
“We were trying to help,” said Gwen. “Things got out of control.”
“I see,” said Alistair. “Is anyone hurt?”
“Just Freddie,” said Matheus. “Lenya, stop clapping. You lot, go back to what you were doing. Some rescuers you are.”
“But―” said possibly-Jonathan.
“Super fast and it took you that long to pull him off me? Pathetic. Go on, shoo.”
Gazes downcast, they drifted away.
Freddie stirred. He sat up, gingerly touching the wound on his head. “Ow.”
“Can you walk?” Matheus asked.
Freddie nodded, his eyes a little unfocused. Alistair and Matheus each took an arm, hauling him upright. He swayed, his dark complexion growing pale and waxy.
“I suppose I’ll have to patch you up.” Alistair gave Freddie a sour look. “I never should have gone to med school.”
“I’m fine,” mumbled Freddie. He shook them off his arms and took a step toward the hallway. He wavered, made guttural noise in the back of his throat, and pitched forward.
“Whoa there!” Alistair grabbed Freddie before he hit the ground. “Come on. You’ll have to walk because I can’t carry you.” He shifted, slinging Freddie’s arm over his shoulders.
“Do you need help?” Matheus asked.
“No.” Alistair nodded at the subdued room. “You need to talk to them.”
“But, I―”
“And be nice,” said Alistair. Unsteadily, he and Freddie disappeared down the hall, Freddie clutching his head, Alistair staggering under his weight.
Matheus sighed. He rubbed his throat. The bleeding had already stopped, nothing more than a few pinpricks. He’d cut himself worse shaving.
“Uhh,” he said. No one looked at him, but Matheus had never felt so stared at. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“We were just trying to protect you,” said possibly-John. He sorted the laundry pile, folding t-shirts into sloppy rectangles. His hands shook.
“I know,” said Matheus. “Thank you.”
Gwen glanced up at him. She leaned across the pile, touching the back of possibly-John’s wrist. With a soft smile, she inclined her head in his direction.
Possibly-John paused in mid-fold. He twisted, bundling the t-shirt he held into a crumpled ball. His gaze rested about Matheus’s collarbone. “You’re welcome.”
“Umm. Right,” said Matheus. “So, uhh, is everyone doing okay? Anyone need anything?”
Possibly-John’s forehead wrinkled. He glanced at Gwen, who shrugged.
“Ask for a TV,” Blanche said, her whisper carrying like a freight train over the room. “Ow!” She glared at Gwen, rubbing her arm where Gwen had whacked her with a bra.
“We’re fine,” said possibly-Jonathan.
“Good,” said Matheus. “Great. Just, you know, if you need anything…” He trailed off with a cough. “So, umm, behave and try not get kidnapped by the baddies.”
Matheus fled, embarrassment following close behind. He pushed open the door to the library, shivering as the cold air rushed against him. Snow fell, light and delicate, trapped into swirls and spirals by the wind. Muddy footprints crisscrossed the wooden floor, some frosted with white and others mushy with slush. Matheus added his footprints to the mixture. He marched through the house, his arms wrapped tight around his chest.
Heaven stood on the front steps, her head tilted upward. Snowflakes shimmered like crystals in her dark hair. She wore a light sundress, the hem wild around her ankles. A deep indigo shawl served as her only concession to the weather. As Matheus approached, she blinked, lowering her head. She smiled without opening her lips, sweet and sad, the smile of one who’d outlasted the pains and losses and joys and loves of life. Matheus slowed, spine twisting into an uneasy knot behind his ribcage. He had the urge to grab onto Heaven, and hang on, as though the pirouetting winds might dance away with her. Instead, he stopped on the step beside her, cramming his hands into his pants pockets.
“The stars hang low tonight,” Heaven said.
“And what does that cryptic bit of fancy mean?” asked Matheus. Goosebumps rippled up and down his arms. He hadn’t taken a jacket with him. He’d rather face the cold than go back downstairs. Maybe in a few minutes, after the cold had numbed away the embarrassment.
“Just an observation,” said Heaven, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. She wiggled her toes in the snow. “I see you have healed. It is good that you are well.”
“Were you worried about me?” Matheus asked. “I thought the universe turned as it wanted, or whatever.”
“So it does, but I can only guess at its path.”
“I didn’t know you cared.” Matheus shivered, his teeth chattering in his skull. He hoped his nose hadn’t fallen off. He had no particular feelings one way or the other about his nose, but it fit in well with the rest of his face. Of course, he only had to wait a week or so for a fresh-grown, organically sourced nose, but Matheus had watched a documentary or two about ice expeditions. Dead or not, he wanted to keep a camera, a TV, and about six thousand miles between him and frostbite. Then again, maybe it affected only living tissue. Matheus cupped a hand around his nose, and pondered this question.
“Are we vulnerable to frostbite?”
“It is not a concern,” said Heaven. “But I have not spent much time in the Arctic.”
“I’m shocked,” said Matheus.
Heaven inclined her head, looking up at him. She stooped, scooping up a double handful of snow, and peered into the sparkling mound.
“So what does the snow say?” Matheus asked.
“This,” said Heaven, and flung the loose snow into Matheus’s face.
Matheus sputtered. He glared at her, then wiped his face with the inside of his shirt.
“What was that for?”
“I wished to do it, and so I did.” Her grin widened to reveal the gap between her front teeth.
“You’re insane,” said Matheus.
“I have been called such before.” Heaven rose onto her tiptoes, tugging Matheus’s chin down and pressing an icy kiss to his cheek. “Do not linger much longer. The storm grows worse.”
Pulling her shawl tight, Heaven went up the steps
to the front door.
“Wait.” Matheus ran after her, catching up in the foyer. He took her arm, guiding her into a sheltered corner. “I wanted to tell you something. Quin’s gone.”
“Yes, I know,” said Heaven.
“Do you think it was a bad idea? Bringing him here?”
The wind whistled from the gaps in the walls. The tips of her shawl swayed, brushing against his legs. She still wore the slender gold chain around her ankle. Matheus had never asked where she’d gotten it, and Heaven had never volunteered. The chain had no clasp, the links exquisitely fine, but lacking in the carbon-copy quality of modern jewelry.
She shifted, balancing on one foot, the sole of the other pressed against her calf. “I think it is what you had to do. The same as with allowing the moon-child to join us.”
“What does that mean?” Matheus asked.
“It does not mean anything. It is what you are.”
“Right. That’s all very philosophical and such, but it’s not really what I was looking for.”
Heaven sighed. She adjusted her shawl, drawing the trailing ends between her fingers. “Matheus, I have no answers for you. Do you want praise? Recriminations? Psychology? Shall I analyze your childhood to discover what set you on this path? The universe is not so simple.”
“I don’t want you to profile me.” Matheus folded his arms, rubbing his palms up and down his biceps. “I just want to know if you think bringing Quin back was the wrong thing to do.”
Heaven continued playing with her shawl. She stared through him at her thoughts. The wind died down, the occasional creak of a branch dropping a pile of snow the only sound.
“It is not what I would have done,” she said finally.
Matheus slumped against the wall. “Then you think I screwed up.”
“I did not say that,” said Heaven.
“It was implied.”
“I have been wrong before.” Heaven tucked the ends of her shawl under her arms and laced her fingers together, letting her arms hang loose.
“Yeah, but if I’m wrong, we all die violent horrible deaths.”
“True.” Heaven inclined her head. “To be fair, we have all died violent, horrible deaths already.”
Matheus laughed. “So we’re used to it? Is that what you’re saying?”
“It helps to be prepared,” said Heaven.
Matheus sketched out the incident with Freddie as he and Heaven walked to the basement. Her silence carried an air of disappointment. Not at Freddie’s behavior, but Matheus’s inability to control him. Her lack of a lecture gave him the impression she wanted him to have another chance. At least, he hoped that explained the silence, and not that she’d given him up as a lost cause. He left her in the living room, soothing the dented egos.
The door to Alistair’s office stood open a crack. At the sound of voices inside, Matheus paused, his palm on the wood.
“―going to hurt,” said Alistair.
“I can handle it,” said Freddie.
“Oh, aren’t you the big tough man.”
Matheus smiled. He heard the eye-roll clearly in Alistair’s voice. He stepped to the side, leaning against the wall, eavesdropping without the slightest hint of shame.
“I’ve been hurt before,” said Freddie. “I can―” He cut off with an anguished snarl.
“I told you.” Alistair’s bedside manner left something to be desired. “Hold still.”
“I don’t need stiches.”
“Are you the doctor? No? Then shut your trap.”
The crinkle of cellophane packages being ripped open followed. Freddie yelped, accompanied by some banging on metal. Matheus assumed he’d whacked his heels against Alistair’s desk.
“Baby,” said Alistair.
A while passed with only faint whimpers from Freddie.
“You’ve met my kind before,” he said finally. He compressed his words, as though afraid of what might escape as he spoke.
“You can say that,” said Alistair.
“Doctored one, I mean.”
Alistair gave a sharp laugh. “Yes, and she tried to rip out my throat for my troubles.”
“I’m not her,” said Freddie. “God―damn.”
“I’m sorry,” said Alistair, dripping sweetness. “Did that hurt?
Freddie hissed. The sound of cloth tape tearing slipped around the door, along with the crumpling of more cellophane.
“Why’d you attack Matheus?” Alistair asked, his voice muffled.
“He woke me,” said Freddie. “I was surprised.”
“Hmm,” said Alistair. “Killed a lot of us, have you?”
“Enough.”
Alistair sighed. “Ten thousand years of instinct. You can’t fight against genetics.”
“I can try,” said Freddie.
Wide marble steps, his sister in skirt and cardigan, knee socks sagging, shoes scuffed. Standing beside her, holding her hand, must be careful crossing the street, look both ways, watch the lights, watch Fletcher. Always watch after Fletcher. Street moving past as they stood still, growing, changing, the same cars over and over, blending together into a never-ending mess of colors and lights. Mattias, don’t go. But he ran, had to run, running through the muddy swirl of colors and cars, away, away, away, don’t look back, mustn’t look back, but he did, did look, did see, Fletcher, belly swollen, knee socks sagging and―
Matheus woke up into the still quiet dark of the basement. He groped for the flashlight. Details poured into being; a hazy yellow circle lit up the pine boards of the ceiling. Matheus set the flashlight on the ground. He shivered as he pushed away the sleeping bag. A small, portable heater sat in the corner, waiting for Joan’s final installations. From his right came the soft rustle of fabric. He shuffled around on his knees. In the dim room, Freddie’s eyes glowed like witch-light.
“You really need to start sleeping in your own room,” Matheus said, tension tightening his words, echoes of Fletcher still lingering. He closed his eyes, wishing he’d dreamt of anything else.
“Bad dream?” asked Freddie.
“Ha ha.” Matheus pressed his fingertips to his temples. “At least I didn’t try to rip out your throat.”
“Yet.” Freddie gave him a feral smile, teeth gleaming in the yellow light.
Matheus snorted. He stood up and stretched, cracking his back. He dressed in layers, pulling on a thick cable-knit sweater last. “Come on.” He held the door open for Freddie.
They walked side-by-side down the hall, with the occasional bump of shoulders. Freddie still wore some of Matheus’s clothes, although he didn’t recognize the shirt. He wondered where Freddie kept his things, if he had things. For all he knew, Freddie had lived in the woods, surviving off deer and sleeping in a cave.
“Do you have a family?” Matheus asked. The question had bubbled up, popping out of his mouth before he even realized he’d formed the thought.
Freddie gave him a strange look.
“I dreamt about my sister,” said Matheus, by way of explanation. “I barely thought about her for years, and now…” He trailed off with a shrug.
“I never knew my family,” said Freddie.
“Raised by wolves?”
“Foster care.”
“Oh.”
“I’d’ve preferred the wolves,” Freddie said as they stopped outside the room he never used.
“How did that work?” Matheus asked. “With the, you know?”
“It was complicated.”
A No Trespassing sign hung in the air between them. Matheus turned aside, leaning against the wall. The rough stone caught on his sweater, a slight chill sinking in despite the thick wool. He frowned at his feet. Freddie waited beside him, warmth radiating from his flesh, tiny fidgets expanded and highlighted by Matheus’s growing distance from the pulses of life.
“I might not be able to stop them next time,” said Matheus.
“This… isn’t easy.” Freddie shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders.
&
nbsp; “I know.”
“You don’t. You couldn’t.”
“Right,” said Matheus. “I can’t even ride on a subway without losing it.”
“You’re not surrounded by humans,” said Freddie.
“So leave.”
Freddie curled inward, his shirt straining against his shoulders. He pressed his arms to his sides, elbows locked. If they lived inside a cartoon, he’d have a tiny raincloud thrashing above his head. Even completely dry, he had the appearance of a cat fished out of a lake. “I can’t. I wish I could.”
This is a farce. What was the point of making Freddie suffer? Why bind a person to one mate without a single choice in the matter? For breeding? Did some kind of pheromone set up a cascade inside a werewolf, sweeping him or her down the inevitable course? Bianca had tried to divert the river, latching onto to Matheus instead, but in the end, she failed. His father sucked her in, changing her, making her into one of his tools. Or maybe, Matheus blamed his father for too much. Maybe the darkness had always lurked in Bianca, and his father only recognized its existence.
“A year,” said Freddie.
Matheus glanced up, startled out of his thoughts. “Pardon?”
“I’ll stay a year,” said Freddie. He straightened, matching Matheus’s gaze. “If I can’t… I’ll go.”
“Who knows? We might all be dead by then.”
“You’re not an optimist,” Freddie said, with a hint of a smile.
“Well,” said Matheus. “I haven’t been proved wrong so far.”
s everyone ready?”
“Yes, Joan,” said Alistair. “Please, any day now.”
Joan stood next to a cobbled-together circuit breaker, her hand resting on the lever. She scowled at the assembled group. All twenty or so of them had crammed into the living room for the grand lighting. Matheus had been conducted to the front, bracketed by Alistair on one side and Heaven on the other. Because of his assistance with scamming the electric company, Milo had a position of honor as well. Everyone else formed rough lines, falling into their familiar cliques.
“It’s a big fucking moment,” Joan said.
Alistair smiled upon Joan as though she’d just descended from the heavens in a rain of gold and rainbows. “Joan, you’re a genius. Really, we couldn’t have done this without you.” He continued smiling in the face of Joan’s suspicion.
