by Amy Fecteau
“I don’t think I’m the one that’s confused,” said Matheus.
“This isn’t about what I think. It’s about Father. I… I’m scared.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. Her hand moved in circles over her stomach, her fingers trembling. A car door slammed and she jumped. Eyes wide, she looked left and right, cords of tension straining down her neck. A pair of girls, heels clattering over the concrete, passed behind the SUV. They paused by the elevator, laughter and speech blended in the cavernous echoes. The elevator dinged, and the girls climbed aboard. Fletcher relaxed, releasing her grip on the keys. A jagged imprint stood stark red across her palm. She looked at Matheus, and gave a hollow laugh.
“I think he might be having me followed,” she said. “Father doesn’t trust me. He hasn’t said anything, but I know… everything’s changed.”
“Jesus Christ, Fletch, you need to get out of there.” Matheus leaned forward, pressing his hand over her mouth. She stared at him, enormous dark eyes, fear and defiance spiraled into one. Ten years old, or twenty-five, it made no difference. Still the same eyes, looking up at him. “I have money. I know someone who can help you disappear. You can’t stay with Father. Look at you. You’re a broken heel away from a nervous breakdown.”
Fletcher pulled his hand away, holding it lightly between her palms. Heat pulsed into his flesh, warmth settling into his bones. Fletcher frowned. She drew her hands back, folding them in her lap.
“I’m not you,” she said. “I have responsibilities. There’s Bill…” She trailed off, gazing down at her clasped hands. “He―we have a life.” She looked up at him through her lashes with an expression he hadn’t seen in ten years. The one where she wanted his help, but didn’t want to admit that she needed it. The same expression she’d given him when she’d cut her finger as a child.
“Your Bill can come too,” Matheus said. “Fletcher, it’s just going to get worse. You have to know that.”
“Maybe if I can talk to Father―”
“Yeah, because that’s always so effective.”
“He’s doing what he thinks is right,” said Fletcher.
“So was the Unabomber,” said Matheus. “Face it, Fletch. Our father is round-the-bend bonkers.”
“I can’t…” Fletcher closed her eyes. “I don’t think he’s wrong. He isn’t the same, but his ideals… I still support them. I just… I don’t want anyone else to die.”
“Okay,” said Matheus. “Okay, you still want to exterminate me and all my friends. Whatever. I’ll deal with that later. Right now, let me help you before your brain turns into saltwater taffy. Please, Fletch.”
Fletcher exhaled. She rubbed one thumb over the other. In the garage, the elevator dinged, but no one got off. A car drove past, a deep rumble reverberating in the concrete. The headlights slid over Fletcher’s face, casting her features in shifting shadows.
“Where would we go?” she asked, finally, opening her eyes.
“How about Canada?” Matheus asked. “They’re very polite, and they still have the Queen on their money. Also, there aren’t spiders big enough to eat you.”
“You’ve been watching the nature documentaries again, haven’t you,” said Fletcher.
“Are you sure about this?” Fletcher asked. “Won’t they be suspicious that we checked in without luggage?”
“The airline lost it,” said Matheus.
He held Fletcher’s elbow, guiding her toward the elevators. He’d opted for the most expensive hotel in the city, despite Fletcher’s protests. The staff knew how to keep their mouths shut, especially after a few generous “gifts.” He put the room on his credit card, procured by Milo under the name David Allen Reinhardt. Why Milo insisted on giving him the name of a serial killer as his pseudonym, Matheus had no idea. He did have a matching ID. Apparently, David Reinhardt was an organ donor. How considerate of him.
If his father came looking for Fletcher, Matheus assumed he’d start in the lower-end motels, looking for a woman who paid cash. Matheus figured that bought him at least a week before he needed to move her again. He didn’t know how long before Milo set up the new identities, but a week seemed to be pushing his luck. Matheus wondered if sending Fletcher away might be better. He pressed the button for the elevator, glancing at her out of corner of his eye. She’d gone even paler, her shoulders hunched together, as though weighed down by the thick wool of her coat. Matheus decided not to press her further.
“What’s the room number?” he asked as they stepped onto the elevator.
“Five-oh-four.” Fletcher fiddled with the magnetic keycard. “I couldn’t reach Bill.”
“Try again later,” said Matheus. “Not from the room.” He dug his cell phone out of his pocket. “Use this.”
Fletcher took the phone. “You think Father has someone watching him?”
“I don’t know.” The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. “He’s in England, so I think he’s okay for now.”
“Father has agents in England,” said Fletcher.
“Fletcher, stop worrying.” Matheus plucked the keycard out of her hand and opened the door to the suite.
The short notice hadn’t given Matheus a lot of choices in rooms. The suite cost more per night than a month’s rent in his old apartment. Burnished gold and royal blue dominated the living room, leaning a little too heavy on the Baroque style for his tastes. A vase of heirloom roses sat on the coffee table, a bowl of wrapped chocolates near the door. French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the harbor. On either side of the room, a door led into each of the bedrooms. Matheus walked around the room, switching on the lights. He drew shut the damask curtains, blocking out the city lights, the soft glow of the lamps creating a golden bubble within the room.
Fletcher sank down onto the sofa without removing her coat. She perched on the edge of the over-stuffed cushion, clasping and unclasping her hands. Matheus sat next to her, biting back his initial comment as she shifted away.
“I’m going to send some people here to help keep you safe,” he said.
“You’re not staying?” asked Fletcher.
“I can’t,” said Matheus. “I have… things.”
Fletcher arched an eyebrow. “Things.”
“I can’t get into it now. It’s complicated.”
“Hmm.” She gave Matheus a look stolen from her fifteen-year-old self.
Matheus grinned, more out of relief than anything else. At least his Fletcher still remained beneath dark circles and trembling lips.
“These people, are they like you?” Fletcher asked.
“You can trust them,” said Matheus. “They’re vegetarians. They only eat blood oranges.”
“Your wit knows no boundaries,” said Fletcher dryly.
Matheus rose. He paused by the door. “Make sure you put the bolt on after I leave. Stay here, okay? If you get hungry, call room service. I’ll have Joan bring you some clean clothes.”
“I do have some brain cells left,” Fletcher said. “You don’t need to treat me like a child.”
She snatched the chocolate Matheus threw at her out of the air. Leaning back, she peeled off the wrapper and popped the candy into her mouth.
“I’ll call you later.” Matheus twisted the doorknob. “Don’t eat too many of those or you’ll get spots.”
“Mat?”
“Yeah?” Matheus stopped part way out the door, looking back over his shoulder.
“Thanks,” said Fletcher in a whisper.
“It’ll be okay,” said Matheus.
Fletcher didn’t say anything.
listair waited at the foot of the stairs, his arms crossed over his chest. A brief flash of relief lit his features when he saw Matheus, quickly curb-stomped by a behemoth of a glower.
“Where have you been?” Alistair asked. “I’ve been trying to call you, but some woman answered your phone and then I keep getting sent to voice mail. What happened? Milo said there is an APB out on you. Where’s Quin?”
“Right,” said Matheus. “W
ell, first we got attacked, then the police showed up. Then Quin kindly handed me over to them while he ran for it. Then my pregnant estranged sister showed up to rescue me and informed me that my crazy father has somehow managed to reach even grander heights of insanity. So now I’m hiding her in a hotel until I can get Milo to make her and her husband some new IDs. Also, she has my phone. How has your night been going?”
“Umm,” said Alistair. “You have a sister?”
“Yeah, Fletcher. She works―worked for my father. We have… moral differences.” Matheus glanced around. The room had the feeling of a clock wound one turn too tight. People clumped together, sitting a bit closer than usual. A few had books or games spread out in front of them, but no one paid them any attention, as though the items had been placed there as props for a movie. Everyone watched him, still and waiting, but for what, he didn’t know. Perhaps they expected him to start juggling. “What’s going on?”
“Gwen’s gone,” said Alistair. “She broke out about an hour ago. Heaven and Freddie went out looking for her.”
“Freddie?” asked Matheus.
Alistair tapped his nose.
“Right.” Matheus looked over the frozen room. “Can you find Joan? I want her to pick two others and head over to the Everleigh Hotel. Room five-oh-four. My sister is staying there. Just, uhh, tell Joan to tone down the fangs. Fletcher’s a bit jumpy.”
“Your sister’s name is Fletcher?” asked Alistair. “Seriously?”
“It’s a family name,” said Matheus. “Where’s Milo?”
“Where he always is,” Alistair said. “In his room, performing various acts of computer illegality. What are we going to do about Gwen?”
“Call Faust. See if he’ll check Apollonia’s place.
“He’s going to be expensive.” Alistair made a note on his clipboard. “Do you really think that Apollonia has them?”
“I don’t know.” Matheus rubbed his palms over his forehead. “I thought Apollonia would have killed them, but maybe Eamon or Salvatore are hurt and hiding somewhere. Or maybe she decided she wanted them for something.”
He paused, trying to slow the merry-go-round in his head. Something felt off, blurred pulses, like someone standing stationary, reaching in through the spinning. “The sun’s going to be up soon. If Freddie can’t find her, we can check my father’s warehouse.”
“Okay.” Alistair stepped closer, resting his hand on Matheus’s arm. “Are you all right? Where’s Quin?”
“I couldn’t give a fuck,” Matheus said, ending on a sigh that deflated the venom of his words.
“What happened?”
“I told him about the bonding. He didn’t take it well.”
“That’s not exactly a surprise,” said Alistair with a faint smile.
“I just don’t understand,” said Matheus. “The bond is there. I can feel it…” Matheus waved a hand next to his ear. “Somewhere. But it’s wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“It’s…” Matheus looked up at the ceiling. “It’s like talking on a phone with terrible service. I kept hearing bits and pieces, but not enough to piece together the whole conversation.” He rubbed his forehead again. “That’s not quite right, but I don’t know… Quin’s calling me. I think he’s looking for me.”
He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s distracting. Way worse than before. The bond used to be steady, but now…” Matheus opened his eyes to find Alistair looking up at him, concern wrinkling his brow. “Sorry.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Alistair.
“Talk to Milo.”
“I meant about Quin.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Matheus.
Matheus sat in the quiet dark, listening to his thoughts bounce around his skull. He’d promised a medium-sized fortune to Milo for new identities for Fletcher and her husband. He collected a new phone, called Joan, and found out his sister had barricaded herself in the bathroom. He hoped she enjoyed sleeping in the tub.
The tug from the bond had faded. Matheus closed his eyes, resting the back of his head on the stone wall. In his mind, he felt the strange pulsing thread that linked him to Quin. He reached out, sinking into the black, a brief pool of connection that vanished the more he tried to hold it. Matheus opened his eyes and stretched out his hands, spreading his fingers wide. He remembered Quin transferring his broken bones. Matheus wondered if the process worked in both directions. He’d never tried before. He gripped his left pinky, pushing back the tip with the ball of his thumb, squeezing down to the narrow bones.
Matheus grimaced. He released his finger, and shook out his hand. Even if he managed to transfer an injury to Quin, what was the point? Aside from the personal satisfaction, of course. A broken finger didn’t bring Quin’s memories back. Matheus didn’t know what to do. All of his experience with amnesia came from soap operas. Not to mention, Matheus doubted that standard medical practice worked with the undead. Was he supposed to wait for Quin to recover? Patience had never been his strongest quality. Maybe a good conk on the head would dislodge Quin’s memories of the last fifty years. Then again, that sounded like wishful thinking.
A question circled around his thoughts, whispering louder and louder. He tried not to listen, but the question pursued him, demanding to be heard. What if Quin never remembers me? A chill ran through him, as though someone had emptied a bucket of ice-water over his head. Liquid fear dripped down his spine, forming a freezing block in his gut. Matheus thought he’d prefer Quin’s death. Death offered closure. But seeing the distance in his expression, being treated like a stranger, watching him go on with his life unconcerned by Matheus’s absence, that seemed like a special kind of torture. A constant reminder of the man he’d lost. No ending, no past, no emotions worn smooth by time, no shared memories to offer comfort or validation.
Only Matheus, alone.
“Matheus?” A sliver of light fell into the room. Alistair peeked around the door, a shadow highlighted by a golden glow. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“It seemed to suit my mood,” said Matheus.
The light disappeared. Alistair’s clothes rustled along with the soft scrape of shoes over the dirt floor. Alistair dropped down next to him, leaning his head on his shoulder and his hand on Matheus’s thigh, his thumb stroking in small circles.
“Are you going to be all mopey until Quin gets his memory back?” Alistair asked.
“What if he doesn’t?” Matheus asked.
“Then you’ll deal with it,” said Alistair. “It will be awful, and it will hurt, but you’ll deal with it. Every day, you’ll heal a little more, until all that is left is a scar.” He paused, squeezing Matheus’s leg. “You’d be amazed what people can heal from.”
Matheus exhaled. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for every horrible thing I’ve ever said to you. I’m sorry for not loving you the way you want me to. I’m just… sorry.”
Alistair let out a soft laugh.
“Oh, darling, you’ve never been in love before, have you?”
“I’m not in love,” said Matheus, stiffening.
“Of course not.” Alistair patted Matheus’s leg. “You’re just reenacting a Cure song for the sheer enjoyment of it.”
“I’m not.”
“Denial is not just a river in Egypt, Matheus.”
“Did you come in here for a reason or did you just want to torment me in my misery?” asked Matheus.
“Oh, no, I have a reason,” said Alistair. “Tormenting you is a bonus.” He yelped as Matheus flicked his ear. “Bully.”
“What do you want, Alistair?” asked Matheus.
“Honestly? I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” said Alistair, with an embarrassed laugh.
“Hell,” said Matheus. He stood and tugged Alistair to his feet. “Don’t worry about me. It makes me feel weird.”
“Oh, lord, you’re repressed.” Alistair rose onto his tiptoes and brushed a kiss over Matheus’s lips. “I promise to
disregard your physical and emotional wellbeing from now on.”
“Thanks,” said Matheus. “You’re a sweetheart.”
Heaven and Freddie returned just before dawn. Matheus met them in the hall, Alistair following at his heels.
“Any luck?” Matheus asked.
“The stars did not align in our favor,” said Heaven.
“A no would have been sufficient,” Matheus said. “What happened?”
“She ran through the wharf.” Freddie wrinkled his nose. “Everything smells like fish guts.”
“Great,” said Matheus. “That’s just great.”
“I couldn’t reach Faust,” said Alistair. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Right.” Matheus looked at Freddie, doing his best to maintain direct eye contact. “Can you please put on some pants?”
“My clothes don’t shift,” said Freddie.
“Yes, I am aware,” said Matheus. “However, you are now in a place that has pants. Perhaps you’d like to avail yourself of the opportunity?”
“I’m comfortable,” said Freddie, with a sideways grin.
“So am I,” said Alistair. “Hugely, hugely comfortable.”
Matheus threw up his hands. “I’m going to bed. Hopefully when I get up, you all will have remembered that this is real life and not a gay porn movie.”
“Prude,” said Alistair.
Matheus groped in the darkness, probing fingers shifting through the earth, digging, deeper and deeper, so far down, going up and up, trapped in a grave, searching for names he had long forgotten, dirt sinking into his skin, his lungs, his eyes, blind and lost and alone and―
A rough hand gripped Matheus’s shoulder, shaking him. He opened his eyes, blinking as his night vision kicked in. Freddie’s face hovered a scant inch above his, brows heavy over gray-green eyes.
“Christ,” said Matheus, shoving Freddie back. “There is such a thing as too close.”
