by Amy Fecteau
“You were making noises.” Freddie sat on his haunches, his hands dangling between his knees.
“I was dreaming.” Matheus shivered. He grabbed a hoodie from the pile of clean clothes, and tugged it over his head.
“Yeah,” said Freddie. “You said that before.”
“You didn’t mention it to anyone else, did you?” Matheus asked. “It’s… unusual. I don’t want to answer a bunch of questions.”
Freddie nodded. He looked over at Alistair, still a corpse, then back at Matheus. “You’re waking up earlier.”
“Yeah.” Matheus scratched the back of his head. “Don’t tell anyone that either.”
“You trust me?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Matheus shoved his hands into the pocket of the hoodie.
“Mmm,” said Freddie. “Nicer if you just said ‘yes.’”
“I’m an honest soul,” said Matheus.
Freddie cracked a smile, a deep dimple appearing on his right cheek, long canines peeking out.
“Grandma, what big teeth you have,” said Matheus, unable to hold back a grin in return. Despite the predatory edge, Freddie’s smile had a disarming quality.
“I never liked that story,” said Freddie. “Red was asking for it.”
“That crimson harlot,” said Matheus.
“Yup.”
Matheus laughed. He pulled over his phone, checking the time. Five minutes past sunset. “You should get out of here. Alistair is going to wake up sooner.”
Freddie nodded. He shifted, reaching for his jeans, but froze as Alistair rolled over, his wrist whacking against Freddie’s leg.
“Huh?” Alistair squinted. He twisted his hand, running his palm along Freddie’s shin. He frowned. “Matheus.”
Matheus winced. Freddie had legs corded with muscle, covered with coarse hair, nothing like his soft fuzz. “Over here.”
“Why is Freddie in here?” asked Alistair in a sweet voice.
“Uhh, he came in to tell me something,” said Matheus.
“And what is that?”
“The snow stopped,” said Freddie.
Alistair propped himself up onto his elbow, raising his eyebrows at Freddie. “That’s the news of vital importance?”
Freddie looked at Matheus, who shrugged.
“That’s it?” Alistair asked. “Nothing else to say?”
“I could use some food,” said Freddie.
Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re in here looking for volunteers?”
“I’d prefer waffles,” said Freddie.
“Ha,” said Alistair, with maximum scorn. He glanced away, drumming his fingers on the dirt floor. Then, with a sidelong look at Freddie, “What kind of waffles?”
“Blueberry.”
Alistair sighed. “I used to love blueberry waffles.”
“With real maple syrup,” said Freddie.
“And butter. A big slab of butter.”
Matheus watched the conversation swing back and forth. He wondered if either Alistair or Freddie remembered his presence.
“There’s a café on Bridge Street,” Freddie said.
The wistful expression on Alistair’s face snapped.
“What am I supposed to do with that information?” Alistair asked. “Snack on a satisfied customer?”
Freddie leaned toward Alistair, his head cocked to one side. “Can you do that? Does that work?”
“No.” Alistair pulled away. He flopped onto his back and rolled over, curling toward the wall.
Freddie sat back. He gripped his knees, staring at Alistair’s still form. “Oh,” he whispered, so quiet Matheus barely heard him. He rose and tugged on his jeans, hopping as he pulled them over his hips. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact. After picking up his shirt, he started for the door.
“You shouldn’t go alone.” Alistair twisted, peering at Freddie over his shoulder.
Freddie paused. “I’ll be fine.”
Alistair sat up, pushing away the sleeping bag. He crossed his arms, glowering up at him. “You were already captured once.”
“Won’t happen again,” said Freddie.
Alistair snorted. “You think so? How do you know?”
“I was occupied,” said Freddie. “Wasn’t paying attention.”
“Occupied with what?”
“Alex,” said Freddie.
Alistair’s glare deepened, his head rocking back as though he’d been slapped.
“Were you eating him or fucking him?” Alistair asked, with a honeysweet sting that Matheus recognized easily.
“Neither,” said Freddie.
“Neither.” Alistair did not sound like a believer.
“Yup.”
“Then what were you doing?” asked Alistair.
The corner of Freddie’s mouth tilted upward. “Come to dinner.”
“You do realize the implication that holds for someone like me,” said Alistair.
Freddie’s grin widened a fraction. “Come to dinner and I’ll tell you what I was doing with Alex.”
“There is no universe in which I could possibly care less,” said Alistair.
“Okay,” said Freddie.
“Really.”
“Okay.”
Matheus waited. Freddie didn’t move. Neither did Alistair. Matheus looked from one to the other. He opened his mouth.
“Your stomach is growling,” said Alistair.
Matheus closed his mouth.
“It does that,” said Freddie.
“You should go.”
“I will.” Freddie’s hand rested on the doorknob.
Alistair frowned down at his lap. The seconds ticked by.
Matheus opened his mouth again. Alistair stood, grabbing a pair of pants. “Let me get my coat.”
Matheus shut his mouth. He scratched the back of his neck, watching Alistair get dressed. He glanced at Freddie, who flashed him a grin.
“Don’t even.” Alistair waved a finger at Freddie.
“I didn’t say anything,” said Freddie, the grin vanishing.
“Well, don’t.”
Freddie shrugged. “Okay.” He held the door open. Alistair swept past him, swinging his coat over his arm. Freddie gave Matheus a brief smile and followed, closing the door after him.
Matheus glanced around the empty room. “What the hell was that?”
The spiders declined to comment.
listair breezed into his office, humming under his breath. He stopped short as Matheus slapped his paperwork down onto the desk.
“Oh, so you decided to return,” said Matheus, folding his hands on the desk. He’d commandeered Alistair’s office, spending most of the past three hours reviewing records in an attempt to distract himself. “I mean, it’s not like there’s a power-mad psycho bitch out there hunting us down like wounded gazelles. Please, feel free to disappear for hours without calling anyone. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“Aww, you were worried.” Alistair leaned over the desk, kissing Matheus’s cheek. “That’s very sweet.”
Matheus jerked to his feet, slamming his hands down, the metal boom reverberating through the tiny room.
“I’m serious, Alistair. You’re the one telling me not to run off with Quin, and then you turn around and do that exact thing!”
Alistair paused, his coat halfway off his shoulders, his lips parted. He blinked. “You were worried,” he said in a softer tone.
“Yes!”
“Well,” said Alistair. “Now you know how it feels.” He walked around the desk, bumping his hip against Matheus’s, nudging him away. “Give me my chair back.”
Matheus stomped around the desk with a sullen scowl. The remains of the destroyed chair had been removed, replaced with a battered armchair. A spring poked out of the cushion. Gingerly, Matheus lowered himself into the chair. He slid downward, toward the back right corner, his knees rising to his chest.
“What is wrong with this
chair?” He tried to wiggle free without snagging a testicle on the loose spring.
Alistair glanced up, letting out a snort of laughter. “It’s broken.”
“Gosh, how did you figure that out?” Matheus asked. “Are you a Fulbright scholar?”
“Two things, darling. One, the Fulbright program didn’t exist when I went to college. Two, you couldn’t figure out that the broken chair you’re sitting in is broken? That does not inspire confidence.”
“I meant what is specifically wrong with it.”
“I’m not a chair specialist, Matheus. It’s broken. Do you really need more information that that?” Alistair rattled the top drawer. The metal had rusted and the drawer tended to stick.
“You don’t need to be snippy,” said Matheus.
“You started it,” said Alistair. “Where is my clipboard?”
“Bottom drawer, under the cheap Harlequin you think I don’t know about.”
Alistair glared at the bottom drawer, serving an official declaration of war. He tugged on the handle, then yanked with both hands, engaging the drawer in full-fledged battle.
“I thought you didn’t like Freddie.” The spring grazed Matheus’s leg as he escaped from the chair’s grasp. He perched on the corner of the desk, papers crumpling beneath him. After picking up a pen, he unscrewed the cap, dumping the contents onto the desk.
“I don’t.” With a grunt, Alistair ripped the drawer open, his chair rolling backward in accordance with the laws of motion.
Matheus lined up the various bits of pen in a neat row. He pushed the ink cartridge with the tip of his index finger, rolling it back and forth. “Three hours is a long time to spend with someone you don’t like.”
Alistair dropped his clipboard on the desk, and reached for his pen. He shot Matheus a dirty look. The top drawer shrieked open. He slapped a new pen onto the clipboard, smacking Matheus’s hand away.
“Leave my pens alone,” said Alistair. “Are you jealous?”
“Of your pens?” Matheus asked. “Yes, madly.”
“You know that isn’t what I meant.” Alistair flipped through the papers on his clipboard. He leaned forward, squinting at the notes wrinkled beneath Matheus’s butt. He prodded him in the back, tugging on the papers with his other hand.
“I don’t know what you meant,” said Matheus, refusing to move. “Maybe you should be clearer next time.”
Alistair sighed. “Are you going to be a little bitch for the rest of the night? What happened to you throwing me at Freddie?”
“I stopped that.”
“Of course you did. That’s why he’s been sleeping with us.”
“Uhh,” said Matheus.
Alistair used the opportunity to wiggle the paperwork free. He sat back, smoothing his palms over the crumpled sheets. “I’m not an idiot, Matheus.”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal.” Matheus raised his thumb to his mouth, nibbling along the nail.
“Oh, lord.” Alistair waved a hand. “Do me a favor. When you lie to my face, at least make an effort to be not quite so blindingly obvious. It’s disrespectful.”
“I wasn’t lying,” Matheus said, moving onto his index finger.
“Then you’re a moron,” said Alistair. “Which is it?”
“I’m not―” Matheus stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. He paced the tiny room, banging into the armchair, and digging his hip into the corner of Alistair’s desk. “Shit.” He hopped, rubbing his leg. “We do have more important things to worry about.”
“Daytime is our biggest weakness, Matheus.” Alistair picked up the disassembled pen. He slotted the cartridge into the shell and twisted the two halves together. “We’re completely helpless.”
“I know that.” Matheus dropped into the armchair, and leapt up with a yelp. The exposed spring gleamed with malicious glee. He scowled, first at the Spring of Castration, then at Alistair, the Unsympathetic Sniggerer.
Alistair’s laughter gave way to a bittersweet smile. He shifted, propping up his chin in the palm of his hand. He looked at Matheus, the flickering golden light of the lantern softening his features. “I just wish you would stop sending mixed signals.”
“I’m not sending mixed signals, Alistair,” Matheus said. “I was worried about you.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, rocking a little on his heels. “Maybe a tiny bit jealous.”
“Ha!” Alistair leapt up, waving his finger at Matheus.
“Mostly worried,” Matheus said loudly. “Like ninety-nine-point-nine percent worried.”
“Uh-huh,” said Alistair.
“I’m not talking about this anymore,” said Matheus. “I contacted Faust. Gwen’s not at Apollonia’s. Neither are Eamon or Salvatore. I don’t know if that means she’s keeping them somewhere else or she doesn’t have them at all. Faust hasn’t heard anything about any new pets or if they’re hiding somewhere.”
Alistair settled down into his chair. “They might already be dead.”
“I don’t think so,” said Matheus. “If Apollonia intended to kill them, she would have done it immediately. Eamon and Salvatore were alive when Gwen ran out. Besides, you really want to say they’re dead and leave it at that?”
“I suppose not.” Alistair frowned at his clipboard. “Where do you think they are, then?”
“I think we should assume my father has them,” Matheus said. “We need to check his warehouse.”
“The warehouse where Quin was being held?” Alistair asked. “The place with the guards and the magic zombie-making machine?”
“It’s more of a hands-on procedure,” said Matheus. “I don’t think my father has mechanized the process quite yet.”
“That was absolutely not my point,” said Alistair. “It’s dangerous, idiotic, and reckless, and I don’t know why I’m still talking since you’re going to go anyway, aren’t you?” He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “You realize you can order someone else to go.”
“I can’t do that,” said Matheus.
“No,” said Alistair. “Because you’re a big stupid hero. It’s both endearing and frustrating.”
“Umm,” said Matheus. “I don’t think that―”
“I know, I know. You don’t do it on purpose,” said Alistair. “I wish you did. Then I could hate you in peace.”
“Okay.” Matheus held up his hands, backing toward the door. “I’m going now.”
“Not without me.” Alistair stood, his chair flying into the wall. “Don’t argue with me. You can’t go alone.”
“I won’t go alone,” said Matheus. “But you’re staying here.”
Alistair’s lips twisted. “Why? I know how to handle myself. I was in a goddamned war, Matheus.”
“That isn’t what I’m saying.” Matheus scrubbed his hands through his hair. “My father is not a nice man, yeah? I don’t want you anywhere near him.”
“Then why are you going?” asked Alistair.
“Someone has to.”
“Not you.”
“Yes me,” said Matheus.
Alistair crossed his arms. “Then I’m going too.”
“No, you’re not!” Matheus shouted. “Jesus Christ, Alistair, you saw what happened to Quin. If that happened to you, I’d…” His gaze slid from Alistair’s face to the broken armchair. He dug the toe of his sneaker into the dirt floor. “I just don’t want that to happen.”
“Matheus, you can’t guarantee that nothing horrible ever happens to me,” said Alistair.
“I know that,” said Matheus, still digging his way to China. “But, I mean, you’re”―he gave a half-shrug―“important. To me. And, you know, I’m not exactly, umm, good at making friends so I’d prefer if you didn’t turn into a weird zombie and forgot all about me, because I really don’t think I could handle that. So, will you please stay here, so I don’t have to worry about you for at least one night? Please, Alistair.”
“All right,” said Alistair slowly. “But just so you know… that just now? That is a mixed signal.”
“Fine,” said Matheus. “I’ll stick to being a total asshole. Would that make you feel better?”
“Yes.” Alistair leaned against his desk, picking up his clipboard. He clasped the clipboard to his chest, crisscrossed his arms. “Take Heaven and Milo with you. At least they won’t let you do anything stupid.”
“Plus, I think Milo has grenades,” Matheus said.
“That too,” said Alistair.
“Why don’t you buy a car?” Milo asked as he climbed into the passenger seat and laid his bag down at his feet.
Matheus hadn’t asked what Milo had inside, but judging by the way Milo handled it, he had something a bit more potent then Nerf balls. He stuck a screwdriver into the ignition. He leaned down, yanking out a bundle of wires from under the steering wheel. The SUV shook as Heaven opened the rear door, releasing a cascade of empty fast food containers. She climbed in the back, tossing out the few fry boxes that escaped the purge.
“I could.” Matheus twisted a couple of the wires together. The engine turned over with a low rumble.
“It would save time.” Milo brushed snow out of his hair.
“But where would I park?” Matheus shifted into reverse.
He pulled out of the parking space, narrowly missing the two-hundred-thousand dollar Lexus in the next space. The Lexus had been Matheus’s first choice, but he thought a luxury car painted a shade of orange usually worn by deer hunters might be a tiny bit conspicuous. What he found most baffling was that eye-scorching orange did not appear on the standard list of colors. The owner had to request a special paint job and pay extra. Money and taste did not always have a one-to-one relationship.
Matheus pulled out of the parking lot. He hoped that Colorblind-Lexus and SUV planned on staying a few more hours. The motel specialized in rooms for the adulterous. Given the expense of the cars, he guessed that a pair of upper-middle-class suburbanites decided to go slumming without their respective spouses.
“In front,” Milo said.
“It wouldn’t be at all suspicious to park a car in front of an abandoned nineteenth-century mansion.” Matheus flipped on his blinker, merging into the lane for the tunnel. He ignored the beeps as he cut off an ancient Volkswagen, black smoke billowing out from its muffler.
“Eighteenth century,” said Heaven.
