by Amy Fecteau
Matheus wondered how hard he’d have to hit the mirror to shatter it. At the moment, seven years of bad luck didn’t seem that bad. Plus, he could use one of the shards to remove Quin’s vocal cords. He’d heal, but until then, blissful silence. Matheus closed his eyes, and counted to ten.
“I didn’t kill him,” he said, forcibly injecting patience into his tone. Which only served to make him sound passive-aggressive.
“You weren’t being sarcastic?” Quin asked.
“No, I was—look, you killed him.” Matheus opened his eyes.
Quin didn’t seem perturbed by Matheus’s revelation. “I’m sure he deserved it.”
“He wasn’t high on my Christmas list.” Matheus pulled green sweater number two over his head, wiggling as the soft wool slid over his skin. Turning around, he held his arms wide. “Better?”
“Much better,” said Quin. He moved forward.
Matheus moved backward, his shoulder blades hitting the mirror.
Quin stopped. He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not going to attack you.”
“That’s nice,” said Matheus. “Stay over there.”
“You are a very paranoid person.”
“With good reason.”
Quin laid his palm over his heart, and held up his left hand. “I promise I am not going to maim you in any physical manner.”
“Good that you left loopholes for murder and psychological damage,” said Matheus.
“It’s important to leave wiggle room,” said Quin. “Now—”
“Personal space!” Matheus yelled, dodging Quin’s outstretched arms.
“Hold still.”
A tiny shiver danced down Matheus vertebrae. Quin needed to register that voice as a dangerous weapon. Matheus crossed his arms, and tilted his nose up, trying to match Quin’s imperious posture.
“You hold still,” he said, matching Quin’s tone blade for blade.
A disconcerted expression flickered over Quin’s face.
“Something wrong?” Matheus asked, still imitating his voice. “Does this bother you in some way?”
“Stop that,” said Quin.
“Would you prefer if I talked like this, darling?” Matheus asked, mimicking Alistair. “Or I can jabber like this for a bit, me lad.” A switch to Faust.
To his surprise, Quin laughed.
“Did you practice that?” he asked. “You’re very good.”
“When I was a kid, I’d call up radio stations and pretend to be different celebrities. It almost never worked, but I was pretty drunk most of the time and it was funny.”
“Mmm.” Quin scanned Matheus up and down. “You look good in that shirt.”
“It’s a sweater,” Matheus said.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“It’s a defense mechanism.”
“Against what, exactly?” Quin asked. He plucked a stray thread off Matheus’s shoulder, then smoothed away the slight wrinkle he’d created.
Matheus shrugged. “The universe and its varied and multiple insanities.”
“Does it work?”
“Well,” said Matheus. “I could have sublimated my rage, hopelessness, and confusion into great works of art, but instead it’s sarcasm and mockery.”
Quin tilted his head the side. “I like you. It’s very odd.”
“Gosh, I’m all a-flutter.” Matheus inhaled, the air thick in his lungs. He wondered if the dressing rooms had proper ventilation.
“You’re snarky and touchy and annoying as all hell, but you are surprisingly likeable.” Quin caught his gaze and frowned at his shoes.
Matheus cleared his throat. “Thanks so much.” He tried to enunciate with his heart resting on his tongue. “Next time you compliment me, could you be a little more patronizing? Because it’s really appealing when you do that. I can hardly keep my hands off you right now.”
“Many people have that problem,” said Quin seriously. He reached over, pulling another piece of lint off Matheus’s sweater before sliding his palm over his chest, flattening the fabric, lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Goddammit.” With one hand, Matheus pushed him back against the door. He closed his eyes, his other hand coming up to rest on Quin’s waist. Quin’s breath caught, his lips parted as Matheus kissed him.
Quin went still in the way only the dead managed. An antagonizing long second passed. Matheus pulled away, and kept pulling away to the other side of the room. A leaden weight dropped into his stomach. Not my Quin. Things had been going, well, not exactly good, but not terrible either. And he fucked everything to Hades and back. He thought about what Quin had told him in the cell, and wanted to punch himself in the face.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
“It’s fine,” said Quin.
Matheus coughed, then checked his watch. He blinked at his empty wrist, the realization he hadn’t worn his watch tonight slowly breaking over him. “Umm…”
“It’s just after one,” said Quin.
“Oh,” said Matheus. “Thanks.”
Quin nodded, then turned on his heels. He walked out, slamming the door after him. The mirror shook loose, shattering over the floor. A thousand tiny reflections stared up at Matheus. He dropped onto the bench, his nerves doing the Flamenco inside his body.
A light tap came from the door.
“Sir?” called the saleswoman.
With a faint curse, Matheus stood and opened the door.
“There’s been a slight accident.” He waved toward the mirror. “Just add the damages to my bill.”
The saleswoman’s expression didn’t flicker. “Of course, sir.” Her low pumps made muted clicks as she crossed the shop. Matheus trailed after her, still dressed in the olive green sweater.
“Umm, my friend?” He said, catching the saleswoman as she returned with a broom and dustpan.
“He left, sir,” she said.
“Oh,” said Matheus. He glanced out the window. The SUV hadn’t moved. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe Quin just needed some air. Matheus decided to wait in the shop, in case Quin decided to return. He checked his imaginary watch again, then shook his head. He dug in his pockets for his phone.
“Shit,” he said.
“Sir?” asked the saleswoman.
“Sorry,” said Matheus. “It’s nothing. I—actually, can I use your phone?”
The saleswoman nodded and led him behind the counter. “Dial nine first.” She handed him the handset.
“Thanks,” said Matheus. He dialed while the saleswoman retreated to a discreet distance. Fletcher picked up before the first ring finished.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” she asked.
“You are aware I burst into flames during the day?” said Matheus. He glanced over his shoulder, but if the saleswoman eavesdropped, she made a good job of hiding that fact. Giving Matheus a brief nod, she slipped through the Employees Only door, leaving him alone with hundreds of thousands of dollars of merchandise and an unlocked door. And about sixteen cameras tucked into the ceiling.
“The sun sets at quarter to four,” said Fletcher.
“I was busy,” said Matheus. “Jesus Christ, just once I’d like to talk to someone without them berating me.”
“Oh, you poor darling.” Fletcher sounded less than sincere.
“How are things?” Matheus decided to take the high road. Although, he neglected to bring a map. Good intentions did not come with GPS.
“Lovely. I’m locked in a hotel room with monsters that want to eat me, and I’ve eaten everything out of the minibar.”
“Call for room service,” Matheus said. The high road seemed less and less appealing.
“I have. Six times,” said Fletcher. “Did you know you can get deep-fried Oreos? America is amazing.”
“Right.” Matheus craned his neck, peering out the front window. Other than the occasional truck or flicker of a street lamp, nothing moved.
“Is something the matter?” Fle
tcher asked.
“No, there’s—it’s just… I did something stupid,” said Matheus.
“Color me shocked. What did you muck up now?”
“Nothing.” Matheus paused, lowering the phone. He thought he’d heard a crash from the back of the store, but perhaps he’d started imagining things. The way his night had gone, hallucinations didn’t sound so bad. Hallucinations wouldn’t confuse him with ties and sweaters and little touches that lasted just a bit too long.
“Mat?”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” Matheus said. He scraped his nail along the edge of the counter. In the distance, he heard sirens. Probably some idiot driving too fast through the snow clipped a fire hydrant or something.
“I’m going to worry away,” said Fletcher.
“It’s complicated. It’s Quin.” Matheus realized the second sentence eliminated the need for the first.
“Oh.”
“Wait.” His fingers tightened on the handset. “Were you there?”
“Where?” asked Fletcher.
“You know where,” said Matheus. “Goddammit, Fletcher!”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Something!”
The sirens grew louder, echoing between the skyscrapers. Matheus leaned against the counter, the old-fashioned till digging into his back.
“Do you know what it’s done? Do you know what it is?” Fletcher asked.
“I can’t talk to you about this,” said Matheus. “Jesus Christ, I can’t—”
“Can you even fathom how many people it has killed? Centuries of—”
“I don’t care, Fletcher!” Matheus yelled. “That bitch put a collar on him and paraded him around like a dog!”
A crash came from the back room, and he felt sure it had really happened. Matheus waited, but the saleswoman didn’t reappear. He ducked his head, counting slowly, gathering the ragged strips of his temper.
“Good,” said Fletcher. “I haven’t changed my mind. These creatures—”
“I am one of ‘these creatures’.” Matheus shook with the effort of keeping his voice low. “Three of ‘these creatures’ are making sure our crazy father doesn’t murder you.”
“If there’s a non-violent solution—”
Blue lights bounced off the front window, the sirens ringing through the walls.
“Shit,” said Matheus. “I have to go.”
“Wait, Mattias—”
“Matheus,” said Matheus. “Mattias is dead.”
The patrol car stopped in front of the shop. The sirens cut off. Inside the car, Matheus saw the officer speaking into his radio.
“I didn’t—”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” said Matheus.
“I picked out a name for the baby.”
The cop opened his door. He drew his gun, pointing the barrel toward the ground. Another officer came up, and the first cop made a “go around” gesture. Matheus thanked God for mirrored glass.
“I have to go, Fletch,” he hissed, ducking behind the counter. The saleswoman must have recognized him from the sketch and called the police. Matheus figured it was his luck to get the one person under fifty who still watched the local news.
“Leander,” said Fletcher. “Leander Matthew.”
“Great,” said Matheus. “That’s just—wait, Leander?” He peeked over the counter at the cop. Another car, an unmarked Crown Vic, had pulled up next to the patrol car. A man in a poorly fitted brown suit appeared to be chastising the uniformed cop. The blue lights winked out. Someone’s in trouble. Even he knew enough not to go racing up to a suspected fugitive all blue flashing and sirens blaring.
“What’s the matter with Leander?” asked Fletcher.
“Do you want a child with a permanent wedgie?” Matheus asked.
“It’s my grandfather’s name.”
“Yeah, and how did having a family name work out for you, Felcher?”
The detective in the suit drew his gun. He reached for the door, the uniform a step behind him. Matheus dropped behind the counter.
“You bastard! You swore never to—”
“Sorry, got to go.” Matheus hung up, the handset clattering over the base.
A gust of cold air blew in, bringing the sounds of careful footsteps and the smell of cigarette smoke. Matheus shifted, searching under the counter for a weapon. He found the silent alarm, not much use to him, but no baseball bats or telescoping nightsticks. Matheus considered a pair of safety scissors, but doubted they’d intimidate anything but construction paper. That left one option.
Matheus inched to the end of the counter. The detective had headed toward the dressing rooms, leaving the uniform in the center of the main room. Matheus rose into a crouch, smacking his elbow against the counter. A box of paperclips skittered over the floor.
“Who’s there?” asked the uniform.
The bogeyman. He shot into a sprint, bursting past the Employees Only door, then skidded to a halt. The room had none of the amenities of the shop. A row of lockers covered one wall. A battered microwave sat next to a sink. Fluorescent lights cast stark shadows. In the center of the room sat a table. On the center of the table lay the saleswoman, spread-eagle, her arms and legs hanging over the edges. Five figures in dark goggles surrounded her, mouths pressed to her wrists, throat, and groin. Slurping noises filled the air.
Matheus backed away, hitting the still swinging door. He swallowed a curse. A dozen thoughts flickered around in his brain, all circling the same question. How the hell had Apollonia’s soldiers found him? One coincidental run-in he’d buy, but two in as many days? And he’d been with Quin both times.
The saleswoman’s legs spasmed. Choking noises crawled out of her mouth. The copper tang of blood saturated the room. Matheus bit his lower lip. The saleswoman was dead. Still moving, but dead. Behind the five figures stood the exit to the alley. If he managed to sneak past…
The door slammed into his back. Matheus yelped, landing on his hands on knees.
“Christ on the cross,” said the detective, his eyes going wide.
Apollonia’s soldiers raised their heads. Matheus scrambled out of the way. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the wet crunch of bones and flesh provided him with a vivid enough image. A rough hand grabbed his wrist, yanking him to his feet. Matheus kicked. His attacker spun around, wrapping an arm around Matheus’s throat. Matheus opened eyes in time to see the sharpened stake flash toward him.
I really should have kept those scissors.
atheus tugged on the chain. He braced his foot against the thick post and gripped the links with both hands, yanking until flames raged in his muscles. He let the chain drop into the fresh snow. Rolling his shoulders, he winced as the tendons twanged. The links clanged together as he moved. A steel manacle circled one of his ankles, the metal digging into his skin. Matheus balanced on one foot, then the other, the snow burning cold on his bare soles.
He’d woken up a few minutes earlier, chained and sporting a new collection of bruises. Although, as he hopped up and down, trying to warm up, he didn’t find any major damage. He did wonder what happened to his shoes. Taking them seemed overkill, what with the chain-and-manacle set-up. Matheus walked in a circle, stretching the length of the chain. He had a six-foot radius, not much shorter than the clearing itself.
Pine trees surrounded him, tall and ramrod straight, darkness between their trunks. Matheus glanced up at the clear night sky. He frowned. An even circle of deep blue hung overhead, far too precise to be natural. Pale circles in the bark showed where branches had been chopped away. Some of the cuts looked worn smooth, other more fresh. Matheus perched on the post, pulling his feet out of the snow. So the little clearing had had other visitors before him. He teetered, trying to maintain his balance. The stake had gouged a hole in the cashmere sweater. Through his chest as well, but his flesh healed. Matheus plucked at the stray threads with a sigh. He hadn’t even paid for the sweater yet.
“Good evening, Mr. Taylor.”
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Matheus jerked, tumbling off the post. He scrambled to his feet, snow clinging to his clothes.
Apollonia walked out of the artificial curve of trees, stepping like a deer over the deep snow. She wore a knee-length coat, black with thick cuffs and collar, buttons down the left side. A matching cap sat perched on top of her bobbed hair. Matheus wondered if Apollonia had her clothes specially made, or if she spent a lot of time at estate sales. Maybe she had a dedicated task force for seeking out clothes of the proper vintage.
“How did you find me?” Matheus asked. Not Quin. But he had to ask, had to be sure.
“You are chained to a post,” said Apollonia. “I have faced bigger challenges.”
“I meant in the store.”
“Well.” Apollonia smiled. She stopped an inch short of Matheus’s range of movement. “Humans do have their uses.”
“The saleswoman?” Matheus asked. “How would you―?” He paused, realization breaking over him. “The police… You have an informant on the police force. Son of a bitch.”
“Language, please.” Apollonia smoothed aside a lock of her hair with her gloved fingers. “We must remain civilized even when the world is not.”
Matheus blinked at her, then shook his head. “Where’s Quin?”
“I’m not currently aware of Mr. Saturnius’s location,” said Apollonia. “But I promise you, I will be dealing with the situation.”
“I’m going to kill you,” said Matheus.
“I doubt that.” Apollonia adjusted her gloves, tugging on the cream-colored leather. She didn’t flinch as Matheus lunged forward, his hands outstretched. The chain snapped taut, metal scraping on metal. Apollonia sighed. Reaching out, she gripped Matheus’s wrist, forcing the joint backward.
Matheus whimpered, his knees turning to jelly as pain zigzagged up his arm. He pushed at Apollonia’s grasp with his free hand, but she only increased the pressure. His nails scraped over the soft leather of her glove.
“I would like an apology,” Apollonia said. “You haven’t behaved as a gentleman, Mr. Taylor. Apologize, and perhaps we may come to an agreement.”
“Fuck… off,” Matheus gasped. He doubted any agreement Apollonia suggested would be to his benefit.
