by Amy Fecteau
“Please, oh, great Quin, will you go with Thomas? I’d be ever so grateful.” He hoped Quin’s desire to get away from him at least matched his own. Standing too close to him tended to muddy Matheus’s thinking. He needed at least an hour without having to worry about anyone else’s mental stability. Keeping track of his own neuroses provided more than enough stress. He matched him glare for glare, unable to hide his surprise when Quin glanced away first.
“Don’t get used to this.” Quin grabbed Thomas’s shoulder and dragged him away. Impressive, considering Thomas outweighed Quin by at least thirty pounds.
“Wait!” Thomas struggled in Quin’s grasp. “Don’t I get a say in this?”
“Nope. Have fun, kids!” Matheus waved, and slumped after Quin and Thomas disappeared down the hallway.
“What was that about?” asked Alistair. “What if Quin loses it and kills Thomas?”
“If he kills anyone, it’s going to be me. Or himself. Which would probably also kill me, so….” Matheus sighed. “This has been a long night.”
“Oh, Lord, that’s an understatement,” said Alistair. “What are you going to do now?”
“I have a plan,” said Matheus. “Step one, find Freddie some pants.”
“Manager’s office,” said Milo without turning around.
“And how much are you going to charge us for them?” Alistair asked.
“Nothing,” said Milo. “It’s a public service.”
“Thank God.” Matheus flapped his hand at the door marked Man g er Off e in chipped gold paint. “Freddie, go. Embrace the joys of fabric.”
As Freddie loped off, a figure appeared at the top of the ramp leading to the theaters. She floated toward Matheus and Alistair, her skirt charred and stained with blood.
“Heaven.” Matheus grinned, then pulled her into a hug. “You survived.”
Heaven patted his back. “Of course.”
Matheus released her. He glanced away, and cleared his throat. “Well. It’s good.”
“Oh, Lord,” said Alistair.
Turning in a circle, Heaven smiled. She stopped in front of Matheus, and spread her arms wide. “This is a house of fantasy and dreams. It will bring us luck.”
“Fantastic,” said Matheus. “I thought it was the house of overpriced popcorn and cheap melodrama, but your thing sounds better, so let’s go with that.”
“Is anyone else here?” asked Alistair.
“A few,” said Heaven.
“We should go back to the safe house,” said Matheus. “Catch anyone before they try to get in.”
“Freddie and I will go,” said Alistair.
“No, all of us.”
Alistair shook his head. “Apollonia is getting desperate. She thought she had you, and you got away again. She’s going to be furious. Right now, the rest of us are just a bonus. You need to stay here, not go running off like a madman with a death wish.”
Heaven nodded along with Alistair’s speech.
“I’m not going to hide,” said Matheus.
“Yeah, you are,” Alistair said. “I know you might not like it, but you’re a symbol to everyone who’s fighting against Apollonia. You’re Goddamned Protos reincarnated. Frankly, you’re too important to waste on a simple rescue mission.”
Heaven continued nodding. Matheus worried her head might topple off.
“That is complete bullshit,” he said. “And you know it’s bullshit.”
“So what? For once, you have to be the one who stays behind.” Alistair tucked a stray lock of hair behind Matheus’s ear, then kissed his cheek. “I care about you too. Even if you are an idiot.”
“Gosh,” said Matheus. “I’m touched.”
“As you should be. Freddie! Heel!”
Freddie emerged from the manager’s office, fully panted. He jogged after Alistair, a goofy grin threatening to break across his face. Matheus wondered what had happened to the feral wolf they’d picked up.
“Lapdog!” he shouted after Freddie. Without pausing, Alistair held up his hand, middle finger extended. With a sigh, Matheus turned to Heaven. “Now what?”
Heaven rested her hand on his arm. “Come with me.”
he survivors huddled together in one of the theaters. They shared the bleak, empty look familiar to Matheus from the constant barrage of disaster footage on cable news. A few glanced at Matheus as he approached. He slowed, the weight of identical expressions pressing down on him. Each step fell like wet cement. Time had stopped in that moment of loss, walls rising up in their eyes, images projected there in an endless loop. No one spoke, only watched. The future ceased to exist, as real a break as if the sun had swallowed the Earth. Matheus stood in front of them, Heaven waiting at his side. He cleared his throat. One by one, they looked up at him. Cracks appeared in the walls, a glimmer of the pulse of time on their faces. Matheus wanted nothing more than to sink through the matted carpet, into the dark, silent earth.
“Say something,” said Heaven.
Matheus leaned down, dropping his voice to a whisper. He didn’t dare look away from those broken expressions. “What?”
Heaven grasped his hand. “Anything.”
So Matheus babbled something. He forgot the words as soon as they left his lips. Sentences tumbled out of his mouth, a jumble of platitudes and clichés. He stared at chins, ears, anything but those closed-off eyes that said too much. When the spill of gibberish dried up, Matheus turned away. He walked up the ramp, moving faster and faster until he ran free of the theater.
Taking a sharp right, Matheus pushed open the door to the bathroom. He leaned against the sink, his chest heaving as he stared at the orange-streaked porcelain.
“Matheus.”
“This is the men’s room,” Matheus said.
The door swung shut with a click. Light footsteps whisked over the cracked tiles. He held his breath as Heaven wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back.
“That was a very good thing you said.”
“I don’t remember,” said Matheus. “Why do they have to look at me like that? I didn’t do anything. I didn’t save them. I did nothing.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It is! They shouldn’t look at me like that. I’m useless.” He gave a hollow laugh and straightened, shaking her off. “Weak and bloody useless.”
Isn’t that what his father had always said? He’d known, even when Matheus was only a child. He’d seen failure written across his son’s face, wound into his DNA. His nails scraped over the porcelain. Maybe he’d drop his father a letter, let him know he’d been proven right.
“I am very old.” Heaven shifted, circling around to Matheus’s side. Her face, delicate and brown-skinned, appeared in the pitted mirror, dark eyes focused on Matheus. “I have known many people.”
His gaze skittered away from hers. “Are you going to tell me how special I am? Because I really don’t want to hear it.”
“No.” Heaven tilted her head, black hair spilling over her shoulders. “You are not special. You are no different from any of the people in that room.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.”
“I have found that people are rarely anything more than people. It is in the perceptions of others that one finds greatness.” Heaven nodded in the direction of the theater. “Their perception of you is what gives them hope.”
Matheus rubbed his forehead. “So you’re saying it doesn’t matter if I’m useless?”
“It is a circle, Matheus. You act to avoid their disappointment. They rest their hopes on you. The cycle begins again. You are not weak. Being frightened does not make you weak. Nor do doubts. A leader needs these things. Without them, you would be―”
“My father.” Matheus closed his eyes, letting Heaven’s words sink in. He didn’t know if he entirely understood, but her calm certainty swept away the strains of his past.
“Or Apollonia Parker. Or my sweet Eddie. Or any other petty lord who tries to bend the world to his will.”
&n
bsp; “Right.” Matheus cracked open an eye. “You know, children’s TV always told me I was special.”
“You have qualities that guide the direction of your being. The universe calls you to your place, as it calls all of us.” said Heaven, looking more like a stern schoolmarm than ever. “That does not make you special.”
“Uh-huh,” said Matheus, opening his other eye.
Heaven gave him a wide smile, the gap between her front teeth destroying the prim image. “The stars favor you.”
“Right. Back to that.” He turned, resting a hip against the side of the sink. “The stars are burning balls of gas. They really don’t give a shit about me.”
“We will have to agree to disagree,” said Heaven.
“I’m going to buy you an astronomy textbook.”
“I shall look forward to reading it. Do you wish to tell me what else is bothering you?”
“What makes you think something is bothering me?” asked Matheus, feeling like his smile had been coated in rapid-dry varnish.
Heaven clasped her hands together and waited. Her smile faded into an expression of patience, the kind only found after centuries. He’d seen more anxiety on the faces of Buddha statues. He grew up without a mother, and finding one at nearly thirty seemed laughable. Especially one who looked about fifteen, and probably fit into the overheard compartment on a domestic flight. Matheus didn’t laugh. He squirmed.
“Quin wants me to kill him,” he said, relentless concern breaking him tenfold faster than threats.
“Hmm,” said Heaven.
“You don’t seem all that surprised.”
“His mind is divided. A house cannot stand without its pillars.”
“Could I even do it?” Matheus asked. He scraped at a spot of rust on the sink. “I mean, what would happen to me?”
“Do you wish me to say that you would die?”
“I would, though, wouldn’t I?” Matheus bent closer to the sink, scrubbing harder at the rust. He heard Heaven’s skirt rustle. Tilting his head a fraction, he snuck a quick glance at her. She appeared to be communicating with the paint peeling from the ceiling. Matheus scowled.
“I would, wouldn’t I?” he repeated, louder.
“If you were someone else, I would say yes,” said Heaven.
“Why not me?” Matheus asked. “Is it because all the stars love me and want to be my date to the prom?”
Heaven sent him the same look Queen Victoria must have been wearing when she pronounced, “We are not amused.” “You are too stubborn.”
Since that stubbornness apparently kept him from dying if Quin kicked it, Matheus decided to ignore the implied insult. “Hey, just twenty minutes ago I let Alistair have his way.” He shifted, facing Heaven, his arms folded.
“You did not wish to leave,” said Heaven, with a shimmer of shrug.
“So now you’re a psychic, as well as an astrologer? Where do you find the time?”
Heaven snapped her finger up to his nose. The tip hovered in front of one of his nostrils.
“Okay, I’m sorry.” Matheus held his hands up. “I have nothing but respect for you and your crazy-ass beliefs.”
“Do you want my help?”
“Yes. Please.”
Heaven narrowed her eyes at him, then withdrew her finger. “Your bond is corrupted. You turned Quin, but you did not renew the bond. What remains now is just remnants of the original claiming.”
“Would that affect Quin’s memories?”
“It is possible. I have never encountered a situation like yours before.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” Matheus asked. “I could have fixed everything ages ago.”
“I did not consider it before,” said Heaven. “I am still not entirely convinced it will work. Also, you did not ask me.”
She folded her arms, looking up at Matheus with an expression that made him want to slink into one of the stalls and not come out until autumn.
“Yeah, well, I had things to take care of,” he said to the cracked tiles.
“I am sure,” said Heaven.
“So what do I do?”
“Complete the bond.”
Matheus rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. “So my choices are kill Quin or tie myself to him for the rest of our unnatural existence?”
“There are worse choices to make,” said Heaven.
“What if Quin doesn’t want to do it? What if he still wants me to kill him?”
“Then kill him.” Heaven tilted her head to the side, dark gaze fixed on Matheus’s face. “It is not difficult.”
“Yes, it fucking is!” Matheus kicked the pedestal of the sink. “Ow, dammit!”
Heaven sighed. “It seems as though you have already made the decision.”
Matheus hopped on one foot, glaring at Heaven. “I’m going to talk to Milo. The melodrama in this room is suffocating me.”
He limped for the door.
“Running never solves anything,” said Heaven, as placid as ever.
“It does if you’re being chased by a serial killer with a giant axe,” said Matheus.
Alistair and Freddie returned just before dawn with ten more survivors. That brought the number of people up to roughly half the original amount. Matheus, after a hard shove from Heaven, spoke to the new group. Blanche stood near the back, twisting her ring around and around her finger. Soot streaked her blonde hair; scratches covered her face and arms. Many of the others arrived in a similar state. A few had serious injuries, but they’d have to wait for the next night to feed. After Matheus finished, Heaven led the group into the theater with the others. Alistair sidled up next to Matheus.
“Some of them were asking about Gwen and her boys,” he said. “I heard the word ‘traitor’ being thrown around.”
“By who?” Matheus asked. “If they think Gwen was just waiting to run to Apollonia―”
“I’m not telling you who.” Alistair nodded at the group trailing after Heaven. “They’re scared. They want to blame someone. I just thought I’d warn you some damage control might be necessary if you do end up finding them.”
“When,” said Matheus. “When we find them.”
“When,” Alistair said. “Sorry.”
Matheus frowned. He opened his mouth, but Alistair jumped into the silence before him.
“Where is Quin?”
“Sulking,” said Matheus.
“Sulking?”
Matheus nodded. “In one of the projection rooms. I went in to tell him something, but now he’s not even speaking to me.”
“What are you going to do?” Alistair asked.
“Right now? I’m going to find a spot to lie down and spend the next twelve hours blissfully unconscious.”
They all ended up in the same theater, pressed close to one another like the worst sleepover in the history of sleepovers. Matheus found himself sandwiched between Alistair and Heaven. He wiggled, trying to find a comfortable position. Or, at least one that didn’t make his clothes stick to the floor. He’d have had better luck searching for the Holy Grail.
“What do you think happened to others?” he asked, pitching his voice low.
“Taking cover for the day,” said Alistair. Freddie lay beside him, his arm thrown over Alistair’s waist. Matheus thought he might have fallen asleep already. He hadn’t even growled when Matheus lay down on Alistair’s other side.
“Or turned to ash,” said Milo, somewhere above Matheus’s head.
“You know, I thought I was jaded and pessimistic,” said Matheus. “Then I met you, Milo.”
“You’re not pessimistic, you’re bitter and twisted from a terrible childhood.”
“Now you’re a psychoanalyst, too?” Matheus asked. “What other amazing talents are you hiding?”
“I’m ambidextrous.”
“Truly, you are a god among men,” said Matheus.
Freddie let out a snort that sounded like an unholy union between snore and laugh.
“I can count to twenty
in Chinese,” said Alistair.
“I’d be more impressed if there weren’t a billion Chinese people who can also do that,” said Matheus.
“Probably even higher than twenty,” said Freddie, his voice thick and muffled. “Oof.” Ignoring the elbow digging into his side, he tightened his grip on Alistair, burying his face in Alistair’s nape.
“Now you’re ganging up on me?” Alistair asked. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Yup,” said Freddie. “Still asleep.”
“Prick.”
Matheus folded his arms behind his head as the bickering continued around him. A strange feeling crept over him. Not worry, or fear; he still had plenty of those. But, something soothed over the rough edges of fright like a balm over a blistering burn. Lying there, listening to his friends, Matheus felt… right. Not safe, because Apollonia and his father still waited out there for them. Not happy, either; happiness seemed obscene under the circumstances. But comfortable, somehow. Matheus pushed aside the urge to pick at the new emotion, to over-think every detail. He wanted to keep the new, fragile feeling for as long as possible.
“Matheus?” Heaven propped herself up onto an elbow. She peered down at him, a question written across her face.
“Yeah?”
“Are you well? Alistair insulted you and you did not respond.”
“Yeah,” said Matheus. “Yeah, I’m all right. Oh, and Alistair, you’re a bastard. Morning, everyone.”
“Freddie and I are going back to the safe house,” said Alistair. “Thomas and Malcolm are coming with us.”
“We should really stop calling it that. It’s not safe anymore, is it? The unsafe house.” Matheus pushed open the door to one of the abandoned projection rooms. An ancient projector tilted to one side, held up by the mangled remains of a chair. A desk sat in the corner, piles of film canisters on its surface. The end of a simple wooden shelf rested against the top of the desk, explaining the other film canisters over the floor. Matheus nudged one open with his big toe, but the film had either evaporated or been rescued decades ago.
Alistair paused in the doorway. His nose wrinkled as he scanned the room. Matheus envisioned the massive list of cleaning supplies forming in Alistair’s mind. He’d have to get him a new clipboard.
