by Amy Fecteau
“Stupid goddamned werewolf. Stupid goddamned idiot.” He curled, burying his face in Freddie’s fur. “Bastard. Goddamned fucking bastard.”
Matheus didn’t know what to do. He squeezed Alistair’s shoulder, and stood. Stretching his arm into the air, he fired off the flare gun, flinching at the bang. A matching flare lit the sky a few seconds later.
“We have to get out of here,” Matheus said. “Alistair, we have to leave now.”
“Help me carry him.” Alistair lifted his head, looking at Matheus.
“There isn’t―”
“Help me carry him.” Steel braced Alistair’s voice.
“All right,” said Matheus, trying to suppress the creeping fear that Alistair’s expression produced.
“Thank you,” said Alistair, with a sigh.
Matheus hotwired a Jeep from the parking lot of the apartments next door. Together, he and Alistair managed to manhandle Freddie’s body into the back. Alistair climbed in with him, wedging himself into the corner and twisting his fingers into Freddie’s fur. Matheus climbed into the driver’s seat. The Jeep shuddered at he shifted into reverse.
“Where’s Quin?” Alistair asked.
“I don’t know. He’s a grown-up. He can look after himself. If he manages not to get captured,” he added in an undertone. “Again.”
He spotted more people breaking car windows, peering under dashboards. A car alarm joined the sirens. Red and blue lights shone across Apollonia’s lawn, reflecting off the shattered remnants of her white picket fence. Matheus jerked the Jeep into drive. He’d just tapped the gas when a bang against the side made him jump.
“Hey, boss,” said Joan, clambering into the Jeep. Two of her chainsaw devotees followed, squeezing into the back seat. They glanced into the rear, and snapped their gazes forward. “Great fucking timing.”
“Anyone else?” Matheus asked.
“Everyone beat feet when the flares went,” said Joan. She pounded on the roof bars. “Let’s go, fucker.”
Blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror.
“Hold on.” Matheus slammed the gas, spinning the wheel hard to the right. The Jeep whipped around, barreling toward the barrier between parking lot and lawn. Metal crashed against metal; the front grill spun away into the darkness. The riders bounced, hurled from side to side as he sped toward the road. He thudded over the sidewalk, nicking the tail end of a police cruiser. The blue lights followed.
“Shit.” Matheus took the first side road, then the next, making turns at random. The cop car stayed with him. He flattened the gas pedal to the floor. The Jeep’s engine whined, shaking the entire frame, but he didn’t gain any speed. He cursed, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. He spotted a narrow alley, wide enough for a single car. With a jerk, he sent the Jeep hurtling between buildings, smashing the left headlight in the process. Halfway down the alley, he slammed on the brakes.
“Fucking Christ on the fucking cross,” said Joan.
The cop car stopped behind them. Matheus climbed out. He sprinted for the cruiser, reaching the door just as the officer opened it. Matheus reached in, dragged out the cop, and flung him in the back seat. He grabbed the keys and threw them toward the road.
“Sorry,” he said, before closing the door.
“Whoa,” said Joan as he plopped into the driver’s seat.
“It’s been a long night.”
He launched the Jeep out of the alley, nearly sideswiping a Humvee. Horns blared, Joan cursed, someone in the back seat seemed to be chanting. The Jeep rode on two wheels. Matheus fought the steering, brakes grinding. Of course, he’d steal the car with the neglectful owner. He shot through a red light, veering around a Chevy Malibu, and jerked to a halt at the next intersection. He exhaled, tension bleeding out of his limbs.
Quiet filled the Jeep.
Joan cleared her throat. “Maybe I should drive.”
Matheus kept to the speed limit the rest of the way to the movie theater. He’d never driven so slow in his life. Matheus, Joan, and her two companions carried Freddie inside, while Alistair walked beside them, his hand resting Freddie’s head. Freddie’s corpse had stiffened during the ride. Alistair stood to the side, watching as Matheus and Joan wrapped Freddie in a dust cloth dredged out of the manager’s office. He sat after they’d finished, placing his hand on top of the bundle.
“We can bury him tomorrow,” said Matheus.
Alistair nodded. He smoothed down a wrinkle in the coarse fabric.
Matheus shuffled his feet, shifting his weight from left to right. “Uhh, did he have any fam―?”
“No,” said Alistair.
“Oh. Right.” Matheus shoved his hands into his pockets. His ribs pleaded for mercy; every cell begged for collapse. “I know he grew up in foster care, but I wasn’t sure if―”
“Matheus.” Alistair looked up at him. “You don’t have to stay here.”
Matheus swayed on his feet. The floor beckoned with the force of a siren.
“I don’t mind―”
“I do.” Alistair’s expression felt like a door slammed in Matheus’s face.
“Oh. I, umm… okay.”
Alistair’s gaze softened a fraction. “Later. Just… not now.”
“Okay,” said Matheus. He moved away, taking in the groups dribbling into the lobby. No one seemed in a hurry to separate. An exhausted silence held fast. People brought the smell of smoke and blood with them. Almost everyone had been injured; some hadn’t come back at all. His feet dragging over the linoleum, Matheus went from group to group, making a mental tally of the dead. He didn’t have to say much. People talked in gray-tinged voices, the pauses saying more than the words.
Thomas, Freddie, a dozen in all, half of what they’d left with. The ones who survived looked at him as though he’d done something great. As though he’d saved them. They sat up straighter when they talked to him. Matheus saw the effort speaking required, but they forced the words out anyway. A strange sort of relief glowed in their eyes when he nodded or responded. Even when the only things he thought to say were clichés that seemed meaningless in the face of everything that had happened. He felt like a priest, offering blessings and absolutions. He felt like a fraud. Avoiding their gazes, he stared at chins, ears, trembling hands, anything but those looks that made his guts squirm. They lay heavy on his nape, pushing down his shoulders. His ribs compressed, constraining his lungs in shrinking cages of bone. Matheus gulped for air, too lost to remember he didn’t need any. His vision blurred, black creeping in along the edges.
Matheus crossed the room with sharp strides and slapped open the door to the first projection room. The smell of blood followed him. He ripped his shirt over his head, and tossed it aside. Shivering, but not from cold, he cossetted himself in a corner. He drew his knees up to his chest, resting his forehead on his legs. More deaths, friends and enemies alike, both staining his conscience. The sound of tearing flesh reverberated in his ears, the last desperate plea from Apollonia. Thomas, falling, nothing more than dust on the snow. Alistair, refusing to let go of Freddie.
“Matheus?”
“Oh, God, what do you want?” Matheus cried.
Quin closed the door with a soft click. Careful, deliberate footsteps approached. He knelt, running his hands through Matheus’s hair, rubbing small circles over the back of his neck.
“You called me,” Quin said.
“I didn’t,” said Matheus into his legs.
“Sunshine, don’t be an ass.”
Matheus tilted his head, enough to peer at Quin over the tops of his knees. “That’s what you have to say to me? Don’t be an ass?”
Quin shifted, settling down next to him, lifting him into his lap.
Matheus found himself with his face pressed against Quin’s chest before he realized what had happened. He sighed, unable to produce enough energy to object. He fisted a hand in Quin’s shirt, wiggling deeper into the circle of Quin’s arms. He hadn’t been held like this since… ever. He hadn’t
been raised in an environment of nurturers. A tiny giggle bubbled upward. He wondered if anyone had ever regarded Quin as nurturing before.
“Feel better?” asked Quin.
“I’m not a child.” Matheus sniffed. “And your shirt needs a wash.”
“We all need a wash. Get used to it. Do you know when the modern concept of hygiene started?”
“Yes. Historian, remember?”
“Well, I was there.”
“Quin, stop talking, please,” said Matheus.
“All right.” He stroked up and down Matheus’s spine, smoothed concentric circles over his back. His other hand traced his ribs. The pain melted away with a slight, quick inhale from Quin.
“You don’t have to―”
“Shh,” said Quin. “I’ve had more experience.” He dug his thumb into Matheus’s shoulder muscle, rubbing out a knot.
Matheus sighed, closing his eyes. “I fucked up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Freddie’s dead because of me. Because I was selfish.”
Quin moved on to a new knot. “How were you selfish?”
“I wanted to save Fletcher. I should have gone alone. I never should have let anyone else get involved.” Matheus’s voice grew thick, the sobs forcing themselves up his throat. He needed Quin to yell at him, or insult him, anything to distract him. “Alistair’s never g-going to f-forgive me. It’s my f-f-f-fault F-Freddie died.”
“It isn’t your fault,” said Quin.
“It is!” Matheus beat his fist against Quin’s chest.
Quin let out a long hiss between his teeth.
“I was in c-charge. They were f-f-following my or-or-orders,” he continued.
“Matheus, are you capable of mind control?” Quin caught Matheus’s wrist before the next blow landed.
“Wh-what?” Snot dribbled out of his nose, smeared across Quin’s shirt.
“Clearly, you must be some kind of psychic master to override the free will of all those people,” said Quin. “Although, it does make me question why you decided to fight a battle instead of bending Apollonia to heel with your massive mental abilities.”
Matheus blinked. He raised his head, looking up at Quin. “What is wr-wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry. Am I being too subtle? Let me try again. You’re an idiot.”
“G-God, I hate you.” Matheus tugged his hand out of Quin’s grip. He wiped his face, counting until he felt a bit of control returning.
“No, you don’t.” Quin found another knot on Matheus’s back, and dug in. “And what happened isn’t your fault. Stop being so Catholic.”
“Stop trying to make me feel better,” said Matheus. He sniffled, and blew his nose in Quin’s shirt.
With a grimace, Quin peeled off the shirt. A dusky bruise covered his ribs. Matheus felt an ache of empathy pain.
“I’m not trying to make you feel better,” Quin said, dropping the shirt on the floor. “I’m trying to introduce a little reason into that granite skull of yours.”
“Does it look like I’m at home to reason at the moment?” Matheus asked.
“No, but that’s your usual state. Why wait for something that is never going to happen?”
Matheus rested his head on Quin’s chest. He poked a nipple. “I do too hate you,” he muttered.
“Sunshine, mourn, but don’t devalue your friends’ actions. They made their choices, just as you did.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I’ve led men into battle,” said Quin. “I’ve seen friends die in front of me, because of orders I gave. Accept your responsibility, but don’t allow guilt to crush you. It doesn’t solve anything.”
“Oh, thank you so much. Whatever would I do without the magnificent wisdoms of Quin the Great. I feel so blessed.”
“Tell me, Matheus, if you could alter time, what would you have done? Gone after Apollonia alone, killing yourself and any chance of saving your sister?”
“Stop it,” said Matheus. “This isn’t what―I didn’t call you here for a lecture, okay? That’s not what I need right now. I know you think you’re helping, but you’re not. I screwed up. Just let me… just don’t try to fix me.” He snuggled closer, dragging Quin’s arm down around his waist. He’d had more comfortable seats. Quin didn’t have the body type for cuddling, but then again, Matheus didn’t normally have the urge to cuddle. He’d made an exception for an aberrant situation. They sat in the dusty quiet for a long while in silence.
“I don’t like to see you in pain,” Quin said, in a soft, almost hesitant voice.
“Well, I’m a masochist, so you should probably get used to it,” said Matheus.
Quin’s chest shook with suppressed laughter. “Sunshine…”
“Tell me you love me,” said Matheus, running his fingers along Quin’s collarbone.
“You know that I do.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Quin shifted. “I love you.”
“And you say I’m an idiot?” Matheus asked.
Quin didn’t hold back the laughter this time. The initial burst collapsed into a curse, as his ribs protested. Bruised ribs have no sense of humor.
“You set me up,” said Quin.
“Yeah.” Matheus smiled. “Tell me again.”
“No, you only get one.”
“Come on, Quin. I’m sad and vulnerable.”
Quin brushed a lock of hair behind Matheus’s ear, tracing the curve with the ball of his thumb.
“You seem fine now,” he said.
“I’m not fine. I’m just good at repressing things.”
“Hmm.” Quin skimmed down the lines of Matheus’s throat.
“Can we stay here? I don’t think I can face anyone else tonight.”
“All right.”
“This doesn’t mean―”
“I promise not to make any untoward assumptions regarding your innards being comprised of marshmallow fluff―ow!”
Quin rubbed his chest, giving Matheus a baleful look.
“That is not what nipples are for,” he said.
“They are when you’re being an ass.” Matheus relented and pressed a soft kiss to the tender area, although the mocking, “Better?” probably violated the spirit of the apology.
“You’re heavy.” Quin grunted, wiggling beneath Matheus.
“What do you mean by that?” Matheus asked. He remembered amnesia Quin’s opinion of his lack of slenderness.
“I mean, my leg is falling asleep.”
“What do you want me to―oophf! Ask before you do that!” From his new position on the floor, Matheus glared up at him. Dust drifted in the air around them, disturbed for the first time in decades.
“Sorry, princess.”
“Are you sure you want to go there?” Matheus asked, eyebrows raised.
Quin tilted his head to the side, regarding his expression for a moment. “No.” He lay down next to him, slipping an arm under Matheus’s head before exhaling a sigh of relief.
“Your arm,” said Matheus. “I just realized.”
“I stopped for dinner on the way back.”
“Are you mad that I left without you?” Matheus rolled to face him, his knees pressed against Quin’s thigh.
“I’m a grown man, Sunshine.”
“That’s what I said.” Matheus closed his eyes. “Quin?”
“Yes, love?”
“I don’t even care if this is Stockholm Syndrome.”
“I love you too, Sunshine.”
atheus ducked his head, letting the scorching water roll over his shoulders. He pressed his palms against the cool tiles. Steam saturated the air. Matheus panted, soft pleading moans escaping between gasps. Quin’s fingers burned like brands, marking Matheus as his own. His tongue traced the curve of Matheus’s shoulders, outlined each vertebrae. He shivered as Quin’s lips, cool after the heat of the water, left trails of ice down his spine.
“Quin… Oh, Jesus Christ.”
“Mmm?” Quin dipped lower
, his knees squeaking against the porcelain. His thumbs dug into the flesh of Matheus’s ass, spreading him open.
“Quin!” Matheus yelped as Quin blew a stream of cool air over his entrance. “What are yo—oh!” Matheus clawed at the tiles, his fingernails slipping over the smooth surface. Quin flicked his tongue, cool and slick, circling, twisting, pushing with soft, steady pressure.
Matheus gulped, trying to force air into his lungs. His legs trembled, tension running through his muscles. Every drop of water felt like an explosion against his skin. Any semblance of rational thought had vanished ages ago, driven away by Quin’s hands, his mouth, and his tongue.
“Oh, sweet Jesus, God in Heaven,” Matheus said, his voice little more than a breath as he prayed for sanity. His cock throbbed; he hovered at a precipice, waiting for the slight breeze to send him hurtling over the edge. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur No—Oooh, fucking Christ!”
Quin pulled away. His long fingers stroked the inside of Matheus’s thigh. He pressed sharp kisses to his flesh, faint bruises rising to the surface.
“Quin, please,” Matheus begged. The fall dangled before him, a breath away, an infinite distance. He whimpered; the ache to feel Quin inside him, surrounding him, Quin’s voice in his ear, crying out his name as they tumbled together, rose to a desperate keening.
“Please, what?” Quin asked. Matheus heard the smirk in his voice.
“I really fucking hate you,” said Matheus.
Smack!
Matheus bit back a yelp. A stinging warmth spread across his inner thigh.
“Bastard.” A frustrated sob marked the second syllable.
Smack! Smack!
“That’s not playing nice, Sunshine,” Quin said, in a singsong voice. He cupped Matheus’s balls, nails sliding over the sensitive skin.
“Please,” said Matheus. “Please, fuck me, Quin. Please.”
“Hmm.” Quin’s grip increased a fraction.
Matheus rose onto his toes.
“No, I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson.” Quin released him. He stood and reached around him to switch off the water. “Come on.”
The rusty rings scraped over the bar as he pulled the shower curtain open.
