by Amy Fecteau
“I’d like to try,” said Alistair.
“Okay.” Matheus swallowed back the quibbles. They’d have left two hours ago if he’d been on time. Not that two hours made much of a difference when searching for a needle in three hundred acres of fir trees.
“It’s about an hour’s drive,” said Alistair.
“Okay.” Alistair reminded Matheus of a piece of delicate glass, ready to shatter at the slightest vibration. Matheus wanted to wrap him in bubble wrap, and speak only in whispers. “Uhh, Quin wants to come.”
The blank expression on Alistair’s face flickered. “Does he?”
“He likes―liked Freddie,” said Matheus.
“I think he likes us not being along together more,” said Alistair. He sounded almost his usual self.
“Do you want me to tell him to stay here?” Matheus asked.
Alistair sighed. “No, it’s not worth it. But he’s not allowed to talk.” He grabbed the overhead bars and swung himself into the back of the Jeep to settle down next to the large sheet-wrapped bundle.
Matheus popped open the driver’s side door, and paused as a familiar voice rang across the parking lot. He let his forehead hit the door with a thunk.
“Hello, pet,” said Juliet, with a purr in her voice. “You’ve had a good evening, haven’t you?”
“What do you want?” Matheus raised his head, hoping Alistair hadn’t heard the eyebrow waggling in Juliet’s tone. “You better not be here for a meal.”
“Don’t scowl at me. I did you a favor, remember?” Juliet smiled. Lenya stood at her side, one hand clinging to Juliet’s coat. She looked up at Matheus with a solemn pout.
“Are you mad at me?” Lenya asked.
Matheus blinked. “No, of course not.”
Lenya hadn’t chosen to be a succubus. She might be a disturbing, flesh-eating, future soul-sucking demon, but she was also just a little girl. Shaming her for acting on her natural instincts seemed cruel. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be around her and her sisters after a long fast. He repressed a shiver as she grabbed his hand with both of hers. Her fingers felt like frozen sausages.
“I want to say goodbye to the warm man,” she said.
The Jeep shook as Alistair shifted. He caught Matheus’s gaze and nodded. Matheus led Lenya around the Jeep, and lifted her up to look into the back.
“Goodbye, warm man,” she said, patting the bundle.
“Freddie,” said Alistair.
“Freddie,” repeated Lenya. She patted Alistair’s head as well, and twisted, looking at Matheus. “You can put me down now.” She ran over to Juliet, and tugged on the fur-trimmed sleeve of her coat. “I want another warm man.”
“When you’re older, darling.” Juliet nodded to Alistair. “My sympathies.”
“Thank you,” said Alistair.
Matheus had heard less sincere exchanges, but not outside daytime television.
“Pet, do try to stay out of trouble,” said Juliet. She brushed a lock of hair out of Matheus’s eyes. Her fingernails scraped over his cheek; she tapped her index finger on his lower lip. “I’d be terribly disappointed if something happened to you before you repaid your debt.”
“Right,” said Matheus, moving out of arm’s reach. “Is there anything else you wanted?”
“Not at the moment.” Juliet smiled, and his testicles crawled into his abdomen. “Say good night, Lenya.”
“Good night.” Lenya dropped into an awkward curtsy.
Matheus watched Juliet and Lenya disappear around the corner, and climbed into the Jeep.
“Bitch,” said Alistair from the back.
“Hey,” said Matheus. “She’s my aunt.”
“Still a bitch.”
“Yeah, but she’s a bitch who did us a huge favor, so be nice.” Matheus connected the ignition wires and the Jeep rumbled to life. Alistair sulked at parking lot.
Matheus stared at him via the rearview mirror, holding back a sigh. “She didn’t have to say anything.”
“I wish she hadn’t.”
Be comforting. Be supportive. Don’t call him a snotty, little asshat even if he plants his flag on the tallest peak of the Asshat Mountains. Matheus shifted the Jeep into drive. He winced as the tires bounced over the cracked pavement. The shocks had given up ages ago, and every bump transmitted straight up to his bum. When he spotted Quin strolling down the sidewalk, he considered driving up over the curb and pinning him against the wall of the Store 24. The impulse passed after a moment. Matheus pulled over and Quin climbed in. He muttered something about long legs and chariots, but Matheus ignored him.
They drove out of the city in tense silence. Normally, Matheus welcomed a break in chatter, but he felt like a demolitions expert waiting for a bomb that’d been triggered, but hadn’t exploded. He gripped the wheel, grinding his teeth at every unavoidable pothole.
By the time they reached the edge of the woods, both his ass and jaw had gone numb. He climbed out of the Jeep with a groan. Quin flashed him a smirk. Matheus scowled back, regretting his decision not to turn his guts into hamburger.
The march through the forest managed to be even worse than the drive. As a human, Freddie had been a well-built man, broad-shouldered and muscular. When he transformed, he kept the same amount of bulk, only in a different arrangement. Matheus and Alistair moved him without trouble at Apollonia’s, but that had been a short distance on a clear, flat piece of ground. Here, the trees grew tight together, branches interwoven. Snow, protected by the thick canopy, reached past Matheus’s knees. He floundered, breaking the crust of ice, or getting snagged on the omnipresent underbrush. Maneuvering Freddie’s body among the trees required an engineering degree. Every few minutes, they stopped for Alistair to check the GPS on his phone. Inevitably, the direction he chose led straight to the densest section of trees. Soon, pine needles, pitch, and snow coated all three of them. Matheus almost felt relieved when he fell off a cliff.
He landed on his back in a pile of snow-covered thistles. Ice trickled down the neck of his jacket and soaked into his socks. Nettles prickled at his jeans, but on the whole, he counted himself lucky. If he had to fall off a cliff, at least he’d ended up with a tiny cliff. On the other hand, he wondered how long he’d have to live before he gained a modicum of grace. He didn’t need much, only enough so he didn’t have to be the guy who fell over cliffs.
“Are you okay?” Alistair called down. He knelt at the edge of the stone ledge, holding onto a branch for balance. He grinned.
“Fine.” Matheus flailed as he tried to stand. He supposed the occasional bout of clumsiness had its upsides, if it made Alistair smile.
“Do you need help getting back up?” Alistair asked.
“Of course he does,” said Quin. “Do you see a way up or a long branch or something?”
Matheus craned his head, trying to see more over the top of the rock face. He didn’t want to waste time glaring if he didn’t have anything at which to glare. Glaring at air particles rarely satisfied. He stomped forward a few steps, and cursed as his leg broke again through the top layer of ice-crust.
“One of us is going to have to go down there,” said Quin to Alistair. “He’s like a child.”
“Anyone who comes down here is getting a snowball to the face.” Matheus jerked, dislodging his leg, but overbalanced and toppled sideways. He rose up, spitting snow. A shadow in the gray rock wall caught his eye, and he paused, mid-spit.
“He’s your responsibility,” said Alistair.
“Oh, no,” said Quin. “I’ve been told, at great lengths, that Matheus is responsible for himself. I’d hate to interfere with his personal life choices.”
“Very wise,” said Alistair. “No doubt this will be a learning experience.”
“A chance to grow as a person.”
“Indeed.”
“I hate to interrupt the bonding session,” said Matheus. “But I’ve found the cave.”
Long scratches marked the walls of the cave. Matheus laid his hand ov
er one set, tracing the scraps with his fingertips. He found a claw embedded in the stone, and shuddered. The remnants of a sleeping bag lay scattered toward the rear of the cave. Mice had torn into the outside covering, making nests in the stuffing. Against one stone wall, a stack of wood had dissolved into rot and mold. The overhang of the cliff kept out much of the snow, but the wind built up a small drift by the entrance. A thin layer of ice coated the walls. He stood in the middle of the chamber, his head bowed to avoid bumping against the ceiling, imagining Freddie as a boy. He must have been terrified when the changes started. He’d run, so far from civilization, from human contact, changing in the dim and the damp, alone and confused.
“Are you sure this is where he―where he’d like to be?” Matheus asked, looking at the collection of scratches.
“Freddie liked it here.” Alistair laid his palm against the stone wall, the far-off expression returning to his eyes. “His foster parents… they weren’t the best.”
“What happened to his parents?” Quin asked.
Alistair shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think Freddie even knew.”
“So what do we do now?” Matheus asked. He doubted his first werewolf burial counted as standard operating procedure.
“Help me.” Alistair tugged at the sheet covering Freddie’s body. Matheus knelt on the other side. Together, they spread the sheet over the rocky floor, Freddie’s body in the center.
“Give me a minute?” Alistair lay down next to Freddie, lightly stroking his fur.
“Sure.” Matheus and Quin stepped outside the cave, traipsing a short distance away. The evergreens blocked out most of the moonlight. Only a faint gray shimmer reached the earth.
Matheus drew his jacket tight around his chest. “What am I supposed to say?”
“To whom?” Quin asked.
“Alistair.”
Quin leaned back, blinking up at the pattern of dark needles and glowing sky. “What did you want me to say to you?”
“Nothing,” said Matheus.
“Well,” said Quin. “There you go.”
e need to find a house.” Quin perched on the long counter, holding open a newspaper. One foot tapped against the decorated façade; the other served as a stand for the flimsy paper.
Drew sprawled over the floor, a short, brown-haired girl beside him. Matheus recognized her from the battle. She’d saved him from being shot with her flashlight. She had one of those touchy-feely hippie names. Blossom or Skye or something like that. They had the comics spread open in front of them, sharing whispers and snickering. At Quin’s words, Drew glanced up, smile slipping away.
“Yes,” said Matheus, without turning.
He stared at the back of Milo’s head, willing him to work faster. Four monitors had been set up, each running a different section of surveillance footage. Milo had gathered, or more likely, coerced some volunteers. They sat in front of the monitors, diligently taking notes on all possible candidates. Two days had passed since the battle, one since they’d laid Freddie to rest.
“Faust knows a broker,” said Quin. “I’ll contact him.”
“Fine.” Matheus drummed his fingers on his thigh. The videos zipped forward, grainy figures scrambling around the screens like actors in an old-timey slapstick. Every few seconds, one of the volunteers stopped the tape, and leaned in, peering at the flickering image.
“What’s wrong with this place?” Drew asked, his voice squeaking.
The newspaper rustled. Drew ducked his head, blinking down at Snoopy, et al.
“Aside from the lack of showers, beds, and privacy?” Quin asked. He raised his eyebrows at Drew.
Drew squirmed. “Yeah, but―”
“Not to mention the outrageous rent for such a palace.” Quin waved at the dilapidated majesty of the theater. Plaster drifted down from the ceiling, marring the deep blue of Quin’s jeans. With a noise of irritation, he brushed away the white dust.
“Yeah, but―we’ll all here and―”
“Buy your own house,” said Quin. “You can certainly afford it.” He disappeared into his newspaper.
“I suppose,” said Drew, sounding like a kid promised candy, then presented with a Werther’s.
Matheus turned. He looked at Drew, then Quin’s newspaper. He cleared his throat.
Quin raised his head, meeting his gaze, shaking his head a fraction.
Matheus scowled and nodded toward Drew, shrugging.
The newspaper rustled in distinctly annoyed manner.
Crossing his arms, Matheus glared at Quin.
Quin narrowed his eyes. Matheus tilted his chin up.
“Uhh,” said Drew. “Are you guys, like, fighting telepathically or something.” He paused. “‘Cause you look like you’re fighting.”
“We’re not telepathic,” said Matheus. “Thank fucking Christ.”
“We’re not fighting, either,” said Quin.
“Yes, we are,” said Matheus.
Drew and Hippie-Girl looked from Matheus to Quin and back again. They inched closer together.
“No,” said Quin, the edges of his voice taking on a sharp sheen. “We’re not.”
“Yes,” Matheus said, mimicking Quin. “We are.”
“Do you want us to leave?” Drew asked. “We can leave.” He looked at Hippie-Girl. “Should we leave?”
“You’re just coddling them,” Quin said. The newspaper flapped through the air.
“You don’t have to live with us,” said Matheus.
Quin leaned forward, setting the newspaper on the counter next to him. He lowered his feet to the ground.
On the floor, Drew let out a strangled chirp.
Pausing, Quin tilted his head to the side, studying Drew.
“We will talk about this later,” Quin said, after a moment.
“When you say talk, you really mean fight, right?” Matheus asked. “Why not fight now and get it over with?”
“Please,” said Quin with a nod toward Drew and Hippie-Girl. “Not in front of the children.”
“Hey,” said Drew. “I’m almost twenty. That’s like, a hundred and forty in dog years.”
Matheus and Quin exchanged a glance. Matheus raised his eyebrows, rolling his eyes toward Drew. He held his hands out, palms up.
Quin sighed. “I want my own personal quarters. With a private entrance.”
“We can discuss it,” said Matheus. He smirked in response to Quin’s glower. “Drew, and, uhh, Meadow―”
“Melody,” said Hippie-Girl.
“Right. Melody. Can the two of you go find out who plans on sticking around?”
“Sure.” Drew scrambled to his feet, all gawky limbs and energy. He’d have been squashed to pulp if he’d fallen in with Apollonia. Matheus wondered how he’d been turned. Drew had to have a strong streak of stubbornness to survive the change. Quin had said the process didn’t work every time.
“Excuse me.” Alistair jumped out of the path of Drew’s jubilant rush.
“Sorry,” Melody said, following more sedately, her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her. She always gave the impression of a blush, even though he knew the physical process no longer worked.
Alistair shook his head after the teenagers, a wistful smile on his face. “Matheus, have you considered―?”
“Boss man!” Joan’s voice echoed down the long hallway that led to the side door. Rapid-fire footsteps shook the plaster from the ceiling. She leapt over the stairs to the lobby, and skidded to a halt in front of Matheus. “There’s people here.”
“Okay,” said Matheus slowly. “And?”
“Apollonia’s kind of people.”
“Oh.” His brain dove straight onto the Tilt-a-Whirl. They didn’t have any explosives made, but Joan’s crew still had their chainsaws and―
“Wait,” said Matheus. “Did they just show up at the door? And just, stop?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, lord.” Alistair gnawed on his lower lip, his fingers twisting together. When he caught Quin’s g
aze over the newspaper, he shoved his hands into his pockets. His lip continued to suffer, however.
“What are they doing here?” Matheus asked.
“How the fuck should I know?” asked Joan.
“Well, did you ask them?”
“Yeah,” said Joan. “That’s the first fucking thing I did. Then I offered them some cookies and fucking milk.”
The newspaper shook. “I believe Joan is employing a technique known as sarcasm,” Quin said, without looking up. “I’m not sure you’re familiar with it, Sunshine.”
From his station amidst the monitors, Milo snorted.
“Were they armed?” Alistair asked.
“Maybe.” Joan shrugged. “I didn’t see anything. Maybe they’re hiding them.”
“Really?” Matheus asked. “You think that they have crossbows stuffed down their pants?”
“It’s not hard to hide a gun,” said Alistair, a tiny wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows.
“They make pocket crossbows,” Milo said. He managed to be heard halfway across the room without raising his voice a decibel. The notes just slipped into the gaps between other sound waves.
“Joan,” said Quin. “Did you lock the door after your mad dash to warn us of the impending threat of miniaturized crossbows?”
“Uhh,” said Joan. She rubbed her knuckles along her jawline. “Maybe?”
“So there is a possibly a murderous, possibly armed horde is lurking just outside with only an unlocked door to protect us?” Quin tucked his newspaper under his arm, and hopped off the counter. “I suppose we should go see what they want.”
“You don’t seem very concerned,” Matheus said to Quin as they, Alistair, and Joan trooped outside. Milo and the volunteers elected to remain with his computers.
“I know why they’re here, Sunshine,” said Quin. He opened the door to the side alley. “It’s not for revenge.”
The group outside redefined “horde.” Redefined in the sense that Matheus had never used the word “horde” to describe a half-dozen people standing in a fidgeting bunch. He stopped just in front of the doorway, Alistair and Joan stepping into place on either side of him, Quin at his back.
