by Amy Fecteau
“So am I,” said Alistair. “Why are you arguing with me about this? If you die, I promise to do whatever it is that atheists do.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway, because Quin is not going to kill you.”
“A plot under an oak tree if possible,” Alistair said. “Somewhere not too crowded. And if you feel like buying me a monument, that would be acceptable. A tasteful one, of course. Nothing tacky.”
“Alistair, he’s not going to kill you!”
“White marble. A weeping angel, perhaps.”
atheus felt the tug as soon as the door to the theater swung shut behind him. He closed his eyes, testing the connection. The claim pulled him to the right. The longer Matheus resisted, the stronger the tug became. The sensation reminded him of the buzzing that meant Quin had gotten himself into trouble again, but softer, restrained. Matheus took a step to the left, and the tug whined, like the engine of a truck trapped in mud. He thought he’d be able to ignore the tug if he wanted. On the other hand, provoking Quin didn’t seem like the smartest thing to do at the moment. He followed the pull to one of the projection rooms. He knew Quin waited inside, but he still jumped as the door burst open, and Quin dragged him in by his hair.
Matheus landed on his knees, his palms slapping against the floor. He had only a split-second to process before Quin flipped him over, and grabbed his throat. He hauled Matheus upright, pinning him to the wall.
Okay. He’s either going to kill me or fuck me.
Quin kissed him like a punch to the mouth. Matheus tasted blood, salty copper tinged with the sweetness of rot. He moaned, reaching out, seeking something, anything to hold onto. He wondered if Dorothy had felt like this, swept up in a tornado, tossed from side to side, powerless against the raging winds. His hands landed on Quin’s hips; his fingers dug into the hard flesh, as though clinging to his last hope of sanity. Quin jerked out of his grasp. Matheus followed, but Quin held him in place. He whimpered, wiggling in Quin’s grip. If Matheus had gotten hard any faster, he’d have passed out from sudden blood loss.
“On your knees,” Quin said. He didn’t use his razorblade voice, but one much deeper, much more raw.
Matheus dropped to the rip of a zipper being lowered. He looked up at Quin, adrenaline giving everything a bright, sharp edge. Shivers raced down his body, each nerve a live, sparking wire. “Split my lip.”
Something flickered across Quin’s face, a momentary hesitation.
Matheus swallowed, felt the mass of his Adam’s apple thick in his throat. He wondered if he’d gone too far. “Please?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
Quin nodded. Seizing handful of Matheus’s hair, he wrenched his head back. Pain shot down from his scalp as a torrent of relief and anticipation flooded him. He squirmed, trapped by the awkward bent of his neck, the tightness in his pants growing more blissful, more unbearable by the second.
Thank God he opted for the fucking.
“If that was a punishment, it wasn’t a very effective one.” Matheus laid his hand over a bruise on his arm, trying to line up his fingerprints with Quin’s.
“It wasn’t a punishment, it was…” Quin frowned, although Matheus thought he seemed more embarrassed then anything. “I wouldn’t use sex as a punishment.”
“Uh-huh,” said Matheus. “So, what? You were marking your territory?”
“No.”
“You want to count my bruises?”
“No,” He said, sharply. He sat up, swinging Matheus’s legs over his lap. Dusky bruises mottled the pale skin, fading as Quin ran his fingers over them.
Matheus smiled. He lay on his back, his head propped against a crate of projector parts. His entire body felt as though he’d been filled with warm lead. Moving seemed like an impossible feat, one set aside for demigods and heroes.
“We should have a safe word.” Quin tickled the inside of Matheus’s knee, removing the bite mark.
“Do we need one?” Matheus stretched, groaning at the pleasant pull.
“I could have really hurt you.”
“They’re just bruises, Quin. I’m hardly a delicate flower.”
“That isn’t the point. What if I went too far?”
Matheus waved a hand, but decided that wasted far too much energy. Instead, he rested his palm on Quin’s arm, running his thumb along the grooves of muscles. “Well, don’t break any bones, and we’re good.”
“Sunshine.”
“Or needles. I really hate needles.”
“Matheus, I’m serious.”
He wiggled, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “What’s wrong?” The warmth slipped away, leaving behind only the lead. “Do you… if you don’t want to… you know. I mean, I know I’m strange, and I know your, uhh, maker, was… not so good… and you’re just sitting there, waiting to see how long I’m going to babble, aren’t you?”
“Sunshine, nothing about you reminds me of Akantha,” Quin said, with a faint smile. He leaned over, giving him a soft kiss. “This―us―is entirely different.”
“But if there’s something you don’t like―”
“I’ll tell you,” said Quin. “But you need a way to tell me, yeah?”
Matheus opened his mouth.
“No, you cannot just tell me to stop,” said Quin. “You curse me out when you’re happy, for fuck’s sake. Half the things out of your mouth are insults, and that’s when you want me to keep going. We need a safe word.”
Closing his mouth, Matheus tilted his head to the side. He examined Quin’s profile, the blade’s edge of his nose, the tightness in the corners of his lips, the heavy lid half-lowered, black lashes obscuring the bright hazel iris. A laugh fermented in Matheus’s chest, but he held back. He trusted Quin not to go anywhere he didn’t want to follow. At least, he did in bed. If anything, he needed a safe word for everyday life, not sex. He wondered why the man didn’t trust himself. Maybe Akantha had left deeper scars than Quin cared to acknowledge. Although, he had to admit Quin had a point. He’d get quite annoyed if Quin stopped every time he called him a soulless son of a bitch.
“Coffeepot,” Matheus said.
“Hmm?” Quin paused, his hand resting on a dark string of bruises across Matheus’s pelvic bone.
“That’s our safe word. Coffeepot.”
“Why coffeepot?”
“It’s the first thing I thought of.” A giggle escaped as Quin’s fingers tickled his stomach. “Are you about done?”
“Getting there,” said Quin. He lifted Matheus up, pulling him into his lap.
“You’re not going to hurt Alistair, are you?” Matheus curled his arm around Quin’s shoulders, his fingertips coming to rest on the sharp angles of his collarbone. “Because he’s definitely not in his right mind.”
“No,” said Quin.
“You’re not just saying that to lull me into a state of complacency while simultaneously plotting to deep fry Alistair’s intestines?”
“Possibly.”
“It’s not going to happen again.” Matheus traced the curve of Quin’s ear down to the lines of his throat. He wondered why he’d never noticed the silhouette of someone’s ears before. “Not that anything happened. Except crying. Oh, God, so much crying.” He pushed Quin’s hand away as he reached for Matheus’s split lip.
“Not that one,” Matheus said.
“Why?”
“Because… because I want to keep it.”
“People are going to think I hit you,” Quin said.
“You did hit me.”
“You asked me to!”
“You could have said no.” Matheus raised his eyebrows. “Do you go around hitting everyone who asks?”
Quin gave him a look like he regretted not breaking his nose as well.
“Let me fix it,” he said. A command, not a request.
Matheus shook his head. He leaned away, grabbing Quin’s wrists, pushing his arms down. His shoulders hit the crate of projection reels. “No. Then you’ll have a split lip, and people will think I hit you.”
“S
unshine, no one would ever think you hit me.”
“How it is you can make that sound like an insult?” Matheus asked. “Knock it off. I told you I want to keep it.” He scrambled to his feet. Snatching up his boxers, he darted to the other side of the room. Quin rose onto his knees, watching him like a cheetah debating whether or not he felt like gazelle steaks for dinner.
“Give me a good reason why,” Quin said.
“Because.” Matheus hopped, slipping on his boxers.
“I said, a good reason.”
Matheus eyed the pile of clothes. He doubted he’d be able to grab his pants before Quin tackled him. Even if he managed to avoid getting caught, Quin stood closer to the door. Not to mention, Quin beat him on speed. Matheus sighed.
“Because I like it,” he said. “Because it reminds me of you. Because I can press my lips together, and feel the sting, and it’s like you’re there, kissing me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You can start mocking me now.”
“It’s sweet. Demented. But sweet.” Quin grinned.
“Christ,” said Matheus. “Give me my goddamned pants. I’m getting the hell out of this room before I lose the last bit of sanity I have left.”
“I love you too, Sunshine.”
Milo shook his head as Matheus paused next to the bank of monitors. Matheus knew the search wouldn’t be over in a night or two, but that didn’t stop him from hoping. He counted back; four, five nights since Fletcher had been taken. Gwen, Eamon, and Salvatore had been missing for even longer. Their absence dug at him. He needed to know what happened to them. He wanted to know that he hadn’t failed them.
“Oh, Lord, Matheus,” Alistair said. “Let me see that.”
“It’s fine.” Matheus dodged Alistair’s caregiver tendencies. He scooped up the newspaper Quin had left on the counter, and pretended to read his horoscope. The newsprint crumpled as Alistair whisked the paper out of his grasp.
“What happened?” He reached for Matheus’ lip again.
Matheus slapped Alistair’s hand aside. “It’s fine. I just fell down.”
“Really.” Alistair folded his arms, his foot tapping on the floor as he gave Matheus a flat stare.
Matheus squirmed. He shook out the crumpled newspaper, focusing on smoothing the myriad of wrinkles.
“Matheus,” said Alistair. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.
“Okay, no, I didn’t fall down,” said Matheus, abandoning the newspaper. “But I would enjoy this conversation so much more if we went with that as the truth.”
“It was Quin.” Alistair spun on his heels.
Matheus lunged forward, grabbing Alistair’s collar. “Don’t freak out. I asked him to, okay?”
Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“It depends on which branch of psychology you subscribe to.” Matheus released Alistair, and stepped back. “Look, here’s Drew, just in time to change the subject. Hi, Drew.”
He beamed, and Drew hesitated, clutching his sheaf of papers to his chest.
“Hi,” said Drew slowly. “I made a list.” He glanced down at the papers. “I, umm, made a lot of lists.” He flicked worried looks at Matheus’s mouth as he searched his papers.
Honestly. He didn’t require surgery, and he’d heal in a day anyway. They drained the blood out of strangers with their mouths. Things didn’t get much more unhygienic than that. In the last few months, people had lost and regrown entire limbs. A split lip should not cause concern.
“Here.” Drew thrust one of the papers at Matheus. The list had eleven names, almost everyone. Matheus frowned. He’d expected a few to leave the city, and some of the older ones to want to live on their own. He wondered if he’d have to have a house specially built, one with his own private space separated with a locked door. Maybe he’d buy a small hotel, and live in the penthouse.
“Did you ask Milo?” Matheus asked.
“He just stared at me,” said Drew.
“Yeah, he does that.” Matheus pressed his lips together, scanning the list again. He sure as hell didn’t feel like going house hunting. “You want another job?”
Drew nodded.
“Good. Go to the library―”
“Which library?” Drew asked. He bounced on the balls of his feet. “The public library’s closed. It’s like, really late. Or really early. Unless you want me to break in.”
“No, not tonight,” said Matheus. “Tomorrow when it’s open, go―”
“Oh, yeah, of course, obviously.” Drew pointed at the split lip. “Does that hurt?”
Matheus ignored him. “Tomorrow. Go to the library.” He held up a hand as Drew opened his mouth. “While it’s still open, and compile a list of properties for sale with room for fifteen or so people. And if you find any with private apartments or guesthouses, highlight those ones. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Drew.
“Super,” Matheus said. “Alistair, can you…?” He trailed off as Alistair glared at him. Matheus tilted his head to the side. No, not at him, at something just over his shoulder. A second later, an arm wrapped around Matheus’s waist. Matheus repressed a sigh. Now he understood.
“Alistair,” said Quin.
“Quintus,” said Alistair.
Quin’s grip on Matheus tightened to the point of bruising. He exhaled, his breath ruffling Matheus’s hair. Drew edged away. Matheus envied his sense of self-preservation.
“I realize that I am, due to circumstances beyond my control, forced to accept you as part of my world for the near future,” Quin said. “That being said, if I walk into another scene like the one I did earlier, I will chain you up and drip acid over your naked body for the next century until you are an unrecognizable pile of melted flesh and bone. Then I will let you heal, and do it again. Understand?”
“I understand,” said Alistair. “In response, please allow me to say that if you hurt Matheus in any way, I will chop off your fucking head.”
“Straightforward,” said Quin.
“I’m sorry I lack your creativity.”
“No, no, I appreciate a clear threat. Saves confusion.”
Matheus cleared his throat. “If the two of you are done being insane, it’s almost daylight.”
“Just making sure everything is clear, Sunshine,” said Quin.
“As am I,” Alistair said.
“Right.” Matheus peeled Quin’s hand off his waist. Stepping out of arm’s reach, he turned to face both of them. Twin expressions of innocence looked back at him. “You two do realize that I am a rational adult capable of making my own choices?”
“This has nothing to do with you,” Quin said.
Alistair nodded along with him.
“What are you talking about? Of course it’s about me!” Matheus threw up his hands. “You’re both fighting over me like a couple of characters in a bad soap opera. Not that there are good soap operas, but that’s straying from my point. It is too about me!”
“We’re not fighting.” Alistair opened his eyes wide, looking like a real-life kewpie doll. “Are we, Quin?”
“That’s right, Alistair. You should get that ego checked out, Sunshine. I think it’s swollen.”
“I so want to hurt you right now,” said Matheus.
“Me or Quin?” asked Alistair.
“Both of you. You’re both fucking twats.”
“Well,” said Quin, his lips curving into a crooked, boyish smile. “We’re gay, so I think you’ll we are, in fact, not fuc―”
“Oh, sod off,” said Matheus. He stomped away, not caring which direction he went as long as he went away from Quin and Alistair. The pens on Milo’s desk rattled as Matheus passed. One rolled off the edge, across the floor, hitting Matheus’s shoe. He stopped, picked up the pen, and turned. He froze, staring at the screen. The pen slipped out of his hands, clattering to the floor.
“Wait,” said Matheus, lunging for the mouse on the desk. “Go back.”
Milo smacked Matheus’s arm away. He pulled the mouse close, inching toward the other end o
f the desk.
“Sorry.” Matheus clasped his hands behind his back. His wrist stung, but judging from the look Milo gave him, he should be glad he still had a wrist at all. “Rewind a little bit. A little more. Stop!”
A grainy black-and-white image filled the monitors. A figure stood in the center of the square, captured in mid-step. The camera had caught the man in profile, his head tilted back to the proper aristocratic angle, shoulders and spine held with T-square alignment. Matheus tasted ashes. He swallowed, trying to force some saliva into his mouth.
“Can you play the tape?” he asked.
Milo clicked the mouse. The man strode across the screen, the tails of his coat flapping in the wind. How many times had Matheus seen that walk, trailing along after? The long, quick steps, arms confined to the tiniest of arcs, each movement a perfect mimicry of the one before. The ultimate clockwork man. Neat, precise, restrained, but never fluid, never with the grace of a honed human body. Matheus straightened, pressing his palm flat against his stomach. He pushed, trying to tamp down the queasy, churning center.
“Do you know him?” asked Milo.
“Yes,” said Matheus. “That’s my father.”
he house sat apart from the others on the street, farther from the sidewalk, with a wide moat of grass. One either side, new model homes with neat white trim and carefully maintained bushes made a sharp contrast to the rambling elegance of the farmhouse. Built when cattle still grazed in the park, the house looked like a slice of forgotten time. A single light hung over the door, casting the corners of the porch into shadow. Two guards in dark camouflage flanked the porch, invisible until movement revealed their positions.
Matheus wished he’d brought a book. He’d been watching the house for three hours. Five more minutes, then he’d give up. The wind had teeth tonight; Matheus tired of providing its dinner. An internal tug signaled Quin’s call. Matheus ignored the pull, but his leg still bounced, heel flattening down the snow. His fingers tapped out a counter-rhythm on his knee. He’d considered cell phones annoying, but at least they had voicemail.
Fuck this. He’d go back to the theater, beg Quin not to reenact the nine circles of Hell on him, and ask for help. That’s what he should have done in the first place. They had had a plan, and if Matheus left now they could―
