by Amy Fecteau
“Alistair,” Matheus stretched out his hand, but let it drop.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Alistair. “Forget I said anything.”
“All right,” said Matheus.
Alistair gave him another smile, and for a second it almost looked real. He threw open the door to the manager’s office with a bang. “Hello, darlings. Nothing like a nice, sloppy blowjob to raise your spirits, am I right, Quin?”
Matheus groaned. “This is his best behavior?”
Matheus sat on the steps that led to the theaters and watched the people come and go. Apollonia had been dealt with, but some things still needed to be resolved. Homes to be found, young ones to be rounded up, supplies to be purchased, friends and allies to be located. A few of Apollonia’s former supporters had arrived. They worked with Matheus’s group under an uneasy truce. Matheus took their presence as a good sign, although he doubted they’d be fully accepted for a while. He’d banned them from spending the day there. Too much chance that one of them might wake up early and take vengeance. Alistair walked around with a new clipboard, smiling at people, passing out bits of paper or taking notes. Matheus almost called out to him, but held back. Instead, he watched the flow of the room, edges of his vision going fuzzy as he tried to view the whole pattern at once.
A palatable aura lay over the room; not happiness―too many had died for that, but a sense of connectedness. The tension had bled away. People breathed again. Matheus felt as if he stood outside a soap bubble. He hated to think he might be the one to pop the delicate barrier. His fingers tightened on the stair riser, digging into carpet worn shiny smooth with age.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Quin dropped down next to him, letting his legs stretch down the steps.
“No, you don’t,” said Matheus.
“It’s a good plan.”
“That’s not what I was thinking about.”
“Of course not,” said Quin. “You were sitting here all tragical because you ate a bad chalupa.”
“Isn’t that some kind of Mexican goat monster?”
“That’s a chupacabra. If you ate one of those, you would be tragical indeed.”
“I wasn’t tragical in the first place, and anyway, tragical is not a word.”
“Sure it is.”
“No, no it’s not.”
“What do you know? You grew up speaking German.”
“You grew up speaking Latin!”
“So? English has strong Latin roots, e.g. ‘tragical,’ from the Latin ‘tragicus,’ meaning ‘tragedy.’ Also, e.g. stands for the Latin phrase ‘exempli gratia’, meaning ‘for example’.”
“English is a Germanic language,” Matheus said stubbornly.
“That refers to the fact that it can be traced back to prehistoric Common German through Old English, not to any modern day similarities. The majority of English vocabulary comes from Latin and French, so suck it, bitch.”
“That’s your concluding statement? Suck it, bitch?”
“Are you telling me you never wanted to end your papers like that?” Quin asked.
“No,” said Matheus. “Because I was a scholar.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hey, I will cram my Master’s degree down your throat.”
“Oh, I know something that you can―”
Matheus held up a hand. “Don’t even. It’s much too easy.”
Quin smiled. Matheus ignored him, preferring to return to his soap bubble fantasy. He Quin’s gaze created an almost a physical touch against his skin. Matheus wondered what he saw. Out of spite, he let his face go slack, trying to hide the turnings of his mind.
“It’s okay to ask for help,” Quin said.
Matheus snorted.
“Right,” he said. “Nothing hypocritical about that statement. You would never run off by yourself.”
“That was different. I didn’t have people I was responsible for.”
“You had me.”
Quin tilted his head to the side. “You lied to me.”
“This again? I thought we were done with this,” Matheus said. “I didn’t lie. If you hadn’t shut me out, I could have told you―”
“You knew his reputation. You never thought to mention―”
“No, because my world does not revolve around my fucking father.” He glared at his feet, the delicate mood shattered.
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Quin said, after a minute.
“Fuck off.”
“I tried. You dragged me back, remember?”
“Yeah, well, logic was never my strong suit.”
Quin let out a soft laugh.
“It’s a good plan,” he repeated.
“It’d better if we could find Faust.”
“Word is going around that he helped us take down Apollonia. It doesn’t help his business for him to be seen as too chummy with one group.”
“Chummy?”
“Friendly.”
“I know what it means. I just wasn’t aware I was talking to June Cleaver.”
“I don’t think a man who used ‘coccydynia’ in conversation can mock my vocabulary choices,” Quin said.
“Gee willikers, Quin, don’t be sore,” said Matheus. He stretched out, mimicking Quin’s pose. “I like your legs.”
“Because they’re stripy?”
“No.”
Quin raised his eyebrows.
“I like the shapes they make,” said Matheus.
“That makes no sense, Sunshine.”
Matheus shrugged. “I know what I mean.”
“I like your neck,” said Quin.
“My neck?”
“It has a nice curve.”
“I’m not a swan.”
“I know what I mean,” Quin said with a mocking smile.
“Hmm,” said Matheus. “I like your eyebrows.”
“I like your mouth.” Quin pinched Matheus’s lower lip.
“That’s cliché. You got a pretty mouth, boy,” he added in a staged country accent.
“I’m sorry. From now on, I will only admire unconventional body parts.”
“Thank you,” said Matheus. He watched Drew telling a story to his friends, his hands flying wildly as he spoke.
Quin nudged his knee. “What happened to the misanthropic loner I picked up five months ago?”
“You killed him,” Matheus said.
“How long are you going to harp on that?”
“How long are you going to keep bringing up my father?”
“Fair point,” said Quin. “Although I think―”
“No, killing me is worse. It will always be worse.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree. Shall we declare a truce?”
“But what would we fight about?”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find something, Sunshine. There’s always your atrocious fashion sense, after all.”
“Not to mention your obsessive need to control even the most minute details of my life,” said Matheus. He turned back toward the main room. Alistair looked up at them, a blank expression on his face. Matheus raised his hand, but Alistair had already moved away, a fresh smile stretched tight over his lips.
“He’ll be all right,” Quin said.
“I’m not sure,” said Matheus.
“Alistair’s survived a lot. It makes you hard.”
Or you get brittle. Too many cracks, patches hastily slapped on. Alistair had a lot of cracks. Matheus didn’t know if Alistair had enough mortar to fix them all.
“How did you keep going? I mean, you had children…” Matheus trailed off, aware that the floor beneath his words had turned to tissue paper.
Quin shifted, sighing a little. “I don’t know. You just do.” He glanced at Matheus and shrugged. “Philosophy isn’t my milieu.”
“Seventeen hundred years old and you’ve got nothing,” said Matheus. “Great, thanks, very helpful.”
“I’d get used to the confusion,” said Quin.
“You’re not the most comforting person.”
“Forgive me. Yes, of course, everything will make sense someday. Jupiter himself flies down from Olympus on your ninetieth birthday to tell you the meaning of life. It’s actually a little pamphlet, but I lost mine years ago, so you’re shit out of luck.”
“You’re an ass.”
“Also, Santa Claus exists and you really can make millions selling Amway.”
“I take everything back. I don’t like anything about you.”
“I’d be hurt by that if I didn’t know you were a filthy, filthy liar.”
“You have no idea how much I want to smack you right now.”
“Oh, Sunshine, I’ve learned it’s much simpler to assume you always want to smack me.”
“How very clever of you,” Matheus said, unable to hold back the smile. He scooted closer, pulling Quin’s hand into his lap, and tracing the long lines of his fingers.
“You may genuflect now.”
“Hey,” said Matheus. “Don’t mess with me. I have people now.”
“Yes, you do,” said Quin.
“Stop that.”
“What?”
“Trying to make it sound all significant. This is real life, not an episode of Touched by an Angel.” Matheus scowled, dropping Quin’s hand. He pulled at the threads in the ancient carpet.
“Matheus.” Quin cupped Matheus’s jaw, turning his face to stare into his eyes.
“What?” Matheus focused on Quin’s chin, afraid to look into his eyes, to confront the emotion he knew was there. Matheus didn’t know if he’d ever get used to Quin worrying after him.
“Don’t go off alone.”
“It that an order?”
“Would I give orders to the second coming of Protos?”
“Don’t start with that,” Matheus said. “Even if it wasn’t bullshit, you would still give orders. You’d give orders to God himself.”
“Only if he planned on doing something stupid.”
“I think it’s too late for that,” said Matheus.
“Are you referring to the okapi? Everyone has an off day. No need to judge.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Matheus said.
“No, it’s not an order,” Quin said. “It’s a request. Am I allowed to make requests?”
Matheus flinched at the raw edge in Quin’s voice. “Yes. What are you―?”
“I’m not your father. If I tell you to do something, it’s to protect you.”
“I don’t need you to protect me.”
“Yes, you do,” said Quin. “Because you’re so stubbornly set on saving everyone else, you act like a damned idiot most of the time.”
“I don’t―”
“Promise me you won’t go after your sister alone,” said Quin.
“Right,” said Matheus. “You’ve obviously lost what frail grip on sanity you had.”
“Promise me, Matheus, or you’ll spend the next three days handcuffed to a dumpster.”
Matheus faked a yawn.
“You never learn,” Quin said, shaking his head.
“Quin!” Matheus yelled, handcuffs rattling over the cool metal. “I promise, okay? Quin! I promise! Let me out! It smells terrible in here! Quin!”
Matheus flipped through the listings Drew had assembled, sorting them into two piles. Drew had a definite preference for modern, open floor plans and lots of shiny fixtures. In Matheus’s opinion, chrome belonged on cars, not as the color scheme for a kitchen. His culling left only a few houses, most of them in the oldest and snootiest section of Kenderton. He tried to imagine what the neighbors would think of them, and laughed. All things considered, the nouveaux riches might be preferable to a horde of the undead. Although, he supposed that depended on the undead. A three-hundred-year-old English lord might actually raise property values. Drew and his crew of teenagers, not so much.
Only the hum of Milo’s computers broke the silence of the room. As usual, Matheus woke earlier than everyone else. He’d left them sleeping the sleep of the dead, and slipped out to the lobby. Milo had already dismantled some of his electronics. Now that people knew about the theater, he needed a new secret hideout. Matheus wondered if he planned to leave the city. He’d asked, but Milo had avoided the question. That is, he stared until Matheus retreated.
Matheus jumped off the counter and checked his watch. Ten minutes until sunset. He circled around the lobby, wishing he had someone to talk to. Eamon would be up, or Freddie, if he had survived. Matheus even considered calling Juliet. He’d gotten used to waking up early, but being trapped in a building full of corpses took a while adjust to. Matheus frowned, halfway through his second loop. He used to prefer his own company. He went out of his way to avoid human contact. Now, he longed for someone to talk to. Maybe he should call his former therapist.
Hey, thanks for nothing, pal. Turns out all I needed was to be murdered, and then relentlessly hunted by a pair of psychopaths for months. Twenty thousand dollars down the drain.
Then again, Matheus had never been serious about therapy. In his last session, he had called his therapist a new-agey douche-nozzle. After that, his therapist refused to see him again. A decision that benefited them both, really.
The third loop brought scrabbling sounds from the hallway leading to the side entrance. Matheus glanced toward the theaters, but no one seemed to be stirring. He checked his watch again. Five minutes to sunset. The noises grew louder, joined by faint cursing in a very bad English accent. Matheus relaxed.
Avoiding the mousetraps, and spots of mouse urine, Matheus walked down the hall. He opened the door to Faust’s glowering face.
“Aye, it’s you,” he said, stomping past Matheus. “Close the door, will ya? I’m chilled to me nadgers.”
“What part of England are you even from?” Matheus asked. “It can’t be London.”
“I ain’t English, boyo. I’m Scottish, yeah?”
If that’s a Scottish accent, then I’m a Filipino.
“Right,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
Faust straightened with visible effort. The man had a drooping appearance at the best of times, but with a perky quality. The kind of drooping that made Matheus think he drooped to conserve his energy until the optimal moment for a knifing. Now, Faust’s hands shook, and his knees locked in place, as though he’d collapse if he relaxed.
“What happened?” Matheus asked.
“I were jumped, weren’t I?” Faust said, spit flying out of his mouth. At least, from his general mouth area. Parts had migrated over the years.
“Out on a job. I knew getting involved would lead to trouble.”
Matheus kept his mouth shut. He hadn’t exactly twisted Faust’s arm. Mostly because he worried if he tried, Faust’s skin would swallow him whole, like some kind of fleshy blob monster.
“I got a gabber for you, lad, but you isn’t gonna like it,” Faust said.
Matheus took a moment to work out what Faust meant. “A message?”
“‘Course, a message, ya pillock!”
Faust’s accent had degenerated even further. Matheus though he heard some Norwegian in there.
“So what is it?” Matheus asked.
“You isn’t gonna like it.”
“You said that already.”
“Yeah,” said Faust. “I’m thinking maybe I should be gone when you open it.”
“Open it?”
Faust fished through his layers and pulled out a small white box, dingy after its journey in pockets that had seen things no man wanted to. After slapping the box into Matheus’s hand, Faust edged away, his hands slipping from view.
“I’m not going to attack you, Faust,” Matheus said.
“I ain’t taking no chances. You just open that wee box.”
Shrugging, Matheus flipped off the top. The box was the kind used for costume jewelry, with the name of a store printed in gold on the lid, and a white cotton pad inside. Only, instead of a cubic zirconia bracelet, inside the box lay a slender finger.
“Aah!” Matheus dropped the b
ox. The finger rolled down the hallway, coming to rest against one of the mousetraps. “What the hell, Faust?”
“I told ya. I told ya.”
“You’re a serial killer now?”
“Not my doing,” Faust muttered. “I was to pass it along, so passing it along I am.”
Matheus knelt, using the lid of the box to scoop up the finger. Against his better judgment, he examined the finger. The nail had been manicured, painted a pale pink shade. A woman’s finger. His vision narrowed, a dark tunnel closing in around him. He heard the ocean of his thoughts echoing back to him. A ring remained on the finger, a thin gold band. Ignoring the voices screaming at him, he picked up the finger and worked the ring loose. The gold felt warm in his palm. He tilted the ring, an inscription catching the light.
For Fletcher, My always.
The tunnel collapsed. The ring tumbled from his grasp.
“I have to go,” he said, looking, but not seeing. “Tell Quin… Tell Quin…” He stopped, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Wait, lad, don’t be―”
The door slammed shut. Matheus ran.
atheus stood in the middle of the foyer, letting the last of the manic laughter die away. A wide staircase led to the second floor, but he doubted his father kept Fletcher in comfort. Shadows extended beyond the staircase, the outlines of a door just visible. On either side of Matheus stood two more doors. The one to his right must lead to the room with the bay window overlooking the front yard. He checked the one to his left: a closet. The final door opened onto a narrow passage, with a glimpse of the kitchen at the end. Another staircase twisted downward, the opening wide enough for one person.
Voices came from the kitchen, the floor creaking underneath heavy footsteps. A shadow fell across the doorway. He ducked into the servants’ staircase, retreating around the corner. The footsteps came closer, interspersed with the rattling of weaponry. Matheus took a step back, freezing as the wooden step let out a groan. The footsteps paused. Closing his eyes, he prayed, waiting for an eternity to pass. After either a few eons or a few seconds, the footsteps resumed, heading toward the front of the house.
A stench rose up, growing thicker as Matheus descended. The warm, suffocating smell of feces mixed with the must and mold of air trapped underground. A thread of blood cut the other odors, tainted blood. The tang of silver settled in the back of his throat. His tongue tingled, not quite burning, but not pleasant either. The staircase wound down into darkness, claustrophobic even with his enhanced vision. He stumbled over the last step. His palms scraped rough stone, concrete pitted and cracked by age. Standing, he blinked, adjusting to the near total dark. The smell pressed all around him, squeezing into his flesh. Matheus stopped breathing, but the smell crept up his nose and seeped in his pores. He pulled his shirt over his face, but the fabric didn’t provide much of a barrier.
