by Amy Fecteau
From his left came a click, and a loud hum. He jumped, jarring his funny bone on a wooden post. Biting back curses, he rubbed his arm. The furnace had turned on. Still holding his elbow, he inched forward. The basement had wall of round stones. Some of the mortar had crumbled away, replaced with bright new patches among the gray. Next to the furnace sat a water heater, with a large oil tank to his right. Copper pipes ran overhead. He frowned. The size of the basement didn’t match the footprint of the house. He crept around the room, grimacing as cobwebs caught in his hair.
Behind the staircase hid a small doorway. Matheus had to stoop to get though, climbing down a couple of steps to a dirt floor. A cage ran along one side of the room. The fencing looked like it’d been recycled from a baseball field, with metal wires twisted into diamond shapes. The weave and weft bulged in several places, as though a heavy weight had warped the metal. Thick cables ran from the top of the cage, across the ceiling and through another dark doorway. The whole room hummed. Vibrations rattled his teeth and spine. A spider skittered over one of the cables before landing on the cage. A spark, a tsst, and Cajun arachnid.
Matheus wondered if everyone but him subscribed to DIY Torturer’s Monthly. He knew he had a less than stellar past, but at least he’d never rigged up a homemade electric fence. He edged toward the cage, speculating on the voltage required to knock him out. Being dead didn’t stop electricity from feeling like a kick in the teeth. Linken and his Taser had showed him that.
A simple padlock hung on the cage door. Even without his picks, the lock didn’t offer much of a challenge. Matheus could have used a butter knife. A rubber-handled butter knife, anyway. With the electricity on, he didn’t dare touch the padlock, let along cram a bit of metal into it. He stepped closer, peering into the corners of the cage. The cage appeared empty, despite the electrical precaution. Matheus turned to go deeper into basement, before a soft, shuffling sound stopped him.
“Fletcher?” Matheus said. “Is that you?”
“Fletcher?” asked a hoarse voice, far too deep for a woman. “Am I Fletcher? I can be Fletcher.” An Irish lilt seesawed the words.
Matheus inched as close to the cage as he dared. A bundle of darkness amidst the shadows shifted, a pale face appearing.
“Eamon?” Matheus asked.
“No.” The bundle shook its head. “Eamon is dead. He killed them, so he died.”
“Eamon, it’s Matheus.”
“Matheus?” Eamon stretched, arching his back like a dog waking up from a nap. He crawled forward, scrabbling over the dirt with frantic movements, stopping a hair from the electrified fencing. He sat with an abrupt stillness that unnerved Matheus. “Eamon knew Matheus. Master. Protector.” Eamon’s expression crumbled. He curled around himself, red hair matted with filth falling over his face. “No, not protector. Failed, and they died, and Eamon died.”
The smell of tainted blood rolled off him in dizzying waves. Matheus pressed a hand over his mouth and nose. Blood coated the man’s clothes, stiffened his hair into spikes, flaked off his skin as he spoke. Deep rivulets ran through his flesh, a magnified reflection of Matheus’s scars. Eamon didn’t have one feeding of silver-laced blood, but several. A thought emerged in Matheus’s brain, a terrible, horrifying thought. He pushed the idea aside, but it stuck like a burr, hooks dug into the meat of his mind.
“Eamon,” he said. “Where are Gwen and Salvatore?”
Eamon screamed. He lunged for Matheus, grabbing the fencing. His body went rigid, head thrown back, the muscles in his neck standing out in sharp relief. Wisps of smoke curled out of his palms, the acrid smell of burning flesh mixing into the putrid air. The generator rose into a high-pitched whine, then switched off with a loud click. Eamon’s hands fell off the wires. He tumbled backward, landing in a ragged heap.
Matheus let the seconds tick by. His limbs felt as though he’d been dunked into liquid nitrogen. The electric hum grew, spreading over the silence. Overhead, a floorboard creaked. Matheus listened for footsteps on the stairs, but none came.
After a moment, Eamon sat up. He moaned, the low, confused cry of a wounded animal. He dragged himself to the front of the cage, and looked up at Matheus. He licked his lips, wincing as his tongue scraped over the raw flesh. Opening his mouth, only a hoarse wheeze emerging. Eamon shook his head, and tried again.
“Do I know you?” he asked. “Do you know me?”
“I’m Matheus, remember?” He knelt and scooted closer to the cage. Something squished under his knee, but he didn’t look. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Matheus.” Eamon blinked several times, his mouth moving, forming words in a language Matheus didn’t know. “Master. Protector.”
“Yes,” said Matheus. “Protector. That’s right.”
“You failed. You didn’t protect them.”
“Yes,” Matheus said again.
Eamon nodded. He didn’t seem angry, just lost. If anything, Matheus thought he looked relieved. Perhaps to have a solid fact to hold onto, amidst the fog and shadows. The sullen, sarcastic man he had known had vanished. And Matheus didn’t know how to bring him back.
“Can you tell me what happened to… them?” Matheus asked. “What did y―Eamon do?”
“He didn’t want to,” said Eamon. “It wasn’t his fault.”
“I know,” said Matheus. “It’s okay.”
Eamon looked down at his seared palms. He opened and closed his hands a few times, as though trying to remember how he’d hurt them.
“If you―” Matheus said.
“He was so hungry,” said Eamon, still opening and closing his hands. “Everything hurt. Like fire burning on the inside. Everything hurt so much.” He raised his head, his expression pleading. “And then the blood came, so he drank. And he remembered. Remembered them before they were blood. Remembered―” Eamon cut off with a sharp shake of his head. “They died, and he died.” His eyes drifted shut. “So hungry. Too hungry to remember.”
Matheus stared at the broken man before him, unable to process a response. Forced to feed on people he’d loved, people with whom he’d shared a bond. What had been done to him to push him over the edge of hunger, where primal instinct drowned out reason? The physical pain of feeding on silver-laced blood must have been inconsequential compared to the moment Eamon realized what he had done. No wonder his mind snapped. Matheus didn’t know how he even remained alive.
“Mein Gott.” Matheus’s hands trembled. His vision blurred, tears filling the corners of his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to stem the flow.
“Is that my name?” Eamon asked.
“No.” Matheus swallowed. His Adam’s apple felt like a lump of granite. “No, that’s not… never mind. I’m going to go find the generator, all right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right back.” Matheus didn’t know if Eamon understood. “Okay? I won’t leave you here.”
“No,” said Eamon.
“It’s okay,” said Matheus. “I’ll come right back and let you out.”
“No, no, no, no, no, no―” Eamon pulled his arms over his head. He rocked back and forth, the words stretching into moans.
“It’s all right. Eamon, it’s all right.” A lie, but Matheus thought a policy of radical honesty might not aid the situation.
“―no, no, no, no, no, no―”
“Eamon, stop!” Matheus snapped.
The chanting ceased. Eamon let a strange, strangled howl and darted to the back of the cage where he folded himself into the stone wall.
“Eamon,” Matheus said. “Eamon, answer me.”
No response. Eamon looked catatonic. Matheus sighed. He decided to leave him for now. Once he turned off the generator, he’d be able to open the cage and pull him out. A dark, secret part of himself whispered that killing might be the kinder option, but Matheus rebelled against that thought. Too many people had died already.
“I’ll come back,” he said as he stood. He’d find Fletcher, then return for Eamon. He stil
l had more of the basement to check. If he didn’t find her there, he’d go upstairs. She had to be here. Matheus clung to that thought.
“Well.”
Never had such a simple word caused so much pure panic so quickly. Matheus knew that voice, knew it well enough to mimic its cadence and structure. He turned slowly, unable to face what he knew waited for him.
“You went out,” he said. “You left.”
“You thought we were not watching, dämon? You think the guards would let you in so easily?”
Matheus’s father stood inches inside the room, a crossbow balanced across one arm. Even in the dark, Matheus didn’t doubt his aim. Too many hunting trips as a child for that. His father smiled. A hard, grim smile that froze deep into Matheus’s bones. “Ich wusste nicht, den Schergen der Hölle waren so dumm.”
“Fick fich selbst,” said Matheus. “Where is Fletch―?”
The crossbow twanged. Matheus gasped as the bolt thudded into his chest, before tumbling down into the blankness of limbo.
Matheus shivered. He’d woken up alone, stripped down to his boxers, and soaking wet. Packing tape circled his wrists and ankles, strapping him to a high-backed table chair. He jerked his arms, grimacing as the tape pulled at his hair and skin. He yanked harder, but the tape held.
Okay. He’d come to in a strange place, for what, the fourth, the fifth time? Once was more than enough; now he thought he’d definitely pissed off some deity or another. Maybe Heaven had been right about the stars, and Andromeda wanted vengeance. No, wait. Andromeda was a galaxy, right? Also a princess from Greek mythology. Matheus knew that for sure. His professor for Art History 101 had been enamored with Rembrandt. The painter, not the toothpaste.
Matheus shook his head, trying to stem the babble of his thoughts. He doubted a non-existent character from an ancient religion or a four-hundred-year-old painting plotted against him. Or a galaxy, for that matter. He just wanted to avoid thinking about the fact that next few hours looked chock-full of the kind of pain dished out by sadistic Nazi dentists.
Blue-white fluorescents lit the small room to HD accuracy. Matheus squeezed his eyes shut, waiting until the stabbing pain in his corneas faded to a dull throb. He opened his lids a fraction, looking out through his lashes. If he squinted, the light approached bearable. He guessed the room had started life as a bathroom. Rough patches marked where the fixtures had been torn away. A crude drain set in the tiled floor, just to the left of the torture throne. The tiles extended up the walls, mortar and ceramic speckled with dark stains. A coiled hose lay in the corner, connected to a pipe sticking out of the wall. To his right, another pipe protruded up, hacked away an inch or two above the floor.
Shutting his eyes again, he tried to formulate a plan. Instead, his brain conjured up images from every horror movie trailer he’d ever seen. He didn’t watch horror movies, but pop culture seeped in despite his best efforts. And right now, he wished he’d spent the last ten years of his life living in a Nepalese monastery trying to achieve nirvana and churning yak butter. Yaks never scooped out anyone’s eyes and played ping-pong with them.
A creak behind the closed door pierced his thoughts. He didn’t know when his father planned to show up, but he sure as hell didn’t want to be there when he did. He wrenched his right arm, twisting his wrist. The tape didn’t have even a millimeter of slack. Still tugging, Matheus threw all his body weight to the left. The chair rocked, then steadied. He pulled again, wildly, recklessly, the chair tottering beneath him. He tensed, then yanked with every ounce of muscle. The chair tilted to a precarious angle, hovering for a half-second at the balance point before slamming to the floor. Matheus whimpered as a sick crunch reverberated in his shoulder. Letting his head drop, he focused on his breathing, until the initial shock faded.
Matheus considered his options. He wiggled, but he didn’t have the leverage to push himself upright. Craning his neck, he scanned the room. The pipe sticking out of the floor had a jagged edge. He might be able to rip the tape. With a combination of jerks and shimmies, he scraped his way across the room. His shoulder burned, the abused muscles stretching and tearing with each movement. A crick formed in his neck. His abdomen ached as though he’d never done a sit-up in his life. Granted, he hadn’t done a lot of them. If he’d known he had to escape from his psychotic father, he might have put in a bit more effort.
On the other hand, if he’d known, he’d have taken steps to avoid the whole thing in the first place. Like not being stupid enough to fall for his father’s obvious trap. He wondered if his father even kept Fletcher at the house. She might be miles away. Hell, his father might have chartered a plane and flown her out of the country. Idiot. He’d done what he kept berating Quin for: run off without thinking.
He paused, twisting his neck to see the pipe. Only three feet left. Three feet in quarter-inches and pain that increased and abated in an endless cycle. The sight of the ragged metal edge forced him to choke back a string of sobs, not quite successfully. Knives dug into his shoulder, striking down to the bone with each shift. He needed to change positions. Matheus rocked back and forth, biting his lip against the pain. Something cracked as the chair hit the tiles. For a second, he thought he’d broken his back, before he realized one of the slats in the chair had snapped. Blood pooled sluggishly on his chin. He felt the wetness, but no heat. Strange, the things he noticed when contemplating his own grisly murder.
Matheus counted the water stains on the ceiling, wondering how much longer his father intended to make him wait. He’d often left him to stew in apprehension, but to be fair to his childhood, his father had never taped him to a chair before. The muscles in his neck shrieked in protest as he twisted to look at the pipe. He crept closer, the back of the chair scraping against the tiles. If he wiggled in the right way, the chair inched forward a half-centimeter.
The pipe took on the nature of religious epiphany. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the metal began to glow with a heavenly light. He paused for a moment, shutting his eyes against the glare of the fluorescents.
Quin would come for him.
Matheus knew that without question. The bond left no other option. Yet, that fact provided cold comfort. Eamon’s story lingered in his mind, too fresh for confidence. Matheus had to free himself before Quin arrived. Badass Quin might be, but his track record with Matheus’s father spoke for itself. As much as he wanted to suck Quin dry, turning him into dinner was not what he had in mind.
With a grunt, Matheus resumed his wiggling. Only another foot left. One foot, and he’d be―
“This is unacceptable.”
Matheus froze. He didn’t need to look to see who’d spoken. He’d been so focused on the pipe, he hadn’t noticed the door open. Footsteps tapped against the tiled floor. Someone grabbed his chair, setting him upright with a bang. Matheus opened his eyes a fraction. His father stood in front of him, a guard hovering at his shoulder, another in the doorway.
“Send someone to bolt that to the floor,” said his father.
The guard in the doorway nodded, and disappeared. The other one took up his station, a loaded crossbow at the ready. Matheus’s father curled his fingers in a come here gesture. A small, fussy-looked man in a gray flannel suit walked into the room. He carried a large duffel bag over one shoulder.
“I’ll get set up,” he said.
Matheus’s father nodded. The man stepped off to the side, swinging the bag to the floor. Kneeling, he unzipped the top, and pulled out a folded tarp. He spread the tarp over the tiles, smoothing his hands over the wrinkles. The man shifted, his back facing Matheus. Metal clinked, the plastic rustling as the man placed something on the tarp. Matheus stared, trying to see what the man had, but the man’s back blocked his view. Another clink of metal, and the thud of something solid hitting the floor. Matheus searched for a distraction.
“Where is Fletcher?” he asked his father.
His father glanced at him, then back at the man in the gray flannel.
“She is c
omfortable,” he said, his voice cool, disinterested.
“I want to see her,” said Matheus.
“That is not for you to decide, Ungeziefer.”
Matheus yanked at the tape, whimpering as pain spiked out of his shoulder. Ducking his head, he dug his teeth into his split lip, the smaller pain distracting him from the larger one. “You’re a fucking psycho.” The low growl in his voice pleased him.
His pleasure diminished when his father grabbed a handful of his hair, forcing his head back. A wild light burned bright behind his father’s eyes. Matheus shuddered. His father had always been crazy in his beliefs, but ultimately sane. Now, though, madness had taken control
“Where’s Fletcher?” Matheus asked again, all bravado scorched away.
“Comfortable. For the moment.”
“Don’t touch her. Don’t you dare touch her.”
“Pretending to care for your whore? You cannot fool me, dämon. I can see through your trickery.” His father leaned forward. Flecks of spittle on the corners of his lips glistened in the light. “Was it not enough to kill my son? To mock me with his words and his visage? You had to taint my daughter as well? But you failed, dämon, Die Hand Gottes wird überwunden. The pure soul remains. I shall claim him from the darkness and raise him in the light of the Lord.”
“Oh, god,” Matheus breathed, realization dawning over the horizon of his mind. “You’re going to take Fletcher’s baby.”
“A new son to replace the one you stole from me,” his father said. “One you and your kind will never be able to touch.”
