by Amy Fecteau
“Alistair thinks I need a therapist.” He laughed. “No shit, I said.”
Drew’s voice carried down the stairs, the excitement recognizable, if not the words. Matheus sat up, rubbing the heel of his palms over his eye sockets.
“I have to go. I’ll bring you something to eat later, okay?” He waited for the response he knew wouldn’t come. The chair scraped along the floor as he stood. A bubble swelled in his chest, pushing out the air. He closed his eyes and counted until the feeling dissipated.
“Please, wake up, Quin.”
Drew poked his head around the door of Matheus’s study. “So, hi.”
“Hello.” Matheus laid his book on the desk with a hint of guilt. He was supposed to be writing the new residency agreement for Kenderton. If the city belonged to him, he intended to make some changes. No more stables of humans, no more involuntary turnings, no more coven members trapped with no escape. In return, he’d promise a level of consistency, support, and transparency not often seen in the Otherworld. Saying the ideas aloud didn’t take much effort, but writing them into a contract the undead of the city would accept had some challenges. So instead, he’d snuck a copy of Neil Gaiman’s latest out of the library and hidden in his office to read.
“It’s okay, I won’t tell Alistair.” Drew inched into the office. He stood in front of Matheus, shuffling his weight from side to side. “So, umm, Mel and Caleb and I were wondering if we could have, like, a bonfire.”
“A bonfire.”
“Yeah, ‘cause Mel ordered these fireworks off the Internet, and we thought, since we kind of missed Christmas, it’d be cool to have a celebration type thing.”
“There’s still snow on the ground. Won’t it be a little damp?”
“Not a lot of snow.” Drew made puppy-dog eyes at Matheus.
He sighed. Hushed voices filtered in from the hall, along with the sounds of two people jostling for a prime eavesdropping position.
“I’m really sorry about the thing with the drill.” Drew managed to delve to even lower depths of pathetic.
A stronger wave of guilt rolled over Matheus. “You don’t have to apologize. It was my fault, not yours.” He drummed his fingertips on the desk. “What kind of fireworks, exactly?”
“You know, regular ones.”
“Melody?”
After a second, Drew’s girlfriend bounced around the corner, followed by Caleb, the perpetual third wheel.
“Just normal ones, I promise.” Mel crisscrossed her chest. “We won’t burn the house down or anything.”
“Mel!” Drew said, as Caleb gave her a not-so-discreet kick to the shin.
“Umm, sorry. I didn’t mean―”
“It’s fine.” Matheus waved toward the door. “Go have your party. But if any one of the neighbors complains, you have to deal with it.”
“Awesome!” The three teenagers ran from the room at a blur.
Matheus returned to his book, not looking up at the sound of footsteps.
“What now, Drew?”
A hand whipped the paperback out of his grasp. He looked up and gulped, Alistair’s face inches from his.
“So how’s the contract coming?”
“Uhh. Good.” Matheus shifted the papers on his desk. “Really, really good.”
“Is that so?”
“Yup.”
“So you won’t mind if I borrow this?” Alistair dangled the book. “Since you’re so busy working.”
“Nope. Fine with me.”
“Excellent.” Tucking the book under his arm, Alistair strolled out of his room.
Matheus slumped over his desk. “Shit.”
“The children are dancing around the fire like goobers.” Alistair looked out at the backyard. The glow of the fire played over his features. “The neighbors are going to think we’re Satanists.”
“Nmm.” Matheus gripped the edge of the kitchen table. The smell of smoke filled the kitchen, despite the closed windows. The scent crept up his nostrils, filtering into his brain. The room closed around him, his vision hazing white. He closed his eyes, trying to count, to calm the rising panic. Instead, he dropped into memory. Flames surrounded him, scorching heat crawling over his skin, dark smoke lit with a red glow, his father pleading up at him―
“Matheus?”
“I have to go.” He knocked Alistair’s hand aside and sprinted for the exit. The landscape blurred as he raced down the long drive, through the gates to the empty street. He ran without thought, the wind scouring his skin, feet pounding over the pavement. The estates of his neighbors flashed by, streaks of color behind green hedges. Slush from the coming spring splashed up his pant legs. At last, he skidded to a halt. His legs pulsed, and he caught hold of a lamppost to keep from collapsing.
This has to stop. He inhaled the cool air, tinged with the smell of the harbor. It’s just a stupid bonfire. That’s it.
“Come on, Elijah, go poopies. Go poopies so momma can go to bed.”
Matheus looked up. Across the street, a woman in pajamas stood in her yard, a tiny Golden Retriever puppy sniffing the ground in front of her. She glanced at Matheus, as though her radar had pinged his presence. Her expression shifted from desperate frustration to concern. She tugged on the puppy’s leash.
“Come on, Elijah. Come on.” The door to the house slammed shut. A moment later, the curtain in the front window twitched.
Now you’re scaring innocent young women. Good job. Matheus straightened. He trudged home.
Alistair greeted him at the front door. “Are you―?”
“Fine.”
“But―”
“I’m fine.” Matheus climbed the stairs to his rooms, Alistair at his heels. He dropped onto his couch, swinging his feet onto the coffee table.
“You need to speak to someone.”
“It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” Alistair hovered over him. “You need to talk to someone about what happened, or it’s just going to keep eating at you. If you don’t want to tell me―”
“I don’t.”
“Then find a goddamned psychiatrist before you drive both of us crazy!”
Matheus winced at the second slammed door of the night. He had to admit that Alistair had a point. The problem came from finding a therapist who wouldn’t chuck him right into the loony bin. He wondered if there were undead psychologists. Probably, but confessing to one of his subjects seemed like a bad idea. He might not want to be the lord, but that didn’t mean he wanted a coup, either. Dragging himself to his feet, he crossed into his bedroom. Face-planting onto his mattress didn’t offer any answers, but at least he was comfortable in his misery.
A suitcase lay open on the bed, half-full of clothes. Alistair stood in front of the dresser, his arms full of socks. A second case stood by the door, already bulging.
“What are you doing?” Matheus asked. He took a step into the room, and stopped.
“Moving.” Alistair dumped the socks into the suitcase.
“What? Why?”
“Matheus, we both knew this was a temporary thing. It was never me. It’s never going to be me. And I like myself too much to hang around pretending otherwise.”
“But… I…”
“It’s been three months. You’re doing much better now. You don’t need me here.”
“Yes, I do!”
Alistair shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “Don’t even try to tell me that Dr. Marion hasn’t mentioned something about co-dependence.”
“Dr. Marion thinks I accidently shot my father during a home invasion. What the hell does he know?”
“Stop acting like a baby.” Alistair zipped the suitcase shut. “You’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”
“But―” Matheus raised his hands, and let them drop with a sigh. “All right. It’s just―I’ll miss you.” He strode across the room, enveloping Alistair in a tight hug. “You’re my best friend, and―and I love you.” Under his arms, Alistair’s shoulders shook. “I’ll always― What
the hell is wrong with you?”
Alight with laughter, Alistair pulled away. “Oh, lord, your face.”
“What about my face?” Matheus crossed his arms, glaring.
“It’s so―so goddamn serious. Oh, lord, I’m crying. Matheus, I’m moving down the hall, not across the country.”
“What? What?”
“Oh, I love you too, you maroon” Alistair hefted the suitcase off the bed. He paused by Matheus, planting a kiss on his cheek. “But I’m not in love with you. Also, I’d like to get laid, and you’re cramping my style.”
“So sorry.”
“Pull the stick out of your ass and help me with my stuff.”
“Carry your own shit,” Matheus muttered. He picked up the suitcase anyway.
“―furthermore, the section labeled ‘humans, keeping of’ is an insult to my right to maintain my own―”
Matheus nodded, pretending to scribble some notes on his legal pad. Next to him, Joan smoldered, her fingers caressing the long Bowie knife strapped to her thigh. He’d forbidden her from bringing the katana to negotiations. On his other side, Alistair took actual notes. He had surprisingly neat handwriting for a doctor. Matheus tilted back a fraction, scanning the notes out of the corner of his eye.
Absolute ass where the hell does he get off he wants what the hell that is happening stuff my fist down his―
Matheus bit down on a smile. So much for the note-taking process.
The absolute ass in question sat on the other side of the table, his entourage crowded around him. He’d swanned in earlier that evening and demanded a meeting. They’d been ensconced in the library for the last hour, while he went over everything that bothered him about the new residency agreement. Which, it seemed, included the entire thing.
“―is no reason why I should be forced to degrade myself to―”
Matheus tapped his pen on the table. Over the past four months, the ache of the bond had faded into the background, although never quite gone away. He’d grown accustomed to the steady throbbing in his bones. Quin’s outward appearance had healed, but he still showed no signs of waking. Alistair suggested the damage had driven him into hibernation.
“―without even being consulted, which is a―”
“We did hold several open sessions for people to give us their comments,” Alistair said.
The absolute ass sneered and continued with his diatribe as though no one had spoken.
Joan leaned over, whispering in Matheus’s ear. “Can I stab him yet?”
“No. Stop asking.”
“―will not be signing this travesty of a―”
Matheus froze, his pen hovering above the notepad. The room dropped away, Joan, Alistair, the absolute ass. The ocean roared in his ears, a wave of realization ripping through him. Time slowed to a molasses crawl.
“―contract under any― Are you listening?”
His chair hit the floor with a crash. The absolute ass stared at him, lip curled, nose wrinkled.
“No,” said Matheus. His voice seemed to come from inside a long tunnel.
“What’s going on?” Alistair looked up at him. “Is something―oh.”
“Yeah.” Matheus licked his lips, his hands shaking. He glanced at the door. “I have to―”
“Excuse me.” The absolute ass snapped his fingers. “I am not finished.”
“Yes, you are.” Matheus leaned forward, laying his palms on the table. “You’ll sign the agreement, and you’ll follow it, or you can get the hell out of my city. Is that understood?”
He held the man’s gaze without blinking, hoping the nerves jangling inside didn’t show on his face. “You don’t want to know what the third option is.”
After a second, the ass broke eye contact. A murmur spread among his entourage.
“Good.” Matheus straightened. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have something more important to deal with.” He skirted the table and threw open the library door.
“Can I stab him now?” Joan asked.
He didn’t wait to hear Alistair’s reply. Long strides ate up the distance across the foyer. He took the steps to the basement two at a time. The door swung wide as he reached for the handle. His world compressed in an instant, then exploded into an entire universe.
“Quin,” he said.
“Hello, Sunshine. Have I been out long?”
Matheus launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around him. He buried his nose in his throat, filling his lungs with Quin’s scent.
“Is that a yes?” asked Quin. “Hey—oof!”
They landed in a tangle on the floor. Matheus ran his hands over lean muscles, tracing his fingers over familiar scars. He clung to him like a shipwreck survivor to driftwood. His lips found Quin’s, and nothing had felt so right.
“Don’t ever do that again!” he shouted, sitting up. “You son of a bitch, do you have any idea―”
“I love you too.” Quin smiled.
“Bastard,” said Matheus, and kissed him. “I hate you.” He kissed him again. “I really, really hate you.”
“Clearly.” Quin cupped his face in both hands, rubbing his thumbs over Matheus’s wet cheeks. “Oh, Sunshine.”
“Hate you,” Matheus mumbled.
“Can you hate me somewhere else? This floor is not doing my nether regions any favors.”
Laughter bubbled out of Matheus’s chest. He grinned and rose, pulling Quin with him. “Come on.” Taking Quin’s hand, he led him toward the stairs.
“Where are we going?”
“Our bedroom.”
“I always knew you were a smart man,” said Quin.
Trees slid past in a green blur. Matheus held the wheel in a lazy grip. From the passenger seat, Quin fiddled with the radio, skipping from station to station until he found one he liked. Piano notes filled the car. Matheus let the sound wash over him.
He took the Montreal exit, eventually pulling up in front of a small split-level house with bushy hostas lining the walkway.
Fletcher answered the door. After a moment of silence, she gave Matheus a hug, and managed a strained smile for Quin. She led them to the living room. Bill stood as they entered, baby cradled in his arms.
“Do you want to hold him?” Fletcher asked.
“Umm,” said Matheus. Bill laid the baby in his arms. Young Lee stared up at him with sleepy solemnity. “Hello. I’m your uncle Matheus. Uhh. Good baby.”
“You are hopeless.” Quin lifted Lee out of Matheus’s awkward grasp. “Who’s a big, strong baby? You’re a big, strong baby. Oh, yes, you are. You’re going to slaughter lots of barbarians, aren’t you? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
“I think I need to sit down,” said Fletcher.
Matheus joined her, leaving Bill to supervise Quin.
“I never thought I’d see the day I let a vampire hold my baby,” she said.
“Things change,” said Matheus.
“Yes.” Fletcher glanced down at her hands. A ring glittered on the middle finger of her left hand, highlighting the missing digit.
“So, how have you been?”
“Good.” She flicked a look at him. “And you?”
“All right.”
“That’s good.”
They listened to Quin coo at the baby. Matheus rubbed his palms over his jeans. Pictures lined the walls of Fletcher’s home of people he’d never met. Bill’s family, he guessed. A bouquet of Gerbera daisies sat in a vase on the sideboard.
“Fletcher, I—”
“It’s all right.” She gave him a soft smile. “Everything’s all right.”
“Who’s going to kill those nasty Germans? Are you going to kill those mean Germans? Yes, you are!”
“Oh, God,” said Matheus. “I should have brought a video camera.”
“I’ll call you,” Fletcher said. “Maybe you can visit again.”
“I’d like that,” said Matheus. He shook Bill’s hand, hugged Fletcher, and walked out.
Quin waited by the car. “That went okay… Ri
ght?”
“Yeah.” Matheus took his hand and smiled. “Let’s go home.”
Amy Fecteau grew up in the wilds of suburbia, along with a younger sister and brother. As a child, Amy wanted to be a doctor-farmer-princess, but unfortunately the market for doctor-farmer-princesses just isn’t what it used to be. Also, Amy was born in the United States, severely limiting her chances to become royalty.
Amy wrote her first story at age twelve, the stirring tale of friendship and witch burning. She was cruelly robbed of first place in the district writing contest by Randa C., whose story of a handicapped girl overcoming her disability was nothing but a blatant grab for the judges’ sympathy. Fifteen years later, Amy would like to say, “Suck it, Randa,” but that would be petty and childish, so she will refrain.
Amy lives in southern Maine. She collects keychains, owns a cat (named CAT) and creates eclectic art in her spare time. Currently, she is studying computer science. She blames her love of sarcasm and snark on her large, strange, wonderful family.
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