by Amy Fecteau
“This must be your new disciple,” Grigori said, drawing Matheus’ attention back to him.
“Matheus, this is Grigori,” said Quin. “Formerly Edwin Pitts.”
The flash of rage reappeared. Grigori straightened, gripping the arms of his throne with his red-tipped fingers. The brunette on his left edged away, closer to the red-haired man and his neighbor.
“Unlike some, I have no desire to cling to my human name,” Grigori said. Flecks of spit shone on his lips. He wiped them clean with a swipe of his hand, streaking lipstick over his cheek.
“Who would, with a name like Pitts?” replied Quin cheerfully. The followers shifted, their worshipful poses destroyed by nerves and confusion. Only the young woman who’d led them in remained still, the zenith of composure. Quin waved at all of them.
With a poorly repressed snarl, Grigori leapt off the throne and stalked toward Matheus.
“You would like to share a meal?” he asked, lord and master once more. “To celebrate your dark rebirth.”
Quin snorted.
“No, thank you,” said Matheus. “I just ate.” He forced a smile, rubbing his stomach. He did not look at Quin. Grigori’s Cuban heels brought him up to Matheus’ height. A sharp line demarcated the hair at his forehead. Matheus saw the rows where the hair had been stitched into the wig. He bit his lip again.
“Another time, then,” said Grigori with a tight smile.
Quin muttered something Matheus didn’t catch.
Grigori half-turned, then stopped. He flicked his gaze up and down Matheus’ body. His tongue traced the lines of his lips as he stared. Matheus felt like he needed a shower. He’d bet his life savings that Grigori had zero interest in men. Maybe Grigori had been reading too many Anne Rice books.
“You’re taller than Quin’s usual choices,” Grigori said. “Maybe we should get to know each other better.” He stepped closer, raising his hand toward Matheus’ face.
Matheus’ eyes widened. A wild, desperate revulsion filled him. Crawling naked through broken glass sounded more appealing than letting this man touch him. He thought of the statues outside, and the tapestries, and the brunette who hid her face.
Grigori’s fingers brushed his jaw. Matheus slapped his hand away. The crack opened a deafening silence. The young woman on the stool tilted her head to the side, the first time she’d moved.
Grigori hissed and lunged. He drove Matheus across the length of the room, pinning him to the wall with an arm against his throat. Matheus kicked. His toes squeaked over the polished wood floor. Grigori’s arm felt like rebar, compressing Matheus’ throat into mush.
“You are an insect,” Grigori said. “I could end your mindless existence with as much effort as it takes to kill a fly.”
Matheus wrapped his fingers around Grigori’s arm, trying to pry him loose. He braced one foot against the wall, struggling for leverage.
“Have you ever actually tried to kill a fly?” Matheus choked. “It’s hard as fuck.”
Grigori pushed harder, collapsing Matheus’ windpipe. Jolts of pain twanged up and down his spine as the ligaments threatened to quit. He scrabbled his fingers over Grigori’s skin, cursing his nail-biting habit that left him with useless nubs.
Behind them, Quin cleared his throat.
For a millisecond, Grigori relaxed his arm as fear raced through his features, quickly followed by hate and anger. Condescension settled in as Matheus watched, Grigori’s thoughts writ large across his face. He and his followers outnumbered them ten to one, a golden opportunity to take out a longstanding annoyance. In Grigori’s shoes, Matheus might do the same thing. On the other hand, he strongly objected to being killed, especially twice in as many months.
So he kicked Grigori in the balls.
Grigori went down whimpering.
Matheus staggered at his sudden release. He felt a little bad as Grigori curled around himself like a dying caterpillar. Every man got that sympathetic twinge after seeing someone take it in the groin, no matter how much he deserved the kicking. Still, Matheus couldn’t deny the effectiveness. For a moment, nobody moved, Grigori’s soft keening the only sound. Then, the young woman stood. She took two steps before Matheus found himself being whipped around as Quin ran for the door.
“Thanks for having us!” Quin called over his shoulder. “We had a lovely time!”
They ran back to the front hall, taking the steps of the staircase two and three at a time. Matheus hit the unlock button on the key fob as they burst out the front door, thanking the fine people at Mercedes-Benz for installing a push-button start. He yanked open the driver’s side door, sliding in a half-second after Quin.
The car squealed down the driveway as Grigori’s followers came streaming out the front door. Quin twisted around in his seat, waving at them before the curve of the driveway slung them out of view. He sat back laughing as Matheus swung into traffic.
“Oh, Sunshine,” he said. “That was wonderful.”
“I’m glad you think it’s so funny,” Matheus said, rubbing his throat. “I think my windpipe’s crushed.”
“You’ll be fine. Grigori is never going to forgive you, but you’ll be fine.”
Matheus signaled a turn at the next light. Grigori’s followers might have cars of their own, and a car chase through the city did not have a spot on his agenda. The Merc’s paint might get chipped.
“Yeah,” said Matheus, trying to will the red arrow green. “I mean, why should I be worried about a centuries-old torture freak being pissed off because I made him cry like a little girl in front of all his friends?”
The light changed and Matheus turned, driving more sedately than before. He steered the car through the side streets, navigating by instinct toward the highway. Yellow squares of light dotted the houses, with the occasional shadow to signify someone moving around inside. They passed a church Matheus recognized, with a huge, cracked bell sitting in the middle of a garden.
“Grigori won’t do anything,” Quin said. He watched the houses slip by, one hand straying up to grasp the bar over the window.
“Why not?” Matheus asked.
Quin rubbed a hand over his head. “Grigori shares power with Apollonia and Zeb in a balance that took a long time to work out. If an ancient, well-known being chose to support one over the other, then there would be an imbalance.”
“You’re that important?” Matheus asked.
“Important?” Quin shrugged. “I don’t think so. But being dead doesn’t stop people from gossiping and I—I stand out.” He frowned at the glove box. Matheus decided not to ask.
“So, it’s political,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Not because you’d do ungodly things to him if he hurt me,” said Matheus. He had his suspicions as to why Quin ‘stood out.’
“Well,” said Quin. “That, too.”
Matheus was not pleased by that. A warm, fuzzy feeling of being protected did not fill his gut. That would be weird, and wrong, and he would not have it. Quin was a disturbed psychopath, not a cuddly security blanket. Matheus sent a strongly worded thought-letter to the neurons in charge of his emotions, chastising them for slacking on the job. Clearly, he needed to replace them with a whole new, less insane, crew.
“Sunshine?” said Quin. “You missed our turn.”
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Matheus asked.
“I’m sure,” Quin said.
The cottage perched on top of a hill with tall, blank apartment buildings rising up on either side. A large lawn surrounded the cottage, bordered with a tidy fence, complete with gate. An army of garden gnomes watched Matheus and Quin walk up the slate path. The siding on the cottage was a soft pink, with white trim. Matheus could swear he smelled fresh cookies. Never in his life had he been more convinced he’d wandered into a Twilight Zone episode and no one had bothered to tell him about the cameras.
“I think this is more frightening than Grigori’s house,” Matheus said. He pressed the doorbell, the chimes muff
led through the walls.
“Matheus,” Quin said. “In there, it’s going to be bad. Don’t…don’t be you.”
“What’s in there? Dammit, you’re just going to let me walk in there blind?”
Quin leaned over and pressed the doorbell again.
The front door opened before the chimes stopping ringing. A woman in her early thirties stood there, smiling at both of them. Brown hair cut into a bob framed a heart-shaped face powdered to peaches and cream perfection. She wore a string of pearls with matching earrings, and a high-collared dress with a tight waist and full skirt. She wasn’t pretty, but gave the impression that she ought to be.
“Come in, please,” she said, her voice a pleasant contralto hum. “I’ve just been baking. I do love the smell of cookies, don’t you?”
“Er, yes,” said Matheus. The front door opened onto a short hallway, with a door on either side as well as one at the end. He assumed the door on the end led to the rest of the cottage. The sitting room to which the woman led them didn’t stretch the length of the cottage.
“But you can’t eat them,” he added as the woman gestured for them to sit.
“Oh, no. I just enjoy the smell. And baking is so soothing. Please, sit.”
Matheus and Quin squeezed next to each other onto a chintz loveseat. All the nerves down the back of Matheus’ neck stood to attention and he had no idea why. Unless he’d suddenly developed a phobia of lace. Tiny pink roses covered the wallpaper; the few framed pictures were of innocuous landscapes mostly involving fields and carefully lit trees. Matheus glanced at Quin. He had clasped his hands, his arms rigid. Matheus’ nerves stretched higher.
“Are either of you hungry?” the woman, who must be Apollonia, asked. She sat down opposite them in a wingback chair with a matching ottoman tucked to one side. “I can fetch something from the pantry for you.”
“The pantry?” asked Matheus. Apollonia had the symptoms of an accent, but he couldn’t place it. Sometimes, he thought London, other times the American South, sometimes the Brahmins in Boston.
Apollonia laughed softly. “Would you like a tour?” she asked.
“No,” said Quin. “Thank you.”
“Maybe another time. I would so like for us to be friends.” She laughed again. “Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Apollonia Parker, of the Sheffield Parkers. My father was one of the founding fathers of this city.”
“Oh,” said Matheus. “That’s…good.” He took Apollonia’s outstretched hand by the fingertips, giving it the faintest shake. “Matheus Taylor,” he said. “Of no one.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Taylor. I do enjoy meeting new people.”
“Um, me too,” said Matheus, trying to catch Quin’s eye without attracting Apollonia’s attention. He was supposed to be afraid of Betty the Undead Homemaker? Did Quin have a pathological hatred of flowered wallpaper and doilies?
The door behind them swung open, padded footsteps as something entered the room. Two somethings. Matheus’ nerves started to scream.
“Oh,” cooed Apollonia. “How are my darlings today?”
A pair of naked, collared girls crawled into the room and knelt on either side of Apollonia’s chair. No older than eighteen, identical twins. Their bones pressed against their skin, bellies sunken beneath the winged edges of their rib cages. A pink bow sat at a jaunty angle on each of their heads. Matheus dug his nails into his knees.
“Do you like my pets?” Apollonia asked. “It’s so hard to find a matching pair.” She stroked the hair of the girl on the right. “I’ve had them three years now, and they are just a delight.”
“Nmm,” Matheus managed.
The girls’ hair parted in the middle, ends grazing the floor. Apollonia played with the strands, lifting up small sections and letting them fall. The girl shivered, but didn’t move. Her sister stared at the floor. Nothing moved behind her eyes, no indication of thought or emotion or life.
“I used to keep males, but they are so hard to control. Benji, my last pet, had to be put down. It was such a shame. I’m not ashamed to admit I cried a little. But it had to be done. He just would not behave.” Apollonia sighed.
“Shocking,” said Matheus.
Quin put his hand on his wrist and squeezed.
“Mitzi and Mopsy are very well-behaved,” Apollonia said. “Once I trained them, of course. A proper training is necessary. I do hate to be harsh, but sometimes it is called for. Pets need to know who is in charge.”
One of the girls crawled toward Matheus. Her fingers dragged over the carpet as she moved her hand forward, curving it out to place the palm flat. She moved slowly, more like a senior citizen than a woman fresh out of high school. Matheus counted the knobs in her spine, watched the spaces between them expand and contract as she moved.
“Quin,” Matheus said quietly, looking away as the girl rubbed her head against his leg like a cat.
“Oh, she likes you!” said Apollonia. “Scratch behind her ear. She likes that.”
The girl rolled her head back and forth, her skull hard and warm against Matheus’ thigh. He reached toward her, skimming her hair before he snatched his hand away. Quin’s grip tightened; Matheus shook his head.
“I can’t,” he said, speaking to Quin’s tie. “Quin, please.”
Quin cupped Matheus’ chin, forcing his head up. Matheus blinked, his gaze sliding away from Quin’s examination.
The girl inched closer, pressing her chest against Matheus’ shin. Matheus stared at flowered wallpaper and thought about how he would never smell cookies baking without thinking of this moment.
Matheus felt the girl’s heart beating, vibrations transferring through bone. It seemed too fast, too fragile to belong to a human. He’d held a mouse once, warm and shuddering between his palms, Matheus shaking in concert as the first realization of power and scale burst into his mind. He must have been five or six years old, but all that remained clear in his memory was feeling the mouse’s bones moving under its skin and the terrible choice offered to him. Sometimes, he thought he let the mouse go. Sometimes, he didn’t.
“They’re charming,” Quin said, releasing Matheus. He turned to Apollonia with a broad smile. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Apollonia.
“How much?”
“Pardon me?”
“How much for the pair?”
“Oh, they aren’t for sale.”
Quin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Miss Parker, how long have we known each other?” he asked.
Apollonia folded her hands in her lap, pursing her lips. “It must be close to fifty years,” she said. “I believe you came here the same year they rebuilt the pier.”
“Half a century,” said Quin. “I’ve done you some favors in that time, haven’t I?”
Apollonia’s smile grew stiff. Matheus had the feeling of someone following an elephant through a minefield. He closed his eyes and waited for the explosion.
“When it suited your needs,” Apollonia said.
“True. However, in the future, my needs might not be so line with yours,” Quin said. “So, how much?”
“Now what?” Matheus asked.
“St. Anne’s,” said Quin. “We’re just going to drop them off, understand? We are not getting involved.”
Matheus started the engine, watching in the girls in the rearview mirror as he pulled away from the curb. They huddled together, the loops of their bows drooping against each other. The one on the left wore Quin’s jacket, the one on the right, Matheus’. The lapels hung open, a revealing a narrow strip of skin, the sleeves pooling in their laps. Neither girl had spoken a word, even as Quin carried them out of Apollonia’s cottage.
“Are they going to be okay?” Matheus asked.
“No,” Quin said. He rested his elbow against the window, pressing his fingertips into his temple. “Maybe. After years of therapy.”
“Jesus.” The road blurred, the lights expanding into starburst
s. He forced back the curses threatening to escape, slamming his hand on the steering wheel instead. The car jerked to the right, nearly sideswiping a bread truck. The driver beeped as he swerved, the high, stinging note piercing even the Merc’s shielded interior.
“Fuck!” Matheus yelled, yanking the car into the correct lane.
Quin gave him a sharp look.
Matheus compressed his lips until the muscles around his mouth began to ache.
In the backseat, the girls drew their legs up, contracting into each other as though they could merge to a single point. One of them began to cry, tiny, gulps of air betraying the repressed sobs.
Quin released his seatbelt, then twisted around until he knelt on his seat, clutching the headrest for stability.
Matheus stared straight ahead, cutting through lights and around turns with vicious accuracy.
“Shh,” said Quin. “It’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re going to take you somewhere safe. Is that okay? Can you talk?”
His questions contained no urgency; Quin maintained a soft, repetitive tone, cycling like slow waves on an empty beach. He used the soothing technique, but Matheus didn’t object. He didn’t imagine the girls had had a lot of comfort over the last three years. Matheus glanced in the rearview mirror, flinching as one of the girls met his gaze. She looked down in a millisecond, but Matheus couldn’t un-see the terror etched into her expression. Apollonia had broken the girls and made them her own.
“What are your names?” Quin asked. “Not the names Miss Parker gave you, your real names.”
The girls didn’t respond. The girl in Quin’s jacket pressed her face into her sister’s shoulder, her fingers curling into the other girl’s hair. Quin reached over the seat, slow, carefully movements, clasping the tail of the girl’s bow between his first two fingers and pulling it free. The ribbon whispered in the enclosed space as it slid into his fingers. He removed the other girl’s bow, then tossed both ribbons out the window. They caught the wind for a brief second before falling beneath the tires of an oncoming car.
