by Amy Fecteau
A smile rose and fell across Quin’s face. “What are they about?” he asked.
Matheus closed the book with a sharp crack, then tossed it onto the nightstand. “Does it matter?”
“I want to know,” said Quin, his eyes closed, his hands lacing together over his chest.
“They’re bad, okay? I don’t want to talk about them.”
“Are they about the hunt?”
“No.”
“About me?”
“Sometimes.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not like that,” said Matheus. He did not volunteer what the dreams were like.
“I’ve never heard of any of our kind having dreams,” Quin said.
“And you know everything.”
“I know a lot.”
Matheus snorted. He heard a door open in the hall, then creak of the stairs. Alistair, he guessed. Milo seemed to be a late riser, although not as much as Quin. Today was an anomaly. “What difference does it make?” he asked.
“It’s strange.”
“We die at sunrise and drink blood to survive, and having nightmares is strange?”
“It’s relative,” said Quin.
“Right,” said Matheus. “Not only am I a freak, I’m a strange freak.” He picked up the book again, cursing as he realized he’d never replaced his bookmark. He flipped through the pages, scanning the top line of each.
“But you have nice hair.”
“Great.” Matheus waved the book back and forth. “I can have a second career as a shampoo model.”
“You think you’re attractive enough to be a model?” asked Quin.
Matheus threw the book at him. The corner caught on Quin’s stomach, leaving behind a small, triangular mark.
Quin opened his eyes, looking at the book as though he’d never seen one before. With one finger, he nudged the side, turning the spine to face him. “Sartre?” he asked.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Just not what I expected, Sunshine.”
“I read a lot of different things,” said Matheus. “It’s your book.”
“Is it?” Quin shrugged. He set the book on the bed between them, and closed his eyes again. “Do you always wake up this early?”
“Most nights, yes.”
“It’s still light outside.”
“Sun’s down.”
“Barely.” Quin shifted, pushing the blanket down with his feet. His loose pants rode low on his hips, revealing the deep V of his pelvic bones. “This bed is terrible.”
“I couldn’t exactly kick Bibi out of mine,” Matheus said. He fixated on the dingy painting hanging on the opposite wall. Dirt obscured much of the picture, but Matheus thought there might be a sailboat. Or possibly a lighthouse. Matheus tried to peer through the grime, determined not to look at Quin’s annoyingly flat stomach.
“Why do you insist on using that ridiculous nickname?”
Matheus looked at him, the sheer stupidity of Quin’s question at least providing a distraction from more uncomfortable thoughts.
After a second, Quin opened his eyes. Twisting his head, he blinked up at Matheus.
Matheus raised his eyebrows at him.
“That’s different,” said Quin.
“If you say so.”
Upstairs, the floorboard whined and squeaked. Footsteps crossed the front hall, fading as they moved toward the back door. Milo, Matheus thought. He wore heavy, brown leather boots, even within the house. Alistair walked around barefoot or in the canvas sneakers he’d had on when he arrived.
“Maybe you dream because you wake up so early,” Quin said, propping himself up onto his elbows.
“What would that have to do with anything?” Matheus returned to his X-ray examination of the painting. Maybe the tan, blobby thing in the corner was a dog. Or an island. Or perhaps a smaller ship, set into the background.
“Maybe your brain wakes up first, and creates dreams to deal with the horror of being stuck in a dead body.”
“That’s awful.” Matheus gaped at Quin.
“It’s a theory.”
“A horrible one!”
“You come up with a better one.” Quin dropped flat onto the bed. He curled onto his side, tugging the pillow out from behind Matheus’ back. Folding the pillow in half, Quin tucked it under his head, his nose mashed against the pale blue pillowcase. He closed his eyes again.
Matheus decided the tan blob was a smaller ship. He glanced at Quin, in his approximation of sleep, his fingers relaxed on the sheet. A strange, awkward feeling built behind Matheus’ solar plexus. He inhaled, sharp and loud in the quiet room.
“Is that a ship?” Matheus asked, pointing to the painting as Quin cracked one eyelid.
“It’s a hunter,” said Quin, the curious eye drifted closed.
“It doesn’t look like a hunter.”
“Not a person-type hunter, a horse-type hunter. It’s a painting of a fox hunt.”
“Oh. I thought it was a ship. There’s the sail and the waves along the bot—”
“Sunshine, there are occasions when you don’t actually have to speak,” Quin said into the pillow. “Not all silences need to be filled.”
“Ass.” Matheus threw off the covers and stood up. He stretched, digging his toes into the carpet. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Quin flapped a hand at him.
“Are you going to lie there all night?” Matheus asked.
“Are you inviting me to join you?”
“Nope, shower’s too small.” Matheus flashed a grin as Quin’s eyes flew open, then dashed from the room.
Juliet’s voice echoed up the stairwell as Matheus emerged from the bathroom. He stood in the hallway, clothes clinging to his damp frame, water dripping down the back of his neck. Shifting his bundle of dirty laundry, Matheus weighed his desire for information against his fear of being eaten and molested. The decision didn’t take long.
“What are you doing here?” Milo asked.
“Hiding.” Matheus set his clothes by the door, then picked his way through the tangled wires. He half-sat, half-leaned on the windowsill, pulling his hands inside the sleeves of his sweater. “Juliet’s downstairs.”
“Juliet?” Milo flicked a glance at Matheus. A plain text file covered the middle screen, cursor blinking at the end of a long string of numbers.
“Thin blonde, dresses like a Niemen Marcus mannequin..”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Milo glanced at Matheus again, then tapped the papers on the desk into a neat stack. Keeping his eyes on the paper, Milo typed in more numbers. The keys clicked; the wind blew in through the open pane.
Matheus shivered. Frost built in his hair, stiffening the locks into blond icicles.
“So can you get YouTube on that?” he asked, striving for the easy joviality that everyone else seemed to master by age five, but Matheus never quite grasped. Maybe he’d stayed home sick and missed the lecture on small talk. Maybe the local high school offered remedial classes. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m kidding.”
Milo paused, looked from the paper to the screen, then deleted the last row with jittering taps to the backspace key.
“You’re not going to leave, are you?” he asked, looking at the numbers.
Matheus assumed Milo meant him, since pixelated numbers rarely held conversations with people outside locked rooms with padded walls.
“Not while Juliet is here,” Matheus said. A strand of hair fell into his eye, the frozen tip poking his cornea.
“What has this woman done?”
“I thought she was normal—a little weird, but basically normal. Then she starts getting all touchy-feely. Well, more touchy-feely.”
“Is she attractive?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
Milo turned the page, snapping the thin paper as he laid it face down on the desk. He typed for several minutes, finishing another page.
“Am I distracting you?” asked M
atheus.
“Yes.”
Matheus examined the floorboards. He listened for Juliet’s voice, but heard only the hum of the computers and the faint whistle of the wind through the open pane.
“Quin told me you’re looking for someone,” he said.
“I’m collating data,” said Milo. He flicked his gaze from Matheus to the doorway.
Matheus ignored the not-so-subtle hint. “I can see that,” he said. “It doesn’t look very computer-y. Can’t you just hack something?”
“You’ve seen too many movies,” said Milo. “You’re afraid this woman is going to touch you?”
“When you say it like that it sounds stupid.”
Milo spun around in his chair, looked at Matheus for a moment, then returned to his keyboard.
“Okay,” said Matheus. “But you didn’t see her face when I pushed her away. You know how that little girl in The Exorcist looked when she went all demonic? It was like that.”
“I don’t watch movies.”
“What do you for fun?”
Milo approached smiling as 1/x approached zero. “I amuse spoiled rich boys who’re afraid of women,” he said.
“I’m not afraid of women,” said Matheus, curling his fingers around a thick wad of sweater material. “Or rich. I was never rich. My father was rich.”
“Only rich people say that.”
“There’s a difference. Trust me. My father made sure I knew the difference.”
“Are you going to cry?”
“Go to hell,” said Matheus. He stood up, catching his foot on one of the many wires. He landed with palms and knees on the floor, wire twisted around his ankle.
“Goddamn.” Matheus yanked at the wire, kicking his leg at the same time.
“Wait—”
One of Milo’s monitors winked out. Matheus paused, foot hanging in mid-air. “Uh,” he said.
“It’s fine,” said Milo. He gave the cable a twitch, plugging the end into the back of the monitor.
“Those should probably be taped down,” said Matheus, tugging on his clothes as he stood.
Milo looked at him over his shoulder.
“Or not,” Matheus said. With careful steps, he started for the door.
“Why’d you leave?” Milo asked the computer screen. “Even with the daddy issues, that was a lot of money you walked away from.”
Matheus paused. “It wasn’t worth it.”
“Seventeen-point-three million pounds wasn’t worth it?”
“Not even remotely.” Matheus waited, but Milo didn’t say anything else. From the doorway, Matheus could hear Juliet shouting at Quin. Or, as Quin insisted, near him. “Can I just—?”
“I have to work,” said Milo.
“Only for a—”
“No. Go away.”
“Fine.” Matheus picked up his bundle of dirty clothes. “But if I get eaten by a woman half my size, it’s your fault.”
“I’ll live with the guilt,” Milo said.
Matheus crept past Quin’s study. The door was partly open, shadows playing across the hall wall as someone paced inside. Low voices filtered out; Matheus caught the occasional word as he passed. Either Juliet had finished her yelling, or Quin had gagged her. Matheus leaned toward the latter. He ditched his dirty clothes on the washer, and went down to his room.
Bianca sat against the headboard, one of Matheus’ shirts hiding the thick bandages. Dark circles ringed her eyes, but her smile sat light on her face. The room reeked of bleach. A new blanket covered Bianca’s legs. A book, cover imprinted with brassy gold script over a woman in a dress really not suited for standing on windy cliffs, sat spread open on the bed.
Matheus picked up the book, skimming through a couple paragraphs.
“Her bosom heaved, pearlescent globes high and trembling above her corset,” he read. “‘Oh, Lord Rackham,’ she cried. ‘I must beg your indulgence, for I am only a delicate flower in this harsh’—Are you fucking kidding me?”
“You can’t eat roast beef and veggies every night,” said Bianca. “Sometimes you just want a Curly Wurly.” She plucked the book out of Matheus’ hands and set it on the nightstand. “You don’t happen to have one, by chance?”
“I don’t think they’re sold in the U.S.,” said Matheus, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I can get you a Snickers.”
Bianca made a face.
“There’s a store in Brooklyn—”
“I’m not driving four hours to get you a candy bar,” Matheus said. “Ask Alistair. Where is he, by the way?”
“He went out.”
“Out where?”
“I don’t know, love. Perhaps he’s making house calls.”
“Right. He’s a boon to humanity.”
“Saved my life,” said Bianca.
“You’re not human,” Matheus said.
“Touché.” Bianca sighed, settling down into the mound of pillows propping her upright. “Besides, Alistair does make house calls. Some people like to keep their meals close at hand.”
Matheus eyed the pillows. Bianca didn’t need all of them; she should be resting, not propped up on half-dozen overstuffed pillows reading bad romance novels. Removing the temptation was in her best interest, really. Matheus stroked the nearest pillow, nearly whimpering at the silken feel of a 1000-thread count pillowcase.
“Hmm?” he asked.
“There are hunters, and then there are farmers.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re so simple, Mat. Everything has to be explained to you.”
“Do you want me to do a dramatic reading from The Tempest of Blackhurst?” Matheus asked. “Because I will. And I’ll make the sex noises.”
“Oh, my God, no thank you. I want to enjoy that book.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing,” said Bianca. “So, there are people like Quin who go the traditional route and hunt when they need to eat. Then there are people who like to keep a stable, so they can pop down for a snack whenever they get the urge. Sometimes humans get hurt or ill, and that’s where Alistair comes in. Understand?”
“So, he patches people together so some lazy asshole doesn’t have to throw out their spoiled meat? Oh, yes, that’s the heart and soul of the Hippocratic oath.”
“He doesn’t like it, either. Charges them outrageous fees.”
“Yeah, that makes it all right. As long as Alistair’s getting paid.”
“Would you rather spend the last days of your life ignored and in pain, or would you want to know that there was someone who cared, even if they couldn’t save you. We’re all going to die, Mat. Take the comfort you’re offered, and let others do the same.”
Matheus looked at Bianca, but she stared at her hands, clasping and releasing the thick blanket.
“When did the world become such a shithole?” he asked, turning to face the door.
Bianca pressed the palm of her hand between his shoulder blades. Heat radiated through his shirt; Matheus thought he’d be left with a red handprint on his skin.
“Don’t be so naïve, Mat.”
“Right. It’s always been a shithole. I just got to pretend it wasn’t, for a while.” He shivered as Bianca took back her hand.
“Your constant sunny optimism really gives me the will to live,” Bianca said, the bounce returning to her voice.
“Yeah, I’m going on Dr. Phil next week,” said Matheus.
Bianca grinned at him. She tucked a blond strand behind his ear, then combed her fingers through his hair, shifting the part to the left and smoothing out the more disorganized areas.
“Stop that.” Matheus shook his head, letting the hairs fall into their normal positions.
“I like your hair all neat and tidy. Makes you look distinguished.”
Like my father, Matheus thought.
“Give us a smile, come on.” Bianca tugged the corner of his mouth upward. “Not like that, a real one. Oh, never mind.” She dropped her hand to the mattress. Closing her eyes, s
he wiggled lower, chest rising and falling in a slow pattern.Matheus stood up, crossing over to his dresser. Slowly, he pulled out the top drawer, collecting fresh socks and underwear for the next week. He didn’t know how long Bianca’s recovery would take. She might heal faster than a human, but how much faster? Accelerated healing or not, Bianca was still mortal. He paused, holding the paisley socks in his left hand. He never really considered that before. Until two months ago, they’d been aging at the same rate. Even with years spent apart, the progression of time linked them. Except now, Matheus was decoupled, pushed onto a side track, while everyone else moved forward. In ten years, would Bianca be a different person? Someone he didn’t recognize? Twenty? Thirty? How many years before she wasn’t the girl he’d sat with under the bridge, chain-smoking until past curfew?
“Mat?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have a mobile?”
“Um.” Matheus looked at the socks in his hand, then set them down in the drawer. “Yeah, one of those disposable deals. They shut off my old one. Why?”
“I want to call my folks. In case they hear anything.”
“You’re going to use all my minutes.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“I’m kidding, Bibi. Don’t worry about it.” Matheus handed her the phone, then returned to his sock drawer. He made a pyramid of socks on his top of his dresser; the paisley pair did not make the cut.
“Reception is horrible down here,” said Bianca. “Oh, wait, I think it’s going through. Hey, Mum, it’s me.”
Matheus grabbed a couple of clean shirts. Wrapping them around the socks, he headed for the door.
“Oh, you heard. No, I’m—Mum, please stop crying. I’m fine, really.” Bianca caught Matheus’ eye and grimaced. “Is Dad there? Put Dad on. Hi, Dad. Yes, I’m—oh, good lord.” Putting her index finger to her forehead, Bianca mock-shot herself.
As Matheus slipped out of the room, he heard Bianca’s father yelling through the tiny speaker.
Matheus leaned around the living room door. The room appeared empty, safe to enter.
“Hello, Pet.”
“Argh!” Matheus jumped, spinning around so quickly he had to catch the sides of the door to remain standing.
“Don’t look so worried.” Juliet smoothed down her skirt, then twitched the cuffs of her suit-jacket. “Really, Pet. Low blood sugar can make a person do foolish things.”
