by Amy Fecteau
“Then stand still,” Alistair said.
“I can’t,” Matheus said through teeth clenched so tightly, he felt the ache in his ears. “Where’s Quin?”
“How am I supposed to know that? If only one of us had a magic Quin tracker.” Alistair pressed a finger to his cheek, his lips forming an O shape. “Wait, one of us does. Imagine that.”
“Fucker.” Matheus kicked the refrigerator, denting the brushed metal front. Served it right, pretentious piece of crap. He kicked it again. The touchscreen flickered, but reset itself with a cheerful chirp. Matheus glowered at the screen. “Stupid, fucking, piece of shit, asshat, cocksucking, date rapist.”
“Are you talking about Quin or the fridge?”
“I need to find Quin.” Matheus swung around.
He barged through the kitchen doors, Alistair at his heels. He took the stairs two at a time, running down the second-floor hallway to the narrow staircase up to the third floor. He found Milo in a home office.
Milo glanced up as Matheus entered. A pair of identical ledgers were spread over the massive oak desk. A ruler stretched between them, matching the entries.
Matheus strode across the room, and slammed his hands down on the desk. One of his fingers overlapped the ledger page. Milo nudged it away with the tip of a pen.
“Where’s Quin?” Matheus asked.
Milo blinked at him. He looked at the ledgers, shifting the ruler down an entry.
“Someone owes the IRS a lot of money,” he said.
Grabbing the ledgers, Matheus flung them out the door. Alistair ducked just in time.
“I know you know,” Matheus said. “Where the fuck did he go?”
“I think you should tell him,” Alistair said. Loony, he mouthed, circling his finger around his ear. Matheus spun around.
“I can see your reflection in the window,” he said. He turned back to Milo. “Quin’s hurt, okay? He’s hurt and I can feel it and I swear to God and baby Jesus I will rip out your colon and feed it back to you if you don’t tell me right fucking now what stupid-ass thing Quin has gone and done now.”
“Quin knows how to look after himself,” Alistair said.
Matheus laughed humorlessly.
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But no, seventeen hundred years old and he runs about like he’s the only who knows how to punch people in the face.”
“Living that long could give some an inflated sense of their own invulnerability,” Milo said.
“I don’t want to debate why he does it,” Matheus said. “I just want to find his dumb ass.”
“Why don’t you use the bond?” Alistair folded his arms, a slight pout tugging down the corners of his lips. “It’s obviously working.”
“Because I’d have to find a way around buildings, or walk for miles, or backtrack because the street that was heading in the right direction veered the wrong way.” Matheus pointed to a spot about a foot away from Milo’s right side. “I know Quin’s hurt and in that direction. It’d be much fucking easier if someone gave me the address before I have a goddamn nervous breakdown.”
“You mean, this isn’t a nervous breakdown?”
Matheus whirled around.
Alistair took a step into the hall. “Sorry,” he said.
With a groan, Matheus slapped a hand over his face. He didn’t want to imagine what he looked like, if Alistair was apologizing. Slowly, he took a deep breath, counting as he exhaled. He lowered his arm with care, letting it rest at his side.
“Milo, can you please just—”
“Here.” Milo pushed slip of paper across the desk. “If he asks—”
“I didn’t get it from you,” Matheus said. “Insurance, right?”
Milo nodded.
The address gave a location in the warehouse district, on the other side of the river, close to the port. Matheus had been there a few times in college, during a very ill advised fling with a graphic design major. She didn’t appreciate his helpful critique that the no one except pretentious upper-middle-class kids with expensive cameras they didn’t know how to use considered pictures of grimy concrete buildings juxtaposed with half-dead weeds deep. The relationship ended shortly thereafter. From what Matheus remembered, a lot of shipping companies kept storage facilities there, along with a couple of factories making the kind of food usually found in a college dorm. Matheus had no idea why Quin needed to commune with cardboard boxes and pre-packaged macaroni and cheese. Well, he had one.
“This is him, isn’t it?” he asked. “The guy Quin wants to stop.”
“It’s an address. That’s it,” said Milo.
“Right,” said Matheus. “Fine.” He pushed past Alistair, hurrying toward the staircase. He skipped down the steps, racing his fingers over the bannister, the bottom of his shoes skimming the edge of the steps.
“Matheus, wait.” Alistair started down the stairs after him.
“I have to go.” Matheus swung onto the second-story hallway. He ducked into the trashed room to grab a coat, nearly bowling over Alistair as he emerged.
“I know,” said Alistair. He grabbed the hood of Matheus’ new North Face jacket. “I can go with you.”
He dropped the coat as Matheus turned around.
“No, stay here and look after Bianca.” The fabric rustled as Matheus searched for the other half of the zipper. He’d assumed zipping a jacket wouldn’t be beyond his skills, but once again, the universe chose to mock him with its massive complexity. “What kind of coat needs three zippers?” he mumbled, bent over, peering at identical bits of metal. “And buttons, too. What the hell?”
“I’m not a coward.”
“Ha.” Matheus closed the zipper with a vicious jerk. He looked up to see Alistair glaring at him. “Not you. I was—”
“I’m not the traitor, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Alistair said.
“I didn’t say that. I didn’t say you were a coward, either. Christ, you’re bloody sensitive.”
“I—”
“Shut up,” said Matheus. “Bibi’s still hurt. You’re a doctor. She needs your help more than I do. Besides, I’m not sure you’re the best person to take on a rescue mission for Quin.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Alistair with a sniff that would have made the starchiest of society matrons humphf with envy.
“Right, you’ve just blocked out that whole attempted murder by candlestick thing.” Matheus bounced on his heels. He wanted to be gone. Every second the buzzing grew louder, tiny pinpricks racing up and down his spine.
“That was a perfectly justifiable—”
Matheus let out a short, wordless scream.
Alistair cut off with a jerk, white visible 360 around the blue of his irises.
“Stop talking!” Matheus grabbed a handful of his own hair and yanked. “I’m going.”
The buzzing sank into his gut, driving him down the stairs with supernatural speed. He sprinted through the first floor, and out the front door, the piece of paper crumpled in one palm.
Matheus flew down the street, leaving the McMansions and Lexuses behind. Gasps followed as he passed, but Matheus ignored them. He crossed the river to the grittier side of the city. Darting through traffic, he narrowly missed becoming a hood ornament on a semi’s grill. The buildings shifted to concrete and sheet metal, uniform and bland. No sidewalks in this part of the city. Storage facilities didn’t attract sightseers. Matheus slowed, forcing himself to count off each step. Vibrations travelled up and down his legs, like trying to walk on a limb that had fallen asleep. He shoved his fists in his pockets to spare his nails.
A car passed, too fast on the narrow road. Matheus pressed himself against the concrete building, watching as the car turned down an alleyway. He checked the paper still clenched in his hand, but he hadn’t seen a street sign or number for fifteen minutes.
Stopping at the entrance to the alley, he peered around the corner. A line of cars waited to enter an underground parking garage
. A pair of guards stood outside. As Matheus watched, one of the guards checked IDs, while the other circled around the car. After a minute, the first guard handed back the ID. The gate creaked open, the car disappearing into the garage.
Matheus retreated around the corner. He chewed on his nail as he thought. There had to be another way into the building. It was a warehouse, not a secret CIA base. He risked a glance around the corner. Okay, a warehouse with cameras and armed guards.
Matheus slipped away, ducking his head as another car approached. He circled the building twice, keeping to the shadows. The garage appeared to be the main entrance. The two fire escapes had guards, armed with crossbows and enough silver to make the hairs on Matheus’ arm stand on end from ten meters away. No fighting his way in, then. He’d be staked before he took two steps.
Back by the entrance of the alley, Matheus waited for inspiration. A fifteen-year-old Seville passed him, shaking with a deep bass beat, the lyrics dissolved into incomprehensible noise. The Cadillac jerked to a halt mid-turn, the trunk sticking out into the road. Matheus stared, creeping closer. The trunk lid didn’t sit flush with the rest of the car. An idea germinated.
Before he had time to doubt himself, he ran forward in a crouch, stopping behind the car. He waited, checking under the car for an approaching guard. No one appeared. Holding his breath, Matheus counted out the beats, delivering a hard smack to the latch as the bass line rose to an eardrum-dissolving level. The half-opened lock popped loose. Matheus grabbed the lid, holding it low.
The music stopped, and Matheus froze. An eternity passed in a second before the next song started. Matheus popped the trunk, holding the lid low. Over the music, he heard the gate begin to rise. The car started to roll. With panicked speed, Matheus clambered into the trunk, pulling down the lid after him. The latch clicked.
Once inside, Matheus realized his plan had a might have a few flaws he hadn’t considered. He felt around the trunk for a handle or emergency release. The air in the trunk tasted like exhaust, too warm in his chest. Something jabbed into Matheus’ side. He reached behind him, fingers closing around a long, iron bar. Matheus gripped the tire iron with both hands as the car began to move. There’d been three cars in front, only one now. Matheus stopped searching for the release, afraid of attracting the guards’ attention.
Another roll forward, and the music cut off. Dimly, Matheus made out voices, but not words. The rough edge of the tire iron dug into his palm. He waited for the trunk to pop open, for the crossbow bolt to strike his chest. He constructed elaborate scenarios in his mind, nerves arcing electricity.
Gonnadiegonnadiegonnadie, he thought. What insane impulse compelled him to think this was a good plan? He should have tried the roof. Why hadn’t he tried the roof? He’d been hanging around Quin too long. Matheus always suspected madness was catching.
He nearly screamed as the car jerked forward. Cramming his fist into his mouth, Matheus let out a wild burst of laughter. The car drove over a low, downward grade, hitting a couple speed bumps too fast. Matheus whacked his head against the trunk lid, and hoped no one noticed the bang over the suspension’s protests. He slid backward as the car swung into a sharp turn. Matheus swore as a roadside kit banged into his funny bone. He made a note to write a sternly worded letter to Cadillac about what they considered adequate trunk space. He had a cramp bad to fell a racehorse in his leg.
The engine switched off. A couple of doors opened, the car shifting as its occupants climbed out. The doors slammed shut. Matheus tried to rub his calf, but gave up. He listened to the driver and his passenger talking as they walked around the car.
“I don’t understand what couldn’t wait until morning. I was in bed.”
“You were in bed at ten o’clock? Does your mommy set your bedtime?”
“I need a full eight hours.”
“How the hell did you ever get through med school?”
Their voices faded away with their footsteps. Matheus twisted and squirmed, working his way onto his side. He felt along the trunk wall, digging his fingers into every nook he found, but no handle appeared.
“Dammit.” Matheus ripped up the carpet. He pinned it down with one elbow, sliding his other hand over the exposed metal. On the driver’s side, he located a cable. Fingers crossed, he yanked. The cable slipped over his palm, leaving behind a slick line of black grease. Wiggling into a better position, Matheus tried again. The latch clicked open, a sliver of light appearing around the edge of the trunk lid.
Matheus fell back with a sigh. He used the tire iron to push the lid up an inch. The garage appeared empty.
He opened the lid all the way, and climbed out. He counted twenty cars, about half the spaces. At the far end of the room was an elevator, next to a door marked stairs. Both the elevator and the door had a keycard lock.
Matheus tried the handle anyway, unsurprised when the door failed to open. He drummed his fingers on the door, then turned to survey the rows of cars.
Matheus supposed people assumed a guarded garage meant they didn’t need to lock their cars. He appreciated their misplaced trust. Of course, he had the tire iron, but smashing windows had never been Matheus’ style. Even in his reckless teenage years, he’d never seen the point of vandalism. Theft and drug use, yes. Random destruction, not so much. Matheus searched through the cars, ducking down whenever a new one drove in. He found a lab coat, a pair of safety glasses, and a deactivated badge. Tucking the tire iron beneath the lab coat, Matheus sat down in the driver’s seat of one of the cars. He switched on the headlights, and waited.
Ten minutes later, a Volvo sedan pulled into the garage. Matheus pretended to be looking for something in the glove box. The engine of the Volvo shut off, and Matheus straightened up. He turned off the headlights, then climbed out of the car. He stood by the door, twisting his hand as though locking it.
The driver of the Volvo walked over to the elevator. The keycard reader beeped as she scanned her card.
The elevator doors opened.
Matheus hurried across the garage.
“Hold the lift!” he called, waving an arm.
The woman stopped the doors, holding them back with her foot. She smiled as Matheus mimed sliding his card through the reader.
“Thanks,” he said, as he thought, No beep. Jesus, what if she notices there wasn’t a beep? Fuck, oh, fuck, I can’t do this.
“No problem,” said the woman. “Are you new?”
“Just transferred from London,” Matheus said.
“Welcome to Nightmare Central.”
Matheus forced a chuckle. The elevator was institutional green, the paint chipped and stained. The woman looked at him, and Matheus realized he hadn’t picked a floor.
“Oh,” he said, jerking toward the buttons and picking one at random. “I’m all out of sorts tonight.”
“I think we all are.” The woman smiled at him again. The elevator stopped, then slowly rose the last foot. “This is me. Nice to have met you.”
“Yeah, you as well.”
The doors closed behind the woman. Matheus exhaled, slumping against the elevator wall. His hands shook. The buzzing receded slightly, but the feeling of wasps under his skin remained. The bond pulled him upward. Matheus wished the bond pointed him to the correct floor, but apparently, that asked too much. Heavens forbid the supernatural version of GHB offer any convenient tips. The first floor seemed to be an office. Matheus had trouble picturing Quin tied up amidst the cubicles and photocopiers. He decided to start on the second.
The second floor consisted of a nondescript hallway, grey carpets, and white walls. The lights stung Matheus’ eyes. He kept his head down, occasionally wiping away a tear before it slid down his cheek. He stumbled as a pair of guards turned the corner. Forcing himself to keep walking, Matheus gave them a curt nod. They ignored him. Matheus took that as a good sign.
The hallway split into a T-intersection. Matheus went left. He adjusted the tire iron, sticking the end into the pocket of his pants, the ben
d at the top tucked into his armpit. The hallway ended at a locked door. A placard read Containment Unit One in thick, no-nonsense letters. Just below shoulder height was a keypad, its display illuminated with the word locked.
“Shit,” said Matheus. He glanced down the hall, then back at the lock. With a shrug, he pulled out the tire iron. Sometimes, he had to accept that no clever solution presented itself, and the only logical thing to do was to whack the crap out of something.
The keypad made a distressed whining sound as Matheus beat it with the tire iron. After a couple of good hits, the plastic case cracked, revealing a tangle of wire underneath. Matheus pried the case off, cursing as the jagged edge tore at his fingernails. He yanked out the wires. The keypad gave one last dying beep, then went silent and dark. The door remained closed.
“Right,” said Matheus. “Of course.”
He sighed, and wedged the end of the tire iron between the door and the jamb. He gave the tire iron a couple of kicks, then gripped the metal bar and shoved. The door groaned. Matheus pushed harder, stumbling forward as the tire iron snapped free.
“Fuck!” Matheus swung the tire iron at the door. “Open.” Swing. “You.” Swing. “Piece.” Swing. “Of—oh.”
He managed to warp the door enough to work the deadbolt loose. With the tips of his fingers, he pulled the door open, peering into the dark room beyond.
He stepped inside, closing the door after him. Twenty to one he triggered a silent alarm somewhere. Matheus hoped the guards were too busy wanking over the latest issue of Guns and Ammo to notice.
He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust. When he pulled the keypad wires, he must have taken the lights out. The sharp sting in his eyes faded as shapes aligned into being. The cracks around the door let in enough light for him to see the glass panes on both walls of a short hallway. Three cells on either side, small boxes set in the wall beside each. Dim figures populated each of the cells, rising as Matheus’ footsteps echoed over the tile. Matheus approached the first one, setting the tire iron against his shoulder.
