Season's Bleeding Read online

  Season’s Bleeding

  A Thaumaturge Series Short

  Cal Matthews

  *

  The events in The Dead take place in autumn 2015. Season’s Bleeding takes place the previous Christmas.

  Copyright © 2015 Cal Matthews

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons and places, except those that exist in the public domain, are unintentional and entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author.

  Cover Art by Natasha Snow © 2015

  Dedication

  For Matt

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Natasha Snow, amazing book cover design artist and all around awesome person.

  Thank you to Skyla Dawn Cameron, for formatting this short.

  Thank you to my husband, as usual, for putting up with me.

  “This is a horrible idea,” Leo said.

  “Yeah, I kinda agree with you,” I said, but climbed out of the truck anyway. I headed across the parking lot without waiting to see if he followed me. Objectively, I could recognize that taking Leo last minute Christmas shopping at Wal-Mart was a pretty terrible idea and yet still get a perverse pleasure at seeing him recoil at the enthusiastic greeting from the Salvation Army bell-ringer.

  He moaned, low and agonized, as we stepped through the automatic doors and onto the slick, mud-slushed floor. Shoppers streamed past us, bundled up in thick coats and hats, burdened with carts and kids and lumpy bags. Christmas tunes piped over the loudspeakers, cheerful and upbeat. Leo turned desperate, pleading eyes on me. Under the harsh fluorescents, his pale skin looked particularly waxen.

  “Don’t make me do this,” he said.

  I just grinned. “You owe me,” I told him. “Last night-”

  “Fine,” he snapped, his eyes flashing gold. “Grab a fucking cart.”

  Last night I’d ended up sitting cross-legged in the supply room of Heckerson’s take-out fried chicken restaurant, my bloody hands pressed to the torn out neck of the middle-aged counter lady. Leo had paced in front of me, apologizing and insisting that he thought his control had improved. He’d been in town six weeks and I’d already resurrected two of his other victims. Personally, I thought he was about as controlled as a train wreck, but I said nothing, brought the lady back to life and scored a bucket of fried chicken and a case of Blue Moon.

  “So what are we shopping for?” Leo asked once I grabbed a cart and we’d started down the crowded aisle. We curved around a display of festive poinsettias and an automated Santa gyrating to “Jingle Bell Rock”. A flustered young man with a screaming toddler tucked under his arm brushed past us, and Leo stared after them, something unreadable flickering over his face.

  “I need to get something for my Mom and Dahlia and Brittany,” I said.

  “Not Lloyd?”

  I snorted. “Uh, no. But maybe something for you if you see something you want.” I snuck a glance and saw him staring back at me, that same strange expression on his face.

  “You don’t need to get me anything for Christmas, Ebron,” he said quietly.

  I shrugged and looked away, like it was nothing. I checked my phone, as casual as I could, swallowing my embarrassment. Why the hell had I said that?

  “Anyway,” I said. “I want to get my Mom a new slow cooker. Let’s head over that way.”

  Leo trailed after me as I made my way through the crowds clogging the greeting card aisles and turned towards the kitchen and dining section. Several elderly women had claimed real estate right in front of the Crock Pots and I eyed the saucepans while I waited for them to move along. Leo fidgeted at my side, breathing noisily through his mouth.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  He jerked his head in their direction and gave me a pained grimace. “It’s all the perfume in here,” he grumbled, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Smells like flower-scented death.”

  And just like that, the old ladies moved on and I stepped up to compare the price tags on the slow cookers.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” I told Leo when he pressed in next to me, touching the buttons on the biggest model.

  He shrugged. “I’m here under duress.”

  “Seriously,” I said. “I appreciate you coming.”

  “The things I do for you, Ebron. See how I suffer for you?”

  “We could go out to a nice dinner. They have actual restaurants here.”

  “Oh, yeah, the thriving metropolis of Butte,” he smirked. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

  I ignored the little flare of hurt in my chest. I mean, what did I expect? A romantic, candlelit dinner? Keep dreaming, man. I focused on the kitchen appliances and picked up a decent, mid-priced slow cooker that included a 100-page cookbook.

  “This’ll do,” I said and dumped it into the cart. I turned back to Leo, intending to ask him whether he wanted to detour around the aisle with all the smelly candles when a couple of giggly teenagers turned the corner and wandered past us. They bumped into each other as they walked, smiling, soft-eyed. I scowled, annoyed when they crowded right up against me to squeeze past my cart, but Leo shot me a wolfish grin.

  “They just fucked,” he told me.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Gross. How do you know?”

  He gave an exaggerated sniff. “It’s, like, a thousand times better than a human’s.”

  “A thousand?” I scoffed. “Have there been studies?”

  He just shook his head, still smiling. “You wouldn’t believe what I can tell just from scent alone.”

  “Yeah?” I said and started pushing the cart towards the electronics section. “Prove it.”

  “She had fish for lunch,” Leo whispered in my ear, pressing along my back. My heart gave a thud at his closeness. I didn’t have the nose of a bloodhound – or a vampire – but I could still smell the leathery, musky scent coming off of him and certain areas of my body perked to attention. “She has a dog at home. She’s on her period-”

  “Dude!” I elbowed him in the chest. “That’s a fucking invasion of privacy.”

  “You asked!” he replied, chuckling. “Anyway, she pumped gas recently too, and she lives with a close female relative. Sister, I would guess. And…” he slid around to face me. “She’s not a natural blonde.”

  I threw a quick glance at the girl in question, eyeing her head as she dropped about half a dozen picture frames into her basket. “You can tell that?”

  “Can’t you?”

  “Well…” I squinted. “Okay. Fair point.”

  He grinned at me, his dark eyes lit up. Behind him, two different girls elbowed each other and nodded towards us, talking behind their hands. Leo didn’t notice them, but I ran my hand down his arm, over the rough creases of his leather jacket, and flashed them a smug smile over his shoulder. Their eyes went huge and they scampered off, whispering furiously to each other.

  “What was that?” Leo asked, looking down at where my fingers curled around his wrist. I quickly let my arm drop.

  “Nothing,” I said. “This is fun. Do another one.”

  “Okay. Pick someone.”

  I scanned the electronics section, dismissing a few harried-looking hetero couples and an elderly man peering at the iPods in bewilderment. Finally I jerked my chin towards a skinny, bearded, guy perusing the video games. He wore a black hoodie and cargo shorts. And socks with sandals. In
December. In Montana.

  “That guy,” I said, fixated on his pale, bare ankles.

  We approached the guy casually. Leo stepped slowly around him to pick up a DVD of 1987’s The Lost Boys, digitally re-mastered and everything. I made a noise and Leo shot me an amused look. He turned the case over, appearing to read the back but I saw his nostrils flare. He set the DVD back down and joined me by the row of flickering TVs.

  “He just got out of the shower,” Leo said promptly. “He used Suave shampoo and body wash. He brushed his teeth, flossed, all that. He has dogs, too, more than one. Three, I think. He smells a little like blood, so maybe he cut himself shaving or has a paper cut or something. He hasn’t eaten yet recently, but he had a Red Bull and I smell medication on him. Cough drops, or cough syrup. I’m pretty sure he lives alone, but he’s been in close contact with other people. Friends, not family; the smells are too different. He smells like books, too. And he’s cried within the last hour.”

  “Oh,” I said softly. I looked back at the guy and accidently caught his eye. He gave me a tiny, nervous nod and went back to his browsing. I wondered for whom he was shopping. If he had someone out there shopping for him.

  “Are you bullshitting me?” I asked, turning back to Leo.

  “I’m not,” he said. “But it’s not always fun.”

  I nodded, chastised. “I see that. Uh, automotives. I want to get Brittany a tool kit for her car.”

  “Lead the way,” Leo said and gave me an after-you gesture.

  We threaded through the chaotic toy section, testing the shopping cart’s maneuverability as flustered parents darted around us in pursuit of their ebullient offspring. Three toddlers bent together over a display of robot dinosaurs and as we darted around them, I caught a tiny, wistful smile on Leo’s face. I’d never seen that smile before. It made his face look different, less harsh, less cold. That smile made something in my chest tightened. When I thought about all the things I didn’t know about him…

  “You okay?” I asked loudly, interrupting his trance as he stared at the kids.

  He startled and when he looked at me, I saw the second that he put his game face back on, the very second that that smile slipped away. I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or regretful.

  “Fine,” he said, clipped and closed-off. “I’m going to peruse the firearms while you finish up. Find me when you’re done.”

  “Leo,” I called, stepping after him. He half-turned, looking at me over his shoulder. I didn’t often see his eyes look so wary.

  “Hang out with me,” I said softly.

  He looked at me for several long seconds, while my heart pounded in my chest and holiday shoppers streamed around us. I would have said more, said please, said sorry, anything really to get us back to laughing. But before I could, he jerked a quick, sharp nod and shuffled forward, close enough that we made a little island in the sea of people.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  His eyes flicked back and forth between my own, but he nodded again.

  “Sure,” he said. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Automatives then?”

  “Yeah,” I said and gave the cart a small push, waiting to see if he would walk with me or trail behind. He curled his fingers around the handle, our shoulders brushing, and we walked side by side past the guns.

  “Do you have plans for Christmas?” Leo asked, low and without looking at me. Our cart squeaked over the dirty linoleum.

  “I’m just staying home,” I replied. “Mom and fucking Lloyd are going to Idaho. To his daughter’s house.”

  “Oh,” Leo said.

  “Are you going to be around?” I asked, though it took me a few seconds to say it.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll be here.”

  “Great,” I said, and couldn’t help the grin that took over my face.

  “Good.” He smiled back, waiting by the cart while I stopped to look over the tool kits crammed on the shelf.

  “What are you getting Dahlia?” Leo asked after I’d tossed a pink, skull-decorated tool kit into the cart.

  “I dunno,” I said. “Maybe something for her next show?”

  “I doubt they sell packers here.”

  I blinked. “Packers?”

  “Yeah,” he said and snorted a little laugh. “Fake dicks? Cross-dressers put ‘em into their pants.”

  “She’s not a cross-dresser,” I said. Lord knows Dahlia had reminded me of that plenty of times. “She’s a drag king. I was thinking more along the lines of like, a belt or hat or something. Like a top hat.”

  “A top hat.”

  “Or a fedora,” I said defensively, turning my shoulders in and away from him.

  “They don’t sell top hats at fucking Wal-Mart,” Leo said.

  “Well, they don’t sell fake dicks either.”

  He paused and gave me a sly smile. “I bet they sell vibrators though.”

  “No, they don’t,” I scoffed. “They don’t even sell CD’s with explicit lyrics.”

  “They don’t call them vibrators,” he said, rolling his eyes. “They call them ‘personal massagers’. I bet they have them. C’mon.”

  With that, Leo darted through the crowded aisle and hooked a right around the corner. I pushed the cart after him, watching his retreating back as holiday shoppers parted before him. He strode confidently towards the health and beauty section and disappeared from view just as another cart bumped into mine.

  The man pushing the cart and I did the awkward ‘scuse me, no, ‘scuse me dance around each other. Laughing, the other guy finally hauled his cart to one side and gestured me through.

  “Happy holidays!” he called after me as I made my get-away. I waved over my shoulder, already peering down the tampon and shampoo aisles. Nope, nope.

  Oh, there he was, just past the dental care items, triumphantly holding up a small, colorful box.

  “That’s not a vibrator,” I said as I joined him.

  “Personal massager,” he corrected and tapped the box with an index finger. “’Hand-held precision massager’,” he read aloud. “That means vibrator.”

  I scoffed and took the box from him, turning it in my hands. It certainly looked… phallic. And orange.

  “Want to get one?” Leo asked, waggling his eyebrows.

  “Leo, I’m not buying Dahlia a fucking vibrator. Pardon me, a personal massager.”

  “No,” he said, taking the box back from me and setting it in the cart. “For us, idiot.”

  “Oh,” I said, my cheeks growing warm. He grinned at me and swayed in, touching his hip to mine. I took a surreptitious look around and dismissed the lady at the end of the aisle, selecting deodorants.

  “What are we gonna do with a vibrator?” I asked, leaning close to him.

  “Oh, I can think of a few things,” he answered. “Several of which do, in fact, require precision.”

  My face warming further, I took at the look at the other massagers displayed on the shelf. My eyes fell on the price tag.

  “Dude, Leo, that thing’s sixty-nine bucks.”

  He hummed. “Of course it is.”

  “Sixty-nine, as in, almost seventy.”

  “Ebron,” he said, and reached up, taking my chin in his hand and pressing his thumb to my bottom lip. “You said you would buy me a Christmas present.”

  I nodded, swallowing hard. “Sure. Okay. Yeah. Merry Christmas.”

  “Thanks,” he said and leaned up, kissing me lightly on the lips. “We’ll need to grab some more lube.”

  I heard a squeak and we both looked up to see several fellow shoppers –parents with kids and a baby in the cart – frozen at the end of the aisle. They stared at us, at our loose embrace, our faces together. The two adults reversed, hauling their squabbling and confused children after them. The woman smelling deodorants glanced up at the commotion, too, completely oblivious. She looked around, blinked at us, and went back to her careful comparative shopping as the aisle cleared out. Leo and I shared a quick smile.

>   “I still have to get something for Dahlia,” I said, reluctantly stepping away. He smelled so good.

  Leo grabbed another massager off the shelf and shoved it into my chest. “Trust me on this,” he said. “She’ll love you for it.”

  “Yeah, I’m guessing her husband won’t.” I set it back on the shelf. “Dudes don’t buy other dudes’ wives personal massagers. Trust me on that.”

  “How about a hydrotherapy foot massager?”

  “I’m not getting her anything with the word ‘massager’ in it. Maybe something for her running? Like, how about new ear buds?”

  “Her loss,” he said, shrugging.

  We circled around back to electronics and Leo looked at the laptops while I picked out some Bluetooth ear buds for Dahlia.

  “You thinking about getting a computer?” I asked when I made my way to his side.

  He sighed and shook his head. “Naw. I just miss Netflix when I’m not with you.”

  “Oh,” I said. My stomach tightened and I carefully studied his profile. “You don’t have internet when you’re… gone?”

  He snorted. “The internet is everywhere, Ebron. I don’t have a computer, though, so…” he trailed off.

  “You should get a smart phone,” I said. “Then I can text you, even when you’re gone, and you can watch movies and play games.”

  “My dumb phone works just fine,” he replied stiffly.

  “But you don’t get text messages-”

  “Ebron,” Leo interrupted. I stopped and several emotions flickered over his face. I bit my lip, shifting nervously.

  “Maybe some other time,” he said, his eyes gentle. He touched his fingers to mine, not quite squeezing.

  I nodded and busied myself by shrugging off my coat. “It’s hot in here,” I said in explanation.

  Leo waited a beat, like he expected me to say something more. “Do we need anything else?” he asked when I kept my mouth shut.