Ante Mortem (13 page)

She was loved. And we were lost.

Not fucking bad, really. But Elliot could feel Them calling, hungry, distracting him. He took a final drag and flicked the butt away. “It’s mostly impressive because of the context. There’s not much interesting in the form on its own.”

Tim looked up. “Well, there’s not much interesting in
any
of the forms in this part. They’re all too old and plain. Might get some interesting rubbings but…”

Elliot arched an eyebrow. That was entirely too astute, and he didn’t like the feeling it gave him. Nor did he care for the sudden flicker in Tim’s eyes.

He decided to change the subject. “Got a poem for this one?”

“
The Night Has a Thousand Eyes
,” Tim mumbled, looking back down.

Elliot got a swaying sensation, as if he’d gone off-balance. He needed to think. He crouched next to Tim, set his camera and flashlight on the grass, and extracted the book from his pack.

“
It doesn’t matter,” Tim said.

Elliot raised his eyes from the book. “What, you don’t want me to see which passages you underlined?”

Tim snorted and looked away. “What am I, twelve?”

Elliot flinched.

Tim knew they were both stalling, now.

It was hard though, with Elliot murmuring over
Bourdillion
and discussing what lighting would give the best contrast for their purpose. Hard not to admire his dedication to making an ordinary history project something beautiful, but even harder not to admire how calm he was about his thin excuses. It made Tim wonder if he had his facts straight, if he really knew what Elliot had planned for him.

Elliot went on and on. Of course, these were just source photos to help them with the certain atmosphere they required in the finished project. Just wanted a certain depth of shadow unavailable during daylight hours—

Excuses that might’ve held up if they’d stayed where the interesting gravestones were. Last night Tim had found a magnificent angel with crumbling wings, and a pathetically weathered rocking horse from 1964.
On the other side of the graveyard.

Tim felt it, felt Them calling, waiting, starving. Second thoughts gnawed at his insides now that they were so near the source. He knew if he didn’t move soon, Elliot would.

It had to be him. For Benny. Not even
half a league
. Time for the charge.

Elliot struggled to regain his mental equilibrium while they lit, photographed, and took a rubbing; he talked pointlessly, soothingly.

At first it was difficult.
Fucking smart ass Tim and his useless rock.
Why was he bothering if he knew damn well nothing here was going to make the project? Why was he humoring him?

Of course, it could be a good sign. Could mean Elliot would have a chance to get a little something extra out of the bargain, like with Benny. He was only human, after all.

Sometimes.

He had that awful cold feeling creeping over him like a slow winter frost. Tim might’ve been lying. Might’ve come over here last night. Might’ve found Them. The thought made him afraid for a split second before the adrenaline started to get him high. The more he thought about it, the bigger the rush. The bigger the rush, the less angry he felt.

That made it easy to regain his control.

What if Tim does know?
It wasn’t as if he could escape, now. Hell, that might make it even
more
fun.
Clever little prick.

Elliot tucked his camera back into his pocket. “Maybe the mausoleum over there will make for some decent imagery.”

Just a casual suggestion. Cool-headed. Collected.

Tim stuffed his camera into his pack, then stood and faced him. Elliot smiled, feeding off the rush again, off the look in Tim’s eyes. He thought it might be fear, even. His heart soared.

They
got louder under the mausoleum. The air grew colder, slow but obvious. Elliot took a step closer and composed his face into something meant to be concern. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You okay?”

Tim’s chest rose and fell with a hard breath, a little ragged.

Elliot’s heart convulsed joyfully.

“
No.” Tim looked down, then to the mausoleum in question. Then finally met Elliot’s eyes again.

It was fear, but something else, too. Elliot didn’t know what, but it got his blood up. It practically screamed in his ears.

He wanted to ask. He knew it was stupid, but he also knew it was too late to turn back.

If he’d known Tim this well before, he might not have done this; not right away, anyhow. But how often would he find himself in this position? With someone who may or may not have him figured out?

This wasn’t going to be like it had been with Benny at all. It might be better. He asked, “Do you know why I brought you here?”

Tim chewed at the inside of his cheek, nodding once, causing his bangs to flop into his eyes.

Elliot swallowed his elation. “Do you really?”

“
Same reason you brought Benny.”

It meant he did know more—but it didn’t tell Elliot how
much
. For all he knew, Tim thought of it as a perfectly innocent midnight rendezvous.

Which it had been, depending on one’s definition of
innocent
, for the first half hour or so. “Did he tell you we were going to meet here?”

Tim nodded again.

“
I’m sorry,” Elliot tried to sound sincere. “You two weren’t…?”

“
No. He’s—he was my friend.”

Elliot smiled, even though it ruined his poetic little notion. He could try a couple some other time, maybe. Next time. He stepped closer still, reached upward.

Tim flinched.

Elliot felt a tiny surge of vindication, and brushed Tim’s bangs out of his eyes. Used every bit of intensity he could muster, leaned forward to push it into him. “Shame about what happened.” The rush made him want to jump and scream for joy, like dancing along the edge of a very high ravine. Tim’s reply would tell him everything.

“
Yeah. It was.” Tim smiled, but it was a twisted thing, an out of place expression on a sweet face. “Let’s look at the mausoleum.”

All the air rushed out of Elliot. His heart still thudded, but his blood seemed quieter in his head.
That was a fucking disappointment.

Silly fantasy, anyhow. Tim didn’t understand—no one did. And that was why they were all so very, very expendable.

Elliot let the act drop and turned on his heel. He started toward the mausoleum. He was getting tired, anyhow, and he needed a fucking cigarette.

Tim’s stomach rested in his shoes as he followed. A million words rushed through his brain, but nothing that could stop things now.

He didn’t really understand what had just happened, but he knew that he’d almost given in, almost told Elliot everything. He wondered if Benny had known everything he knew, if he would’ve given in anyhow, or if it would’ve made him stronger.

Tim wasn’t made for this any more than Benny had been. He was made for a lot of things—art and people and poetry and sunshine. This wasn’t his world.

It was awfully seductive, though. He could still hear Elliot murmuring over his book, feel him touching his hair, his face.

Tim could have it, if he wanted, when it was done.

The thought made acid rise in the back of his throat.

The massive stone construction loomed before them—the end of the world. The graveyard, its silence loud in his head, its sudden cold pricking his skin, came to life around them. He couldn’t see it, but he could
feel
it.

He wasn’t sure he could do it, he’d give almost anything not to—but there was no one else.

Elliot planted his feet in an overgrown patch of ivy and called out in his head. He felt
Their
cold cackle in response, that one high thin voice that slipped inside him, like poison in his ear.

Hungry.
He would get what had been arranged. He would get what he deserved.

He looked upward, admiring the knotwork tooled into chipped granite.
Really, this might not be bad for the project.
Maybe he’d get a few shots after it was over; he had to do the project whether his partner turned into a zombie or not, after all.

How sad, everyone will say. Poor Tim Maclaren, remember him? Another victim of academic stress at the university.

Elliot’s skin pricked, but he didn’t feel as excited as he should. Disappointment was a bitch. “What do you think?” he asked, to lure Tim closer. He didn’t feel like struggling.

Tim stepped up beside him. No hesitation.
Mundane bastard.

“
I have to ask you one question,” Tim said.

Elliot looked at him, taking his hands out of his pockets, ready.

“
Did you fuck him before or after you sold his soul?”

A tsunami of consciousness—starting in his brain and falling to his feet. His heart stalled.

Tim met his eyes—there was no fear in him.

God. He knew all along, and he came here anyhow.
Elliot tried to mentally drag himself back into submission, under control. “Before,” he admitted, though he didn’t know why. He only knew that it felt good to say it. That he was, in some overwhelming, black way, thrilled.

Tim blinked at him. His eyes were wet, like some fucking sweet little hero in a romance novel. They practically glowed. “Why bother?”

Elliot smiled. “It’s important to have standards.”

Tim smiled back; that ugly, twisted smile.

Elliot knew he should do it now; reach out, shove Tim into the wall, watch him disappear, listen to them have their little feast. Get what he’d come for—another twenty or so years of perfection.

But he wanted something else, something more, now.

“
You never feel bad about this, do you?” Tim asked.

Elliot couldn’t answer that; he couldn’t recall feeling bad about anything, ever. So he answered with someone else’s words: “
Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe
.”