Ante Mortem by ed. Jodi Lee Page A

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 .”
    Tim chewed at his lower lip. “Who said that?”
    “ It’s from Richard III .”
    “ You have that underlined?”
    Elliot barely kept from flinching