Voices leaked out of Quin’s study. Matheus stopped outside the door, pressing his ear against the crack, the book in his hands forgotten.
In the ten days since his premature death,Matheus knew of no one who had come to Quin’s house. Sometimes Quin went out, but Matheus stayed behind. Outside meant the smell of blood and a reminder of the hunger that gnawed at every cell in his body. He read constantly, sometimes waking up for the night with a book still resting on his chest. Stacks of books teetered on the nightstands, sat in tall piles around his bed. Unless Quin prodded him loose, Matheus distracted himself with fiction until sunrise sent him into blissful unconsciousness. Raised voices disrupted the routine; Matheus couldn’t help his curiosity.
“You’re going to get yourself killed!”The woman had an unfamiliar accent, with the ringing vowels of a nineteen-forties stage actress.
Matheus squeezed closer to the door, but he couldn’t hear Quin’s reply.