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“Like this?”
Gus drew a circle in the air: one eye closed, his tongue poking out in concentration. For a second the spell shined bright, before it disappeared to reveal a jut of rock that was passably witch shaped…if you closed both eyes.
Mattholomule laughed rudely.
“Aw, come on,” Gus protested, hands on his hips. “It’s not that bad.”
“No, it’s just bad.” Mattholomule gave a smug smile and drew his own spell with practiced ease. “Watch and learn, Porter.” A second later, a cloaked statue sprouted from the dirt, almost identical to the ones surrounding them.
“Ooh, okay. I think I got it.” Gus’ eyes sparkled as he cast again, this one blue. When it collided with his creation, the thing looked so alive it could have been The Phantom Bringer herself coming to give them lessons.
“Cheating now, Augustus?” Mattholomule was delighted. “I must be rubbing off on you.”
Gus flashed a playful grin at him, but something was off.
“Augustus…” The smile disappeared. “Why are you blue?”
His friend looked down with mild surprise, placing a hand on his chest, then said to him, “‘Cause I’m an illusion." As if it were obvious.
Mattholomule’s hands fell. The crumbling of his construction was nothing like the turmoil he felt in his chest.
He knew it was true.
But it couldn’t be.
He’s known Augustus for months, hasn't he? They were best friends. Sure, maybe not at first, but…
The Human Appreciation Society, the detention pit, discovering the graveyard… He replayed the events in his mind and saw the glaring hole in them.
There had never been an Augustus Porter.
Mattholomule couldn’t breathe. His veins turned to ice.
How long had everyone been laughing at him? Pitying him? The poor boy with only an illusion for a friend?
“I thought you knew,” the illusion lamented. Then it faded away, its magic spent.
Mattholomule awoke with a start—his heart still pounding, his breath loud in his ears. It had been so real. He had to fight down the lingering panic as his surroundings came into focus. Early morning grays crept in through a natural opening in the rock, making everything fuzzy around the edges. He shivered. The cave was drafty.
This was home sweet home for now: his bed replaced with a musty old sleeping bag he used to take camping, their kitchen reduced to crates of provisions and a fire pit outside. Don’t get him started on the latrine.
His parents were still asleep on a bed of blankets nearby, his father’s snore nearly drowning out the soft rumbling from outside.
Steve had made a lot of upgrades to his motorcycle since the Day of Unity: switched to all-weather tires, softened the suspension, added a real sidecar, and (most importantly) replaced the mufflers to quiet the exhaust. It no longer roared, but it still purred like a liger when idling.
Mattholomule wriggled out of his sleeping bag and quickly got dressed, throwing on his hoodie, vest, and belt. The hoodie had a new hole or two—and got washed even less than before—but it was one of the few things that hadn’t changed since his life got upended. He would wear that thing ‘til it was more tears than cloth.
He walked to the basin and splashed cold water on his face, rubbing sleep away and using his sleeve for a towel. He turned to go, but caught himself and grabbed the family’s notebook off the table, flipping to a clean page and writing ‘Left with Steve. Be back tonight.’
He stepped into the predawn, yawning and stretching, cracking his back. Steve was there waiting, smiling his same old smile, even if Mattholomule could see the creases that hadn’t always been there. The draining spell hadn’t managed to kill his brother (nothing could), but it had done a number on him all the same. He was bedridden for days, and even now, months later, he suffered from aching joints and sore muscles that came and went as they pleased. Mattholomule knew how frustrating it must be for him, but Steve still used his newfound freedom for positive change, traveling and helping the refugees of this…
…Was it a war? What did you call hide and seek with a god?
“Little ma—” Steve went to greet him, but something cut him off. His blue eyes widened.
“What?” he asked, too tired for alarm.
Steve’s face split in a grin. “C’mere,” he said, beckoning him over.
Mattholomule frowned but obliged, approaching the motorcycle as Steve grabbed a helmet from the sidecar and turned the visor towards him.
In its reflection, he saw someone he almost didn’t recognize. The shadows under his eyes were new, and the length of his hair surprised him; just hadn’t thought about it in a while, given the whole apocalypse and everything. It was getting a little long in back now, more like his brother’s.
But that’s not what Steve wanted him to see. When Mattholomule spotted it, he gasped, arms going stiff at his sides.
“We match, baby bro!” Steve cheered.
Still eyeing his reflection, Mattholomule gently reached for the fresh horn at his temple. He felt its smooth ivory, pressed his index finger experimentally to the point. The skin around the base was a little pink, but it didn’t really hurt—at least not enough for him to have noticed when he awoke.
Mattholomule’s smile slipped more childish and crooked than his usual impish grin. “It must’ve come in last night!” He squinted, judging the size, and asked, “It’ll get bigger, right?”
Steve laughed, loud and genuine. “If it’s like mine, yeah.” He held the helmet out to Mattholomule to put on. “It takes time to grow in all the way, like a tooth.”
“Augustus is gonna freak,” he said, almost without thinking. Through the visor he saw Steve’s smile fall. If he tried to catch himself, he was too late.
He knew what Steve thought. It had been months with no word. Even Mr. Porter didn’t know what had become of his son. Maybe the Collector had him, which wasn’t…good…but it was better than dead. Which Augustus most certainly wasn’t.
Mattholomule would know if his only friend were dead.
“Come on. Let’s get going,” Steve suggested, breaking the silence. He opened the throttle and Mattholomule climbed into the sidecar, settling into the leather seat. “We’re going to Forearm Forest today.”
Mattholomule’s heart dropped at the unwelcome reminder of his nightmare, but the forest was a big place. He doubted they were going near the graveyard and its ghosts.
On the way, Steve told him about the families they would be visiting. One had lost a relative (the children’s uncle) to the Collector, and made the decision to leave Bonesborough. The other family was intact, but both parents had been badly affected by the draining spell and felt too exposed remaining in town.
At each location, Mattholomule did what he could to reinforce the witches’ makeshift dwellings, making the facades look as natural as possible to better disguise them from the Collector’s eager eye. Meanwhile, Steve moved heavy objects with a twirl of his finger, and unloaded supplies the families had bartered for in advance.
He should probably wish for better circumstances, but Mattholomule couldn’t deny it felt good to help, to be needed, to be praised. These witches were truly grateful to him, in a way he had never experienced at Hexside…probably because he was a punk and a bully, but still. Their kids even thought he was cool, cheering at the eruptions of stone.
He thought to himself—if things ever went back to normal—maybe he would keep volunteering. Build homes for people. Help out the less fortunate. There was always a need for constructionists.
Mattholomule was packing Steve’s toolbox for the ride home when, suddenly, his next breath caught in his throat. His hand froze. Unbidden, his eyes flicked towards the skyline and Bonesborough. Had he heard something? Seen something in his periphery?
But no. It was just…a feeling.
Steve walked up and gave him a solid pat on the shoulder, knocking him out of his reverie. “Good job, little man! Quick work, too. We’ll be back before dinner, I bet.”
For a second Mattholomule just stared at him, mouth hanging open. He shook his head and knew he had to ask. “Steve, can we… Can we go check?” His brother frowned. “Please! Real quick.”
He hadn’t asked this of his brother for weeks now. He knew it was a waste of fuel—that going all that way and finding nothing was sometimes worse than blind hope. And that (more importantly to Steve) it was dangerous.
But something was pulling him all the same.
“To the Porter house?” Steve asked slowly.
Mattholomule nodded. His dark eyes were firm.
Steve pursed his lips, considering. “Alright,” he said with a sigh, and pointed. “But that’s it. There and back.”
Mattholumule’s heart raced the whole way there, unable to settle down. Maybe if he willed it hard enough, this time would be different. He was manifesting that shit.
He practically jumped out of the sidecar when Steve rolled to a stop outside the familiar house, but instantly he felt the hollowness of the place. No home with Augustus inside could be so lifeless.
“Wanna look around?” Steve asked, obliging this fool’s errand.
In answer, Mattholomule walked the path to the front door. There were no new scuffs in the dust, the blinds still drawn at the same angle. Finding the door locked as before, he tried knocking—tentatively at first, then louder. “Augustus! Open up!”
He waited a minute in that awful silence, then stubbornly went around the perimeter, trying to peek into windows, looking for any signs of life. The crazy whirl of hope he had felt out in the forest was starting to wane, replaced with frustration and embarrassment.
When he came back around to the front yard, he found Steve waiting on his bike, looking up and down the street, anxious.
“Nothing,” Mattholomule had to admit.
Steve dipped his head. “I’m sorry, Matty, but we should go.”
His heart clenched against it. He had to keep trying. He had to go a little farther.
Mattholomule linked his hands together, giving his brother big, pleading eyes he normally used ironically. “Pleeease? Please, Steve! Something’s different today, I know it! Just… the school, maybe? Can we try the school? Augustus would go there, nerd that he is.”
Steve stared his brother down a long moment, arms crossed. Finally he shook his head and muttered, “Mom’s gonna bite my head off.”
Mattholomule grinned, triumphant. “Don’t tell her, then.”
Steve took the side streets, though, and didn’t object when Mattholomule tried an illusion spell to cloak them. They barely saw another soul; the normally bustling streets quiet and abandoned, given over to wildlife. The few witches who remained had practically become nocturnal, venturing out in the (supposed) safety of darkness, or else felt they had nowhere better to go, unable to fathom life on the run.
When they reached Hexside, Steve parked near the grudgby field under a copse of trees. Mattholomule took off his helmet and raised his gray hood on instinct; paltry protection against a god, but old habits died hard. He tried to keep to the shadows, picking his way across campus, skirting the damaged building with Steve close behind.
He heard voices.
“...no one here…”
“...have to keep looking…”
Mattholomule gasped. He turned to Steve, holding a finger to his lips, and slowly peeked around a corner—not being completely foolish—and there they were. He recognized his peers from school: Willow, Luz, Amity… that homeless guy.
And…
Mattholomule stepped out into view, heart skipping a beat. “Augustus?”
The final member of the group turned to face him, and Mattholomule had a few seconds to process what he saw.
He stood with that perfect posture of his, taking him in with the same gray eyes, but—as with Steve—there was a gravity to them now. Gus had seen things while he was away. It made him look older, Mattholomule thought. The new clothes didn’t help; his tastes had changed, the style more simplistic and fitting. A knitted cap sat back on his head, revealing hair that had grown higher and softer.
A second of confusion, and then Gus’ eyes lit up like fireworks. “Mattholomule!” He came at a run, and Mattholomule stood there, dazed, as his friend about bowled him over. Arms wrapped him in a warm embrace. The force of it knocked his hood back.
It was Gus, overwhelming his senses. So close, so real, and—Mattholomule was pretty sure—an inch taller than he had been. Always the overachiever.
Before he could find the words, Gus pulled back to look him over, still gripping his shoulders. His blinding smile fell open in surprise when he registered the changes.
“Holy shit! Holy shit. Matty! Your HORN. Your hair! Titan, look at you!” Gus shook him with abandon, snapping Mattholomule’s head back and forth just like he had when he first laid eyes on his illusion track sleeves.
Mattholomule felt like a fool for staring, but his brain was still fighting to catch up. Gus’ familiar smile made it seem like no time had passed, but it had. It had.
His eyes were stinging. "I…"
In a rush, he threw himself back into Gus’ arms, hugging his middle tight—partially to hide his face, partially to prove he wouldn’t fade away. Mattholomule was horrified to hear himself sniffle.
Gus' arms hovered beside him. “Matt, are— are you…?” He sounded stunned.
Finally, Mattholomule found his voice. “Just shut up for once, will you?” He tried not to think of the older kids watching all this. They were always lovey-dovey and touchy-feely, anyway; who were they to judge?
This time, when Gus returned the hug, it was slower, closing around his shoulders like a vise, tight and secure. He brushed the side of his head to Mattholomule’s. “I missed you, too,” he whispered.
The jolt that sent through him snapped Mattholomule back to reality. He grabbed Gus’ shoulders and pushed back, shouting, “You ‘missed’ me? You—” He shook him. “Where the fuck were you, then? We thought you were dead!” It was safe to say it now.
For a moment Gus seemed at a loss for words, his mouth agape until it resolved into a sad smile. He turned his wrist and gripped Mattholomule’s bicep, anchoring them. “I promise I’ll tell you all about it.” He glanced over a shoulder at his companions, who looked on with varying degrees of relief and anxiousness.
Gus turned back to Mattholomule, his eyes grave. “But first, we need to find the Collector.”