Free Season's Bleeding by Cal Matthews

“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.