Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (15 page)

“Fifty thousand volts,” the hunter said, stroking the Taser with a fond smile. “Military grade. Best purchase I ever made.”

Matheus closed his eyes. Looking at things hurt.

“What are we going to do with him?” someone asked. The older hunter spat, the gob splattering on Matheus’ ear.

“String him up,” he said.

This is not the best day of my life
, Matheus thought. He gave the ropes an experimental tug. His arms stretched over his head; his toes scraped over the ground. Matheus admitted that he had fantasized about being tied up, but not like this. He expected a bed, a safe word, and not so much threat of imminent torture and death. The difference came down to the balance of control. Matheus had none; the hunters had it all. He exhaled, opening his mouth wide to crack his jaw. At least the gag was gone.

“What’s your name?” The older hunter stood in front of Matheus, his hands clasped behind his back. Flames silhouetted his body, the fire flickering high enough to dwarf the men gathered around it. They wanted Quin to find them.

“What’s yours?” Matheus asked. The words felt jagged in his mouth.

“Linken.” The man circled Matheus, sending him swinging with a shove. He did this several times, accompanied by a low, harsh laughter.

Matheus gritted his teeth, fingers tightening around the rope holding him up.

“Nice necklace,” he said as Linken returned to view.

“I’ve killed thirty-one of your kind.” Linken stroked the necklace, the fangs clicking together in a delicate song.

“Your mother must be so proud.”

“She would be, if one of you hadn’t murdered her.”

“Wasn’t me,” Matheus said. “I was washing my hair that night.”

He knew he had asked for a smack, but the Taser was overkill. Linken delivered two bursts, maxing out the power. Matheus rose, rigid, on his toes as the scent of warm ozone sparked through the air.

“Fucking Christ,” he moaned, sagging on the ropes. The branch creaked with the strain of his full weight, but offered no reprieve.

“Are you sure you should be doing that?” one of the other hunters asked. He stood in a loose group on the opposite side of the fire. No one approached closer than ten feet. Matheus wondered if they wanted to avoid him, or Linken.

“It’s not going to kill him,” Linken replied. He looked at Matheus. “Is it?”

“Go to hell,” said Matheus. He flinched as Linken raised the Taser.

“You’re a mouthy one. You want the gag back?”

Matheus pressed his lips together and glared. He grasped the rope again, pulling himself up with trembling muscles. Ash from the fire rained down like snow, sticking to his skin and catching on his eyelashes. A lacy ember landed on Linken’s shoulder, flickering out as he brushed it away.

“How long do you think? I’m guessing twenty minutes.”

“For what?” Matheus asked.

“Until your master comes for you.”

“He’s not my master.” A piece of ash landed on Matheus lip. He licked, tasting salt and dirt.

Linken laughed unpleasantly.

“That’s what you think.” He pulled a thin blade from a sheath around his thigh. Linken dressed like the kind of person who subscribed to survivalist magazines and kept a chemical toilet in his basement next to a pallet of MREs. Matheus bet he was on a first-name basis with all the clerks at the local Army Surplus store. They probably exchanged Christmas cards full of good wishes littered with dark hints of the apocalypse.

“I know more about what you are than you do,” Linken continued, distracting Matheus from his speculation. “For instance, do you know that a wound made by silver will scar?”

“Oh?” Matheus watched the tip of the blade flash in the firelight. The metal shone orange and shadow.

“So, if I cut you here,” the blade whisked over Matheus’ cheek, liberating a bristle or two, “you’ll be marked forever. No matter what happens tonight, you’ll bear my mark for the rest of your life. Interesting, huh?”

The triangular point of the blade tapped against Matheus’ nose. His eyes crossed as he stared at the tip.

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing, Link?” Hunter Junior stood behind Linken, death grip on his crossbow making the bolt shake in its slot. He cast darting glances at Matheus, like a child afraid of a scolding.

Linken half-turned, and gave the boy’s shoulder a friendly shake.

“Just having a little fun, kid,” he said. “Go on and keep watch.”

Hunter Junior met Matheus’ eyes, his expression a mixture of worry and triumph. He hoisted the crossbow and walked over to the edge of the camp, spine stiff with teenage self-importance. One of the hunters nudged the man next to him, and muttered something under his breath. Both laughed, cutting off quick as Linken glared at them.

“Good kid,” Linken said, turning back to Matheus. “Comes from a good family.”

“So, psychosis is genetic,” Matheus said.

“I think you’d better have the gag back in for this.” Linken stuffed the gag into Matheus’ mouth, avoiding his clumsy attempts to bite off a finger. He tightened the leather until it strained. A thick layer of spit still coated the gag.

Matheus kicked at Linken, slow and ineffectual. Linken smacked his leg down. Matheus flew from side to side.

Linken let Matheus swing while he circled around, stopping behind his back. He grasped Matheus’ neck, and forced his head downward, bringing the demonstration of pendulum physics to a halt.

“Hold still,” he said.

The knife sliced cool and smooth up Matheus’ back, splitting his shirt in two. Linken folded back the fabric, tucking the edges into the sleeves to hold them in place. His hand returned to Matheus’ neck, thumb digging into Matheus’ carotid artery. Lightly, he traced a pattern across Matheus’ shoulders with the tip of the blade.

Matheus trembled, a mess of anticipation.

“This is going to hurt,” said Linken.

Matheus shrieked. He threw his weight against the ropes, nearly breaking his wrists. The knife dug furrows into Matheus’ flesh, thick gouges that oozed blood. The cool sludge slid down Matheus’ back. Linken worked across Matheus’ shoulders, sometimes dragging the blade over and over the same mark until the cut reached the desired depth. Matheus’ shoulders burned with a mass of fire, the pain too broad to pinpoint.

This is not happening.
There is not a psychopath carving into me. I am at home in bed watching a violent, unrealistic movie. That is not my blood on the dirt. I can feel my arms. This is not happening to me. It’s happening to someone else. Someone else far away in the television and I am just watching it from my warm bed.

Linken wiped the area clean with Matheus’ ruined shirt. He leaned back, surveying his work, making an adjustment here and there, before nodding approvingly. He spun Matheus around, tilting Matheus’ head up to look him in the eyes.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Tucking the knife away, he pulled out the Taser, giving Matheus a long burst.

Matheus whimpered, but remained limp, safe inside his head. Linken tapped the Taser against his wrist, then shocked Matheus again. A trickle of smoke rose up where the leads caught on Matheus’ shirt.

“Oh, God,” Matheus moaned, his words garbled by the gag. The conversation on the other side of the fire had stilled. Hunter Junior turned to watch, his eyes very wide and white. Matheus hoped he enjoyed the show.

“Back?” Linken asked. He holstered the Taser, taking out the knife once more. “Let’s see.” With a smooth thrust, he embedded the knife into Matheus’ gut, just below his naval. White-black stars burst in Matheus’ eyes.

“That getting through?” Twisting the knife, Linken tilted the blade up and down, circling, digging a hole in Matheus’ flesh. A wet, slick clump slipped out around the hilt of the knife, staining Linken’s knuckles.

Matheus sobbed, well beyond any point of self-control. He would do anything Linken wanted, anything. He just wanted this to stop. If only it would stop—

“Hey,” said a shaking voice. “That’s enough.”

Matheus opened his eyes, the scene blurry before him. He blinked quickly, breath hitching in his throat as he tried to concentrate.

Hunter Junior stood next to Linken, looking pale and nauseated. He raised his chin, hands in fists at his sides.

“I think he’s had enough,” he said, voice cracking on
enough
. “You should stop.”

Linken stared at him, bemused. The silence darkened as the rest of the hunters tried to pretend they didn’t hear everything that happened ten feet away.

“Are you worrying for the enemy?” Linken asked.

“He’s bait, isn’t he? That means we need him alive.”

The fire cracked as the ash fell. The hunters looked anywhere but at the standoff tableau.

Matheus’ breath sounded obscenely loud in the thick quiet. The knife still stuck in his gut, shifting with the tiny flexing of Linken’s hand. Matheus stared at Hunter Junior, unable to look away for fear the boy might disappear.

“I’m not going to kill him, kid. Just play a little.”

Hunter Junior hesitated for a second, then repeated, “It’s enough.”

“Fine.” Linken stepped back, his hands held up. “He’s your responsibility. When the time comes, you kill him.”

Hunter Junior nodded.

Linken walked away, leaving his knife plunged inside Matheus. He joined the other hunters, conversation rising with forced casualness.

“I have to….” Hunter Junior gripped the hilt. Matheus let his head roll in the semblance of a nod. After Linken’s twisting, pulling the blade free felt like a caress. The boy cleaned it carefully, digging out the narrow grooves and cracks.

“I will kill you,” he said, eyes on the knife. “I just…it’s not right, this.”

Matheus closed his eyes, resting his weight on the ropes. The pain in his wrists amounted to a hangnail compared to that in his stomach and shoulders. He listened to Hunter Junior walk away before he passed blissfully into unconsciousness.

The night dragged out. When Quin failed to appear, the hunters took shifts to search for him. When Matheus woke up and found Hunter Junior gone and Linken still there, he had a burst of panic. Matheus watched Linken, muscles tensed, but Linken ignored him, staying on his side of the fire, sharpening his knife on a whetstone.

Blood oozed out of the hole in Matheus’ gut, a slow, thick stream that soaked the top of his pants and dried into a sticky crust. An ache spread across his shoulders, interspaced with sharp jolts whenever Matheus shifted position. He tried to move often, but he drifted in and out of consciousness.

“He’s gone,” said one of the hunters, tossing another log on the fire. The inferno had diminished to a handful of flames flickering meekly over a massive mound of coals and ash. “Ditched this one and ran off.”

“If Quin doesn’t show, does this make it a draw?” asked another hunter. He tore open an energy bar with his teeth, and dropped the wrapper into the fire.

“I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have Hell’s Heir than some no-name newbie.”

The second hunter chewed contemplatively on the bar.

“Hell’s Heir?” he repeated through a mouthful of half-masticated brown sludge. “I haven’t heard that one before.”

“Oh, sure. My dad used to keep a whole list of them. Son of Hades, Lucifer Reborn, He-who-rejoices-in-death, the Sanguine Storm—”