Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (17 page)

Quin sighed. He dislodged the moth with an indifferent blow. One wing fluttering, the insect staggered to the ground in jerky stages. Matheus felt a little twist as he watched the moth flap uselessly over the rocks. He’d never had a problem with moths, as long as they maintained the proper human-insect buffer zone.

“We’ll go around,” Quin said. He tilted his head, frowning as he tried to figure out what Matheus stared at. “Fucking hell, Sunshine, it’s a
moth
. Get a grip on yourself.”

“I have a grip,” Matheus said. “I’m extremely grippy.” He stomped past Quin, sticking close to the edge of the river. “Are you coming or what?”

Matheus held his breath as they skirted the edge of the camp. He watched Quin out of the corner of his eye. The stealth and urgency of the past three nights vanished. Quin walked like someone out for an evening stroll, hands in his pockets, arms loose, the inclined posture and long, relaxed steps of someone who has nothing better to do than amble through the night. If he started whistling, Matheus planned to brain him with a rock.

“How much farther?” Matheus asked, once the scent of the camp disappeared behind them.

“Ten miles?” Quin shrugged. “We’re going back to the van.”

The river had carried them farther than Matheus had realized. He marched alongside Quin, stoic in the face of pine needles and whippy little twigs. Visions of hot running water and piles of blankets swamped his thoughts. Each step carried him a little bit closer. Matheus looked at Quin’s casual stride and despised him.

“Do you have to act like it’s a happy little jaunt?” he asked. “Can’t we just speed there?”

“You’re still injured,” said Quin.

Matheus flexed his shoulders, feeling the answering burn. He didn’t touch his abdomen, afraid that he might put his finger through the new, thin flesh. Raising a finger to his mouth, he paused, wrinkling his nose at the dirt and blood caked under the nail.

“I want to go ho—go back and wash in water that does not contain leeches and slime,” he said.

“It’s algae.” Quin pushed aside a low-hanging branch, gesturing Matheus forward with a sardonic smile.

Matheus swept past him, giving him a narrow-eyed look in return.

“It’s pond scum. Giving it a fancy name doesn’t make it any nicer. You can dress a prostitute in a ball gown, but underneath she’s still a whore,” he said, scrambling up a small crest to a copse of birch trees.

“What do you have against whores?” Quin asked. “I was a whore, once.”

“What?”

Matheus tripped, landing a millimeter away from a collection of webs woven in the hollow of a tree. They waved delicately at his sharp exhalation, a few quarter-sized spiders twitching at the threat. Matheus rolled away, rising from horizontal to vertical without messing with any of those annoying in-between phrases. He performed the dance of the arachnophobe, hands groping over hair and exposed skin, jumping at each tiny twinge.

Quin watched him with one eyebrow raised.

“Granted, I was a very bad whore. My clients kept ending up dead.” Quin plucked a leaf out of Matheus’ hair and let it spin to the ground.

Matheus gaped at him.

“What?” he repeated.

“I’ve had a long and interesting life, Sunshine.”

“Filled with corpses,” said Matheus. He slapped a hand over the back of his neck, relieved and annoyed at the lack of spider guts on his palm.

“Among other things.” Quin looked up at the sky, one hand tapping his thigh.

Matheus watched him, trying to figure out what went on in his head. Quin managed to be both the most transparent and mysterious person Matheus had ever met. Quin answered his questions, but none of his responses brought Matheus any closer to figuring out his motives. Not the kind of person Matheus wanted to be dependent upon.

“We can run if you think you can keep up,” Quin said.

“I can,” said Matheus.

“And not run into any trees.”

“Screw you, let’s race.”

“Race?” asked Quin.

“Yeah.”

“All right,” Quin said slowly. “I’ll give you a one minute head-start.”

Matheus cursed at him, but accepted.

Matheus decided to run forever. He loved the wind scouring over his face and yanking at his hair, the crazed, overwhelming sensation of clinging to the edge of control with his fingertips, knowing that the fallout of any mistake increased by a factor of ten. Speed comprised all or nothing. Either he arrived whole, breathless and sparkling, or in a body bag. Matheus hadn’t been a runner before his death, but he’d never gone fast enough to violate the laws of physics before, either. The speed almost made everything else worth it. As long as he could run, and run, and run.

“You’re not bad. It took me awhile to learn how to run like that,” Quin said as Matheus skidded to a halt beside the van.

Matheus hadn’t hit any trees, but he hadn’t won, either. Quin passed him easily. Matheus was only a little irked. Someday, he’d beat Quin, and not just with a stick as he’d planned to before.

“I like going fast,” Matheus said. “Always have.”

His breathing remained normal, his face sweat-free. If the Olympics held the games at night, the undead would snap up medals left and right.

Quin frowned at him.

“What? That doesn’t fit with your little, stalker-y profile?” asked Matheus.

“You don’t even own a car,” said Quin.

Around them, the trees rustled and swayed, tousled in the rising wind. Matheus moved closer to the van, placing his palm against the cool metal. Someone had peeled off some lettering, leaving marks in the dingy white paint. Nicks covered the metal, revealing layers of old paint. The most probable adjective used to describe the van by witnesses would be
suspicious
. Matheus had never seen anything more beautiful.

“I can’t afford the kind I want, and I refuse to drive around in some low-grade, half-assed, poorly designed piece of pigeon shit,” he said.

The van rocked slightly as Quin leaned against it, his arms folded over his chest. He watched the woods, not Matheus.

Matheus wondered who he waited for.

“What kind of car do you want?” Quin asked.

“Why? Are you going to buy me one?”

“Would you like me to?”

Matheus recognized the challenge. He flipped through possible choices, then decided the truth worked the best. Too much, and the game ended. Too little, and Quin scoffed at him.

“I want a Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG.” Matheus paused, then added, “To start with.”

Quin didn’t flinch.

“What color?” he asked.

Matheus narrowed his eyes.

“Blue,” he said.

“Fully loaded?”

“Of course. GT model.”

“What flavor air freshener?”

Rolling his eyes, Matheus shook his head. Quin spoke at a distance, his eyes still fixed on the trees. Matheus shifted, moving closer to the van, taking comfort in the trappings of civilization.

“No air freshener?” Quin asked.

“Stop it. You’re not buying me a car.”

“Why not?”

“It’s almost two hundred thousand dollars!”

Quin laughed.

“I can afford it,” he said.

“I don’t need expensive things,” Matheus said, an edge to his voice.

Quin gave him an odd look.

Matheus forced his face into a blank expression, giving Quin nothing to latch onto. He had to be more careful. Even his tone told Quin things Matheus didn’t want him to know.

“Why are we hanging around here?” he asked, projecting an air of boredom strong enough to knock out an army of caffeine addicts, as though for one brief second, the souls of all the world’s teenagers possessed him.

“No keys,” said Quin.

The van had to be at least fifteen years old, with locks that used actual keys. The chances of an alarm system approached nil. Matheus knew how to hotwire it, but he kept his mouth shut. No need to start sharing his sordid past all over the place. Especially when revelations might lead to awkward questions. Nothing like a trail of breadcrumbs to a great big banner printed with
Nothing to see here!
to make people curious.

Matheus sat down on the bumper. He spent several minutes arranging his legs in the best way to keep from sliding off. He rested his chin in his hands, watching a line of ants troop across the dirt. One of them carried a large prize, hoisting the crumb up as if to say to the other ants, “Hey, see what I got? Yeah, that’s right, no big deal, just enough food for the next three weeks.” Matheus imagined the ant bragging down at local ant-pub while his ant-friends hid their jealousy in pints of ant-lager.

“This is boring,” he said.

“No one’s trying to kill you. You should be ecstatic,” said Quin.

“It doesn’t have to be either stark boredom or insane terror,” Matheus said. “There can be a spectrum.”

“Yes, and right now we’re at the boring end.”

Matheus sighed. If they were out here much longer, he would hotwire the van, caution be damned. He was not spending another day as a potential snack for maggots and mountain lions.

“‘Millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a—’”

“Quiet!” hissed Quin.

“Hey,” said Matheus. “I know it’s not the best quote, but—”

“Shut up!” Quin straightened, tightening like a bowstring about to release. His eyes swept left to right, examining each new crackle and whisper for its source.

Matheus half-rose, complaints of boredom dissipated in the future of some new threat.

“You son of a bitch.” The voice came out of the trees, low and clear and indescribably heavy.

“Get behind the van,” Quin said without looking at Matheus.

Matheus took a step toward him, also trying to find the voice’s owner. The shadows through the trees shifted and melded together, offering no clear shape to focus on.

“I thought the hunt was over,” he said.

“Matheus.”

Matheus shuddered as Quin’s voice hit him like a bulldozer, compelling him to move or be run over. He shook his head, forcing himself to take another step. He wasn’t a goddamned child. He didn’t need to hide while Quin protected him from the big, bad bullies. He paid taxes, held a job, fed and clothed himself. Memories of yesterday poured into the wrinkles in his brain, bringing with them the feelings that Quin would shelter him, the comfort of handing over his survival to someone else. Disgust rose up in Matheus. He had saved Quin from the boy with his hands literally tied. He refused to allow Quin to cosset him like a goddamned porcelain doll.

“No, I won’t,” he said. “I’m not hiding.”

“You stubborn idiot,” Quin said furiously.

To their left, a small bunch of saplings vibrated and snapped as Carruthers emerged from the woods. The moonlight set a harsh glow on his ashen, sweat-shined face. He carried a massive crossbow in two hands, taking quick, wavering steps into the clearing. Carruthers’ arms and shoulders shook, the bones in his hands pressing clear against his skin.

“I should kill you,” he said. “You sick, sadistic monster.”

“It was a hunt,” Quin said.

Matheus couldn’t decide which one of them frightened him more: Carruthers with his desperate, hollow-eyed shaking, or Quin, static and cold, a replica of a human being made worse by its accuracy.

“It was a massacre!” Carruthers shouted.

In the distance, something large crashed through the trees, fleeing the sudden intrusion. Matheus wanted to disappear with it, but his feet held firm. His gaze didn’t flicker, captive to the scene before him.

“They knew the risk.” Quin offered nothing. His words held no give, no notches to cling onto. They hung in the air, smooth as glass and just as cool.

Carruthers stepped closer, a bleak, terrible expression on his face.

“He was my son,” he said in a hoarse, broken voice that made Matheus sick. The words struck deeper than if he had screamed them. “My youngest. You goddamned bastard. My son and you just left him there.”

Quin didn’t say anything.

“I should kill you,” Carruthers repeated. His hand opened and closed on the crossbow, sweat gleaming on the grip. “For Christ’s sake, he was still in high school.”

Matheus made a small noise in the back of his throat. Carruthers looked at him, eyes wild, bloodshot white dwarfing the dark iris. A horrible, choking feeling climbed up through Matheus’ chest, forcing his mouth open. He flicked a glance at Quin, answered by a minute nod of Quin’s head, but Matheus didn’t think he could stop.

“No,” said Carruthers, interrupting Matheus’ words before they had a chance to escape. The crossbow swung toward Matheus. “I should kill him. Show you what it feels like to lose a kid. That’s how it works, right? You bastards can’t have kids, so you make them. You want to know how it feels?”

“I know how it feels,” said Quin quietly.

Matheus closed his mouth with a snap.

“You fucking don’t!” Carruthers screamed. “You don’t know! You can’t know!” Two spots of red appeared high on his cheeks. He inhaled, steadying the crossbow. “But you will.”

Matheus lifted his hands, as if they offered any protection. He shook his head, all his words crammed and suffocating in his throat.

Quin didn’t move.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said.