Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (19 page)

Matheus looked down at his outfit. He wore a light blue polo with a collar that always stuck up on one side. He’d left the shirt hanging loose, because he’d replaced the missing button on his khakis with a safety pin. He meant to sew on a new button, but the pin worked well enough, going on four years now. His socks were two different colors; Matheus gave Quin that, at least. Other than that, Matheus thought he looked fine. Not as fashion-forward as Quin, but not board shorts and an Ed Hardy shirt, either.

“What’s wrong with them?” he asked.

“Trust me. You can do better.”

“I’m not going shopping,” said Matheus. He swung his legs up onto the couch, lying flat on his back. “I left the bedroom. That’s good enough.”

Quin stood up, tossing the old wallet onto the mantel of the unused fireplace. An antique trunk sat in the firebox, huge brass buckles dangling off leather straps. Matheus matched it to the same time period as the sofa, a dark wood and forest green affair with more scrolling than strictly advisable.

“Sunshine, it’s your choice.” Quin knelt beside the trunk and flipped up the lid. “Either we go shopping, or I tie you up and drop you in the reservoir.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Matheus.

Quin pulled a length of rope out of the trunk.

“You are an evil, evil man,” Matheus said.

When Matheus first moved to Kenderton, he made the mistake of taking a roommate’s advice to visit Marlboro Street. He went only once. The street stretched for seven city blocks, dominated by Armani, Burberry, and Prada. Massive glass and steel stores full of chic women in heels and too-large sunglasses. Small, quirky shops packed with merchandise that prevented more than two people from browsing at the same time served as buffers for the brand names. Tourists filled the area, swinging arms full of bags, moving through the crowd like sumo wrestlers. Matheus avoided the street like a nuclear test site. He couldn’t picture Quin zigzagging through Midwesterners on holiday, but Matheus was still surprised when Quin bypassed the shopping center of Kenderton for Birch Hill. He trailed after Quin down a quiet side street.

History cast a hush over this part of the city, the oldest in Kenderton. History and money. Discreet bronze plaques cast in austere fonts hung on Colonial bricks, immaculate despite their age. Matheus had never been to this street before, but he recognized it, nonetheless, as one of the secret corridors accessible only to old money. Any questions about cost would be met with expressions of disdain and derision. Clerks who gave the impression of being British, even when they weren’t, offering imported tea, small-roast coffee, and single-malt Scotch. A shop that did everything possible not to appear as one.

“Here?” Matheus asked. “We’re shopping here?”

“I don’t do Wal-Mart,” said Quin, holding the door open.

“Snob.”

A saleswoman greeted them at the door. She took one look at Matheus and sniffed, but rewarded Quin and his crisp cuffs with a small, precise smile. Although, judging by the way her eyes caught on his wrist, likely the Glashütte Original earned her affections more than anything else.

Quin waved off her offer of refreshments and led Matheus over to a display of dress shirts.

“These don’t even have price tags,” Matheus whispered, leaning into Quin’s shoulder as he examined an ivory Windsor-collared shirt. The atmosphere dampened normal tones.

“May I help you, gentlemen?” The saleswoman paused between
you
and
gentlemen.

Matheus stiffened, stepping away from Quin and sending the saleswoman a sneer that rivaled her own. Matheus had learned condescension at the feet of a master, and he wasn’t about to lose to a woman whose ancestors had been fish merchants.

“We’ll need an entire wardrobe,” said Quin. “Pants, shirts, suits, and ties.”

“For your friend?” asked the saleswoman, raising an eyebrow in Matheus’ direction. She appeared unperturbed by Matheus’ subtle shaming.

“Yes. Neutral colors, I think. Maybe some spring greens?”

“I agree.” The saleswoman smiled at Quin, ignoring Matheus’ attempt to force feudal conditioning into her brain via telepathy. “Shall we start with the basics?”

Matheus felt like a Ken doll. He stood mute as Quin and the saleswoman held various pieces of cloth to his face, trying to determine his
colors
. Then came the measuring, with the saleswoman buzzing around him, scribbling down numbers while Quin roamed around the store, gathering piles of shirts, trousers, and sweaters. Matheus, convinced he’d entered his own personalized hell, squeaked as the saleswoman measured his inseam. After she recorded the final figure, Quin thrust the pile of clothing into Matheus’ arms and steered him into a dressing room.

The bright light of the dressing room reminded Matheus he’d forgotten his sunglasses. A pair of mirrors hung on either wall, catching him between them. With a sigh, he dropped the pile of clothing on the padded bench. Tans, cool blues, soft yellow-greens and creams, sweaters and shirts, dress slacks and jeans so far removed from their original propose as to be an entirely new species. He glared at the assembled wardrobe.

Nope, no pyrokinesis
, he thought.

Matheus pulled off his shirt, then dropped it onto the floor. He bent down, picking the first shirt out of the mass, shaking out the material as he held it up. The mirrors reflected back to him, tossing the image back and forth at the speed of light. Matheus paused, lowering the shirt as he caught sight of his shoulders. The wounds had healed, leaving behind thick, raised scars. The spaces between the letters were even, the strokes straight and defined. Matheus had not been the first person on which Linken had practiced his graffiti.

Someone knocked on the door. Matheus ignored it, hunching his shoulders, then straightening, watching the scars contract and stretch.

“Are you dressed yet?” Quin asked through the door.

Marked,
Matheus thought. Marked as a monster for the rest of eternity. That word would follow him everywhere. He’d never be able to escape.

“I’m coming in,” Quin said.

Matheus dropped the shirt, half-turning toward the door. He tried to remember if he had locked the door.

“No, wait!”

Quin walked in, closing the door after him. He looked at the shirt on the floor, and then the mostly untouched pile on the bench.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Matheus scooped up the shirt, holding it in front of his chest like a shield. He glowered at Quin. It worked on him as well as it had on the saleswoman.

“Do you mind?” Matheus asked, making tiny flicking gestures in the direction of the door.

“I’ve already seen you naked,” Quin said. “Besides, you still have your pants on.”

“Maybe I don’t want you ogling me shirtless.”

“Please.” Quin rolled his eyes and took a step forward.

Matheus turned, angling his back away from Quin. He forgot about the mirrors.

“This is about your scars, isn’t it? You’re being sulky again.”

“He used me as a fucking cuneiform tablet!” Matheus said, throwing down the shirt.

Quin took his shoulder, spinning him around gently. Matheus watched in the mirror as Quin tilted his head to the side, scrutinizing the scars.

“At least he didn’t go Euro-trash pretentious and use a
Y
,” Quin said.

“Fuck off.” Matheus jerked away, pretending to sort through the stack of clothing.

Quin leaned back against the mirror, crossing his arms and ankles.

“It could be worse,” he said.

“How? How could it be worse?”

“You could be a neat little pile of dust,” said Quin. His eyes drifted down Matheus’ frame.

Matheus wondered if he had forgotten about the mirrors as well.

“Stop staring at my back,” said Matheus.

“It’s a very nice back.” Quin gave him a lazy smile.

“Pervert.” Matheus grabbed a shirt at random and yanked it over his head. The shirt was an Oxford button-down. With the buttons done up, it didn’t fit over Matheus’ head, leaving him with his arms stuck halfway through the sleeves and the collar wedged tightly around his forehead. He flapped uselessly for a second, then slumped, looking like the Headless Horseman after his wife left him for the stable boy.

Quin sighed. Crossing the small room, he began undoing the buttons.

“Sunshine, you’re a good-looking man,” he said, snapping a button free. “I like looking at you. That doesn’t mean I’m going to leap on you and start humping your leg. Get over yourself.” He opened the last button, yanked the shirt down, gave Matheus a dark look, and left.

Matheus scowled after him.

“How the hell am I supposed to take that?” he asked.

Matheus left the store, weighed down with bags, papers crinkling as they banged against his legs. He’d never owned so many clothes in his life.

On top of the ready-made stuff, Quin had ordered a half-dozen bespoke suits in a variety of colors. When the saleswoman handed Quin the refined leather booklet with the total inside, Matheus peeked over his shoulder. He could have bought a house with that amount. Two houses even, with enough left over for a boat and a membership to the yacht club. He fell into a dead faint.

“Feeling better?” Quin asked.

“Super,” said Matheus darkly. He wore dark jeans, an obscenely soft cream shirt, and a green suede jacket. His old clothes had mysteriously vanished.

“I’ve never seen anyone keel over like that. Like in the movies.”

“Never mention that again,” Matheus said.

“Just whoosh, slam.”

Matheus walked faster, heading toward the large park that dominated the center of the city. As they moved farther away from Birch Hill, the property values dropped, giving way to tall office buildings of mirrored glass. The city library was located here, a modern building made to look like a Greek temple with columns and statues of scantily clad women holding urns. The neoclassical architecture clashed with the aggressively sleek modernity of the conglomerates around it, earning the library a small place in Matheus’ heart, despite the fact that its minions still insisted he owed them thirty-seven fifty for an unreturned book. Next to the library rose Marwood Tower, the tallest building in the city. Matheus stared at his reflection into the mirrored windows, craning his neck as he tried to get a look at his ass.

“I think these jeans are too tight,” he said.

“They’re supposed to be tight. That’s the style.” Quin strolled beside him, hands tucked away in a slim navy coat that reached to his knees.

“I don’t need strangers knowing if I wear boxers or briefs.”

“Then don’t wear either.”

Matheus wrinkled his nose. “No way,” he said.

“Prude.”

The sidewalks filled as they left the business district. Theaters lined the street that ran alongside the park, bright signs advertising plays and concerts. The warm night kept people outside longer, taking advantage before winter locked everyone indoors by seven o’clock.

College students were having a movie night in the park; the occasional piece of dialogue drifted over to Matheus. He stopped, resting his bags on the stone wall that bordered the park, squinting at the distant movie screen. After a minute, Gary Oldman appeared and Matheus laughed shortly.

“
Dracula
,” he said to Quin.

“It’s Halloween,” said Quin.

“Tonight?”

“Sunday.”

Matheus frowned. He rearranged his bags, knocking into Quin as he passed him. Six weeks since his death. He hadn’t realized it’d been so long.

“Are we done?” he asked as Quin fell into step next to him. “I’m tired.”

“You’re a whiny little shit, aren’t you?”

Matheus’ head snapped up.

One of the theaters had just let out, a crowd people flowing around them, chattering loudly about the play.

“I don’t like shopping,” he said, dodging a group of women in matched shirts. “Sorry, I have too much testosterone.”

“Oh, yes, you’re very manly,” said Quin.

One of the women stopped, looking back at them over her shoulder.

“I subscribe to a modern theory of masculinity.” Matheus moved closer to Quin to be heard over the crowd. A man in a black cabbie’s hat and homemade sweater shouted about the downfall of American values. The women moved farther and farther away with each increase in volume.