Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (26 page)

“Who would, with a name like Pitts?” replied Quin cheerfully. The followers shifted, their worshipful poses destroyed by nerves and confusion. Only the young woman who’d led them in remained still, the zenith of composure. Quin waved at all of them.

With a poorly repressed snarl, Grigori leapt off the throne and stalked toward Matheus.

“You would like to share a meal?” he asked, lord and master once more. “To celebrate your dark rebirth.”

Quin snorted.

“No, thank you,” said Matheus. “I just ate.” He forced a smile, rubbing his stomach. He did not look at Quin. Grigori’s Cuban heels brought him up to Matheus’ height. A sharp line demarcated the hair at his forehead. Matheus saw the rows where the hair had been stitched into the wig. He bit his lip again.

“Another time, then,” said Grigori with a tight smile.

Quin muttered something Matheus didn’t catch.

Grigori half-turned, then stopped. He flicked his gaze up and down Matheus’ body. His tongue traced the lines of his lips as he stared. Matheus felt like he needed a shower. He’d bet his life savings that Grigori had zero interest in men. Maybe Grigori had been reading too many Anne Rice books.

“You’re taller than Quin’s usual choices,” Grigori said. “Maybe we should get to know each other better.” He stepped closer, raising his hand toward Matheus’ face.

Matheus’ eyes widened. A wild, desperate revulsion filled him. Crawling naked through broken glass sounded more appealing than letting this man touch him. He thought of the statues outside, and the tapestries, and the brunette who hid her face.

Grigori’s fingers brushed his jaw. Matheus slapped his hand away. The crack opened a deafening silence. The young woman on the stool tilted her head to the side, the first time she’d moved.

Grigori hissed and lunged. He drove Matheus across the length of the room, pinning him to the wall with an arm against his throat. Matheus kicked. His toes squeaked over the polished wood floor. Grigori’s arm felt like rebar, compressing Matheus’ throat into mush.

“You are an
insect
,” Grigori said. “I could end your mindless existence with as much effort as it takes to kill a fly.”

Matheus wrapped his fingers around Grigori’s arm, trying to pry him loose. He braced one foot against the wall, struggling for leverage.

“Have you ever actually tried to kill a fly?” Matheus choked. “It’s hard as fuck.”

Grigori pushed harder, collapsing Matheus’ windpipe. Jolts of pain twanged up and down his spine as the ligaments threatened to quit. He scrabbled his fingers over Grigori’s skin, cursing his nail-biting habit that left him with useless nubs.

Behind them, Quin cleared his throat.

For a millisecond, Grigori relaxed his arm as fear raced through his features, quickly followed by hate and anger. Condescension settled in as Matheus watched, Grigori’s thoughts writ large across his face. He and his followers outnumbered them ten to one, a golden opportunity to take out a longstanding annoyance. In Grigori’s shoes, Matheus might do the same thing. On the other hand, he strongly objected to being killed, especially twice in as many months.

So he kicked Grigori in the balls.

Grigori went down whimpering.

Matheus staggered at his sudden release. He felt a little bad as Grigori curled around himself like a dying caterpillar. Every man got that sympathetic twinge after seeing someone take it in the groin, no matter how much he deserved the kicking. Still, Matheus couldn’t deny the effectiveness. For a moment, nobody moved, Grigori’s soft keening the only sound. Then, the young woman stood. She took two steps before Matheus found himself being whipped around as Quin ran for the door.

“Thanks for having us!” Quin called over his shoulder. “We had a lovely time!”

They ran back to the front hall, taking the steps of the staircase two and three at a time. Matheus hit the unlock button on the key fob as they burst out the front door, thanking the fine people at Mercedes-Benz for installing a push-button start. He yanked open the driver’s side door, sliding in a half-second after Quin.

The car squealed down the driveway as Grigori’s followers came streaming out the front door. Quin twisted around in his seat, waving at them before the curve of the driveway slung them out of view. He sat back laughing as Matheus swung into traffic.

“Oh, Sunshine,” he said. “That was wonderful.”

“I’m glad you think it’s so funny,” Matheus said, rubbing his throat. “I think my windpipe’s crushed.”

“You’ll be fine. Grigori is never going to forgive you, but you’ll be fine.”

Matheus signaled a turn at the next light. Grigori’s followers might have cars of their own, and a car chase through the city did not have a spot on his agenda. The Merc’s paint might get chipped.

“Yeah,” said Matheus, trying to will the red arrow green. “I mean, why should I be worried about a centuries-old torture freak being pissed off because I made him cry like a little girl in front of all his friends?”

The light changed and Matheus turned, driving more sedately than before. He steered the car through the side streets, navigating by instinct toward the highway. Yellow squares of light dotted the houses, with the occasional shadow to signify someone moving around inside. They passed a church Matheus recognized, with a huge, cracked bell sitting in the middle of a garden.

“Grigori won’t do anything,” Quin said. He watched the houses slip by, one hand straying up to grasp the bar over the window.

“Why not?” Matheus asked.

Quin rubbed a hand over his head. “Grigori shares power with Apollonia and Zeb in a balance that took a long time to work out. If an ancient, well-known being chose to support one over the other, then there would be an imbalance.”

“You’re that important?” Matheus asked.

“Important?” Quin shrugged. “I don’t think so. But being dead doesn’t stop people from gossiping and I—I stand out.” He frowned at the glove box. Matheus decided not to ask.

“So, it’s political,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Not because you’d do ungodly things to him if he hurt me,” said Matheus. He had his suspicions as to why Quin ‘stood out.’

“Well,” said Quin. “That, too.”

Matheus was not pleased by that. A warm, fuzzy feeling of being protected did not fill his gut. That would be weird, and wrong, and he would not have it. Quin was a disturbed psychopath, not a cuddly security blanket. Matheus sent a strongly worded thought-letter to the neurons in charge of his emotions, chastising them for slacking on the job. Clearly, he needed to replace them with a whole new, less insane, crew.

“Sunshine?” said Quin. “You missed our turn.”

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Matheus asked.

“I’m sure,” Quin said.

The cottage perched on top of a hill with tall, blank apartment buildings rising up on either side. A large lawn surrounded the cottage, bordered with a tidy fence, complete with gate. An army of garden gnomes watched Matheus and Quin walk up the slate path. The siding on the cottage was a soft pink, with white trim. Matheus could swear he smelled fresh cookies. Never in his life had he been more convinced he’d wandered into a Twilight Zone episode and no one had bothered to tell him about the cameras.

“I think this is more frightening than Grigori’s house,” Matheus said. He pressed the doorbell, the chimes muffled through the walls.

“Matheus,” Quin said. “In there, it’s going to be bad. Don’t…don’t be you.”

“What’s in there? Dammit, you’re just going to let me walk in there blind?”

Quin leaned over and pressed the doorbell again.

The front door opened before the chimes stopping ringing. A woman in her early thirties stood there, smiling at both of them. Brown hair cut into a bob framed a heart-shaped face powdered to peaches and cream perfection. She wore a string of pearls with matching earrings, and a high-collared dress with a tight waist and full skirt. She wasn’t pretty, but gave the impression that she ought to be.

“Come in, please,” she said, her voice a pleasant contralto hum. “I’ve just been baking. I do love the smell of cookies, don’t you?”

“Er, yes,” said Matheus. The front door opened onto a short hallway, with a door on either side as well as one at the end. He assumed the door on the end led to the rest of the cottage. The sitting room to which the woman led them didn’t stretch the length of the cottage.

“But you can’t eat them,” he added as the woman gestured for them to sit.

“Oh, no. I just enjoy the smell. And baking is so soothing. Please, sit.”

Matheus and Quin squeezed next to each other onto a chintz loveseat. All the nerves down the back of Matheus’ neck stood to attention and he had no idea why. Unless he’d suddenly developed a phobia of lace. Tiny pink roses covered the wallpaper; the few framed pictures were of innocuous landscapes mostly involving fields and carefully lit trees. Matheus glanced at Quin. He had clasped his hands, his arms rigid. Matheus’ nerves stretched higher.

“Are either of you hungry?” the woman, who must be Apollonia, asked. She sat down opposite them in a wingback chair with a matching ottoman tucked to one side. “I can fetch something from the pantry for you.”

“The pantry?” asked Matheus. Apollonia had the symptoms of an accent, but he couldn’t place it. Sometimes, he thought London, other times the American South, sometimes the Brahmins in Boston.

Apollonia laughed softly. “Would you like a tour?” she asked.

“No,” said Quin. “Thank you.”

“Maybe another time. I would so like for us to be friends.” She laughed again. “Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Apollonia Parker, of the Sheffield Parkers. My father was one of the founding fathers of this city.”

“Oh,” said Matheus. “That’s…good.” He took Apollonia’s outstretched hand by the fingertips, giving it the faintest shake. “Matheus Taylor,” he said. “Of no one.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Taylor. I do enjoy meeting new people.”

“Um, me too,” said Matheus, trying to catch Quin’s eye without attracting Apollonia’s attention. He was supposed to be afraid of Betty the Undead Homemaker? Did Quin have a pathological hatred of flowered wallpaper and doilies?

The door behind them swung open, padded footsteps as something entered the room. Two somethings. Matheus’ nerves started to scream.

“Oh,” cooed Apollonia. “How are my darlings today?”

A pair of naked, collared girls crawled into the room and knelt on either side of Apollonia’s chair. No older than eighteen, identical twins. Their bones pressed against their skin, bellies sunken beneath the winged edges of their rib cages. A pink bow sat at a jaunty angle on each of their heads. Matheus dug his nails into his knees.

“Do you like my pets?” Apollonia asked. “It’s so hard to find a matching pair.” She stroked the hair of the girl on the right. “I’ve had them three years now, and they are just a delight.”

“Nmm,” Matheus managed.

The girls’ hair parted in the middle, ends grazing the floor. Apollonia played with the strands, lifting up small sections and letting them fall. The girl shivered, but didn’t move. Her sister stared at the floor. Nothing moved behind her eyes, no indication of thought or emotion or life.

“I used to keep males, but they are so hard to control. Benji, my last pet, had to be put down. It was such a shame. I’m not ashamed to admit I cried a little. But it had to be done. He just would not behave.” Apollonia sighed.

“Shocking,” said Matheus.

Quin put his hand on his wrist and squeezed.

“Mitzi and Mopsy are very well-behaved,” Apollonia said. “Once I trained them, of course. A proper training is necessary. I do hate to be harsh, but sometimes it is called for. Pets need to know who is in charge.”

One of the girls crawled toward Matheus. Her fingers dragged over the carpet as she moved her hand forward, curving it out to place the palm flat. She moved slowly, more like a senior citizen than a woman fresh out of high school. Matheus counted the knobs in her spine, watched the spaces between them expand and contract as she moved.

“Quin,” Matheus said quietly, looking away as the girl rubbed her head against his leg like a cat.

“Oh, she likes you!” said Apollonia. “Scratch behind her ear. She likes that.”