Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (28 page)

“Okay,” Matheus said. “Sorry.”

“What for?” Quin asked. He rolled up his cuffs, pinching the edge to create a sharp line. Stretching out his arms, he examined the cuffs, adjusting one slightly.

“I don’t know.” Matheus dropped his hands to his lap, holding the wheel in a light grip. He spayed out his fingers on his right hand over the sleek fabric of his suit. “For saying I would kill you.”

“Don’t be,” said Quin. “Nobody yells at me anymore. It gets boring.”

“What about Juliet?”

“She doesn’t yell at me. Just near me. There’s a difference.”

Matheus didn’t see one, but the thought of arguing just made him feel even more tired. The Mercedes hummed, turning delicately at Matheus’ touch. No more weaving through traffic or racing the lights; Matheus just wanted to finish this last visit and go home. The car answered his request, hiding away raw power, running as docile as a lamb. Traffic thinned, the late hour sending everyone but the night owls to their beds. Closer to the colleges, more people might be out, taking advantage of the bars and nightclubs, but here, quiet reigned.

“So you’re saying I should feel free to shout at you whenever I get the urge?” Matheus asked. He didn’t sound as teasing as he planned. He hoped Quin didn’t notice.

“Sure,” said Quin, and Matheus knew he had. “Of course, I may smack you, but that’s a risk you’re going to have to take.”

At least Quin made an effort. Matheus exhaled away some of his tension. His mouth relaxed, not smiling, but not grimacing either.

“You’re weird,” he said.

“Most people are,” said Quin.

Matheus double-parked next to a late model Chevy Malibu. He looked out the window at Zeb’s house, then back at Quin.

“Here?” he asked. “The guy lives here?”

“Yes,” said Quin. “Why?”

“I used to walk down this way,” Matheus said. “I called this the hoarder-house.”

“You’re not that far off.” Quin exited the Mercedes, nicking the Malibu’s paint with his door. He didn’t leave a note, but Matheus doubted Quin bothered with things like insurance anyway. The man didn’t even have a phone, for Christ’s sake.

A high fence topped with barbed wire surrounded Zeb’s house; various talismans and bric-a-brac hung in chaos on the wire. Matheus recognized protection symbols from a half-dozen religions and mythologies. Strings of beads wound around the gate, bright, cobalt blue. As Matheus got closer, he realized they were Turkish evil eyes. He’d never gotten a good look at the house before, usually in a hurry to reach the coffee shop before the morning rush.

Quin pushed open the gate, gesturing Matheus inside. A path of flat stones led up to the front door. More occult charms covered the tiny lawn, ranging from person-sized statues to delicate witching balls the size of oranges. The windows were shuttered with old-fashioned metal plates, the iron bands rusted over. Barbed wire circled the base of the house as well. Matheus wouldn’t have been surprised to see a pit of spikes out back.

A copper design, green with age, twisted over the massive front door, sprouting a doorknocker in the shape of a faun. Quin ignored the knocker, pulling on a wire running flat across the brick instead. He stepped back, tilting his head up toward the lintel. A whirring noise followed.

Matheus copied Quin, and spotted the tiny red light of a video camera. Minutes passed with no sound except the tinkle of the wind chimes hanging from the eaves of the house.

“I like that doorknocker,” Matheus said.

Quin eyed the faun. The ring ran through its crossed legs, a panpipe held to its mouth. Stylized leaves and vines circled around, forming a general teardrop shape.

“Really?” Quin asked.

“It’s classic,” said Matheus.

“It’s ugly.”

“Shut up.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I promise not to buy you one,” said Quin.

“Loads,” said Matheus. “How much longer are we going to stand out here? It’s freezing.”

Before he finished speaking, a loud
clunk
came from behind the door. Another soon followed, then another, moving from the top of the door to the very bottom. The door shuddered, then opened with a drawn-out squeak straight out of a black-and-white horror film.

Behind the door stretched a long, cluttered hallway, the end fading into darkness. Stacks of newspapers, chairs piled onto end tables, metal footlockers with
U.S. Army
stenciled on them, and other assorted junk narrowed the hallway to a single-file path.

A short, slim blond wiggled out from behind the door. He looked about thirty, with the kind of face usually found on porcelain dolls. Large blue eyes dominated his small features, a Cupid’s bow mouth forming a natural pout. Matheus knew women who’d kill to be half as pretty as the man.

“Quin,” said the blond. “How lovely.”

Quin shifted his weight from side to side. He tugged on his cuffs some more while the blond beamed up at him.

Matheus looked from one to the other, his eyes narrowed. Juliet did say Quin preferred blonds.

“Alistair,” Quin said. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking after Zeb.” Alistair gave an elegant shrug. His limbs seemed to float through the air. Matheus couldn’t see Alistair running into a tree. Then again, looking at Alistair, Matheus didn’t think he’d ever run at all. He imagined Alistair as the kind of person who owned more types of moisturizer than books.

“Oh,” said Quin to the doorjamb.

Alistair looked him up and down with a lazy smile. “You’re looking well,” he said.

“Thanks,” Quin said.

Matheus resisted the urge to knock both their heads together. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, wishing for just a shred of body heat. Life was wasted on the living.

Alistair stepped onto the stoop, letting the light from the streetlamp catch on his hair. He had to tilt his head back to look at Quin’s face. His lips parted with a subtle puff of air.

Matheus seriously considered braining him with a lawn gnome.

“It’s probably terribly gauche for me to say this, but,” Alistair glanced away, then back at Quin. “I’ve missed you.”

“That’s super,” said Matheus, reaching the end of his far-from-infinite patience. “Meanwhile, it’s bloody cold out here and I don’t have a coat.”

Quin pressed his lips together, hiding a smile.

Bastard,
Matheus thought.

“Alistair, Matheus,” Quin said with the appropriate hand gestures. “Matheus, Alistair.”

“Still cold,” said Matheus.

If looks could kill…. Actually, Alistair offered Matheus a polite smile, nowhere near the fawning look he gave Quin, but friendly, nonetheless.

“Please,” he said. “Come inside.”

Quin ducked his head, walking past Alistair into the house.

Alistair’s smile dropped. He glared at Matheus with the venom of a thousand black mambas. His pretty features should have been a handicap, but the juxtaposition only served to heighten the effect of the scowl. Matheus edged around him, hoping Alistair didn’t carry anything pointy with him. The space between his shoulder blades tingled as Alistair trailed after him.

“I reminded Zeb you were coming tonight, but he’s probably forgotten. If you want to wait in the library, I’ll go hunt him down.” Alistair steadied a stack of teetering newspapers, then reached around Quin to open a door.

Unlike the hallway, the library was a picture of order. The shelves gleamed, books arranged in neat rows, gold lettering imprinted on the leather spines. Dark green curtains covered the shuttered windows. A pair of matching armchairs sat in one corner, with an oak desk in another. Matheus circled the room, tracing his fingertips over the neatly arranged books. He recognized more than one rare first edition; one had only two other known copies. If real, this copy would be worth a small island in the Pacific.

“Those are very rare,” Alistair said. “Please don’t touch them.”

“Matheus is an appraiser,” Quin said. “He won’t hurt them.”

Alistair simpered at him.

Matheus suddenly appreciated his inability to vomit.

“Of course,” Alistair said. “If you say so.”

Behind Alistair’s back, Matheus clasped his hands together and fluttered his eyelashes at Quin. Then he stuck his finger down his throat, miming vomiting over the fine Persian rug.

Quin shook his head at him, not amused.

Alistair turned around, and Matheus jerked upright, dropping his hands to his sides. Alistair gave him a long look that Matheus returned with one of his own. Matheus claimed victory as Alistair broke away first.

“Excuse me,” Alistair said. With a lingering look at Quin and a swing to his hips, Alistair left. Matheus glared as the door swung shut behind him.

“Of course,” he mimicked. “If
you
say so.”

Quin wandered over to the desk, shifting through the notebooks stacked neatly in the center. “Jealous?” he asked without looking up.

“You can do better,” said Matheus.

Quin raised his head. “What?”

“You heard me.” Matheus used the end of his sleeve to lift the page of an illuminated manuscript. Bold colors covered the vellum, the gold leaf preserved despite the years. Matheus let out a long rush of air. The design placed the manuscript in the tenth century, probably from northern France. Many manuscripts from the Middle Ages survived, but with the quality of this one, any museum director would commit mass murder to claim it. Matheus contemplated sticking the manuscript under his shirt and walking out with it. At least he had the sense not to leave thousand-year-old books sitting around in the open air.

“He’s very attractive,” said Quin. He abandoned the notebooks and strolled over to Matheus.

“He’s a slag,” said Matheus, still fixated on the manuscript. A long moment passed.

“Sunshine, did you ever live in England?” Quin asked in a tone so casual, it had to be manufactured.

Matheus jerked, tugging hard on one of the fragile pages. With a sharp gasp, he stepped back, holding his hands up by his shoulders. Quin leaned close, examining the manuscript. Matheus joined him, their heads together as they looked for flaws. He could see a few cracks, but those might have come from age, not his manhandling. Satisfied, Matheus straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. He already owed Quin for his clothes; the cost of repairing the manuscript would raise his debt to jaw-dropping heights.

Quin raised his eyebrows at him.

“I had an English friend when I was a kid,” Matheus said. “I picked up some of her slang.”

He didn’t lie. He did have an English friend; he’d had several. He’d lived in London at the time, but he neglected to share that bit of information. In his head, he cursed at himself. He wondered how many slip-ups Quin hadn’t noticed. One word could be excused away, but too many got hard to explain. No matter how flawless his accent, vocabulary snuck out in odd places. He thought he’d gotten rid of most of his Briticisms. When he’d first arrived, Matheus had confused half the staff of a grocery store by asking for
courgettes
. At least that one wouldn’t be a problem with Quin. Zucchini didn’t come up in conversation when dinner always consisted of the same thing.

“Sure,” said Quin. He did not sound convinced. “If you—”

A feminine shriek cut him off. Both men turned to see a blur rush across the room. The laws of physics were reaffirmed once again as Matheus rocked backward into the bookcase, a mass of red hair in his face. He shoved at the new cling-on, palms hard against bony shoulders. The red-haired attacker raised her head, grinning at him.

“Mat!” she said. “Bloody hell, don’t you recognize me?”

Matheus tilted his head to the side as his brain added rounded cheeks and a healthy coating of freckles. The redhead continued to grin at him, shaking her curls a little.

“Bibi?” Matheus asked hesitantly. As soon as the name left his mouth, memories clicked into place. Sitting under the bridge, sharing nicked cigarettes and wondering why the long-limbed girl with the spot reserved at Oxford bothered with a drug addict like him.

“I cannot believe you’re here! Why are you here? Oh, I don’t care. Give me a hug.”

Matheus wanted to ask what they were doing now if not hugging, but couldn’t on account of his rib cage being pulverized into calcium dust.