Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (29 page)

“Bibi, I can’t breathe,” he gasped.

“I haven’t seen you in years and you complain about breathing?”

Quin coughed, loudly and at great length.

Matheus peeled Bibi loose, pointing her in Quin’s direction. She grinned at him as well.

“Bibi, this is Quin,” Matheus said.

“Quintus Livius Saturninus.” Quin extended a hand, the picture of polite indifference. “Bibi?”

“Bianca, actually. No one’s called me Bibi in years.” Bianca stood with a hand on each hip. She projected the same natural ease that had always inspired envy and fascination in Matheus. The younger sister of one of his friends, Bianca had stolen Matheus for her own. Matheus didn’t remember having much choice in the matter. Then again, smoking joints with a pretty girl beat getting arrested for public drunkenness any day.

“This is your English friend?” Quin asked Matheus.

“Well, yeah,” said Matheus. He wondered if he could signal Bianca somehow. She had the ability to talk to anyone, about anything. Unfortunately, she tended to push hard on the
anything
part.

“We used to date,” said Bianca. “Mat was my first.”

Matheus rubbed his palm down his face. She hadn’t changed at all.

“God, Bibi,” he mumbled. “It’s like meeting your father all over again.”

“Sorry,” Bianca said with a cheerfulness that belied her apology. “You know how I am. Are you
the
Quin?”

Quin blinked, probably from verbal whiplash. He folded his arms over his chest, giving Bianca what Matheus had privately categorized as “Scary Look Number Seven.” Scary Looks One through Six consisted of Quin’s everyday expressions. Studies had shown Scary Look Number Eight to cause cancer in white mice. Matheus hadn’t yet seen Scary Look Number Nine, but he looked forward to his future bout of schizophrenia.

“Possibly,” said Quin.

Jackass
, Matheus thought.

“I have something of yours.” Bianca crossed to the desk with long strides. She matched Matheus’ height, taller in the thick-soled sneakers she wore. The drawers squeaked as she rumbled through them, exclaiming in triumph as she pulled out a battered three-ring binder.

“Do you realize this is one of the best records of the Shan states in Burma?” she asked, handing the journal to Quin. “Not a lot of outside observers during the fourteenth century.”

Peering over Quin’s shoulder, Matheus saw that the binder contained pages of hand-made paper covered in familiar spikey writing, placed in acid-free protective sleeves.

Quin closed the book with a snap. He stared at Bianca, his fingers drumming over the leather cover. “This was written in code,” he said.

“Yup,” said Bianca. “I had a devil of a time decoding it, I can tell you. Took me nearly four months.”

“Four months,” repeated Quin.

Matheus grinned. “Someone’s not as smart as he thinks he is,” he said.

Quin turned around with a glare, then stopped, leaning his head to one side as his expression relaxed.

Bianca let out a quiet sigh.

“Gorgeous, right?” she asked. “Like a magic trick.” She made an exaggerated frown. “Normal Mat.” A beaming smile. “Supermodel Mat.”

“Hey,” said Matheus, unsure if he was being insulted or not.

“I’m just teasing, love,” said Bianca. “You aren’t nearly hot enough to be a supermodel.”

“Hey!”

“And now it’s gone. Shame. Good to know you haven’t lost your sunny optimism in your old age,” said Bianca.

“Bibi, I swear to God—”

“Bianca, have you finished with the Antioch files?” A grey-haired man stood in the doorway. A cloud of academia surrounded him, starting with the floppy pile of grey hair down to his faded corduroy pants. Matheus pictured him in a classroom as clearly as if the man had actually been one of his professors. A leather satchel and a battered copy of
Crime and Punishment
, and the man could roam any liberal arts college without question.

“You have guests, Zeb,” said Bianca. “Did Alistair find you?”

“That boy has got the brains of a sea cucumber,” said Zeb, marching into the library. He appeared not to notice Matheus or Quin. “Do you know he had the presumption to rearrange my room?”

“He was cleaning it.” Bianca rolled her eyes at Matheus.

“I nearly lost thirty years of work.” Zeb roamed around the room, snatching books off the shelves with a roughness that made Matheus’ inner antiquarian cringe. “I managed to stop him before he ruined everything. Why are you here?”

Matheus blinked, taken aback as Zeb halted in front of him. “Um,” he said.

“Zeb, this is Matheus,” said Quin. “Do you approve his turning?”

Zeb jerked, arm snapping around, finger extended into Quin’s face.

“He is not allowed here,” he said to Bianca. “Get him out.”

“I was invited,” Quin said, leaning away from the digit.

Zeb might lose a finger. Quin had that look.

“Where is that boy?” Zeb demanded, swinging back to Bianca. “I want him punished. Make him clean the gutters.”

“The gutters fell down ages ago,” said Bianca. “Just play nice, Zeb, yeah?”

Zeb scowled at her. Matheus thought he ranked fairly high on the scowling index, but looking at Zeb made him realize how much more he had to learn. Whole volumes of misanthropy were written into the eyebrows alone.

“Yes, I accept the turning,” he said, each word dropping like a brick. “Now leave.”

“Actually, I’d like to talk to you,” Quin said.

“No,” said Zeb. He moved with such quick, staccato jolts that Matheus wondered if he could no longer mimic human movement. Maybe Zeb had spent so long locked behind his evil eyes and deadbolts he’d forgotten.

“Did you get my letters?”

“I got your damn letters. No. I have to get back to my work.”

“Just a few minutes,” said Quin. He pulled a small box out of his pocket. A tingle of recognition ran down Matheus’ spine. “I brought a gift.”

Zeb snatched for the box, brushing over the top before Quin closed his fingers.

“A few minutes,” Quin repeated.

“Is that——”

“Talk first.”

Zeb swung around again, stomping toward the library door. “—don’t know why people are always bothering me,” he muttered. “I’ve got to work to be done. Too many people. Can’t move around here. Are you coming or what?”

“Sunshine, stay here,” Quin said. “I’ll be back soon.”

“But—”

“Catch up with your friend.” Quin smiled, but his voice held nothing but pointed steel. He closed the door after him with a clap of finality.

“Well, he’s charming, isn’t he?” Bianca dropped into one of the armchairs and patted the seat of the other. A lacquered globe sat behind them. She twirled it idly as Matheus crossed the room.

“Charming? You thought that was charming?”

“Sarcasm, Mat. I thought you of all people would be able to recognize it.” Bianca stopped the globe, the palm of her hand covering most of northern Africa. Her nails scraped over Scandinavia. “What are you doing here? And with
the
Quin, of all people.”

“Matheus,” said Matheus. “I go by Matheus now. Matheus Taylor.”

“Okay,” Bianca said, letting out the bastard love-child of a giggle and a snort.

“What?”

“Matheus? Really? Did you pick that yourself?”

“Well, I couldn’t go by Mattias Schneider anymore,” said Matheus. He traced the western coastline of the Americas. “What’s wrong with Matheus?”

“Other than the fact that no one is named Matheus in the history of ever?” Bianca laughed. “You don’t even pronounce it properly. It’s meant to be mah-
teh
-oos, not mah-thus. It’s Portuguese. Did you pull it out a book or something?”

“No,” said Matheus. “A baby-names website.”

Bianca laughed some more.

“What is going on? Where have you been for the last ten years?” she asked.

“Here, mostly,” said Matheus. “Rehab for a while.”

“You were getting a bit ragged,” said Bianca. “But I don’t understand. Why America? Wouldn’t your father pay for rehab?”

“I had to get away, okay? I don’t want to get into it. Just remember I’m Matheus now. I’m American, don’t speak German, never lived in England, and have definitely never heard of Carsten Schneider. Understand?”

“No,” said Bianca. “But I’ll play along.” She spun the globe again, flicking it faster and faster until the pedestal threatened to tip over. “What’s your story? Where did we meet?”

“Grew up in foster care, moved all over the country. Came here for college and graduate school. We met as teenagers, I guess, since you just had to share with Quin. California?”

“I’ve never lived in California. What about Boston?”

“Sure, Boston, fine,” said Matheus. He stretched out his legs, toeing the edge of the carpet. He had the strangest feeling of continuation, as though time had been picked up and folded together, placing this moment next to one from a decade ago. He didn’t feel eighteen; Bianca’s chest no longer held the same appeal for one thing, but the air between them hadn’t changed. As though he had a Bianca-shaped slot she slid right into. He wondered if she felt the same way, but he bit back the question at the last second.

“Does your father know?” Bianca asked.

Matheus shuddered. “No,” he said.

“It was on the news, when you disappeared. The police went mad, interviewing all of us. Your father offered this huge reward, but of course, no one knew anything.”

Matheus scratched at the velvet covering the chair. He didn’t say anything.

“I think he was quite worried about you,” said Bianca. “He always looked so tired, afterward.”

“I don’t want to talk about my father, Bibi. I know you think he’s some kind of Byronic, brooding hero-type, but he’s not.”

“I don’t think that.” Bianca slapped his biceps with the back of her hand. “God, he’s thirty years older than I am. Not to mention he’s still married to your stepmother.” She laughed, but Matheus could hear the forced edges.

“It’s easy to stay married when you live on opposite sides of the country,” Matheus said. He couldn’t see that ever changing. Neither his father nor his stepmother believed in divorce, although for two very different reasons.

Bianca laughed again; no force required this time. Her face lit up, somberness swamped by her natural perky demeanor. Matheus had always assumed Bianca could get hit with a Mack truck, then bounce up and announce she wanted ice cream.

“Yeah,” she said. “Mat—Can I still call you Mat?”

Matheus nodded.

“Good. It won’t be as easy to blow your cover.”

“This isn’t a spy movie.”

“But it’s so exciting! You showing up after ten years with an alias, and
the
Quin.” Bianca wiggled in her seat, then drew her legs up underneath her butt. She leaned toward Matheus, grinning at him.

“Will you stop calling him that?” Matheus asked.

“It’s his name.”

“
The
Quin is his name? You make him sound like a boat.”

The globe teetered as Bianca leaned over, pressing a loud, smacking kiss to Matheus’ forehead. The faint traces of her saliva left a warm outline of her lips; the heat shimmered through her skin. She’d always run a few degrees higher than normal, but Matheus felt as though he sat next to a fleshy radiator.

“I missed you,” Bianca said, settled into her chair. Bones popped as she stretched out her lithe frame, small-chested and strung like a marionette. As a teenager, Bianca had favored the Annie Hall look, but now she wore fitted jeans and a flowered peasant blouse. She looked good, but Matheus wondered what happened to the suspenders. “I didn’t know it, but now that you’re here, I can tell.”

The library door opened, and Alistair stuck his head in long enough to deliver another poison-laden glower.

Bianca let out a whistle. “What did you do to poor Alistair?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said Matheus. “He’s a weirdo.”

Bianca bit her lip, staring at him.

“I’m sorry. I can’t get over the accent. ‘He’s a weirdo’,” she said, trying to reproduce the flattened sound of Standard American English. “Remember calling up the BBC and trying to convince them you were Leonardo DiCaprio?” She laughed again. “At least tell me why you turned. Was it romantic? Did
the
Quin sweep you off your feet?”

Matheus made a face at her. “I’m not gay,” he said. “You of all people should know that.”

“You were fifteen. It didn’t matter if I was male, female, or a parking meter.”

“That’s not true. I would have drawn the line at parking meters.”

Matheus sketched the story of his death, leaving out a few of the more disgusting details. He tried to keep it short, but Bianca prodded him for more information every other sentence. The house settled around them as they talked, quiet creaks and groans filtering through the walls. Footsteps indicated someone moving around upstairs, but no one bothered the shelter of the library.

“But how did you know where to find him?” Bianca asked as Matheus told her about the hunt.

“Quin said it had something to do with being claimed.” Matheus shrugged.

“He claimed you?”

“Well, yeah,” said Matheus. “Isn’t that what being turned is called?”

Bianca shook her head. “Claiming is different. It’s rare.” She tugged on the cords laced through the top of her blouse.

A moment passed. Bianca opened her mouth, the beginnings of a word curving her lips, but then the shape slide away, leaving behind a faint frown. The leather cords made whispering sounds as she pulled them between her fingers.

“Quin said he’s never done it before,” Matheus said.

“Oh,” Bianca said. She blinked and turned toward him with a smile. “It is romantic.”

“It is not romantic. It’s like I’ve been given a date rape drug, except eventually drugs wear off but this stupid—whatever the hell it is—is permanent so I’m stuck being—I don’t know—
attached
to the guy who drugged, not to mention killed, threatened, and kidnapped, me. So no, it’s not fucking romantic.”

“Okay.” Bianca held up her hands, palms vertical. “I submit. It’s not romantic.”

“You read too many bad romance novels,” Matheus said. He stared at the shuttered windows, rubbing his thumb over the curved arm of the chair. Tightness lingered in his chest, as though his lungs had been compacted into a third of their usual mass. He forced himself to inhale, drawing in as much air as possible, to prove he still could.