Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (31 page)

The minutes on Matheus’ watch clicked indecently loudly in the empty car. Matheus caressed the steering wheel like a security blanket. The couple disappeared around the corner; Matheus waited for the blue lights and sirens. After a few nervous minutes, he saw Quin stroll out of the alley, elegant suit soaked with blood.

Matheus locked the doors.

Quin tapped on the passenger side window.

Matheus lowered the window a fraction.

“Let me in,” Quin said.

“No,” said Matheus.

Quin raised his eyebrows.

“Let me in, please?” he said.

“You’re not getting blood on my nice leather seats,” Matheus said.

“Your seats?”

Matheus made a gesture that had earned him not one or two, but three citations for disorderly conduct.

Quin yanked at the door handle, then kicked the side of the Mercedes.

“If you do that again, I’m going to leave you here,” said Matheus.

Glaring at him, Quin stabbed his finger toward the window in distinctly threatening way.

Matheus put the car into drive.

“Fine.” Quin wrenched at his tie, casting it aside. Kicking off his shoes, he emptied his pockets onto the roof of the car, then wiggled out of his pants. He tossed them after the tie. His shirt followed a moment later, a third of its buttons scattered over the pavement. “Better?”

“Don’t touch anything.” Matheus unlocked the doors.

“Yes, mother.” Quin threw his shoes, wallet, and belt into the backseat. He held his hands up as he slid in, pulling the door closed with his elbow.

Matheus watched him out of the corner of his eye. Only Quin’s socks and black boxer-briefs remained on his lean frame. A faint tan-line crossed over the tops of his knees, remnants of an ancient uniform. Risking quick glances as he drove, Matheus searched for any sign of fat or flab, but apparently soldiering against Germanic hordes provided excellent exercise. He thought he kept himself in pretty good shape, especially for someone with a sedentary job, but next to Quin, Matheus felt like a schlub.

“What happened back there?” Matheus asked. The turn signal blinked as he waited for the light to change. They’d made a circle around the city, the abandoned neighborhood with Quin’s house only a few minutes away.

“The woman was pregnant.” Quin grimaced at his filthy hands. He rested his wrists on his thighs, bending his palms upward. “We don’t feed on the pregnant or on children, understand?”

Matheus didn’t particularly want to feed on anybody. He nodded, letting the wheel slip through his fingers as he turned.

Quin leaned back, closing his eyes. Overhead, the modern-art bridge glowed blue and untouchable. Matheus let his arms drop, steering with his fingertips. A heaviness settled into his limbs.

“So those shadows were….” he trailed off.

“Idiots,” said Quin. “Children turning children. I doubt any of them were more than thirty.”

“You killed them,” Matheus said.

“I lost my temper.”

“It’s been a long night.”

Quin opened his eyes, twisting a little to look at Matheus. “No yelling?” he asked.

“No yelling,” said Matheus. Quin settled back against the headrest and closed his eyes again. Matheus glanced over, his gaze wandering downward, then snapping back to the street. The rationalizations began, familiar refrains to which Matheus both hated and clung.

Quin sighed, interrupting Matheus’ internal gymnastics. “Let’s go home,” he said.

Finally
, Matheus thought. Something they could both agree on.

Matheus examined the marks on the bottom of the vase. He looked at the laptop beside him, toggling through the open websites. He’d been surprised to discover Quin did have a telephone line installed. Matheus embraced the Internet with the enthusiasm of a heroin addict discovering an untouched stash of China white. The Internet screeched back at him in the manner of an inbred electronic howler monkey in the middle of a lingering plague death. Matheus stood in front of the modem, circa 1990, trying to decide exactly which species of monkey best described the ear-rending sounds filling Quin’s office. He hoped Quin didn’t need the phone line, because Matheus refused to disconnect. He understood why people fled from dial-up as quickly as possible.

He twisted the vase, letting it catch the dim light, then set it on the coffee table. Matheus cupped his chin in one hand and regarded the vase for a few seconds. Partially to remove any doubts, but mostly to avoid looking at the man standing in front of him.

“It’s a fake,” Matheus said. “A very good one. They got the marks right, but the glaze is wrong. See the way it catches the light? It’s a modern compound.”

“Bugger me, that rat bastard Tony is going to get it. I paid three hundred for that pretty.” A moist slapping sound accompanied the words. Matheus looked up and wished he hadn’t. He attempted to make eye contact before settling on what he assumed was Faust’s hair by the virtue of its residence on the top of his head. Matheus’ second guess involved cut-rate taxidermy.

“Sorry.” Matheus thought Faust gave him a disgusted look, but he lacked experience in assigning expressions to a drooping mass of flesh. Faust’s nose appeared to have migrated down to his chin, and his ears draped over what passed for his shoulders. He spoke through layers of skin that wobbled and flapped together, like Silly Putty left to melt in the sun.

“He swore up and down it were genuine. Said he got it from a real posh place.”

“It could fool the uneducated. I’m sure that rat bastard Tony thought it was real.”

“Hmmf.” Faust rustled through his pockets. How he knew where his clothes ended and he began baffled Matheus. A bundle of cash landed on the table. Matheus counted the sticky bills. He tried not to imagine how they got that way.

“You wouldn’t be lying to old Faust now, would you? Trying to get your hands on what belongs to him?”

Matheus paused, mid-count. Calmly, he picked up the vase with one hand and let go. Shards of porcelain skittered over the floor. Matheus resumed his counting.

“Dammit, I could’ve sold that,” Faust said.

“Maybe next time you won’t call me a liar.” Matheus tapped the cash into a stack and offered it to Faust. “You can keep my fee.”

“Nah, lad. I like a boy with spirit. You keep the money.” Faust grinned at him, because Matheus didn’t have enough nightmares already. “Mind, don’t be destroying any more of me merchandise or I might have to carve up that pretty face of yours.”

“Now, Faust,” said Quin from the doorway. “I like his face the way it is.”

“Aw, Quin, you great bloody poof, how am I supposed to keep him in line with you hanging about?”

“Keeping him in line is my job. Are you done?”

Matheus nodded, closing the laptop.

“We’re done,” said Faust. He stumped out of the room, one leg dragging a trail through the pieces of vase.

“So?” asked Quin. “Happy now that you’re gainfully employed?”

“Aw, Quin, you great bloody poof.” Matheus mimicked Faust’s Tour of England accent. “Don’t be a bloody arse, yeah?”

“That’s disturbing.”

“What’s disturbing is watching Faust eat a sandwich. Do you think he stores food in there for later?”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“Never have I been so glad about the not-aging thing as I am right now.” Matheus gathered the larger pieces of porcelain and set them in a pile on the coffee table.

“You’d look distinguished with a few wrinkles,” Quin said.

I’d look like my father
, Matheus thought. He retrieved a broom and dustpan from the closet under the stairs, then swept up the rest of the shards. “Where’s Faust from?” he asked.

“I haven’t a clue,” said Quin. “Faust and I don’t hang out and chat.”

“What do you do with him?”

“He gets information for me sometimes.” Quin picked the pile off the coffee table and followed Matheus out to the trashcan. Two months of living there, and Matheus had yet to change the bag. Lack of biological imperatives really cut down on the waste.

“And Juliet, what does she do for you?” Matheus asked.

Quin tilted his head to the side. He tapped his fingers on the lid of the garage can. “Besides making my life difficult?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Same as Faust. Information.”

“And what do you do with all this information?” Matheus asked.

“How are you feeling?”

“What?”

“Are you hungry? Do you feel twitchy? I’d ask if you were having mood swings, but that’s pretty much par for the course with you.”

Matheus paused on the doorstep, then snorted. He let the screen door slam shut behind him, the cheap wooden frame rattling against the doorjamb. He considered locking the regular door also, but eventually Quin would find a way in, and things would not end well. Becoming a decorative lampshade did not fit into Matheus’ five-year plan.

“I’m fine,” Matheus said. “Is there a reason you asked or did you just want to change the subject?”

“It’s been six weeks since you fed.” Quin trailed after him into the living room. He hadn’t gone out that night, which meant casual clothes: slim navy sweater, Oxford buttondown underneath, and grey herringbone pants with creases sharp enough to cut glass.

Matheus had thrown on the first shirt he pulled out his dresser, and the same pair of jeans he’d worn the day before. Quin could buy him a whole department store full of fancy clothes, but he couldn’t make Matheus care about them.

“I thought you said it’d be at least three months.” Matheus collected his laptop and his payment, and walked out without waiting for a response.

Quin caught up to him outside Matheus’ bedroom.

“Just checking,” he said.

Matheus shook his head. He set his laptop on the nightstand, then scrambled around his bed for the plug. Quin stood in the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets. The only light came from the indicator pulsing slowly on the laptop, giving everything a faint blue tint, more than enough for Matheus to make his way around the room. He tucked the bundle of cash into his dresser next to a pair of paisley socks. Matheus made a face at them. Paisley. If the fate of the world rested on his wearing paisley socks in public, Matheus would need a moment to consider things. On one hand, the world ending; on the other, paisley. Sophie had an easier choice.

“I wouldn’t put that in your account,” Quin said. “People will get suspicious.”

“I know,” said Matheus. “That’s why I drew out all my money and closed it. Did you think you were the only one who knew about tax havens?”

Well, not any more, thanks to the Financegeek1231.com. Ask, and the Internet shall provide.

“You have a hissy fit when I withdraw your money, then do the exact same thing?” Quin asked, turning aside to let Matheus out of the room.

“There’s a difference. This was my choice. It’s my account, and you don’t know where it is or have access to it.”

Quin glanced over his shoulder through the open door to Matheus’ room.

“Your bureau does not qualify as an account,” he said.

“I’ll deposit it later. Also, if it’s missing, I’ll know it was you, won’t I?”

The stairs let out a symphony of squeaks as Quin followed Matheus up to the hall. Matheus pulled out a jacket, shrugging into the heavy fabric, the weight pulling against his shoulders.

“I don’t need to steal your measly five hundred dollars,” said Quin, watching him.

“You know that’s not the reason. I’m going to see Bibi. I’ll be back before sunrise.”

Quin frowned. “I don’t like you going over there so much.”

“And I don’t really care what you like,” said Matheus.