Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (33 page)

He’d run outside his own map, to the outskirts of the city. Neat little houses with neat little yards bordered by neat little fences, all looking as though they had been cut out with an X-ACTO knife. A traffic light flashed red in the intersection up ahead. On the corner sat a gas station, its windows dark despite the lit sign casting a green and yellow glow over the parking lot. Matheus took a seat under the overhang, on top of an empty newspaper stand. He gripped the slick metal, his arms stiff against his sides. The soles of his sneakers squeaked on the glass front. Across the street, a light came on, a pane of yellow separating one house from its twins. The light disappeared a minute later. Matheus imagined the house’s inhabitant shuffling to the bathroom, slippers over carpet, half-blind in the light, then shuffling back, into the sleep they never really left.

Matheus never had a neat little life. His father would have shunned the modest Cape Cods, preferring the kind of grandeur not seen outside of a PBS period piece. Matheus grew up in a house with a ballroom, four parlors, two music rooms, eight guest bedrooms, two kitchens, a games room, three libraries, and enough associated snobbery to choke the Queen herself. His father expanded in such magnificence space, but Matheus drew inward, agoraphobic in the face of an inheritance to which he could never live up.

Rehab was almost a relief, the boxy rooms with their dingy corners, the overworked staff, the mindless trudging of each day. The Bayhill dorms weren’t much better. More people, but at least Matheus didn’t have to piss in a cup every other day. He worked every crap job he could find to get a slum apartment on the iffy side of town. Then he got two crap jobs and the debt of an African nation to put himself through the master’s program. Matheus ditched the slum the year he graduated, moving into his last apartment before Quin. He liked that apartment; he liked the anonymity of living in a building where no one acknowledged anyone else. Like a hive full of anti-social bees. Matheus fit there. He could breathe there.

Then Quin came along and screwed everything up.

Matheus ran away from one dominating parent; he wasn’t interested in another. Especially one who raised questions Matheus thought he had answered years ago.

He shivered. Out of the rain, his hair started to freeze, stiff strands poking his nape. He stood, muscles rigid with cold. The temperature dropped even further, thickening the rain to an icy slush. Matheus trudged up the street, slipping on half-frozen puddles, flexing his fingers to make sure they hadn’t fallen off. He promised offerings to the taxi gods, but apparently, they worked bank hours. He checked his pockets, even as his brain produced the image of his phone sitting on his dresser. And, of course, no more payphones, because who didn’t have a cell? No way to call for a taxi, no GPS service to provide directions. Matheus had no idea how to get back to Quin’s house. Running blindly did not lend itself to keen observation.

He walked until the road ended in a T-intersection. Matheus paused, hunching up his shoulders as he considered his choices. An itchy sensation prickled between his shoulder blades. He glanced over his shoulder, but the road was empty of people. Matheus shook his head. Everyone with any sense had already tucked themselves in for the night. The itching followed him, though. Matheus walked faster, trying to check his pockets without drawing attention to them. He’d been mugged a few times before, once by a meth head with a bread knife he’d tried to sharpen on the curb. Matheus gave him twenty bucks and a coupon for a free sandwich at Arby’s. He hoped this one ended as well.

The feeling extended to the top of his spine, a subtle vibration disrupting his thoughts. Matheus risked another quick look. Streetlights, parked cars, and empty sidewalk. Maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe living with Quin had started to get to him. Matheus decided to ignore the itching. He shoved it into the closet where he kept all the other things he didn’t want to think about, like the tingle he got when he made Quin laugh and a disturbing fondness for the old Nancy Drew books.

By the time he reached more familiar surroundings, Matheus had chalked the whole thing up to an overactive imagination. The rain turned into a light mist, Mother Nature’s lust for torment satisfied for the night. Matheus’ shower called to him. He wanted to choke on the steam, heavy and hot in his lungs. Matheus planned to shower until mushrooms grew out of his chest. He turned down Quin’s street, vision fixed squarely in the future. Probably why he failed to notice the baseball bat in the present.

Four baseball bats, actually, with four people to wield them. The attack didn’t come from behind. Instead, the four rushed out of the dark space between buildings.

Matheus staggered back, clasping a hand over his nose as the four circled him. The man to his left lunged, bat swinging for Matheus’ head. Matheus ducked, the bat striking high on his skull. He swung at the man and hit air. Behind him, he heard laughter. Swearing, Matheus spun around. The woman to his right smirked at him, then aimed her bat low. Matheus’ knee crunched, shards of bone driven through the skin. With a shriek, Matheus fell. He curled into a ball, covering his head with his arms, pavement scraping his cheek.

The blows landed with precision, each one designed for maximum pain. Clearly, they’d practiced. Maybe they had a club. Met once a week and beat up complete strangers. Matheus whimpered. A strike cracked his collarbone. Another shattered his hand. Matheus struggled to breathe, to focus. Each breath contained an entire world, far away from the icy mist and raw concrete and baseball bats turning his body into slurry. Every tiny breath brought a moment of peace, moving closer until the gaps of reality disappeared.

Matheus inhaled. Things happened around him, but that didn’t matter. Breathing mattered. He exhaled.
In.
Pause.
Out.
The things went on, as things did, but Matheus keep breathing.
In.
Pause.
Out.

He breathed until the screaming grew too loud to ignore. Matheus peered out through the gap between his arms. A weight draped over him.

“Sunshine,” Quin said. He knelt on the sidewalk, crisp white shirt splattered with blood and flesh. He leaned forward on his palms, tilting his head to look at Matheus’ face. Matheus wondered what happened to Quin’s jacket, then realized Quin had covered him with it.

“Hurts,” said Matheus. His jaw clicked as he spoke. Matheus pushed his tongue against the side of his mouth, gagging as shattered bones shifted around one another. A mouthful of blood and saliva splattered on the ground, a couple of teeth glistening in the mess.

“I know, love. Hold on, okay?”

“Kay.”

Matheus closed his eyes. A whole fireworks show of pain exploded through his body as Quin lifted him. Another time, Matheus would have objected to being carried like a Disney princess, but not tonight. With his good hand, he hooked two fingers in between the buttons of Quin’s shirt and tried to breath.

Matheus woke up to Quin shaking him.

“Stop,” he mumbled. “Hurts.”

“Sunshine, wake up. You need to drink.”

“No.”

“Stubborn bastard.” Quin gripped Matheus’ waist, pulling him onto his side, hanging half off the mattress. “Please drink. I’m asking nicely.”

Something warm pressed over Matheus’ mouth. He felt the pulse in his lips. Blood, warm and thick, flowed in spurts, pooling on the floor. Matheus gulped, latching onto the open wound with a desperation that overwhelmed any objections.

Relief poured down his throat, the copper taste of someone’s life coating his tongue. Matheus didn’t care. The blood burnt through his veins, scouring away the pain, leaving him hollow. When the blood stopped, Matheus dragged his fingers through the cooling puddle and sucked them clean.

“Better?” Quin asked.

Matheus lowered his hand. He felt the blood drying on his chin, a sticky smear up to his cheekbones. Without thinking, he licked his lips, grimacing at the half-dried texture. He glanced at the corpse, an older man twice Matheus’ size, dressed in a dark green uniform. A gold band cut into the fat on his left hand ring finger. Matheus reached for the man’s pocket, bulging with a wallet, then drew away. He rolled onto his back, pulling his arm across his eyes.

“I didn’t have a lot of choice,” Quin said. “Go take a bath, then lie down. I’ll deal with this.”

Matheus nodded. Taking Quin’s hand, he stood up, hesitating before putting weight on his right leg. He stared at the hollow in Quin’s collarbone. The smell of dead blood mingled with Quin’s cologne.

“My teeth,” said Matheus. He shut his eyes as Quin smoothed his hair back. Quin’s nails scraped over his scalp, light tingles travelling to the base of Matheus’ spine.

“They’ll grow back,” said Quin. “It won’t be fun.”

Nodding again, Matheus pushed away from Quin. He felt like a diver in a pressurized suit walking along the ocean’s floor. The walk up to the second floor seemed to take hours. Matheus crawled into the bathtub without bothering to remove his clothes. He stayed under the stream of water until the last of the heat faded.

Matheus sat down on the corner of his bed. He’d left his wet clothes in the bathroom, slipping on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt when he reached his room. He wiggled his toes into the green carpet. Experimentally, he flexed his right leg, watching his knee cap shift under the skin.

“It’s fine,” said Quin. He sat next to Matheus, a haze of soap surrounding him. Water dripped off his hair, curving around his ears and trailing down to his Adam’s apple. He’d changed into drawstring pants that pooled over the tops of his feet.

“How do you know?” Matheus asked.

Quin gave Matheus’ knee a sharp flick.

“Seems fine to me,” he said.

With a pointed look, Matheus stood up and crossed to the other side of the bed. He wiggled beneath the blankets, propping up his pillow as a backrest.

Undaunted, Quin shifted until he leaned against the headrest, long legs hanging off the side of the bed.

“I’m going to kill Grigori,” he said.

“How do you know it was him?”

“Apollonia wouldn’t be so stupid, and I don’t think you’ve made any other enemies.”

“I’m not exactly Alistair’s favorite.”

“Alistair wouldn’t hire thugs,” said Quin.

“Oh, yeah?”

“He doesn’t use premeditated violence.”

“But impulsive violence is just A-okay?” asked Matheus.

“He’s not a violent person.”

“Super,” Matheus said. “How wonderful for him. Alistair and Jesus, how does anyone ever tell them apart?”

Quin rolled his head over the headboard, his skull making a hollow, rocking sound on the wood. He smiled, eyes half-closed, one thumb rubbing absently at the scar across his stomach.

“What?” Matheus demanded.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re smiling in a very suspicious manner.”

“So sorry, Sunshine. Why don’t you explain the proper way for me to smile so I don’t upset your delicate sensibilities in the future?”

“Asshole,” said Matheus.

Quin laughed. “You need to learn how to fight,” he said.

“I know how to fight.”

“Physically fight. Most attackers aren’t going to be dissuaded by a witty remark.”