Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (37 page)

“It was a strong warning,” said Milo. “Quin thinks highly of you.”

“Or he’s an overprotective, controlling, possessive bastard.” Matheus stood up. The chill in the air began to burn into his lungs. Time to take advantage of his no-oxygen-required loophole. He’d enjoy a winter without the fluid in his lungs freezing up every time he left the house.

Milo fell into step beside him, his arm swinging into Matheus’. “Maybe both,” he said.

Matheus rolled his eyes. In the distance, he heard sirens. There were always sirens somewhere in the city. A woman in pink pajama pants walked by with what had to be a dog because mops didn’t wear leashes. She smiled at Milo, swinging her hips a bit more as she passed. Matheus scowled. So Milo got the undead sex appeal, but he didn’t? How was that fair? Maybe age had something to do with it. Maybe Matheus hadn’t been dead long enough yet.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked.

“No, I wasn’t a slave,” said Milo.

“I wasn’t going to ask that!”

“You wanted to.”

“No,” said Matheus. He coughed, trying to cover his lack of conviction. “I just wanted to know how old you are.”

“Seventy-one.”

“Jesus.”

“Quin’s older,” said Milo.

“Yeah, but that’s not real,” said Matheus. “I mean, you lived through the sixties.”

“So did Quin. So did a lot of other people.”

“Quin was dead. He doesn’t count. Was everything LSD and free love and DayGlo? I imagine the sixties being very hard on the eyes.”

Milo stopped and looked at Matheus.

“What?” asked Matheus.

“You’re strange,” Milo said.

“Not that strange. It’s like finding a time capsule that can talk.”

“Most people can talk.”

“Never mind,” said Matheus loudly. “Let’s just walk in total silence, yeah?”

“Works for me,” said Milo and pulled out his phone.

Quin sat on the bottom step of the front porch, his knees splayed wide with his ankles crossed. One of the squatters from next door danced around the porch, waving his hands and jumping from foot to foot. Quin appeared to be listening intently, but Matheus couldn’t think why. Then as the squatter’s finger shot out at Matheus, still halfway down the street, he understood.

Bastard
, Matheus thought. So, if Quin couldn’t spy on him, he’d hire someone else? Matheus increased his pace. Anticipation built in his stomach, fuel for the inevitable fight.

The squatter looked from Quin to Matheus and back again. Quin held up a folded bill. The squatter snatched the cash, then disappeared. Matheus had no idea The Flash’s heroin-addict cousin lived on their street.

“Where have you been?” Quin asked, standing as Matheus and Milo reached the porch. “I’m not paying you to wander around.”

“I had the time,” said Milo.

Matheus scowled.

Quin ignored him. He gazed down his nose at Milo from his perch on the top step, eyelids half-open, as though Milo wasn’t worth the effort of full contact.

“Back off,” Matheus said. “It’s his lunch hour.”

Now Quin looked at him.

Matheus returned his Roman patricianism with the glower of Germanic barbarians.
That’s right
, he thought.
You stupid, road-building, aqueduct-loving, son of a bitch.

Apparently, Quin must have been out sick while the Germanic hordes spanked the Roman Empire’s ass all over Europe, because Matheus’ glare produced the opposite effect intended. Quin sighed like an exasperated parent in a television sitcom. Which made Matheus the roguish, yet good-hearted teen idol. He let out a low hiss between clenched teeth.

“Sunshine, I thought I told you—”

“Yeah, you told me,” said Matheus, taking climbing up the porch and into Quin’s personal space.

“We can talk about this later,” said Quin. He walked into the house.

Matheus stomped after him.

“I want to talk about it now,” he said. Behind him, the door clicked shut. Matheus glanced over his shoulder at Milo, trying to sidle into the living room and out of the blast radius. He stopped at Matheus’ look, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Matheus, go to your room.”

Matheus’ head snapped around so fast, he popped a vertebra or two. “Excuse me?”

Milo inched closer to the living room, one hand groping along the wall for the doorway.

Inhaling, Matheus took a step towards Quin. “Did you seriously just tell me to go to my room?” he asked.

“That…may have been poor choice of words,” said Quin with a twist of his wrist.

“May have?” On Matheus’ right, the hall table crashed to the floor.

“Ah,” said Milo, and set the table upright. Tucking his hands behind his back, he stared at the ceiling.

“Listen to me—” Quin said.

“No,” Matheus said. His hands shook. He balled them into fists, pressing his knuckles against his thighs. The vibrations travelled up his arms and over his shoulders, to the top of his spine. The whole room blurred. “You listen to me. I thought I explained this already, but apparently you’re thick, so I’ll do it again. You don’t tell me anything. Not what to do, not where to go, and not who I can talk to.”

Each word left his mouth fully formed and distinct before the next began to grow. Matheus heard the trace of British in his voice, but nothing definite. At least he spoke in English. The thought of trying to explain how he suddenly became fluent in German gave him a headache.

Quin strode forward, seizing Matheus’ collar and shaking him until Matheus’ teeth rattled in their sockets.

Matheus kicked at Quin’s shin; the toe of his sneaker skimmed over sleek fabric of Quin’s pants. He swore, kicking again, and landing a glancing blow on Quin’s knee.

With a rapid stream of Latin, Quin rapped Matheus across the ear, then twisted with unnatural speed, catching Matheus in a headlock. His arm tightened around Matheus’ throat while his other hand grabbed a fistful of Matheus’ jacket.

Matheus writhed, doing his best to slam his foot down onto one of Quin’s. He jerked left and right, throwing elbows wildly in the hope of hitting something important.

Quin smacked Matheus on the top of the head.

“I’m trying to keep you safe!” he shouted.

“Then—stop—choking—me!” Matheus staggered as Quin released him. He rubbed his neck, giving Quin a shove in the shoulder with his other hand.

Quin caught his wrist, giving it a warning tug before letting go. He crossed his arms, watching Matheus with narrowed eyes. He reminded Matheus of the night he’d woken up in the house, as static as a photograph, angles and curves locked into place an age ago.

Turning away, Matheus pulled off his coat, hanging it in the hall closet. He smoothed his hand over the coarse wool, then gently shut the door. He stared the wood, tracing the whorls of the grain with his eyes. His throat ached a little, but no worse than having a bad cold.
Just…stop
, Matheus thought.
Just stop now. Don’t push it. Don’t push him.

“Are you about done?” Quin asked in a cool voice.

Well, fuck.

“Why don’t you lock me in a cell for all of eternity? I’ll be safe in there, won’t I?” Matheus asked. He stalked toward Quin, the brief moment of rationality vanishing like fairy dust.

“Calm down,” said Quin.

“Go fuck yourself. Calm down? I’ll calm down when I want to fucking calm down!”

“Stop behaving like a child.”

“Stop treating me like one!”

The muscle in Quin’s jaw twitched like he’d swallowed a Tesla coil. A rush of glee swept through Matheus. He planted himself in front of Quin, close enough to see faint lines around Quin’s eyes.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe you don’t know everything?” Quin asked. He started out slow, words rising in volume as the question went on. “That maybe I learned something over the last seventeen hundred years?”

“Apparently not people skills,” said Matheus. “Because you suck at them.”

Quin’s mouth dropped open. “I suck at them?”

“Yes!”

“Look in a goddamned mirror!”

Matheus tilted his head to the side, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “But I’m just a child,” he said. “I don’t know any better.”

“You—”

“Pardon me,” said Milo.

“What?” Matheus and Quin shouted in unison. Matheus had forgotten about Milo, too set on driving Quin completely over the brink. He blinked; the world zoomed out, expanding with breathless speed.

“Someone is knocking,” Milo said.

The door shook with heavy thuds at its base. Quin pushed past Matheus, crossing the foyer with long, sharp strides.

Matheus ignored Quin waving him back. He hovered at Quin’s shoulder, watching as Quin opened the door.

The smell of blood burst into the house. Matheus rocked on his heels with the force of it, his eyes fluttering shut for a second.

He opened them to see Alistair, bent with the effort of carrying the body. Blood covered his arm up to his elbows. He’d dragged a hand through his hair, leaving a rust-colored streak through the blond. He swayed, his gaze flicking between Matheus and Quin.

“Please,” he said.

Red curls dragged over the front porch.

Ice spiked through Matheus’ veins, freezing out the anger.

Blood dripped onto the concrete, every drop landing into deafening silence. Alistair swayed, scrambling for a better grip as a pale arm slipped free, long fingers landing in the pool of blood.

“Help me,” said Alistair.

“Bianca.” Matheus pushed past Quin onto the porch. He caught Bianca’s shoulders, propping her head against his stomach. Her arms hung limp at her sides. Someone had tied a folded jacket over her abdomen; the makeshift bandage held on with the bungee cords out of the back of someone’s truck. Blood covered Bianca’s face, flowing out of a large gash over her left eye.

Alistair jerked his head toward the hallway.

Nodding, Matheus moved backward, banging the heel of his foot against the bottom of the door. Bianca’s blood dripped onto his arm, warm and tingling on his skin.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Later,” said Alistair. “Quin, we need alcohol and bandages.” His voice held none of the cloying sweetness of his last interaction with Quin. “She’s going to need stitches, too, so get needles and strong thread. Go to Ken-Med, ask for James McKenna.”

“I—” Quin said.

“Do it!” Matheus shouted.

Alistair and Milo both jumped, Alistair nearly dropping Bianca.

Quin stared at Matheus for a drawn-out moment.

Matheus glared back, the earlier anger still driving his brain. Bianca’s blood burned, the tingles turning into nettles. She shifted, letting out a whimper audible only in the silence of the foyer. Matheus glanced down. Bianca’s face tightened beneath her mask of blood. She breathed in short, shallow gasps tumbling over one another. Matheus looked back at Quin.

Please
, he mouthed, speech evaporating with his anger.

Quin swung around.

“This will be easier if you come, too,” he said, looking at Milo over his shoulder. He grabbed a coat out of the closet at random.

“It’s not in my contract,” said Milo.

“It is now,” said Quin. “Move.”