Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (41 page)

“Did they get it?” Quin asked.

“Nope. The leader sounded proper annoyed about it too. Used all sort of unkind language.”

“The thermate,” said Alistair, realization opening across his features.

“What thermate?” asked Quin.

“What is thermate?” asked Matheus.

“A type of thermite,” Bianca said. “Zeb kept some rigged to the book in case anyone tried to steal it.” She gave a jagged laugh. “Probably what set the house on fire.”

“What is thermite?” Matheus asked irritably.

“For Heaven’s sake, Mat, does it matter?” Bianca asked. “It’s a mixture of metal and an oxide that burns very, very hot. Wikipedia exists for a reason, you know.”

Matheus bit back his response.
Injured and grieving
, he thought.

“So the book was destroyed,” said Quin.

“As far as I know.”

“Good.”

“Why?” Matheus asked. Alistair, Quin, and Bianca all looked at him. After the thermite question, their stares daunted Matheus, but he pushed on. “What’s special about this book?”

“It’s a genealogy,” said Quin. “A list of the oldest and most powerful of our kind.”

“Your kind,” muttered Bianca.

“So?”

“In the wrong hands, it’s a guide to collapsing our entire society.”

“If it’s just names—”

“It’s not just names,” said Alistair. “It’s descriptions, alliances, enemies, known locations, every scrap of information Zeb could find.”

“It’s part of Zeb’s great project.” Bianca closed her eyes, sliding a little down the bed. “A record of your civilization.”

“Why the hell would a race devoted to secrecy want a huge-ass book, with damned pictures no less, written about them?” Matheus asked. “It’s ridiculous.”

“What does it matter why he wrote the stupid thing?” Alistair asked. “It’s gone now.”

“Was it hunters?” asked Matheus.

“No,” said Quin. “Hunters don’t work like this. The hunt is everything. Just killing us isn’t any fun.”

“Yeah,” said Matheus. “Fun.”

On the bed, Bianca slumped lower. “Well,” she said. “This has been a delight. I’d love to lie here and speculate with you, but I’m exhausted. Can a girl get some privacy around here?”

“I should check your bandages,” said Alistair.

“Oh, lovely.” Bianca’s words slurred into one. “My own personal physician.”

Quin turned abruptly, catching Matheus’ sleeve and tugging him into the hall. Alistair shut the door after them, with one last glare at Matheus.

“You know,” said Matheus as Quin stopped at the foot of the stairs. “You can say, come with me, or, follow me, or any of the dozen other variants. You don’t have to drag me about like a child.”

“You speak differently,” Quin said. He sat down on the stairs and rubbed his hands over his face. “After you talk to her, your vowels turn English. Just a little bit.”

“I don’t—”

“There’s a war in Europe.”

Matheus poked Quin in the knee, forcing him to the side of the stair. He squeezed in next to him, their shoulders knocking together.

“I think you have your decades confused,” Matheus said.

“Not a human war,” said Quin. He bent his temple to the wall. Cords of muscle ran in taut lines down his neck.

Without thinking, Matheus leaned after him, eyeing the length of Quin’s throat, wishing he could peel back Quin’s shirt, and trace the sweep of his collarbone with his—

No,
thought Matheus.
No, no, no, definitely not, not happening, straight, completely straight, women, tits, huge tits the size of beach balls.

“Are you listening?” Quin asked.

“Obviously,” said Matheus. “What else would I be doing? Idiot.” He ignored the judging quality Quin’s eyebrows had taken on. “So there’s a war.”

“Yeah,” said Quin slowly.

“And?” Matheus made a
get on with it
gesture.

“Someone’s been going around…disappearing the most powerful of our kind,” said Quin. “There’s a power vacuum now, two dozen fractions, no one strong enough to defeat the others. It’s just a vicious cycle. The youngest get killed, more get turned to make up the numbers. Winning costs as much as losing. It’s been a decade now, and not likely to end anytime soon.”

“You think a war’s going to start here,” said Matheus.

“It’s already started.”

“But you want to stop it.”

“I’d like to, yes.”

“I didn’t peg you for the hero type.”

“I’m not,” said Quin. “Some lunatic is trying to wipe out our entire species. I’d rather that didn’t happen. Besides, I like it here. Relocating is a pain in the ass.”

“You’re trying to stop a war because you can’t be bothered to move?” asked Matheus.

“I have a lot of stuff.” Quin’s snaggletooth scraped over his lower lip, the grin taking away some of the fatigue marking his face.

“Stop being facetious.”

“You have to go around to all the grocery stores and beg for boxes, then wrap everything in newspaper and tape it all up. Do you realize how difficult it is to find movers willing to work at night? Endless headaches.”

“Quin.”

“Because it’s genocide, Matheus. Because whatever you think of us, we have as much right to this world as humans do. We’re not inherently evil, just another link in the food chain.”

“The people you’ve killed might disagree with that.”

“Well, they have a different perspective, don’t they?”

Matheus frowned at his knees. A stain the size of his pinkie nail sat on top of his kneecap. He scrubbed at the spot with his thumb, but it didn’t disappear. “Is that what it is to you? A difference in perspective?”

“That’s all anything is,” said Quin. “Just a collection of perspectives.”

“So what makes your perspective the right one?”

Quin shrugged. “Only one I have, Sunshine.” He smiled again, his lips closed with the slightest curve. “Have to start somewhere.”

A humming built behind Matheus’ ears. He looked at the hallway; the droning blocking any outside noises, leaving Matheus alone in his own body. The wall had wooden paneling, covered with a thick, salmon-colored paint. Long drips ran from the ceiling to the floor; the occasional chip revealed the pale oak boards underneath.

Quin leaned back on his elbows, stretching his legs down the stairs. He arched his head back, looking up at the staircase ceiling.

Matheus glanced at him, then back at the wall.

“Were you in the book?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Quin.

“Is someone going to come after you?”

“Probably.”

“Is that what Milo’s trying to do? Find him first?”

“He’s fucking with the natural balance and it’s pissing me off,” said Quin.

Matheus snorted. “Now you’re a Zen master?”

“I think a Zen master would be considerably more…Zen,” Quin said.

“You’re kind of Zen,” said Matheus. “You’re very still.”

“To be honest, I don’t actually know what Zen masters do.” Quin shifted his weight to one elbow, waving his other hand back and forth. “Meditate? Ask questions with no answers?”

“It’s from Buddhism, I think.”

“Oh. Well. I’m not a Buddhist.”

“Definitely not,” said Matheus. “You’re insane.”

“I think Buddhists can be insane. I don’t think they have the market on sanity. Insanity is for everyone, Sunshine. All the world’s peoples may enjoy its glorious bounty.”

Matheus didn’t want to laugh, but he couldn’t fight the combination of Quin’s expansive, sharing gesture coupled with the beatific expression on his face. He ducked his head, shoulders shaking, biting his knee in a vain attempt to restraint himself. The laughter included manic notes as huge bricks of stress crumbled off Matheus’ frame. Last night had piled them on, more and more weight pushing down each time Matheus looked at Bianca’s pale, unmoving face. He raised his head, grinning at the drippy, salmon-colored wall.

“I think I’m started to grow on you,” said Quin.

“Absolutely not.” Matheus paused. “But I might reconsider if you find the person who hurt Bibi, and I don’t know, kick his balls through his skull or something.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Quin said.

The knife twisted in his chest and the words spilled over him,
the balance is wrong I had to you have to die the balance is wrong
and his father, but not his father, Quin except not Quin, his father and then both, with hooks and
claws digging into his skin, yanking him apart until flesh tore and wet slick parts of him oozed out
.

Matheus woke up screaming. He tore at his t-shirt, kicking the blankets off the end of the bed. One corner of the top sheet snapped loose, contracting across the mattress. Matheus slapped a palm over his chest; he stared at his plaid-covered legs. Bit by bit, lines of blue and green crisscrossed over the nightmare. Closing his eyes, Matheus let his hand drop. He leaned back, his skull hitting the headboard with a gentle
thump
.

“
Quis venio est
?”

Matheus screamed again. He scrambled off the bed, tripping over his own pants and smacking his wrist on the nightstand.

“Ow, fuck, fuck, motherfucker!” Matheus jerked his leg to free his foot, then turned around on his knees.

Quin stood in the doorway, dressed in pajama bottoms and waving a mace, more rust than steel. The head made lazy figure eights through the air. He looked straight ahead, no sign of recognition or consciousness in his expression.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Matheus slapped his hands onto the mattress. “Quin!”

A shudder ran down Quin’s body, muscles visible underneath his skin. He blinked, and lowered the mace. His gaze tightened, focusing onto Matheus. “How did I get here?” he asked.

“How should I know? You came sprinting in, shouting in Latin like a Goddamned manic.” Matheus stood up, adjusting his pajamas before yanking the sheet into place. He drew up the blankets, snapping the fabric up and letting it drift downward.

“Something was wrong.” Quin rested the mace on his shoulder, and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “You were screaming.”

“Yeah, because I had a nightmare, you psycho.”

“You had a nightmare?”

“So?” Matheus propped the one, flat pillow against the headboard. The mattress creaked as he sat down, sliding toward the dip in the middle. “I have nightmares. It’s been a traumatic couple of months.”

He wiggled, holding the pillow until the last second, attempting to catch it beneath his shoulders. He failed. With a sigh, he leaned forward, pulling the pillow up. He missed his own bed, with its thousand-thread-count sheets and magnificently fluffy pillows.

Quin frowned at him. “You don’t sleep,” he said. “You can’t have nightmares.”

“Oh, good,” said Matheus. “The next time I have one, I’ll explain that it’s impossible and everything will just be hunky-dory. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Do you have them often?”

Matheus adjusted the blankets over his legs, smoothing and folding the fabric until he had an edge crisp enough to be featured in a Martha Stewart magazine. He selected a book off his nightstand and flipped to the bookmark, a long piece of wire he’d picked up in Quin’s study. Setting the book on his thighs, Matheus pressed his palm along the spine, binding cracking softly.

Springs groaned; Matheus slid farther into the dip. He looked up to see Quin set the mace on the other nightstand. The spiked head rocked, teetering close to the edge, but righting itself before the fall.

Quin settled against the headboard, frown deepening as the bed shook. He slumped, sliding downward until his shoulders lay flat on the mattress, neck craned at a ninety-degree angle. He scratched absently at his left pectoral. A narrow scar curved around his nipple, a white line through the tangle of black hair.

Matheus tapped the pages of the book. He waited for Quin to speak. Whoever had read the book last had folded down several of the page corners. Matheus smoothed his thumb over the ridge in the thick paper. Folding down the corners in a book was a hanging offense, growing up. Of course, the books in his father’s library were first editions, gilt and leather, beautiful and untouched. This book looked well loved. Several notes, scrawled in tiny, precise handwriting, dotted the text. Matheus wondered who had written them. Not Quin; the penmanship was too neat. Maybe the previous owner? Or maybe someone else who’d lived with Quin? Matheus scowled at the book, annoyed at the unknown desecrater.

“I’m not leaving until you answer me,” said Quin.

“Almost every night since after the hunt,” said Matheus. “You can go now.”

A smile rose and fell across Quin’s face. “What are they about?” he asked.

Matheus closed the book with a sharp
crack
, then tossed it onto the nightstand. “Does it matter?”

“I want to know,” said Quin, his eyes closed, his hands lacing together over his chest.

“They’re bad, okay? I don’t want to talk about them.”

“Are they about the hunt?”

“No.”

“About me?”

“Sometimes.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not like that,” said Matheus. He did not volunteer what the dreams were like.

“I’ve never heard of any of our kind having dreams,” Quin said.

“And you know everything.”