Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (43 page)

“He went out.”

“Out where?”

“I don’t know, love. Perhaps he’s making house calls.”

“Right. He’s a boon to humanity.”

“Saved my life,” said Bianca.

“You’re not human,” Matheus said.

“Touché.” Bianca sighed, settling down into the mound of pillows propping her upright. “Besides, Alistair does make house calls. Some people like to keep their meals close at hand.”

Matheus eyed the pillows. Bianca didn’t need all of them; she should be resting, not propped up on half-dozen overstuffed pillows reading bad romance novels. Removing the temptation was in her best interest, really. Matheus stroked the nearest pillow, nearly whimpering at the silken feel of a 1000-thread count pillowcase.

“Hmm?” he asked.

“There are hunters, and then there are farmers.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re so simple, Mat. Everything has to be explained to you.”

“Do you want me to do a dramatic reading from
The Tempest of Blackhurst
?” Matheus asked. “Because I will. And I’ll make the sex noises.”

“Oh, my God, no thank you. I want to enjoy that book.”

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing,” said Bianca. “So, there are people like Quin who go the traditional route and hunt when they need to eat. Then there are people who like to keep a stable, so they can pop down for a snack whenever they get the urge. Sometimes humans get hurt or ill, and that’s where Alistair comes in. Understand?”

“So, he patches people together so some lazy asshole doesn’t have to throw out their spoiled meat? Oh, yes, that’s the heart and soul of the Hippocratic oath.”

“He doesn’t like it, either. Charges them outrageous fees.”

“Yeah, that makes it all right. As long as Alistair’s getting paid.”

“Would you rather spend the last days of your life ignored and in pain, or would you want to know that there was someone who cared, even if they couldn’t save you. We’re all going to die, Mat. Take the comfort you’re offered, and let others do the same.”

Matheus looked at Bianca, but she stared at her hands, clasping and releasing the thick blanket.

“When did the world become such a shithole?” he asked, turning to face the door.

Bianca pressed the palm of her hand between his shoulder blades. Heat radiated through his shirt; Matheus thought he’d be left with a red handprint on his skin.

“Don’t be so naïve, Mat.”

“Right. It’s always been a shithole. I just got to pretend it wasn’t, for a while.” He shivered as Bianca took back her hand.

“Your constant sunny optimism really gives me the will to live,” Bianca said, the bounce returning to her voice.

“Yeah, I’m going on
Dr. Phil
next week,” said Matheus.

Bianca grinned at him. She tucked a blond strand behind his ear, then combed her fingers through his hair, shifting the part to the left and smoothing out the more disorganized areas.

“Stop that.” Matheus shook his head, letting the hairs fall into their normal positions.

“I like your hair all neat and tidy. Makes you look distinguished.”

Like my father
, Matheus thought.

“Give us a smile, come on.” Bianca tugged the corner of his mouth upward. “Not like that, a real one. Oh, never mind.” She dropped her hand to the mattress. Closing her eyes, she wiggled lower, chest rising and falling in a slow pattern.Matheus stood up, crossing over to his dresser. Slowly, he pulled out the top drawer, collecting fresh socks and underwear for the next week. He didn’t know how long Bianca’s recovery would take. She might heal faster than a human, but how much faster? Accelerated healing or not, Bianca was still mortal. He paused, holding the paisley socks in his left hand. He never really considered that before. Until two months ago, they’d been aging at the same rate. Even with years spent apart, the progression of time linked them. Except now, Matheus was decoupled, pushed onto a side track, while everyone else moved forward. In ten years, would Bianca be a different person? Someone he didn’t recognize? Twenty? Thirty? How many years before she wasn’t the girl he’d sat with under the bridge, chain-smoking until past curfew?

“Mat?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a mobile?”

“Um.” Matheus looked at the socks in his hand, then set them down in the drawer. “Yeah, one of those disposable deals. They shut off my old one. Why?”

“I want to call my folks. In case they hear anything.”

“You’re going to use all my minutes.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“I’m kidding, Bibi. Don’t worry about it.” Matheus handed her the phone, then returned to his sock drawer. He made a pyramid of socks on his top of his dresser; the paisley pair did not make the cut.

“Reception is horrible down here,” said Bianca. “Oh, wait, I think it’s going through. Hey, Mum, it’s me.”

Matheus grabbed a couple of clean shirts. Wrapping them around the socks, he headed for the door.

“Oh, you heard. No, I’m—Mum, please stop crying. I’m fine, really.” Bianca caught Matheus’ eye and grimaced. “Is Dad there? Put Dad on. Hi, Dad. Yes, I’m—oh, good lord.” Putting her index finger to her forehead, Bianca mock-shot herself.

As Matheus slipped out of the room, he heard Bianca’s father yelling through the tiny speaker.

Matheus leaned around the living room door. The room appeared empty, safe to enter.

“Hello, Pet.”

“Argh!” Matheus jumped, spinning around so quickly he had to catch the sides of the door to remain standing.

“Don’t look so worried.” Juliet smoothed down her skirt, then twitched the cuffs of her suit-jacket. “Really, Pet. Low blood sugar can make a person do foolish things.”

“Right.” Matheus watched Juliet’s face, looking for traces of the distortion he’d seen the other day. He considered his escape options. Juliet blocked the front and back doors, but he could pry the boards off the windows in the kitchen.

Juliet smiled at him, skin aglow with the kind of warmth not seen outside of moisturizer ads, and makeup created by the best Photoshoppers available.

“Of course,” she said. “Any idiot can see you’d be useless in bed with a woman.”

“I—You—”

“‘Bye, Pet.” Juliet wiggled her fingers at him, gone before he formulated a response.

Matheus raised his hands, tightening his fingers into claws.

“Going to strangle—”

“Don’t bother,” said Quin from behind him. “She’ll pop right up. Like a jack-in-the-box.” He made a popping motion with his hand.

“Don’t do that!”

“This?” Quin made the popping motion again.

“Sneak up like some kind of undead ninja. Where the hell did you come from?”

“Weapons room,” said Quin. “Putting away the mace. Next time I’ll herald my approach with trumpets. Will that do?”

“It might.”

Quin rolled his eyes. Folding his arms, he turned around, crossing the room to drop into the armchair. One leg swung over the arm, the other bent at the knee, sole of the feet resting against the leg of the coffee table. He rested his elbow on the other arm, and then propped his chin on his hand. His other arm stretched over the back of the chair. Quin elevated sprawling to an art.

Matheus found the whole thing deeply unfair. If he collapsed all over the furniture, he’d look like he’d suffered a spontaneous narcoleptic attack.

“Where’s Alistair?” Quin asked.

“Why? You want a snuggle?”

“I’m just curious. There’s too many people in this house. Bunch of freeloaders.”

“So kick him out.” Matheus shrugged. “I’m not going to argue.” He leaned against the doorjamb, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“The thought crossed my mind. There’s also your friend.”

“Bianca,” said Matheus. “Try to kick her out, and I’ll do to you what I did to Grigori.”

“You’ve very loyal. Like a puppy.”

“As least Bibi earned it and didn’t just murder me in an alley.”

“Crude methods are sometimes effective,” said Quin.

“Right. You’re my favorite person in whole wide world.”

“That’s touching, Sunshine. Shall we hug now?”

“Fuck off,” said Matheus.

Alistair returned after midnight. He breezed into the living room, dripped sweetness over Quin, glared at Matheus, then disappeared to check on Bianca.

“I loathe that man,” Matheus said.

“But you hide it so well,” said Quin. “Gin.” He laid the cards flat on the coffee table.

“You’re fucking cheating.” Matheus threw down his own cards. “No one wins fifty-seven hands in a row.”

“I’m no—” Quin paused as the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairway interrupted him.

Milo appeared in the doorway, still in the process of shoving a laptop into his bag.

“We have to leave,” he said.

“Why?” asked Quin.

A window exploded into shards of glass and wooden splinters. The house rocked with the force, plaster falling like a fine rain. Through the new opening, Matheus saw men in greys and blacks, circling the house. He gripped the sofa, staring at Quin with wide eyes.

“That’s why,” said Milo.

Quin twisted out of the chair. A crossbow bolt thudded against the back, the bladed tip sticking out of the thick upholstery. Jumping to his feet, Quin grabbed Matheus, pulling him into the hall. A second arrow, this one alight with flame, landed dead center on the coffee table. The cards bubbled, the plastic coating melting in the heat.

“What did you do?” Quin asked Milo.

“Not me,” said Milo.

Overhead, glass shattered, followed by another explosion. Matheus fell back, striking his head against the wall as the top of the stairs collapsed. His ears rang. Smoke rolled into the hall, mixing with the dust and debris, turning the air opaque. A hand gripped his forearm. Matheus followed the bones up to Quin’s face. A trickle of blood ran down Quin’s temple, ash and dirt covered his face.

“Bibi,” said Matheus. He shoved past Quin.

“Sunshine, don’t—dammit!” Quin sprinted after Matheus. “Find a way out!” he called to Milo over his shoulder.

Matheus skidded down the stairs, bursting into his room.

“We’re being attacked,” he said.

“Obviously,” said Alistair. He knelt on the bed, one arm wrapped around Bianca’s waist. “Help me get her up.”

“Who is it?” Bianca asked as Matheus slung her arm over his shoulders.

“Does it matter?” Together, Matheus and Alistair lifted Bianca off the bed. She leaned on Matheus for a moment, her breathing labored.

“I can walk,” she said.

From the bottom of the stairs, Quin shouted. “Sunshine! Hurry up!”

“We’re coming!” Matheus said. “Faster, Bibi.”

Another explosion shook the house, followed by an extended, overwhelming crash.
There goes the attic
, Matheus thought. Behind him, Alistair darted around the room, shoving the remaining medical supplies into a pillowcase.

Bianca hissed, a hand pressed to her abdomen. Her head hung down, curls hiding her face.

“Are you okay?” Matheus asked.

“Yes, fine,” said Bianca. She took a small step forward.

Matheus looked up the length of the hall. At this rate, the house would be ashes around them by the time they reached the stairs.

“
Vae!
” Quin pushed Matheus aside, scooping up Bianca in one swift motion. He ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Watch the stitches!” Alistair yelled.

The firelight flickered off the smoke. Flames licked out around the living room doorway, crackling as they consumed the house. The remaining stairs to the second floor creaked and teetered, one good blow away from collapse. Matheus squinted, tears blurring his vision as he tried to follow Quin through the smoke.

“I hate this,” said Alistair. He bumped against Matheus’ shoulder.

“It’s not my idea of a good time,” said Matheus.

Overhead, the floorboards cracked; a long support beam crashed onto the stairs. Matheus stumbled, ducking his head as the staircase crumpled into a pile of jagged boards and nails. The wallpaper caught fire, glue and dry paper feeding the flames as they raced around the hallway.

Alistair gripped Matheus’ arm hard enough to make Matheus wince.

“I hate this,” he repeated.

“Quin will get us out.” Matheus shook his arm free. He moved forward in shuffling steps, kicking away smoldering boards. His skin felt tight and hot; the hairs on his arms crinkled in the heat.