Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (47 page)

“What are you ta—” Quin ducked as a glass sculpture flew over his head, bounced off the wall painting, and crashed onto the floor. “Alistair!”

“You think I betrayed Zeb?” Alistair screamed. “Go to hell!”

He hurled another glass piece. It shattered on the coffee table; a dozen red and purple shards burst outward. Cracks spidered the top of the table.

Quin surged to his feet. He started across the room, then stopped, wincing as he stepped on the scattered bits of glass. Balancing on one foot, he raised his other leg up and picked out the tiny pieces.

“Be reasonable,” he said, examining the carpet before putting his foot down.

“Reasonable!” Alistair groped for fresh ammo. “I’ll show you reasonable, you son of a bitch!”

“Here,” said Matheus, handing Alistair a candlestick. “Aim for his head.”

“Sunshine!”

“What?”

The candlestick bounced off Quin’s shoulder. “Damn it!” he yelled.

“Try again.” Matheus passed Alistair the second of the pair.

“Stop helping him!” Quin darted forward and snatched the candlestick out of Alistair’s hands. “What has gotten into you?” he asked, waving the candlestick back and forth.

Alistair’s face trembled, and for one terrifying minute, Matheus worried the waterworks were about to start. Instead, Alistair shot a finger toward Matheus.

“Him! You claimed him!” Alistair had to crane his head back to look at Quin. His other hand formed a fist, beating against his thigh. “You didn’t even know him! I was with you for ten years! I did everything you wanted! You fucking bastard!”

Matheus was impressed. Alistair made the word
bastard
sound like a smiting from Jehovah himself.

“Alistair, calm down.” Quin folded his arms, the candlestick still in one hand.

“Rot in hell!” Alistair swung at Quin, staggering as his knuckles met only air. He growled and launched himself at Quin.

Quin sidestepped to avoid Alistair. “Calm yourself or I will do it for you,” he said.

Two different futures rose in Matheus’ mind. One involved scooping brain matter off the carpet. He opted for future number two.

Hooking an arm around Alistair’s waist, Matheus dragged him from the room.

Alistair snapped out his fangs, biting the air in lieu of Matheus’ limbs. He kicked his heels on Matheus’ shins, aiming with eerie accuracy for the sweet spot that vibrated the entire bone.

Matheus grunted; the fuck-it threshold approached rapidly. He manhandled Alistair into the hallway, thrusting him toward the kitchen doors.

Alistair whirled around, and ran into the arm Matheus held across the doorway. He leaned forward, delivering a glob of spit to Quin’s cheek a second before Matheus yanked the door closed.

“Ew,” said Matheus. “Was that really necessary?”

“Yes!” Alistair shoved open the doors to the kitchen.

Against his better judgment, Matheus followed him.

Alistair circled the gleaming marble island, his reflection blurred in the brushed metal appliances. A small, flat-screen TV hung on the wall; the refrigerator door contained a touchscreen. Alistair muttered to himself as he paced, too low for Matheus to understand.

Matheus pulled out one of the barstools concealed under the island and sat down, propping his chin in his hands.

The sink had a tap, but no knobs, Matheus noticed. He wondered how to turn on the water. Psychic vibrations? Arcane hand signals? What if he wanted to adjust the temperature? Matheus didn’t consider himself a Luddite. He had a laptop; at least, until last night he had. He appreciated the handiness of smart phones, but he had his limits, and one of those limits was removing perfectly acceptable knobs and replacing them with confusion.

“Why are you glaring at the faucet?” Alistair asked, slowing to a halt.

“None of your business,” Matheus said. “Are you done?”

Alistair curled his upper lip.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Go get Quin and see if I claw his eyes out.”

“Maybe later.” Matheus kicked out the other stool, inclining his head in its direction. He watched Alistair perch on the edge of the stool, his hands balled in his lap.

“You don’t have to stay here,” he said after a few minutes. “I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“Said every person ever just before they jumped into the cage with the tiger.”

Alistair didn’t respond.

Matheus waited, then crossed to the refrigerator, fiddling with the settings on the touchscreen. He accessed the inventory list and scrolled though, wondering if someone took to the time to record everything put in or taken out, or if the fridge just
knew
. Was encouraging the future robot uprising really worth the ability to check how many tomatoes were left without opening the door? Maybe the door required the force of ten men to open it. Matheus pulled on the handle, and surveyed the contents.
Nope
, he thought.

“You think I’m being ridiculous,” Alistair said.

“You don’t know what I think.” Matheus closed the refrigerator door and turned around.

Alistair seemed to collapse from the waist, bending until his forehead hovered an inch above the countertop. He exhaled, his breath fogging the marble.

“I think I’m being ridiculous,” he said. “What is wrong with me?”

Matheus resisted smacking Alistair’s face into the counter.
Be nice
, he thought. What would a nice person do? Awkwardly, Matheus leaned across the island and patted Alistair’s shoulder with his fingertips.

Without moving his torso, Alistair lifted his face giving Matheus one of the best
are you fucking kidding me?
looks Matheus had ever seen. Matheus wondered what Alistair’s nose would look like smooshed across his face.

“Do you mean what is wrong with you that Quin doesn’t want to run off into the sunset and adopt poodles with you? Or what is wrong with you that you act like a crazed, bunny-boiling stalker?” Matheus asked.

Alistair’s eyes narrowed. “Why the hell are you here?” he asked, falling into a slight pout.

“I’m comforting you,” said Matheus. “There, there.”

“Your mere existence makes me want to vomit,” said Alistair. “Your presence rubs my nose in everything I want and can’t have. You are the last person I want to see right now. If the opportunity arises, I will gleefully push you over a cliff.”

“Please, don’t thank me,” Matheus said. “Your torment is reward enough.”

Alistair’s pout deepened. He engaged Matheus in a brief, but harrowing staring war.

Matheus emerged the victor, but only through deceit and trickery. He remained subdued in triumph, honoring those lives lost on the field of battle. Alistair’s gaze retreated to the countertop to rebuild.

Matheus went through the cabinets, scanning packages of food. They might as well have been carved from granite for all the good they did him. The cabinets did not have touchscreens. Matheus felt like an old-timey pioneer, using actual handles on actual boards with actual hinges.

“I was married,” said Alistair.

Matheus dropped the container of Cup-a-Noodles he was pretending to read. “To Quin?”

“No. Moron. To my wife.”

The Cup-a-Noodles rolled over the tiled floor, dried pasta and dehydrated veggies rattling.

“You had a wife?” Matheus asked.

“I married in nineteen-forty-seven,” said Alistair. “Twenty years before the Stonewall Riots.”

Stonewall sounded only vaguely familiar to Matheus, but his grip on twentieth-century history was somewhat shaky. He liked his history to have some distance.

“Did you have kids?” he asked, because he’d be damned if he admitted ignorance to Alistair, of all people.

“No, no kids. Angela wanted kids…. We did have a nice little house.” Alistair gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Then Quin showed up and said come with me. So I did.”

Matheus bent down and scooped up the Cup-a-Noodles. He returned it to the cabinet, closing the door with a sharp click.

“You just left?” he asked the sleek, honey-colored cabinet. The cabinet, being an object with neither the intellectual capacity nor the physical ability for speech, did not reply.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t do the same thing,” Alistair said.

“I was jumped in an alley.”

“Of course. You were an innocent bystander shanghaied into this wicked lifestyle. I completely understand. No wonder you look like you want to strangle me every time I get within twenty feet of Quin.”

Matheus turned around to see Alistair give him a brilliant smile. “No,” said Matheus. “I want to strangle you all the time. Quin’s proximity is irrelevant.”

“Oh.” Alistair split the syllable between a rising and falling tone. “Darling, I had no idea.”

“I—what—no!”

“It’s perfectly fine. We all have our little…quirks.”

“That is absolutely not what I meant!”

Alistair straightened, leaning into the island, the outside light hitting his eyes at just the right angle to turn them into reflections of cloud-less day. His smile practically purred. Alistair went through life as though cameras lurked behind every corner.

“It’s because you’re a disgusting sycophant,” Matheus wished he’d opted for future number one. Sure, brain matter was impossible to get out of carpet, but that was a small price to pay for the removal of the last three minutes.

“You’re jealous,” said Alistair.

“I’m not gay.”

“Come on. It’s the new millennium. You’re allowed to be gay. Maybe not in small towns in the South, but this is the liberal North. Embrace your love of cock.”

“I. Am. Not. Gay.” Matheus slapped his palm on the counter, punctuating each word. He glared at Alistair, still in his photo-shoot pose, bright, perfect smile screwed onto his lips.

“There’s nothing wrong wi—”

“I know there’s nothing wrong with being gay,” Matheus said loudly, as though more volume equaled more truth. “I’m just not, okay? Leave it alone.”

Alistair angled his head a fraction, scanning up and down Matheus’ frame, pausing briefly on his face, then down to where Matheus clutched the edge on the sink in a death-grip.

“Nuts,” Alistair said. “You might as well have
bottom
printed across your forehead. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and jump Quin. I doubt he’ll say no.”

“There’s something wrong with you,” Matheus said.

“At least he wants you. He didn’t even leave me a note when he left. Just walked out and never came back. Granted, it was in Florence, but still.”

“Did you leave your wife a note?”

Alistair’s smile vanished.

A queasy sensation rumbled low in Matheus’ stomach, but he pushed it down. He folded his arms, holding his gaze on Alistair’s chin.

The barstool scraped over the tiles as Alistair stood up. “I should check on Bianca,” he said.

“Fine,” said Matheus. He continued to stare at the spot where Alistair had been sitting.

The kitchen doors whispered together. Alistair’s footsteps faded up the stairs. Matheus didn’t move until the doors stopped swinging. He walked into the hall, and bounced off Milo.

“Quin?” Matheus asked.

“Upstairs,” said Milo. “Alistair?”

“Also upstairs.”

They looked at each other, then up the staircase.

“I don’t hear any yelling,” said Matheus.

“Maybe Quin already killed him.”

“There would have been a thud, right? I don’t think Quin killed him.”

Milo shrugged. He wore his coat buttoned up to his neck; a long scarf trailed down past his knees. Unlike the rest of them, Milo had taken the time to gather his winter wear, although Matheus didn’t remember the scarf.

“Did you go out?” Matheus asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Needed a scarf.” Milo maintained eye contact, his expression flat.

“There aren’t any stores around—never mind,” said Matheus, waving his hands. “You just keep on being mysterious. Play to your strengths.”

He backed away, stumbling a little over the step. “I have to go make sure there aren’t bits of Alistair splattered over the walls, but you can do your hacker-typy-thing or whatever you call it.”

Shaking his head, Milo turned and walked into the living room. Matheus stuck out his tongue at his back, because it was only immature if he got caught. He started up the stairs, then jumped as a bang broke over the silent house. He ran the rest of the way, slipping as he took the hallway corner, the runner carpet sliding over the floor. Pushing off the wall, Matheus regained his balance and kept going, skidding to a stop after the first bedroom.

“It’s the bears!” Bianca shouted, struggling to master the complicated task of climbing onto a bed. “They pushed me with their miiiiiiinds.”

“Okay,” said Alistair. “The bears are going away.” He tucked the bears under one arm, then opened the window. Out went the bears.

Matheus thought he heard their fluffy screams of vengeance.

“How’s that? Better?”

“Don’t let them back in.”

“I won’t, sweetie.” Alistair hooked his arms under Bianca’s armpits and hoisted her onto the bed. “Go to sleep now. Please.”

“You’re pretty,” Bianca mumbled into her pillow.

Alistair sighed. He pressed a kiss to Bianca’s forehead, then walked to the door.

“The painkillers are reacting oddly with her lycanthropy,” Alistair said.

“You don’t say,” said Matheus. He took a step back as Alistair flicked his fingers at him. “What are you—”

The door slammed shut, the wood vibrating a centimeter away from Matheus’ nose. He heard the lock click a second later.

“Well, fuck you, too.” He gave the door a kick before continuing down the hall. He found Quin in the master bedroom, in the middle of a clothing explosion. Matheus assumed the original owners preferred to keep their clothing in dressers and closets, like most civilized people. He didn’t want to live in a world where hanging bras off lampshades and ceiling fans was acceptable behavior. He waded through the sea of designer ready-wear to the bed. Shoving aside a small fortune in Coach and Louis Vuitton purses, he sat down. A pair of Diesel jeans smacked him in the face.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, tossing the jeans down with the purses.

Quin paused in his manic quest. He knelt in front of a bureau, several of its drawers dumped around him.