Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (5 page)

Matheus shook. The woman smelled so good. Not like a woman should, but like a steak dinner. He felt as if weeks, months had passed since his last meal. He’d never wanted anything so much in his life.

“Press your tongue against the roof of your mouth,” Quin said. He placed a hand on Matheus’ shoulder, squeezing lightly.

Matheus pushed up with his tongue. His fangs slid out, faster than he expected. He bit his lip at the shock.

“Ow!” Matheus licked at the wound. His blood didn’t taste right. Maybe the woman’s wouldn’t, either. Maybe the change didn’t take. Hope swelled up, desperate and suffocating.

“You’ll get used to those, too,” Quin said.

The woman shifted slightly, turning to look at Matheus. Intelligence drew her features tight. She narrowed her eyes at him, placid, but questioning.

“Where am I?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“Calm her,” Quin said with another squeeze to Matheus’ shoulder.

“How?” Matheus asked. Was he supposed to sing a lullaby?

“Just…just project.”

“Oh, yes, that’s very helpful, thank you.”

Matheus ran his hands up and down the woman’s arms.
Project
, he thought. How could he project calm when his nerves bounced around as if the local mall just had a buy-one, get-one-free sale on trampolines? The last calm Matheus remembered stretched between downing his tenth Seconal and waking up in the hospital two days later.

“You’re all right,” he said. “You’re s-safe.” He choked on the word. The woman relaxed against him.

“You should be able to find the artery easily,” Quin said. “Do it quickly. Don’t hesitate, or it will hurt.”

“It does hurt,” Matheus said, trying to nudge the woman’s head into position. He could see the artery pulsating against her skin, amazed that such a slim piece of flesh could hold back that pressure.

“How would you know? You fainted.”

“I don’t remember you projecting any calm,” Matheus said sharply. His fangs scraped over his lips as he spoke.

“You were too wound up for it to work. Stop stalling.”

Matheus bent his head, placing his fangs on the woman’s neck. She made a soft noise in the back of her throat. The heat of her body burned against Matheus’ chest, scorched his cut lip.

“Do it,” Quin said.

Matheus bit. Blood rushed into his mouth as the woman twitched. He swallowed desperately, feeling some of the blood escape his lips and trickle down his chin. He could taste salt and metal, but the experience went beyond taste to something deeper. Matheus felt the blood through his entire body, a beating in his head, sending shudders through his limbs. It raced, then slowed, drawing Matheus away from himself.

“That’s enough,” Quin said, pulling him back.

The woman dropped to the ground.

Gently, Quin leaned Matheus against the wall.

Matheus closed his eyes and let Quin wipe his face. A minute passed before he could speak.

“Is she…is she…?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Quin. “Stay there.”

Matheus still tasted the blood in his mouth. Warmth flushed through him; he hadn’t even realized he had been cold. He licked his lips, hoping for more, but the traces of life evaporated quickly from the drying blood. Calm settled over him, smoothing away the jittering hunger, leaving behind a lethargic quiet. All sensation dimmed. Pressing his arms back, Matheus ran his fingers over the rough brick. Around the corner, someone laughed while someone else shrieked about cigarettes and a missing lighter. Beyond them, Matheus heard the bass of the music, an artificial echo. The world filtered in, bringing the cold with it.

“Hey,” Quin said, touching his shoulder.

Matheus looked at him. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Quin looked concerned.

The woman’s body rested against the wall on the opposite side of the alley. She could have been asleep, her legs curled underneath her thighs, mouth open as though to draw in a breath. The tilt of her head hid the marks on her throat; her red blouse masked the drops of blood. She looked peaceful.

“I’m going to be sick,” Matheus said.

“No, you’re not. Come on. We have to go.” Quin tugged at his sleeve.

Matheus took a step forward, then stopped.

“We’re just going to leave her here?”

“Yes.”

“But the police…what about the marks?” The aftermath he imagined: the woman’s face plastered all over the news, interviews with girls in glittering dresses and too much makeup, their boyfriends pompously fierce behind them. The thought made him angry. The woman didn’t belong to them; her death wasn’t theirs to glam up and trot around for cheap thrills. Matheus opened his mouth to tell Quin, then closed it again. With a short nod, Matheus moved toward the street.

“Keep your head down. Don’t run. Don’t look like you’re in a hurry.” Quin kept his hand at the small of Matheus’ back.

Matheus tried to ignore how comforting he found the contact.

“Humans don’t like to think about things that aren’t supposed to exist,” Quin said.

“What about DNA? And people saw us.”
The girl with the tattoo
, Matheus thought. She could identify him.

“You’re the undead, Sunshine,” Quin said. “DNA isn’t an issue. The club was crowded. No one will remember us.”

“I need to lie down,” Matheus said.

They turned away from the crowd of smokers, toward the quieter section of the city. As soon as they left Hanners Street, the people fell away, leaving only Matheus, Quin, and the streetlights.

“Hold on.” Quin wrapped an arm around Matheus’ waist and ran. The buildings whooshed by, a gray blur streaked with lights. They arrived at Quin’s house in minutes.

Matheus thought he’d never been so happy to see an abandoned, grime-streaked building. He didn’t protest as Quin bypassed the living room and brought Matheus down to the basement.

“Rest,” Quin said.

Matheus crawled onto the bed and curled up. The last of the warmth faded, replaced with a hollow chill.

“Don’t leave me alone,” he whispered.

“I won’t,” said Quin.

“Matheus?” Quin pushed open the door, glancing around the darkened room.

“I killed someone,” Matheus said. He sat on the bed, blankets shoved onto the floor.

“What are you doing?” The mattress dipped as Quin sat down.

Matheus didn’t look up. “I’m a murderer,” he said, tearing at his skin. “I killed someone and I didn’t even know her name.”

Quin caught his hands. “Stop that,” he said. “It isn’t helping.”

“Get off me!” Matheus screamed. “This is your fault! You made me this way! You’re a monster!”

“I know,” said Quin. He sighed, raising one hand toward Matheus’ head. “I—”

“Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me ever again. I don’t want to look at you.”

“Matheus….”

“Oh, god.” Matheus wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth. “I’m murderer. She’s dead. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I-I-I—”

Quin sat back and watched as Matheus slowly went to pieces.

“Feeling better?”

Matheus sat up.

Quin stood, silhouetted in the doorway. He paused there for a second, then stepped inside, closing the door after him.

Matheus looked at the peeling wallpaper. His arms rested on his knees, thick scratches running up and down their length. He picked at a scratch, wincing as it started to bleed, the blood a dark sludge.

“I hate you,” he said dully.

“I expect you do.” The mattress depressed as Quin sat down, close enough for Matheus to feel the damp in his skin. The faint smell of soap hovered around him. Matheus didn’t move as Quin took Matheus’ arm and smoothed his palm over the scratches. Heavy calluses marked Quin’s palm, under the base of his thumb and forefinger. Matheus gave an apathetic shake, which Quin ignored, sliding his hand up above Matheus’ elbow, then down again.

“Why did you do this to me?” Matheus asked. “Why didn’t you just kill me?”

“Well,” said Quin. “You have pretty hair.”

Matheus turned to look at him. “You’re joking,” he said.

“Mostly.” Quin took Matheus’ other arm and began stroking it. “But mainly, I don’t want anyone finding out what I’ve been doing.”

“I wouldn’t have said anything,” Matheus said. Who would believe him? Aside from the tinfoil hat enthusiasts, of course.

“You might not have had a choice. I know you think I’m a monster, but there are much worse people than me.”

Matheus shivered. He shifted, making another half-hearted attempt to free his arm. This time Quin gave a tug back, flicking Matheus in the knee with his free hand. Startled, Matheus glanced down, catching sight of his arm.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“Magic,” Quin said and wiggled his fingers. The snaggletooth poked out again. Matheus wondered if Quin could get it fixed. Then Matheus thought,
Why would he need to fix it? It looks good.
Which, as far as ridiculous thoughts went, topped the list, so Matheus shoved it aside, as he did with all such ridiculous thoughts.

“There’s no such thing,” he said.

“Says the man with no heartbeat.” Quin did have a point, a fact that Matheus ignored.

“Just tell me the truth.”

“I claimed you,” Quin said.

“So, you can heal me?”

“Not exactly.” Quin pushed up his sleeves. Scratches marred his skin, red and raw, matching the pattern from Matheus’ arms.

Hesitantly, Matheus pushed his fingertip against one of them, feeling the scab crack underneath.

“I thought it was the least I could do,” Quin said.

Matheus bent forward, touching his forehead to the bed. He inhaled, wishing the world would make sense for ten minutes. He could handle things if he just had ten minutes of solid reality to hold onto.

“The very least,” he said with a strangled laugh. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t just kill me.”

“Like you said, you did everything I asked.”

“Great,” said Matheus. “I’m so happy.” He sat up, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He crossed the room, then perched on the edge of the padded bench.

Quin repositioned himself against the headboard. He stretched out his legs, twitching the fabric of his pants until it lay flat and smooth.

Matheus’ fingers tightened around the edge of the bench. “How does turning me into a freak keep me from talking to the wrong people?”

“You’re mine. You belong to me, which gives you a certain amount of protection.” Quin peered at the scratches on his arm. He poked at one, much as Matheus had done.

“I don’t want this. I just want to go to work and come home and eat takeout and read,” Matheus said. He tried not to think about belonging to Quin. Matheus found not thinking about certain things made life much less stressful. Thinking brought in complications.

“Well,” said Quin. “You can still read.” He stood up, clothes falling into perfect order. He dressed like Savile Row’s wet dream. “I’ll show you the library.”

“I don’t have to eat?” Matheus asked.

“No, not for a while.”

“How long?”

“Three months, maybe. You’ll be able to go longer as you age.”

“How long for you?” Matheus stood up reluctantly. His dark, multi-decaded room had begun to grow on him.

“Before you, I hadn’t fed for five years,” Quin said. “I was getting a bit peckish.”

“I’m pleased I could provide a nice snack for you,” said Matheus.

“You tasted a little anemic. You should have eaten more beef.”

Matheus glared at him.

Quin gave him a sunny grin.

“Come on, Sunshine.”