Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (51 page)

“Because you’re a crazy lady.”

“Yes, fine.” Bianca waved away the question of her sanity. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Milo interrupted.”

“Damn Milo.”

Matheus shrugged. He started on his middle finger, the nail on his index finger bitten down to the nub. In a couple of days, the nail would regrow, starting the cycle over again.

“So, you
are
gay,” said Bianca.

“Maybe, I don’t know. I can’t think about it, everything’s all mixed up.” Matheus sighed. He closed his eyes, banging the back of his head on the headboard. “I thought people were just supposed to know.”

“I guess some people do and some people figure it later. Maybe you repressed it. God knows, your father wouldn’t have approved.”

“Yeah,” said Matheus. The door to the next room over opened. “I don’t think—”

A series of bangs shook the door in its frame.

“Get up, Sunshine!” Quin yelled.

“Fuck off!” Matheus shouted back.

Unintelligible curses leaked through the gap beneath the door. A low bang vibrated the door; Matheus guessed Quin gave it a kick before stomping off. He turned to see Bianca raise an eyebrow at him.

“We have a complicated relationship,” Matheus said.

Matheus paused before stepping into the living room. He let the door swing shut behind him. Arranged on the three couches, from left to right, were Quin, Milo, and Alistair.

Quin sprawled over the loveseat, one bare foot tapping against the arm. He watched Matheus, then glanced at Alistair before zipping his gaze back to Matheus.

Alistair sat with his legs and arms crossed. A heavy pout obscured his features, turning his face into a caricature of a child’s doll. He narrowed his eyes at Matheus, but that glare paled in comparison to the true object of his loathing. Edging around the broken coffee table, Matheus sat next to Milo, a Switzerland wedged between Germany and France.

“What’s going on?” He whispered, trying to keep both Quin and Alistair within eyesight.

Milo picked up his laptop, shifting six inches down the couch.

“I don’t have cooties,” said Matheus.

Milo adjusted the screen of his laptop. Light reflected and refracted off his glasses. He began typing, ignoring Matheus’ scowl.

“We need to find somewhere else to stay,” Quin said, still looking at Matheus. “It’s not safe here. We’re too vulnerable during the day, and Faust’s loyalty is not unlimited.”

“Where do we go?” Matheus asked. “Do you have a safe house?”

“We could ask Grigori or Apollonia for protection,” said Alistair.

“Yes,” said Quin. “Why don’t you do that? Take the girl with you.”

“Bianca,” Matheus said. “And we’re not splitting up.”

“You’re not the one making the decisions, Sunshine.”

“Neither are you.”

“You’ll go where I tell you go,” Quin said.

“I’ll go wherever the fuck I please,” said Matheus.

“I can check my contacts,” Milo said. He looked up from his laptop. “What about the traitor?”

Matheus grabbed Alistair as he jumped toward Milo. With a grunt, Matheus shoved him back onto the loveseat. He stood over Alistair, holding his hand palm outward.

“I’m not the traitor!” Alistair said. He leaned around Matheus, directing his shouts at Quin, even though it’d been Milo who spoke.

“It’s either you or the girl,” said Quin.

“After I stitched her back together? Are you serious?”

“Her name is Bianca,” said Matheus. “And you are not helping.”

“Helping was not my intention,” Quin said.

“Lord, you’re an arrogant bastard,” said Alistair.

“No kidding,” Matheus said.

“Enough,” said Quin. “Matheus—”

“I’m not leaving Bianca, and she needs Alistair, so he stays, too. Milo can do whatever he wants.”

“Thanks,” said Milo. “I appreciate that.”

“You know what I mean.”

Quin straightened; he slashed a hand through the air, while he slammed his other palm against the back of the couch.

Behind Matheus, Alistair sank into the loveseat. Matheus glanced at him; Alistair stared at the legs of the coffee table, his eyes hidden. Milo had stopped typing. He held the laptop cover, looking from Matheus to Quin with air of a man ready to bolt.

“Sunshine—”

“Quin.”

They stared at each for a second. Matheus looked away first. He flicked the hair out his eyes, then scratched the back of his head. He sighed.

“Can you…?” He trailed off. He circled around the coffee table, and grabbed Quin’s wrist. Tugging sharply, he jerked his head toward the door.

“What—”

“What? You can do it to me, but I can’t do it to you?” Matheus asked. He felt Milo’s and Alistair’s gaze creeping across his nape. He tugged again. “Come on.”

Wearing an expression of bemusement, Quin allowed Matheus to pull him out of the room.

Matheus released him as soon as the living room door clicked shut. He leaned against the wall, facing Quin. The walls seemed closer together, impossibly tight. Matheus wondered if the previous owners had installed a
Star Wars
-esque compactor to mess with guests.

“All right,” said Quin. “What did you want?”

Matheus closed his eyes. “Please,” he said. “I’m asking nicely. Don’t send Alistair and Bianca away.”

“You’re asking?”

Opening his eyes, Matheus scowled at him. “Yes. Nicely.”

Quin stared at a spot on the wall just to left of Matheus. He circled one wrist, fingers loose and dangling. The moment dragged on until Matheus wondered if Quin had had a stroke. He watched Quin’s hand turn, the movement disconnected from the rest of his body. Quin’s gestures were like India ink on paper, not muddying the stillness, but highlighting it with the starkness of black on white.

“Fine,” said Quin. “Stay together. But don’t be stupid. Watch both of them.”

“See, was that so hard?” Matheus asked. “Maybe if you learned to compromise—”

“If
I
learned to compromise?” Quin took a step forward, his gaze snapping to Matheus’ face.

Matheus flattened himself against the wall. “I compromise,” he said. He winced as his voice cracked.

“Oh, sure,” said Quin, one side of his mouth rising into a crooked grin. He pressed his palms to the wall on either side of Matheus’ head. “You’re a master of cooperation and concession.”

“All those words start with c,” Matheus whispered.

“Very good, Sunshine.” Quin leaned closer. “Do I get a reward for being so compromising?”

Matheus tried to melt through the plaster. His nails scraped over the wall, his heels thudded on the baseboard.

“Don’t,” he said. He pushed at Quin’s chest, a token resistance.

Quin wrapped his fingers around Matheus’ wrist, the tips overlapping. His hand felt solid, the pressure undemanding.

“Why not?” Quin tilted his head to the side.

“Because,” said Matheus.

“Because why?”

Matheus squirmed. He opened his mouth, and closed it. His head felt as though it’d been filled with helium. His brain floated around his skull, vibrations shimmering through with each bounce off bone.

“Because I asked nicely?” Matheus said.

With a short laugh, Quin stepped back. The helium leaked out. Matheus felt his mind settle, heavy in his skull. He slumped, letting his head loll against the wall. “It’s the claim,” he said softly.

Quin looked away. He adjusted the hang of his shirt. Flicking out his wrists, he smoothed the crumpled cuffs. “Whatever you say, Sunshine,” he said.

“Gin,” said Alistair. “Nines, jacks, and a run of three.” He snapped the edges of the cards as he laid them on the table.

“Jesus.” Matheus tossed down his hand. “I used to be good at this game.”

The tip of Alistair’s pencil waved as he counted under his breath. He scratched out some figures on the notepad, the numbers as neat as if he lined them up with a ruler. His handwriting looked familiar. Matheus assumed he’d been the one to write Zeb’s welcome letter.

“So, you owe me eight hundred forty-three dollars and sixteen cents,” Alistair said. “Care to play again?”

“Yeah, fine,” said Matheus. They didn’t have much else to do.

After shouting out some dire warnings about sentient teddy bears, Bianca had passed out. Milo vanished to the upper levels of the house, and Quin just vanished. No goodbye, no note, just walked out. Milo knew where to, but he’d ignored Matheus’ questions.

Matheus tapped his heel on the rung of the stool, and tried not to think about it. Quin was a grown man. If he wanted to be an inconsiderate ass, that was his choice.

“Double the bet?” Alistair tapped the cards into a neat pile, then executed a flawless riffle shuffle and bridge.

“You know I’m not going to pay you,” said Matheus, watching Alistair deal out the cards.

“You’ll pay me,” said Alistair. He picked up his cards, rearranged them, then laid them face up on the countertop. “Gin.”

“Are you kidding me? I haven’t even looked at my cards yet.”

Alistair smiled and scooped up the cards. “You’ve played with Quin?” he asked.

“Yeah. He teach you?”

“I taught him,” said Alistair. “You need to learn how to cheat.”

“You’re cheating?”

“Obviously.”

“I am definitely not paying you,” Matheus said. He snatched the deck out of Alistair’s hands. “You’re not allowed to deal, either.”

“That’s adorable. You think I need to deal to cheat.”

“Fine.” Matheus threw down the cards. They skittered over the polished granite, some tumbling onto the floor.

“What is your problem?” Alistair asked. He hopped off his stool, scrambling to pick up the cards.

“You’re cheating!” Matheus began tapping with his other leg, alternating between them. A low buzzing built in his ears.

“It’s just a game. You don’t need to throw a hissy fit.”

“
You
are telling me not to have a hissy fit?”

Alistair slapped the cards onto the counter. “You—” He stopped. He leaned toward Matheus, grabbing Matheus’ chin when he turned face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Matheus jerked out of Alistair’s grip. He pushed away from the island, his stool crashing onto the tiles. He circled the room, drumming his fingers on the counters, the cabinets, the refrigerator. He opened the doors to the hall, only to slam them shut.

“Then stand still,” Alistair said.

“I can’t,” Matheus said through teeth clenched so tightly, he felt the ache in his ears. “Where’s Quin?”

“How am I supposed to know that? If only one of us had a magic Quin tracker.” Alistair pressed a finger to his cheek, his lips forming an
O
shape. “Wait, one of us does. Imagine that.”

“Fucker.” Matheus kicked the refrigerator, denting the brushed metal front. Served it right, pretentious piece of crap. He kicked it again. The touchscreen flickered, but reset itself with a cheerful chirp. Matheus glowered at the screen. “Stupid, fucking, piece of shit, asshat, cocksucking, date rapist.”

“Are you talking about Quin or the fridge?”

“I need to find Quin.” Matheus swung around.

He barged through the kitchen doors, Alistair at his heels. He took the stairs two at a time, running down the second-floor hallway to the narrow staircase up to the third floor. He found Milo in a home office.