Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (59 page)

“At least they’re human!”

“Right. According to that philosophy, Stalin is a better person than I am. Sure, sent twenty million people to die in the Gulag camps, but at least he’s fucking human. We should throw him a Goddamned parade.”

“I cannot believe you. Stalin, really? What is wrong with you?”

“I’m making a point,” Matheus growled.

“You’re turning everything into a hyperbole. Obviously, Stalin was a terrible man. That has nothing to do with this,” said Fletcher.

“It has everything to do with it! Christ!” Matheus delivered a kick to the bench, then yelped as he lost his balance. Staggering backward, he managed to land on the bed with an
oof
. He glared at Fletcher, daring her to laugh.

“You haven’t changed at all,” she said. “Did you ever consider that petty temper tantrums are not the solutions to all your problems?”

“This is not a temper tantrum. This is completely justified rage.”

“Maybe if you behaved like an adult, you wouldn’t have to scream at people all the time,” said Fletcher.

Matheus ground his teeth together. “I scream at people because they are stupid,” he said. “I
like
screaming at people.”

“Well, it is not very effective,” she said. “Try counting to ten.”

“I don’t want to fucking count to fucking ten.”

“I rescind my earlier comment. You’re not rational.”

Matheus reflected that no one infuriated quite as well as family. “One,” he said. “Two.”

“Good. Now try it with without looking as though you want to strangle me.”

“Not bloody likely,” said Matheus. “Six. Seven. Motherfucking ten.”

“Glad to see living in the States has improved your maths skills,” Fletcher said.

“Oh, shut it.” Matheus dropped onto the bed, flopping backward, with his arms spread. He searched for shapes in the patterns of the ceiling tiles. He squinted, twisting his head from side to side, trying to decide if the dark blotch in the center looked more like a T. rex or a zombie. Maybe a zombie T. rex. He heard the rustle of clothes as Fletcher moved closer to the bed.

The mattress squeaked as she sat down, resting her hand on top of his. Warmth radiated into his palm, heat rushing past his wrist. An insistent
ba-bum
pulsed against his skin, faster than he had expected. A soft flutter filled in the steady gaps, unidentifiable, but as persistent as Fletcher’s heartbeat.

Matheus pulled his arm away, rolling onto his side to face Fletcher’s back. “Your hands are cold,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Matheus.

Fletcher started to turn, then stopped, shifting back to her original position.

“Did you ask…was it voluntary?”

“The turning?” Matheus watched the back of Fletcher’s head dip up and down. “No.”

“Then why do you want to see it?”

“He’s not an
it
. Stop calling him a fucking ‘it.’ Jesus, he has a name.”

“And you say I’m brainwashed?”

“Yeah, Fletch, I do. Because you’ve got this fancy research lab, and you have all your super-duper experiments, but when it comes to do it, you know absolutely bollocks about us.”

“Us,” echoed Fletcher.

Matheus didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes. Fletcher’s heartbeat vibrated around his skull, pulling the strange flutter along with it. Matheus held his breath, focusing on the sensation of life pushing from the outside in. The undead equivalent of the dinner bell. Or perhaps a dog whistle. Except dogs heard the noise; the heartbeats in his mind rose and fell without really existing at all. Phantoms of thought, real and imagined at the same time.

“Mat?” asked Fletcher.

Matheus opened his eyes.

“Are you pregnant?” he asked.

Fletcher spun around, her eyes wide. She leaned toward him, her palms flat on the mattress. “How did you…? I haven’t told anyone.”

“I don’t know.” Matheus sat up, drawing his legs onto the bed. “Your heartbeat sounds weird.”

“You can hear my heart beat?”

“No. It’s not like that. It’s….” Matheus rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t hear it. I just know it’s there.”

Standing, Fletcher moved across the room, her arms wrapped around her. She stared at him, dark eyebrows drawn together.

“Do you feel everyone’s heartbeat?” she asked.

“Yes. No. It’s complicated.”

“Lots of things seem complicated,” said Fletcher.

“Yeah,” said Matheus. “Congratulations. I mean, if you want congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Fletcher glanced at the door, then at her shoes. She dropped her arms, clasping her hands behind her back. A second later, she shifted, holding her arms in front, right hand grasping her left wrist.

“Who’s the father?” Matheus asked, thinking that if Fletcher named any of his former friends, he planned to buy a ticket for the next plane to London and throw a Welcome to the Family party. One which included a lot maimings and defenestrations.

“Bill. My husband.”

Matheus blinked. “You’re married?”

“Over two years now. I would have invited you to the wedding, but I just had no idea where to send your invitation,” said Fletcher.

“You’re not wearing a ring.”

“Father gave me his mother’s ring. I didn’t want to lose it.”

“Right. The fact that it’s completely hideous has nothing to do with it.”

“Of course not. I resent the implication.”

Matheus smiled. “You’re pregnant,” he said.

“I believe we covered that.” Fletcher glanced at the door again. “I really must get back to work.”

“Right. All the paperwork, covering up God-sanctioned genocide.”

“Mattias.” With a heavy sigh, Fletcher turned. Her shoulders slumped, marring the fine lines of her jacket.

“Quin would never touch you.”

Fletcher paused. “What?”

“He wouldn’t drink your blood. No pregnant woman, no kids,” Matheus said. “There are rules. He has rules. Not the same as yours, but still. He doesn’t act mindlessly.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel sympathetic?” asked Fletcher.

“Depends. Did it work?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Fletcher reached the door.

“Quin’s really not that bad,” said Matheus.
Satan’s ice-skating to work
, he thought.

“Are you talking about the man who killed you?” Fletcher asked.

“Okay, yes, he did do that, and I’m still pissed off about that, but he has some good points.”
Good news, the pit of eternal torment now has free ski rentals!

“It has good points,” said Fletcher. “Really.”

“He,” snapped Matheus. “And yes.”
Complimentary hot cocoa with each bobsled ride around the walls of Dis!

“And they are?”

He has the flattest stomach I’ve ever seen,
thought Matheus.
And, I might have a fixation with crooked teeth I never realized before.

“Uh,” he said.
And his hands. God, he has gorgeous hands
. Matheus shook his head, squashing thoughts neither comfortable nor helpful into the murky depths. “He’s very….”
controlling, snobbish, stubborn, infuriating
“…protective.”

Fletcher raised her eyebrows at him.

“He worries about me,” Matheus said. “He, um, he’s clever and kind of funny and thoughtful. I mean, not in a he-brings-home-flowers sort of way, but in the thinks-about-how-the-world-is way, even though he’d probably disagree with that, actually. Uh. He likes it when I shout at him. And sometimes…sometimes he knows exactly the right thing to say.”

Matheus felt like a nice Jewish boy trying to explain that his new girlfriend with the shaved head and the swastika tattooed across her stomach had a really sweet personality, you know, deep down.

“I just….” He shrugged helplessly.

For a long moment, Fletcher just looked at him. Matheus squirmed.

“Well,” Fletcher said. “Well.”

“He met Empress Matilda once,” offered Matheus.

Fletcher gave a startled laugh. “He actually likes when you shout at him?” she asked.

“Yeah,” said Matheus. “I think he gets bored.”

“Well,” Fletcher said again. Her gaze drifted away.

“You keep saying that. ‘Well’ what?”

“You’ll have to wear chains,” she said.

“Chains?”

“As you said, you’re one of them. I’m not letting you out of this room without some kind of security measure,” said Fletcher. “Silver chains, ankles and wrists. Heavy ones.”

“Right, yes, of course, that’s fine,” said Matheus. He resisted the urge to pull Fletcher into a bear hug. He suspected she might be less appreciative now than she had as a kid.

“You understand the risk I’m taking.” Fletcher gave him the best impression of their father’s stern face. Sterner face, really. Even pleased, Carsten Schneider had all the joy of a Calvinist funeral.

Matheus nodded solemnly, biting the inside of his cheek to force back the grin.

“I’ll have the guards shoot you in a flash,” continued Fletcher. “And if you so much as breathe on anyone here, I will behead you myself and dump your body in the river.”

“Jesus, Fletch.”

“One sight of fang and—”

“I get it!” Matheus threw up his hands. “I’ll try to contain my overwhelming lust to turn maidens in skimpy nightdresses into juice boxes.”

“Can’t you ever be serious?” Fletcher sighed.

“It’s a defense mechanism. Are you going to get the chains or what?”

The silver burned. Matheus held his arms stiff, slightly away from his body, trying to minimize contact with the chains. The ones around his ankles clanged as he walked. He had enough leeway to take almost a full stride, but not quite. Every few steps, he’d forget and stumble.

“Does it hurt much?” Fletcher asked. She pressed the button for the elevator.

The hallway echoed with the strange acoustics that came with lack of habitation. Matheus wondered if anyone else worked behind those closed doors, or if his father kept himself barricaded away in his private enclave. He noticed someone had refreshed the bouquets. The scent of lilies filled the hallway, even stronger than the day before. Probably had someone on staff, a dedicated flower-watcher, to roam up and down the hall, scouring for drooping petals.

“What do you think?” Matheus asked. All the hairs on his body stood on end. Itching, burning sensations circled his wrists and ankles, extending tentacles that wound and unwound every time he moved.

“You’re twitching,” said Fletcher. “Like a person trying not to shiver.”

“It feels like the sunburn from hell.”

“So, purely physical?”

The elevator doors opened and Fletcher gestured Matheus inside. He tried not to sway as the elevator started downward.

“You know how there are some sounds that just make you feel uncomfortable? Like they’re crawling around under your skin? Silver feels like that. Touching it is even worse.”

“Worse how?”

“Like you’ve just stuck your hand in a bowl of sulfuric acid,” said Matheus.

“Hmm,” said Fletcher.

The elevator jerked to a halt. Matheus winced as the chains on his arms slid over his wrists.

“Want to write that down?” he asked, following Fletcher onto the second floor. “Make a little note?”

“It’s interesting.”

They passed a trio of guards. All three men nodded to Fletcher, then stared at Matheus. One caressed the trigger of his crossbow and winked. Matheus hurried to match Fletcher’s stride.

“Right. Interesting.”

“We’ve never had a subject able to tell us—”

“They’re able,” said Matheus. “They’re just not willing.”

Fletcher shot him a look. “Fine,” she said. “We’ve never had a subject”—she made air quotes with her fingers—”willing to answer our questions.”

“Maybe if you didn’t leap right in with the torture, you might get more volunteers.”

“It’s research, not torture.”

“Well,” said Matheus. “All depends on your perspective, really.”

Shaking her head, Fletcher paused outside the door marked
Containment Unit Two.
She glanced at Matheus, then curled around the keypad.

“How many of these do you have?” Matheus asked as Fletcher entered the security code.

“Three,” she said. “Although unit one is out of commission after your little escapade.”

“Did any of them escape?”