Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (63 page)

“English,” said Matheus.

“Very well. Sit.”

Matheus dropped into the chair, slouching down until his spine bent at a ninety-degree angle. Then he straightened, because defiance worked better when he didn’t look like a complete twat.

“Today is a good day,” said his father. He walked around the desk, and placed his hands on Matheus’ shoulders.

No, no, no
, thought Matheus.
I’m not ready.
His father’s hands imprinted onto his shoulders, lead molds pressing into soft clay.

“
In Gottes Namen, wirst du gereinigt warden.
”

He needed more time. He wasn’t ready. Matheus thought of Quin, broken in his cell, lashing out and pulling away. And he thought about Fletcher, pregnant and married, everything he’d missed, everything he would have missed.

“Are you pleased?” asked his father.

Matheus coughed. His tongue felt encased in an iron cage. He swallowed, trying to work enough saliva into his mouth to speak.

“Yes,” he managed in a low creak.

His father squeezed his shoulders. “
Mein Sohn
,” he said.

Matheus closed his eyes. He didn’t say anything.

Matheus opened his eyes to his last night as a corpse. He lay on his back, his arms stretched across the bed. He’d dreamt of vague shapes, warm mist, and the scent of the air after a lightning storm. If he closed his eyes, he still felt the damp along his skin, inhaled the tinge of ozone.

“I’m going to be human again,” Matheus said. His voice sounded small in the empty room. He tried again with more enthusiasm. “I’m going to be human again! Fucking hurrah!”

He snorted. He’d met people suffering through withdrawal with more pep. He rolled off the bed. Hopping on one foot, then the other, Matheus slipped on his pants and shoes. Nothing else to do but wait. He sat on the edge of the bed, resting his broken hand on his leg. He wondered what would happen to Quin after he changed back. He wondered if he’d ever seen him again. He wondered if he wanted to.

“Mattias?” Fletcher rapped lightly on the door as she poked her head in.

“Hey, Fletch.”

She stood in the doorway, hands twisting around one another. She noticed Matheus’ gaze, and shifted her arms behind her back. “It’s time,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Everything’s all ready for you.”

“Right.” Matheus stood up. “The woman, the one that I…the one that died. What was her name?”

“Ada Summers,” Fletcher said.

“Did she have a family?”

“What does it matter?”

“Please.”

“I’m not helping you torture yourself,” said Fletcher, decibels rising.

“No, that’s Dad’s job.”

“God, Mat, don’t do this now. Please. We may never—” Fletcher cut off with a sharp headshake.

“May never what?” asked Matheus.

“It’s nothing,” said Fletcher, her gaze on Matheus’ chest. “Parents. No siblings. A boyfriend.”

“Do they know what happened?”

“Lab accident.” Fletcher gave him an unhappy smile. “We paid for the funeral.”

“How generous.”

“It was part of her contract.”

“Right.” Matheus tapped his fingers against his leg, then winced as he realized he’d forgotten about the breaks.

“Are you all right?” Fletcher asked.

Matheus tucked his hand out of sight.

“Fine,” he said. “We should go. Don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

He walked toward the door, then stopped as Fletcher caught his arm.

“Mat,” she said.

“Yes?”

Fletcher frowned, giving another a quick headshake. Rising onto her tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around Matheus, pressing her face into his shoulder. Matheus rested his cheek against the top of Fletcher’s head, feeling the curve of skull beneath the smooth fall of hair.

“Fletcher?” he said.

Fletcher mumbled something into his shirt. Matheus hoped she didn’t start crying. He patted her back, trying to gauge the wetness-level on his left shoulder.

“If you have a boy,” Matheus said. “Don’t name him after me, okay?”

A loud, choking noise emerged from his shirt. Fletcher raised her head, trapped between laughing and crying.

“Oh my God, you’re melodramatic,” she said, wiping her eyes. “And you smell dreadful.”

“Well, my room lacked an
en suite
toilet, so you’ll have to complain to the management about that.” Matheus scowled at her.

Fletcher smiled at him, then pulled a tissue out her pocket. She turned away. Fifteen seconds, she turned back, makeup restored, tear tracks vanished. Matheus used tissues to blow his nose, but in the hands of the right woman, a Kleenex turned into a magic wand capable of feats undreamt of by man and beast.

Matheus preferred the original face; the new one didn’t smile at him.

“Shall we go?” Fletcher gestured toward the hall.

Leaning forward, Matheus pressed a kiss to Fletcher’s forehead. Her lips parted, and she blinked up at him.

“After you,” said Matheus.

Expression wiped clear, Fletcher strode out. Godzilla and Foot Fungus waited in the hall, falling into step behind Matheus.

“You know, I’m really going to miss you guys,” said Matheus over his shoulder. “Your eloquence is truly overwhelming. I may never know such wit again.”

“Walk,” grunted Foot Fungus, despite the blatant evidence of Matheus’ current movement. Entering further into the state of walking would violate the laws of physics in ways from which they’d never recover. Foot Fungus clearly had no appreciation for the mental health of the universe. He shoved a meaty palm between Matheus’ shoulders to emphasize his point, endangering the entire planet in an act of petty bullying.

Matheus stumbled, throwing out his arms to catch himself. He landed on his hands and knees.

“Get up,” said Godzilla.

Farther along the hallway, Fletcher paused. “Mat? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Matheus, staring at his left hand, at the straight, unbroken fingers, a perfect match to the right. “Absolutely nothing.”

A dentist’s chair, with silver cuffs, sat amidst shining counters and instruments. The room resembled the one Matheus had found Quin in, but flavored with the strong odor of bleach. A wheeled tray of gleaming instruments sat next to the chair, needles and blades lined up with razor’s edge precision.

A woman in a white lab coat and latex gloves stood to the right of the chair. She forced a smile as Matheus entered.

“Hello,” she said. “My name is Dr. Degas.”

“Like the painter,” said Matheus.

“Yes.” The woman cleared her throat. She looked down at her clipboard. A pair of glasses hung around her neck on a beaded chain. The beads formed stars and hearts, all different sizes and bright colors, a child’s craft. “Please, have a seat.”

“You’re not going to make me take off my clothes first?” Matheus asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” said the doctor.

“I was kidding.” The vinyl squeaked as Matheus settled into the chair. He wrapped his fingers around the handles, digging his nails into the soft rubber.

His fingers didn’t matter, he decided. Quin acted on whims. He had a whim to hurt Matheus, and then he had a whim to heal him. Nothing deeper than that. Matheus remembered the grin Quin gave him as he snapped Matheus’ finger. Matheus held on to that grin, clung to it.

“Are you staying, Ms. Young?” asked the doctor.

“No,” said Fletcher. “I—There are things I must attend to. Excuse me.”

The guards parted to allow her through the door, then moved back into position. Matheus had the flash of Tweedledee and Tweedledum from the Disney version of
Alice in Wonderland
. Huge, boulder-sized Tweedles, sans pinwheel-hats and with one hundred percent more crossbow. A twinge of regret nudged at Matheus. A wonderful naming opportunity missed.

Degas pulled a flashlight out of her pocket, switching it on with a sharp click. She flicked the circle of reddish light over Matheus’ eyes, then made a note on her clipboard. Another click, and the light turned blue-white. Through a fresh layer of tears, Matheus saw the doctor scribble further.

“What was that for?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. Everything had taken on a gold-edged glow. He blinked.

“Just testing,” said Degas. She set the clipboard aside and moved to the back of the chair. A mechanism whirled, and the cuffs snapped over Matheus’ wrists.

“I’m here voluntarily,” said Matheus. He writhed, trying to pull away from the silver.

“A precaution.” The doctor picked up the longest needle Matheus had ever seen. She fitted the end into a glass vial of silvery liquid. Matheus watched the syringe fill as the room started to spin around him.

“Isn’t there a pill or some smoke I can inhale or something?” he asked.

The doctor tapped the side of the syringe. Satisfied, she set the needle onto the tray and picked up her clipboard again.

“What’s in there?” Matheus asked, nodding at the syringe. His wrists burned. He glanced at his left hand again, before forcing his gaze back to the doctor.

“It’s a compound designed to help your body accept the transfusion,” said Degas. With brusque movements, she rolled up Matheus’ sleeve past his elbow. She twisted his arm, exposing the inside of his elbow.

“Looks like mercury,” said Matheus.

“Yes.” Degas picked up a scalpel.

Matheus’ eyes widened.

“What are you doing with—ow!”

“Don’t move.” Degas inspected the cut she’d made on Matheus’ arm. A thin line of blood rose up, dark and thick. She pushed against the wound, forcing out the blood. She frowned.

“We’ll have to go in through the jugular,” she said.

“You’re not sticking that thing in my neck,” Matheus said, jerking his head toward the needle.

“Your blood flow is too sluggish. The compound will take too long to work its way to the heart from the arm.”

The chair groaned, and Matheus found himself flat on his back, staring up at a needle-wielding lunatic.

“This may sting a bit,” said the doctor. She leaned in.

“Wait!” Matheus wiggled as far away from the point of the needle as the restraints allowed. “How many times have you done this?”

“You’ll be the ninth.”

“They were all successful?”

Degas pressed the tip of her tongue to her upper lip before answering.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “The procedure is very effective.”

“Effective is not the same as safe,” Matheus said. The needle glinted under the lights. Matheus swallowed hard, suddenly in possession of enough saliva to fill a small swimming pool. He curled his fingers up, digging the remains of his nails into his palms.

What the fuck am I doing?
His father said jump, and here was Mattias, jumping. The room spun into a haze around the tip of the needle.

I don’t want this
, Matheus thought. The realization burst through him like gasp of air to a drowning victim. He didn’t want to be a monster, but this, to be his father’s puppet, to fill in the gaps in his father’s grand design, Matheus didn’t want either. His chest heaved, each breath clinging thick and leaden in his lungs.

“I am certain you will be safe,” said Degas. “Calm down. You must be still, or I may have to do this more than once.”

“More than once?” Matheus closed his eyes. The silver sent tiny seismic shocks up and down his nerves. He shook, his teeth clattering together. Why hadn’t he tried harder to escape? He’d heard the conversation between his father and Fletcher, and what did he do? Laid his neck right across the chopping block. Still Mattias, letting his father stride in and take control, sweeping away his mistakes, no need to make his own decisions, to know his own thoughts. Just take another swig off the bottle, crush another pill.