Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (64 page)

“
Ich Hasse nadeln
,” Matheus said. He jerked, the cuffs biting into his skin. “I changed my mind. I need more time to think. Let me out.”

He kicked, catching the edge of the rolling tray, the edge colliding into Degas’ arm. Instruments hit the floor with a clatter of metal; the syringe shattered, silver liquid oozing out into an oily pool.

Degas stepped back, pressing her back into the countertop.

“Stake him,” she said.

Godzilla grinned. Reaching over his shoulder, he brought forth his crossbow. He slapped a bolt into place, and flipped up the sight with his thumb.

Matheus squirmed, twisting left and right, heels sliding over vinyl, searching for leverage.

“Say bye-bye, fa—” Godzilla grunted as the business end of a baseball bat smacked into his temple. He slumped, the crossbow slipping out of his grip.

Matheus yelped as the trigger released. The bolt arced upward, tip embedding into the vinyl cushion, slicing through the side of Matheus’ pants. The fletching vibrated as if to say “Hi! Let’s be friends! I’m much cooler than a second testicle!”

“Motherfu—” Another thud, and Foot Fungus dropped, clutching his manly bits and whimpering. Fletcher stood over him with a double-handed grip on the bat, and a shocked expression on her face.

“What are you doing?” shrieked the doctor.

Matheus nodded frantically.

Fletcher looked down the keening Foot Fungus, then back at the doctor.

“You have a daughter in Kansas City, don’t you? Maybe now is a good time to pay her a visit.”

The doctor gaped at her.

Fletcher raised the bat a hair, narrowing her eyes. “A long visit,” she said.

“Yes. Yes, all right, what a good idea,” Degas said. “I’ll just leave now.” She sidled toward the door, stepping over the fallen Godzilla and giving Fletcher a wide berth.

“Silently,” said Fletcher, slamming the bat across the doorway.

The doctor squeaked. “What would I have to say?” she asked.

“Good.” Fletcher lowered the bat. She gave the doctor a pleasant smile. “Have a lovely trip.”

The doctor opened her mouth, then shut it again. She hurried out the room, white coat flapping behind her.

“Jesus Christ, Fletcher!” Matheus shouted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Foot Fungus stirred, rising onto his knees. He did not look pleased. Less pleased when the bat conked into the side of his face. He grunted, then slumped, landing in a heap of muscles.

Fletcher nudged him with the tip of the bat, then nodded, apparently satisfied with the result of her labors.

“Hold this.” Fletcher chucked the bat into Matheus’ lap, and moved around the chair. A second later, the cuffs snapped open.

Matheus scrambled out of the chair and the friendly bolt. He waved the bat at Fletcher.

“Do you have any idea what our father is going to do to you?” he demanded. “Are you crazy?”

“I’m pregnant,” said Fletcher. “There are hormones.”

“God.” Matheus upped the bat-waving to epic levels. “God, I mean, Christ, I love you, Fletch, but there is no fucking way he’s going to buy that.”

“Do you want my help or not?” Fletcher asked. “Because if you’d prefer to stand there and berate me until more guards turn up rather than escaping and not becoming a vegetable for the rest of your life, we can do that.” She stuck her head into the hall, looking left and right. “Follow me.”

“Oh, this is going to end poorly,” Matheus said, trailing after her.

“Shush!”

“Did you just shush me?”

“Shut it!” Fletcher paused at the next junction of halls. She glanced at her watch. Her mouth moved silently.
All right
.

She crept forward, motioning to Matheus.

“I can’t believe you knocked out the guards,” Matheus said.

“I didn’t have much time,” said Fletcher, over her shoulder. She stopped beside a large window overlaid with a black crisscross pattern. The hinges whined as she pulled open the grating. “One of the accountants is a fan. He keeps that in his cube.”

Matheus turned the bat over.

“It’s signed,” he said.

“Oh. Well, needs must.”

“It’s got a bit of blood stuck to it.”

Fletcher rolled her eyes. “Help me with this,” she said. “The paint is sticking.”

Together, they managed to force the window up high enough for someone to slip through. The fire escape offered a path down to street level. Matheus slung a leg over the still, then paused.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“I—” Fletcher looked down at her hands. She straightened, pushing her hair back and meeting Matheus’ gaze. “The process doesn’t work. At least, not as well as I would like.”

“It lobotomizes people,” said Matheus. “I overheard you and Dad.”

“And you were still going to go through with it?”

Matheus shrugged.

“Don’t shrug at me!” Fletcher boxed his ear.

“Ow! Fuck, pregnancy is making you violent,” Matheus said, glaring at her.

“You are making me violent,” said Fletcher. “You knew what was coming and you just walked straight into it like a bloody feebleminded git! I don’t even know why I’m bothering.”

“Well, I’m not exactly a candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize, am I?”

“Please, just stop talking before I change my mind. Go now, before I think too much about this.”

“I just—”

“Oh my God, you have the survival instincts of a suicidal lemming! Go!” Fletcher gave him a hard shove.

Matheus grabbed the edge of the window, and shoved back. Fletcher stumbled, then smacked his arm.

“I can’t believe you shoved a pregnant lady,” she hissed.

“I can’t believe you managed to find someone willing to get you pregnant,” Matheus snapped. “You’re certifiable. Your husband must be a bloody saint.”

“Me? You’re the one about to let himself be turned into a sodding zombie to please Daddy.”

“You bitch,” said Matheus. “You were going to let me!”

“You talk about how I am with Father, but you’re the fucked-up one, Mat,” said Fletcher. “I chose this life. I chose to be here. My decisions, mine. You don’t even know what you’re doing or why you’re doing it. Everything you do, you do because of him, and you can’t even man up and bloody admit it. Mr. Rebellion, Mr. Independent, so desperate for Daddy’s approval. So damned busy running and you don’t even realize you’re still following his path. My God, Mat, be your own man for once!”

Matheus’ mouth dropped open. “Um,” he said.

“Sorry,” said Fletcher.

“You’ve been holding onto that for a while, haven’t you?”

“A bit,” Fletcher said.

“For the record, I was captured. I didn’t come here voluntarily,” said Matheus.

“I swear on the Queen herself, I will push you off this fire escape.”

“I’m going! Calm down. You’re going to stunt the baby or give it a third arm or something.”

“You are so lucky I love you,” said Fletcher.

“I know.” Matheus grinned at her. “Come with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Go back to London, have adorable babies with Will.”

“Bill.”

“Whoever.”

Fletcher shook her head. “Mat, this is my life. I believe in what we’re doing here.”

“But—”

“Go, please. The guards are going to notice soon.”

“Right. Okay.” Matheus stepped inside and straightened. “I want Quin.”

Fletcher’s turn to gape like a largemouth bass on steroids. “What? Are you—what?”

Matheus sat down beneath the window and crossed his arms. He looked up at Fletcher. She raised her hands, lowered them, stomped down the hall a few steps, stomped back, then glared at him.

“I’m not leaving without him,” Matheus said.

“I cannot even—what is wrong with you?”

“Do you want the complete list or just the highlights?”

“My God! I cannot even form a sentence right now,” Fletcher said. She appeared to be choking the air. Matheus recognized the gesture. He tended to inspire metaphorical strangulation in people at a higher than usual rate. He wondered why.

“That was a sentence,” he said. Okay, maybe he didn’t wonder
that
much.

“I am not going to release a mass murderer just because he makes your willy go all pointy,” said Fletcher.

“
Gargh
.” Matheus made a face. “That’s not—don’t talk about my willy. It’s disturbing. Also, don’t call it a willy. What are you, six?”

“Am I six? You’re the one who’s six! Stop behaving like a bloody child!”

“Wah-wah,” said Matheus.

“Idiot. Immature, brain-dead jackass. Ten minutes ago, you didn’t care what happened to what’s his name.”

“Ten minutes ago, I thought I was going to be a drooling loony for the rest of my life. But since that plan is shot, I’m not leaving the guy with freaking magical pain-transmitting link here for you all to play with. Not to mention, I’m not exactly experienced at this whole being dead thing, and I could really use someone to make sure I don’t accidently go all crispy, yeah?”

“Holy Mother Mary, are you admitting you need help?” Fletcher asked, pressing a hand to her chest. “I may faint.”

“Hilarious,” said Matheus. “Either Quin comes with me or I spend my days finger-painting with my own fluids and making blankets out of cat hair. It’s your choice.”

“Why didn’t my mother marry someone with no children?” said Fletcher. “My life would be so simple.”

“Please, you adored having me as a brother,” said Matheus. “I’m fucking wonderful.”

“Those are not the words I would have chosen.” Fletcher turned away. “Wait here. If I don’t return within twenty minutes, promise me you’ll leave.”

“I promise,” said Matheus.

“I cannot believe I’m doing this.” Fletcher stalked off, short, jerky steps, frame rigid, still muttering to herself.

Me either
, thought Matheus.

Matheus stood on the fire escape, quietly tapping out a drum solo on the railing. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he thought longer than twenty minutes. Below, a guard leaned against the side of the building, smoking a cigarette. Matheus considered sneaking down and pickpocketing the pack sticking out of the man’s coat. At this point, he didn’t have to worry about lung cancer anymore, right?

The guard finished his cigarette. He walked to the end of the alley, before resuming his position holding up the wall. He lit another cigarette.

“Screw this,” Matheus said. He didn’t know what happened to Fletcher, but promise or not, he had no intention of scarpering off without Quin. For one thing, Matheus still owed him for the fingers. Maybe once they escaped, Matheus could throw him out of a moving car. Onto the freeway. In front of a garbage trunk on its way to drop off a load. That seemed an appropriate response. Not like Quin would die or anything. Just be in a severe, agonizing amount of pain. Perfect.

Slowly, Matheus crept down the fire escape, freezing at every creak, certain the guard would look up. Only ten feet between floors, but the journey seemed to stretch to a hundred. The second-floor window had the same covering as the floor above. Matheus knelt down, holding his breath as the fire escape shook. He looked down through the grating.

Cigarette clamped between his lips, the guard swung his crossbow by the stock, spinning it up and catching it.

“Idiot,” Matheus whispered. He pried at the sill, clawing at the crusted-over paint. The window didn’t budge. Apparently, his father’s concern for humanity did not extend to working fire exits. Matheus pressed his face against the glass. The hallway appeared empty. He sat back on his heels, gnawing on a nail. He had two options. One, continue to wait for Fletcher. Or two, break the glass and find Quin himself. Neither appealed to him all that much. Matheus sighed. He stood up, braced himself against the railing, and slammed his foot into the window. The glass cracked.

“Hey! What are you doing? Hey, fucker!” The guard slung the crossbow over his shoulder. He grabbed the fire escape ladder. The metal frame shook as he climbed.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Matheus shouted back. “Moron!”

He kicked at the window, deepening the crack with every blow. Beneath him, the guard reached the first floor.

“Station 34, send reinforcements,” the guard said, holding a walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Cover second-floor fire escape, east section.”