Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (7 page)

“I’m not implying anything,” Matheus said. He took another sharp turn down a side street, stopped, and then returned to the main street.

Juliet waited under a streetlight. She pulled out her mirror, fixing her hair as Matheus walked back.

“It’s a bit illogical, Pet,” she said.

“I know,” Matheus sighed. He walked to the next side street, pausing at the junction. “It’s completely fucked up. This is my life now. One big compost pile of confusion.”

Juliet patted him on the shoulder. “Well, as long as you’re aware of that,” she said.

Matheus turned left, Juliet quick behind him. The side street consisted of storefronts darkened against the late hour. Only a pub at the end showed signs of life. The lettering on the grimy plate glass window read
Artemis’s Cup
. The building was a single level, unremarkable in structure and decoration. Matheus might have passed the place every day of his life and never noticed its existence.

“He’s in there,” Matheus said, pointing from across the street.

Juliet peered around his shoulder.

“You’re sure?” she asked.

“Positive. It’s buzzing.”

“Buzzing?”

“I don’t know how else to describe it,” Matheus said. He shoved his hands in the pockets of the hated coat. The jumpy feeling had abated slightly, as though calmed by Quin’s proximity.

Light spilled out of the open doorway, along with loud voices and music. He wrinkled his nose as a Bon Jovi song came on. Matheus rarely listened to music. The point of it escaped him.

“Let’s go,” he said, starting forward.

“Wait,” said Juliet. “I know this place.”

Matheus looked her up and down. Juliet could have posed for a Chanel ad. Matheus couldn’t picture her as part of a blue-collar neighborhood. Maybe something closer to the park, Taft Street, perhaps, with all its condo high-rises and conveniently located theaters.

“Really,” he said.

“Listen, Pet, as far as the Otherworld goes, you are a squealing infant. So be quiet, keep your hands to yourself, and don’t do anything to annoy me. Understand?”

“Fine,” muttered Matheus. “Let’s just find Quin and get out of here.”

“He’s going to be very cross with me if you get killed,” Juliet said.

“Too late.”

Inside the pub, the press of people made Matheus’ head spin. The beat-beat of the multiple pulses drowned out the music. The roof of his mouth itched. Blood smelled so good, so warm sliding down his throat, lighting the fire in his veins and—

“Get a grip,” Juliet hissed in his ear. “This is a hunter bar. They can’t find out what you are.”

“What—?”

“Shut up.” Juliet wound her fingers through his, squeezing hard. Her hand felt as though she’d held it in icy water. She led him through the crowd, ignoring the whispers that followed them.

There were two or three other women, but the majority of the customers were men. They wore jeans and flannel over t-shirts that said things like
Three Years Accident Free!
and
Wiltan Manufacturing
. Matheus kept his head down, suddenly aware of the shiny toggles on his coat, the complicated collar sewn into place to prevent the wearer from ruining the architecture of the fabric.

Damn Quin,
Matheus thought, blaming him entirely. Making Matheus a ponce by association. After Matheus’ beating for being a fancy boy, he would tell Quin so. Providing Matheus still had his teeth.

“Two Jamesons,” Juliet said.

Matheus glanced up, realized they had reached the bar. “I can’t—”

Juliet’s heel slammed down on Matheus’ foot.

He let out a strangled gasp. Juliet should register her shoes as deadly weapons. The bartender gave him a strange look as he set two glasses in front of them. Matheus called up a weak smile.

“Ten,” the bartender said, nodding toward the full glasses, still staring at Matheus.

Juliet nudged Matheus in the side, then rolled her eyes as he made an empty pockets gesture. Opening her purse, she pulled out a twenty and passed it to the bartender. She glared at Matheus.

“Do you know the last time I had to pay for a drink?” she asked.

Matheus shrugged. Since the night he had fed, he had not left the house. Shut-ins didn’t require cash. He’d have to ask Quin about his wallet soon. He needed his debit card to access his account; he couldn’t go for all eternity without money.

Juliet scooped up the drinks and carried them to an unoccupied table.

“I can’t drink this,” Matheus whispered.

“So fake it,” Juliet said. She took a long drink of the whiskey, emptying half the glass.

A flush of jealousy flared in Matheus’ gut.

“You’re not….” he trailed off in the face of the word.

“No,” said Juliet. “I’m not.”

Matheus leaned across the table, bracing his palms against the wood. He inhaled deeply, trying to find the scent he associated with humanity. The particular smell of humans had not been something he had considered before. He wondered if gazelles smelled different to lions.

“You’re not human,” he said. “What are you?”

“Something else,” Juliet said. “Now, do you mind, Pet? Some personal space, please.”

“Sorry.” Matheus sat back, pretending to sip his whiskey. Juliet mirrored him, lounging in her chair with an ease that Matheus envied.

“So, where is he?” she asked.

The bar ran along the wall to the left of the entrance with scattered tables around the unused space. A swinging door led to a kitchen, waitresses in tight, white tops walking back and forth with plates of fries and chicken fingers. Antlers, disembodied heads, and plastic fish decorated the walls; hunting lodge chic as seen through the lens of a beer commercial. The pub looked like the LSD version of his childhood trips with his father. Matheus scanned the room, trying to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. He dismissed the kitchen and the cutely labeled bathrooms.

“Through there,” he said, nodding at an unmarked door beside the bar.

“Okay. I’ll create a diversion, you go,” Juliet said. She drained the rest of her whiskey, then stole Matheus’ out of his hands.

“What are you going to do?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Juliet shooed him away.

As discreetly as possible, Matheus moved toward the bar, as though going for another drink.

As he got halfway there, Juliet climbed up on her chair. She swayed back and forth, wisps of blonde curls drifting around her face as the knot of hair began to unravel. It didn’t take long for her to attract attention. Hoisting Matheus’ whiskey, she beamed at the room.

“I’d like to make a toast.” Her voice rang over the room. “To Herman Gunn. A great man. A greater hunter.”

A dozen men rocketed to their feet.

“Gunn! That traitor!”

“May he burn in hell!”

“Get down, you stupid bitch!”

“Oh, shut up, the lot of you!” Juliet shouted back. “There isn’t a man in this room who could hold a candle to Gunn.”

Madwoman
, Matheus thought.

The bartender emerged from behind the bar, making his way toward Juliet, still happily arguing with the crowd.

Taking his chance, Matheus slipped through the door, ending up in a dark hallway with two doors, one on his left, the other at the end of the hall. Matheus headed toward the door at the end. He wished he still had a heartbeat. The panic running amok in his mind felt odd without the accompanying symptoms, as though a disconnect existed between his brain and his body. Matheus slapped himself. His cheek stung. Nerve endings still worked. The physiology made no sense. He could feel hot and cold, pleasure and pain, but no blood flowed, no beat of life.

Oh, god, what if he couldn’t get erections?

Matheus slapped himself again. He’d snuck into a hunter bar, whatever that was, with the aid of a woman, whatever she was, he had just met to save the man who had murdered him less than two weeks ago.

Madman
, Matheus thought.

The door led to a rickety staircase, the railing broken and hanging. Matheus followed the buzzing, turning left at the bottom. Another door, this one padlocked with a cheap, off-the-shelf lock.

Matheus smiled at the lock with the familiarity of an old friend. Finally, something that did not confuse the hell out of him.

He caught the lock before it hit the ground. For once, his troubled childhood actually came in handy.

The room stank of stale alcohol. Cases of booze and kegs lined one wall, makers’ brands stamped on the wooden slats. An old-fashioned drunk tank took up the other side, the bars stained with rust. One overhead light made sickly shadows, illuminating the lone person inside.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Quin sat in the corner of the cell, his elbows resting on his knees. His words had a slurred quality to them.

“Rescuing you,” Matheus replied, moving toward the bars. The buzzing vanished, but the panic remained.

Quin stood up, crossing to meet him, moving slowly. A spectacular bruise covered half his face, the bones underneath shattered. Blood stained his collar. His shirt, no longer crisp and smooth, had a rip down one sleeve, and the tails hung over khakis streaked with grime. From the odd angle at which Quin held his arm, Matheus assumed either a sprain or a break.

“You look like shit,” Matheus said.

“Get out of here,” Quin said. When he spoke, the shattered bones shifted beneath the bruised flesh.

Matheus shuddered. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m here to rescue you.”

“I don’t need rescuing from an idiot
child
who thinks he’s a hero.”

Matheus grabbed the bars, jamming his face through them.

“Listen, you inbred pederast, I have spent the last hour with every nerve vibrating like a goddamn guitar string on crack, every one of them screaming at me to come here and save your pathetic ass. You think I want to be here? You think this is fun for me? You think this is how I get my kicks? Fuck you, Quin. Fuck. You.”

Quin blinked at him. “Inbred pederast?” he said.

“I….”

“I’m not a pederast.”

“Look, I….”

“I like men. Grown-up, adult men.”

“Not now, Quin,” Matheus said.

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“I was trying to insult you. I also called you inbred, remember?”

“Well, my parents were cousins,” Quin said. “It’s hard to argue with that one.”

Matheus banged his head against the bars. Quin introduced him to new levels of frustration.

“We can talk about this later,” he said. “Maybe when you’re not in a cage.”

“I’m staying. You go. How did you even get in here, anyway?”

“Juliet helped me.”

“Juliet.” Quin sighed. “Remind me to kill her later.” He moved back, resting against the wall. With one hand, he smoothed over his shirt as though that would help matters. He fingered the rip, a frown tugging down the unmarked side of his face.

Matheus got the impression the damage to Quin’s shirt bothered Quin more than the damage to his body.

“Why not now? She’s right upstairs,” Matheus said. He glanced toward the door. Juliet’s distraction would not last forever, and someone might have seen him.

“Oh, Sunshine. She’s long gone by now. Juliet has her own motives, and they don’t involve getting caught by hunters.”

“What are hunters?” Matheus asked. “What are you even doing here? How did they catch you?”

“They didn’t,” Quin said. “I volunteered.”

“Are you crazy? Look at your face!”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Believe me, I’m all for beating you to a pulp. I just want to do it myself.”

“Matheus. Go.”

The words sliced through Matheus. Quin’s razorblade voice, the one that told him to kill that woman in the alley. If Matheus could bottle that voice, he could make millions. He could sell it to every petty dictator searching for a step up.

“No,” said Matheus. He didn’t move, but that might have been because his knees had locked.

“Go, or I will kill you myself.”

“You won’t.” Matheus felt light-headed. “You like having me around. You think I have pretty hair.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were drunk,” said Quin.

“I might be,” said Matheus.

“Isn’t this sweet?”

Matheus and Quin turned to stare at the doorway. The bartender stood there, flanked by two other men.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Quin.”

“I’m not gay!” Matheus said.

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Quin said. “It’s not a disease.”

“Boys, boys. Let’s not get into a bitch fight, okay?”

The bartender moved into the room. A small crossbow dangled from his hand. He was a big man, not fat, but with broad shoulders and a chest built to sing bass. Red stubble covered his head, revealing his receding hairline and his need for a fresh shave. The two other men were built along similar lines, and armed as well, but their weapons were pointed straight at Matheus.

“Trying to escape, Quin? That doesn’t sound like you,” said the bartender, smirking. “Maybe your balls aren’t as big as people think they are.”

“I didn’t realize you spent so much time thinking about my genitalia, Carruthers. I’m a little disturbed,” Quin replied.

Matheus looked from Quin to Carruthers. Now would be the time for Quin to show off some undead telepathy. Matheus didn’t have any idea what to do. He heard the tension underneath Quin’s casual tone, but Matheus’ life so far hadn’t prepared him for facing crossbow-wielding bartenders.

“Shut up, freak,” said one of the nameless men.

Quin smiled at him.

The man took a half-step back.

Matheus didn’t blame him. No one wanted to trifle with someone who could smile through a shattered cheekbone.

“Let him leave,” Quin said, jerking his head at Matheus. “He’s newly turned, not much sport in hunting him.”

“Come on now. What would happen to our reputation if it got out that we let one of you just stroll out of here?” asked Carruthers. He swung the crossbow back and forth.

“We won’t talk if you won’t.”

“Forty people saw him walk in.” Carruthers looked at Matheus. “You thought we wouldn’t be able to tell what you are? You were made before you took two steps through the door.”