Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (8 page)

“Idiot,” Quin said.

It took Matheus a second to recognize that Quin referred to him.

“I was trying to help,” he said.

“I don’t need your help. Shut up.”

“I think we should even out the odds of the game,” said Carruthers.

“No,” said Quin. “That wasn’t our deal.” He straightened, tugging on his shirt as he stared at Carruthers.

“Two is better than one.”

“He’ll slow me down and you know it. I thought you wanted a challenge, Carruthers.”

“Then leave him to die.” Carruthers shrugged. “I don’t care.” He nodded to one of the men.

The string of a crossbow twanged with the sudden release of tension.

Matheus felt a thud against his chest. He stared, amazed, at the bolt sticking out of his chest. Pain burst as the surprise faded. Matheus wobbled.

“What the…?” Unconsciousness hit before he reached the floor.

Matheus poked at the neat, round hole over his heart. He could just fit the tip of his index finger inside. Faint bruising surrounded the wound; a sluggish flow of blood staining his ruined shirt. He poked the hole again, wincing at the faint sting. He wondered, if he could find a stick long enough, he could prod the inside of his heart. He opened his mouth to ask Quin, but one look at his face and Matheus’ lips snapped closed.

“I’m not fixing that for you,” Quin said. “It’s your own fault for being so stupid.”

As a small child, Matheus had a nanny by the name of Brigitte. She had broad shoulders and a stout frame, with a mass of nut-brown hair piled on top of her head. Young Matheus had been very concerned, convinced the weight of her bun would cave in her skull. Brigitte possessed no affinity for children, especially boys, and had the empathy of a toadstool. Matheus hadn’t thought of her for years, but now flashbacks plagued his mind.

“Will it heal on its own?” he asked. “Or am I going to be deformed for all eternity?” Sarcasm riddled his tone, but he held his breath for Quin’s response. Dead bodies didn’t heal. He remembered that plot point from several different mystery novels. Then again, unless Quin had been extraordinarily careful for however long he’d been alive, some kind of rejuvenation must be possible.

“It will heal. Faster, if you feed.” Quin shifted, wiggling his shoulders and sliding along the uneven wall. They’d been put in a van, one of those featured in police reports on the more sensational cable news channels. The windows were blackened, and the floor showed marks where the carpet had been removed. Rivets covered the sheet metal walls, bits of paneling stuck beneath them. Matheus sat opposite Quin, one hand clutching a bulge in the wall. Every few seconds they bounced, jerking side to side as the van rattled along its path.

“No,” said Matheus. “I’m not doing that again.”

“Yes, you are.” A particularly big bump interrupted Quin’s stern glare, and sent the back of his head into the side of the van. Swearing softly, he inched forward until his knees knocked against Matheus’.

Matheus envied his ability to balance. Letting go of his makeshift handle would result in Matheus flying around the van like a seed inside of a maraca.

“Am not,” he said, delivering a tiny kick to Quin’s legs.

“Act your age,” Quin said.

Matheus had the sudden urge to stick out his tongue and give the two-fingered salute.

“You first,” he said. “Oh, wait, you can’t. Because then you’d be a pile of moldering bones.”

The van turned a corner, sending them both sliding toward the double doors. Matheus stuck out a hand to stop himself, a soft yelp escaping as he scraped his palm over an exposed screw.

Quin did not seem any more sympathetic to this injury than the one in his chest. Instead, he raised his eyebrows, looking down his nose at Matheus.

“That was a bit weak, Sunshine,” he said.

“My chest has a new air vent,” Matheus said. “I’m not at my best.” He frowned down at his new hole and poked it again. Quin let out a sigh, then Matheus felt a thumb brush over his cheek. He glanced up sharply.

“Dirt,” said Quin.

Matheus watched him for a few seconds, but Quin refused to do anything worthy of notice. Vibrations traveled through Matheus’ skull as he laid his forehead on the van door. They’d been in the van when he woke up; who knew how long they’d been moving before that. Hours had passed since Matheus had awoken. The state of the road made Matheus think they’d left Kenderton far behind them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the country. Matheus preferred to admire nature through screensavers and glossy photos in
National Geographic
.

“Where are they taking us?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Someplace wooded and uninhabited.”

“Why?”

The van turned again. The bumps increased, knocking them left and right like balls in a pinball machine.
Perhaps this was an elaborate meat tenderizer
, Matheus thought. He would resemble a Smurf, bruised dusky blue, by the time the van stopped.

“For the hunt,” Quin said. He handled the rough ride much better than Matheus, although he still grimaced as his bad wrist smacked against the side of the van. His splintered cheekbones contorted his skin as he spoke.

Matheus kept his eyes on the other side of Quin’s face. “What is that?”

Quin turned, positioning himself in the corner with his wrist tucked against his chest. He stretched out his long legs, the sole of one foot resting on Matheus’ thigh. His other hand rubbed over his head, making the dark hair stand out in tiny spikes.

“Hunters,” he said. “Like to hunt.”

“Profound,” said Matheus. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

“They like to hunt us. It’s a game. They release us somewhere away from civilians and try to catch us. If they capture us within three days, they win. If not, we do.”

“That’s twisted.” A chill curled in Matheus’ gut. He stared at Quin. “They’re just going to…like we’re animals?”

“That is the plan.” Quin seemed unconcerned.

Matheus wondered how many times the roles had been reversed, with Quin playing the part of prey instead of predator. In the back of his mind, the thought occurred to him that the hunters only did what Quin did to humans. He argued with himself that Quin only hunted to survive, but Matheus had the feeling the Quin enjoyed a good chase.

“Why? Why are you doing this? Don’t tell me you couldn’t escape. I saw what was left of that man in the alley. I’ve seen you move.”

“I want something from the hunters.”

“What?” Matheus leaned forward. The van went over three big bumps in a row, then slowed down to nearly a crawl.
Too late
, Matheus thought. He guessed the van’s next stop would be at a mechanic’s for a front-end alignment and some new struts. He might not be a country boy, but he knew better than to go speeding down a dirt road.

“That’s not your problem,” said Quin.

“Right. I’m not trapped in a van about to be the subject of some undead safari. This has nothing to do with me.”

“I tried to keep you out of it.”

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” Matheus shouted. “You were hurt. You don’t tell me anything. Maybe if I knew my head was going to go all spaz-tastic every time you got a paper cut, I wouldn’t have felt the need to go chasing after you.”

“How am I supposed to tell you things when you don’t want to listen?” Quin asked.

“I listen!”

“No, you don’t. You argue and you dig your heels in. You don’t want to think about what you are. You aren’t human anymore. You can’t go back.”

“You’re full of shit.”

Matheus’ shoulders hit the floor as Quin pinned him down. He cried out and shoved at Quin, but he might as well have tried to push a granite boulder up a hill. Quin pressed his sprained wrist across Matheus’ throat with a force that must have been agony, his knees digging into Matheus’ sides. Matheus kicked, the heels of his sneakers squeaking over the metal floor.

With his free hand, Quin pried Matheus’ mouth open.

“This is what you are now,” he said, triggering Matheus’ fangs. “Death and blood and the night. Deal with it.”

“I can’t!” Matheus’ tongue slipped around Quin’s fingers, turning his words into mush. He shook, still trying to push at Quin’s shoulders.

“You aren’t even trying.” Quin removed his fingers and braced his hand on the floor next to Matheus’ head.

“I can’t!” Matheus repeated. “I’m a nightmare!” The ragged edges of fear broke through his voice, clinging wet and sticky to his words.

“Matheus,” Quin began. He peered down at him, a strange expression on his face. He sat up, letting Matheus wiggle free.

“How? How am I supposed to…?” Matheus closed his eyes, unable to bear Quin staring at him. He wrapped his arms around his chest, as the memories he fought to suppress clamored for his attention. “I left for a reason,” he said softly.

Quin tilted his head to the side, a tiny wrinkle appearing between his eyes.

What does he know?
Matheus thought. Did he know about the foster homes? The constant relocations? Or did he know the truth?

“Left where?” Quin asked.

“Nowhere,” said Matheus. “It doesn’t matter.” He shivered.

The van made a loop before coming to a stop. A door opened in a squeal of metal; the van rocked from side to side, struts squeaking. Matheus tensed, waiting for the double doors to open, but instead, he heard the sound of another engine revving. He had begun to adapt to his altered hearing, learning to ignore the small noises, like the sound of his clothes rubbing together. He had trouble with his increased sensitivity to light, though. Quin kept his house dim, but Matheus still got irritated at being blinded by a streetlamp. Not an issue at the moment, what with being trapped in the back of a pedophile’s dream van, but realizing he saw Quin’s features perfectly despite the lack of light still disconcerted Matheus.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“They’ll leave us here for the rest of the night,” Quin said. “Someone will come along during the day to unlock the door. The hunt starts tomorrow night.”

“Oh.”

The sound of the engine faded into the distance. Matheus scooted backward until his shoulders knocked against the wall. Drawing his legs up, he rested his wrists on his knees. He stared into the middle distance, letting the silence grow heavy around him. The quiet sank into him, deep into his chest, filling in the porous sections of his bones like wet concrete. Quin remained still; Matheus had seen marble statues with more life in them. The minutes drifted past, each one longer than the last. Bereft of distractions, Matheus couldn’t avoid thinking about the past.

“I’m terrified all the time,” he said, softly, almost unaware that he spoke aloud.

“Of me?” Quin asked.

Matheus shook his head. “Of myself. I’m not strong enough for this. I’m weak. I’ve always been weak.” And his father had never let him forget it.

“You’re not weak,” Quin said. He sounded puzzled, the wrinkle between his eyebrows returning.

“I am.”

“Sunshine, you’re too damn stubborn to be weak.”

Matheus let out a snort. Closing his eyes, he shook his head again, unable to stop the small, rueful smile. The longer he knew Quin, the more certifiable he became.

“You keep telling me to accept my new life, yet you call me Sunshine,” he said, pressing his fingertips over his eyelids. Bright dots of color flashed in the darkness.

“Well, like I said before, it suits you.”

“Right, because I’m just an endless delight. Joy and light, that’s me.”

“Sunshine isn’t about happiness.” Quin pried Matheus’ fingers loose, tilting his chin up to meet Quin’s eyes, only a sliver of amber visible around the pupil. He didn’t blink; he didn’t breathe, and Matheus found he could not, either. “It’s life. Bright and overwhelming and beautiful and harsh and painful. Humans delight in it. Our kind fear it. Everything in this world revolves around it. It dictates all that we are and there is no escape.”

The wind picked up, sending the van swaying like a rowboat on the ocean. Quin’s fingertips pressed into Matheus’ temple, a feather touch firm enough to fix Matheus in place. Matheus had never felt so
looked at
in his life. Quin’s gaze sank in, fizzing like static under his skin. The cold metal of the van fell away, trapping them both in a strange bubble. The moment stretched into two, then four, then eight.