Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (12 page)

“Freeze!”

Freeze?
Matheus thought.
Seriously?
He stopped, more out of stunned amazement than fear.

“Turn around. Hands up!” The voice broke sharply, the
up
swallowed into a high-pitched squeak.

Bemused, Matheus turned around, his hands held up cliché-style. He’d been arrested so many times, his juvenile record took up a whole file cabinet; never once had he been ordered to freeze. He had been in a car chase once, but only long enough for him to run into a fountain. Not a large fountain, but the size hadn’t factored into sentencing.

“Jesus Christ,” Matheus said, getting his first look at his captor. “How old are you?”

Hunter Junior held a crossbow with a camouflage paint job, a scope, and a price tag still dangling off the stock. He looked like the poster boy for awkward teenage years, gangly, with a prominent Adam’s apple and a sprinkling of zits across his chin. Delicate features meant he must have been an adorable child, but puberty had not been kind to him. Then again, looks didn’t have a lot of impact on the ability to aim.

“No talking,” the kid ordered. “Uh, freak.”

“Are you even old enough to shave?” Matheus asked.

“Old enough to catch you.”

Matheus didn’t consider that much of an accomplishment. Helen Keller would have noticed him stomping around the woods. The tip of the bolt made small circles in the air. Matheus wondered if Hunter Junior had ever held a crossbow before.

“Are you going to shoot me or what?” Matheus asked. Quin was close. Maybe if he ran…. “Are you alone?”

The kid jumped. With his pale face, someone might have thought him the dead one. Matheus watched the crossbow bolt do its jittery dance.

“No,” the kid said. “I have back-up. One move and you’re a corpse.”

“I’m already a corpse,” Matheus said. “And you’ve been watching too many bad action movies.”

“I’m a hunter. Just like my father, and his father, and—”

Matheus darted forward, slapping the crossbow to the left. The bow thwacked, sending the bolt flying into the brush.

Hunter Junior staggered. He groped for his quiver.

“Shit! Shit!” Hunter Junior scrambled to reload. The bolt clattered against the bow, the string snapping prematurely.

Matheus dove at him, trying to mimic Quin’s movements from the fight the night before. Except Quin had decades of practice, and Matheus tripped without moving his feet. They rolled around on the forest floor, doing more damage to the plants around them than to each other.

Finally, Matheus landed a lucky hit, knocking Hunter Junior’s temple against a rock. Matheus rolled back and forth, still striking wildly before he realized what happened. Disentangling himself, he knelt beside Hunter Junior, searching for a pulse. Matheus pressed his fingertips to the boy’s wrist, panic rising until he felt the faint fluttering. A few feet away, the crossbow hung in a bush like an oversized Christmas ornament.

Matheus relieved Hunter Junior of his quiver. Most of the bolts had fallen out, scattered among the crushed bushes and grass, but one remained. Matheus rolled the smooth shaft between his fingertips, letting the moonlight reflect off the blades. He looked over at the kid. No one had come to help him. A bolt that paralyzed Matheus could kill a human. One firm thrust into the right area, not much effort required. Hunter Junior was unconscious, the soft tissue of his throat exposed.

Matheus drove the bolt into the ground. Leaving the kid where he lay, Matheus walked away.

Matheus halted, mid-creep,startled by the lack of a cover, and more importantly, the small cabin in the center of the clearing. . After Hunter Junior, Matheus decided some circumspection might be a good idea, given the long odds on a lucky knockout twice in a row. He focused on each step, stopping at every snapped twig or crushed leaf, so dedicated to sneaking that basic observation fell by the wayside. The trees thinned out, giving way to waist-high brush that offered nothing toward concealment. Tiny nettles pricked at Matheus as he crouched, ready to run if necessary.

The cabin sat in the center of the clearing, a small outbuilding tucked about five yards behind it. Both structures looked as though made from leftover parts. Brown paint covered the left side, a darker shade on the right. Stacks of concrete blocks served as a makeshift foundation. The rumbling sound of a generator explained the floodlight next to the door and the lit cabin windows. Figures moved inside, too indistinct for Matheus to make an accurate count.

The door opened, and Matheus ran into the trees.

A lone man emerged, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. He rested his elbows on the porch railing and stared into the woods.

Matheus watched the smoke twist lazily in the light. He gnawed on his fingernail, a habit from his childhood that he thought he’d broken. He needed to get inside. He assumed the cabin had only one or two rooms, which did not offer a lot of opportunities, stealth-wise.

Matheus tasted the spoiled food tang of his own blood on his tongue. He lowered his hand, the nail bitten down to a ragged edge. Visions of gloves soaked in chili powder flooded in. Well into adulthood, Matheus associated Mexican food with a sense of shame. Every time he ate a burrito, he had the strange desire to hide his fingernails. He scowled at his hands. Mud from his underground adventure streaked his skin, except for the damp spots where he’d been gnawing. Shoving his fists into his pockets, Matheus turned his attention back to the cabin.

The future lung cancer patient flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the patch of dirt and weeds that served as the cabin’s lawn. Pausing to swat a moth fluttering around the porch light, the hunter went inside. The ember of the cigarette glowed red-gold, rolling slightly as the wind picked up.

Matheus cursed softly as he realized he’d raised his finger to his mouth again. He wondered what happened to his finger if he chewed it off. Quin knew, but he had gotten himself captured, much to Matheus’ inconvenience. Although, judging from what Matheus saw yesterday, the hunters didn’t take captives. Matheus let his gaze drift away from the cabin to the small outbuilding.

No
, Matheus thought.
No way. No fucking way
.

Skirting the edge of the clearing, Matheus approached the outhouse from the back. He waited, listening for an occupant. While ambushing a hunter with his pants down might even the odds, attacking a man in the john just felt wrong, in more ways than one.

When no sounds of grunting or magazine rustling came, Matheus slipped inside, door latch clacking into place behind him. As far as outhouses went, this seemed acceptable. A bucket of lime sat by the door; the scent of cedar laced through the more…earthy smells. Not a place Matheus wanted to linger.

“Quin,” he hissed. “Are you down there?” He tilted his head, leaning from side to side in an effort to peer into the hole without sticking his whole head down there. Something moved in the muck, a shifting of shadows over the slightly oily surface. Matheus hoped to God Quin was down there. He already lived in one kind of horror movie. He didn’t want to start hopping sub-genres.

“Give me a hand.” Quin’s voice echoed up, filtered and diminished by the small space.

“Oh, God, do I have to?” Matheus asked. He inched toward the hole, raising the rough-hewn seat with the tip of his index finger. “It smells terrible.”

“I know.”

“I mean, really terrible. I’m tempted to eat something just so I can throw up.”

“Matheus!”

“All right, all right.”

Kneeling on the floor, Matheus stuck his arm though the hole, straining to hold his face as far away as possible. Quin’s hand felt slick and sticky from things Matheus did not want to think about. Goop squeezed through his fingers, dripping off in thick globs.

“This is repulsive,” he groaned. Quin’s weight pulled against him, threatening full-scale biceps apocalypse. Art historians weren’t generally known for their weight-lifting abilities.

“You think it’s repulsive,” said Quin with a grunt. “I spent all day down there.” A hand waved over the top of the hole, feeling for the edge of the bench. Bit by bit, Quin climbed out of the hole. He worked out one arm, forcing Matheus to act as a brace while he wiggled his other shoulder through. After that, he lifted himself upward until his butt rested on the edge of the seat. He drew up his legs, the left, then the right.

Matheus pressed his back against the door, the handle digging into him. Partially to give Quin room to work, but mostly as a self-defense maneuver against the dripping horror before him. Matheus didn’t feel quite so bad about his own clothes now.

Quin wiped the goop out of his eyes, throwing it onto the floor with a thick splatter.

Matheus offered him the roll of toilet paper. He’d already cleaned his hand, draining the entire bottle of sanitizer.

The thin sheets stuck to Quin’s fingers and tore, leaving him covered into tiny tufts of cheap cotton.
Worst shave ever
, Matheus thought. Each time the paper broke, Quin swore a little louder as he spun off more paper. Soon he had half a roll wadded up in one hand.

Matheus had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. Watching Quin attempt to clean himself off with discount tissue paper entertained him far more than he expected.

“How did you fit through there?” Matheus asked.

“I’m very flexible,” said Quin. His face mostly clear, he tossed the remnants of the toilet paper into the hole.

“Quin, some advice? Don’t flirt when you’re covered in shit.” Matheus peeked around the door, checking if Emphysema Man had stepped out for another fix.

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“Were too.”

Outside, Matheus inhaled deeply. The air smelled of damp earth, cigarette smoke, and diesel. Not the best combination, but Matheus was ready to bottle it as a new perfume. He edged away from Quin, closer to the cabin.

“I wasn’t,” said Quin, following Matheus. His shoes squelched, leaving messy footprints on the grass.

“Right.” Matheus looked over his shoulder, making sure Quin saw him rolling his eyes. “‘I’m very flexible, wink-wink.’ Not flirting at—”

“Hey!”

Matheus snapped his head around. He got a brief glimpse of the smoker, cigarette dangling precariously from his gaping mouth, before Quin grabbed his arm and ran full tilt into the woods. Behind them, the hunter shouted, calling the others out of the cabin. Matheus heard the rain of boots over the porch, then the wind swallowed the sound as Quin zigzagged through the trees. He do-si-doed Matheus around a massive stump, then lost his grip as he skidded down a small ravine.

Matheus waved Quin off as he tried to grab him again, doggedly running up the other side of the ravine on his own. The ground started to slope downhill, helping Matheus put on another burst of speed. He was not a runner. He didn’t know how to use his body; arms and legs moved in competition, not concert. Yet after a few seconds, he found an odd sort of rhythm.
I’m doing it
, he thought, as the trees turned into a greenish-brown blur. He felt like he had Pop Rocks in his blood, the jittery, overwhelming feeling of glee rising up over his memories of the last fortnight. Quin raced in front, but Matheus kept him in sight. Twigs and leaves whipped over his skin like razors; Matheus didn’t care. He went fast, so fast, faster and faster and—

Smack!

Matheus landed flat on the ground, a blinding pain exploding across his face. He’d underestimated the need for maneuverability as well as speed. An ancient oak tree loomed over Matheus, sedate in its victory.

“Fuck,” Matheus moaned, feeling along the bridge of his nose. The cartilage had a kink that hadn’t been there before. He prodded the pulpy flesh, grimacing at the pain, but unable to stop.

Ferns whispered together as Quin returned. He joined the oak tree in its looming, clearly a traitor in the stationary/ambulatory battle for supremacy.

“Hit a tree, did you?” Quin asked, as though Matheus might have decided to take a power nap.

Matheus bit back the automatic sarcasm and nodded.

“I think my nose is broken,” he said indistinctly.

“You think so.” Quin tilted his head to the side.