Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (22 page)

Matheus got the shoes. It came to a choice between letting the salesman measure his foot and having Quin snap off his toes like fleshy peapods. The unwanted footwear now resided in a pair of bags dangling from both of Quin’s hands. Dress shoes, casual shoes, sneakers and sandals, a brown and black pair of each kind, because apparently black did not go with everything despite being the one fashion rule on which Matheus thought he had a firm grasp. They stayed in the bags, neatly wrapped up in white tissue paper, snuggled into their respective boxes, because Matheus refused to wear them. Any of them. Especially the sandals.

This created a problem, since, to no one’s surprise, Matheus’ old sneakers had mysteriously vanished. He walked home in his socks. The thin silk tore quickly, ragged runs riding up his ankles.

Quin stalked beside him, his anger a physical presence between them. Matheus named it Bob, and addressed imaginary questions to it to distract himself. He had to fight the urge to sprint as far away as possible. Although he owed less to outright bravery, and more to the fact that running down a city sidewalk in bare feet while carrying a metric ton of clothing raised the bar on insanity. The closer they walked to Quin’s house, the more Matheus worried about hypodermic needles. Sheer stereotyping, but if someone squatted in an abandoned building, they probably weren’t going to be the next face of the Above the Influence campaign.

Quin dropped the bags of shoes in the foyer, then disappeared up the staircase. Matheus heard a door slam a few seconds later.

Matheus left the shoes where they laid, a future monument in his war for control. He walked down to his room, piling the clothing in the middle of his bed. The dresser was empty. Matheus shoved the last drawer shut with a violent slam. He considered searching the dumpster for his old clothes, but his finicky nature vetoed that idea right away. Sighing, he picked up a handful of clothes and crammed them into the drawers until he had to use his whole weight to close them. Then, he opened the drawers, pulled out all the clothes, then folded them the way his nanny had taught him.

Matheus thought about setting fire to the whole lot—just having a big bonfire in the backyard. The crackheads could roast marshmallows and hot dogs, like a picnic. On the downside, the bonfire plan left Matheus without clothing. He could make a toga out of his sheet, or really drive his point home and go around naked. Although, he worried Quin might enjoy that too much for Matheus’ point to get across properly. At least, the point Matheus intended. So, he wore the clothes and fumed, plotting vengeance.

The shoes remained in the hall for three days. Plainly, Quin was not going to move them, and Matheus refused to accept them, so the bags gathered dust in the foyer. Quin might have thought to wait Matheus out, but Matheus had a plan.

“Where are my things?” Matheus asked, speaking to Quin for the first time since the incident.

“What things?” Quin sat at his desk in the study, survey maps spread out over the surface. Red circles dotted the paper, some with lines crossed through them. A few indecipherable notes had been scribbled down in blue pen. Matheus knew a couple of scholars desperate to get their hands on samples of common Latin, the everyday stuff not found in poetry and plays, and here was some, scrawled on a modern city map in ballpoint. Impossible to cite academically; modern examples of dead languages written by native speakers didn’t technically exist.

“The stuff you took from my apartment,” Matheus said. Quin leaned forward, folding his arms over the map.

“You’re not getting your clothes back,” he said.

“Everything else.” Matheus knew there had to be other things. His apartment had been sparsely decorated, but he owned
some
things.

Quin gave him a long look.

“The attic,” he said. “In a box to the left of the door.”

“Thank you,” said Matheus and walked out.

The attic was dusty, but empty. The few boxes left appeared to have belonged to previous owners. One container looked as though a family of mice had taken up residence. The box with Matheus’ things was much newer, the cardboard still stiff and tan.

Matheus pulled open the flaps, sighing at the meager contents. There was a framed Mondrian print, a handful of books that he hadn’t gotten around to bringing to the used bookstore, his laptop, his old watch, which never keep the correct time, his cell phone, which did, and a copy of
Dr. Strangelove
on VHS. And his wallet.

Matheus flipped it open, counting the few dollars it contained. The fake leather had started to peel in one corner and he’d lost the little picture booklet, but he never understood why people carried pictures in their wallets anyway. Matheus only carried what he needed to survive: State ID, work ID, health insurance card—not something he was likely to need now, some cash, and his ATM card.

Ha
, thought Matheus.

The 7-Eleven six blocks away had an ATM. Matheus nodded to the cashier without bothering to remove his sunglasses. He walked up to the machine and punched in his code. He keyed in the maximum withdrawal amount, five hundred dollars.

The machine beeped at him. Insufficient funds.

Matheus frowned. He had almost five thousand dollars in his account.

Then it hit him.

That Goddamn shit-eating
bastard.

Matheus sprinted the entire way back from the 7-Eleven. He burst through the front door and up the stairs to the second floor.

“Where is my money?” he demanded, slamming open the door to Quin’s study. The heavy wood bounced off a bookcase, knocking over a collection of clay figurines that, if real, were worth close to ten thousand dollars apiece. They rolled over the hardwood floors, rotating in individual circles. Matheus ignored them, accidently kicking one under the couch.

Juliet reached down to retrieve the figurine, placing it carefully on the corner of Quin’s desk. She perched there, like the Girl Friday of a nineteen-forties movie, leaning over to look at the marked maps.

“Hello, Pet,” she said. “You clean up nice.”

Matheus ignored her, stomping over to the desk. He slammed his palms onto the map, paper crinkling as his fingers clenched.

“What did you do with it?” he asked.

Quin frowned at Matheus’ hands.

“I moved it,” Quin said, tugging the edge of the map.

“You moved it?” Matheus straightened.

Quin smoothed the wrinkled paper, then carefully folded the map along the set lines.

Juliet’s gaze moved between the two of them. Matheus wouldn’t have been surprised if she pulled a bag of popcorn out of her purse and began munching.

“To a bank account overseas. I didn’t steal it.”

Clearly, Matheus and Quin had differing definitions of
stealing
.

“Put it back,” Matheus said.

“It’ll get better interest rates and you won’t have to pay taxes on it.”

“I don’t care. It’s my money. You don’t get to decide where it goes.”

“You don’t need it,” said Quin.

“I’m not being kept like a…a…a….”

“A pet?” suggested Juliet.

“Yes,” hissed Matheus.

Quin looked at Juliet for a second, then turned back to Matheus. He hung a patient expression on his face, the kind usually seen on people who talked about
releasing your anger
and
surrounding yourself with good feelings
while writing off anyone who disagreed with them as unenlightened.

Matheus wanted to cram a pen up his nose.

“Why waste your money?” Patient Quin asked. “I have plenty.”

“I don’t want your money.”

Juliet scooted forward a bit, a wide grin stretched over her face. Matheus knew a word for women like her.

“Matheus, be reasonable,” said Quin in a voice glinting with razors. So much for being patient. He stared at Matheus, his hands folded on the desk, a hard set to his lips.

The boarded-up windows weren’t stained glass, the room was too cluttered, Quin too dark and too young looking, but the details didn’t matter. The moment held the same soul and it crushed down on Matheus with the weight of a long, silent decade.

“I’m not your son!” he yelled.

The moment ended. Quin raised his eyebrows, his lips parting a fraction.

Juliet let out a low, breathy exhale that could have been a sigh or a laugh.

Matheus pressed his fingertips into the edge of the desk and thought about holes and how they were never around when you needed them.

“I know that,” Quin said.

“I meant,” Matheus said, speaking with rigid calm, “I’m not a child. I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.” He paused, forcing resin into his vocal cords, depositing each word like a handmade, Baccarat paperweight onto Quin’s desk. “You have no idea what I’ve gone through to get where I am. I don’t care how long you watched me. You have. No. Idea. You are going to put the money back and you are going to do it today, even if you have to blow every goddamn person in Switzerland to do it.”

“Sunshine—”

“Back! Today!”

“All right,” Quin said slowly.

“Okay,” said Matheus. “Good.” He nodded at Juliet, then marched out of the room. He closed the door behind him, then leaned against it. His hands tingled, delicate pinpricks moving over his skin. He curled them into fists, squeezing until he felt his nails break through the first layer of skin. Matheus waited for an explosion. Instead, he heard Juliet’s voice, with its ringing vowels, clear through the door.