Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (32 page)

The wind whipped through the chimes as the charms beat out a rhythm against the clapboards of Zeb’s house. Matheus watched them as he walked up the path, waiting for one to come crashing down. Dots of raw earth covered the grass where lawn ornaments had been torn up. The sky was empty; even the stars couldn’t stand the wind. Matheus huddled on the porch, his coat pulled up to his nose. He’d taken the Merc, but had to park three streets over. A trail of skin traced his path to Zeb’s door, courtesy of the November wind. Matheus thought he must look like one of those diagrams found in medical textbooks, with the muscles exposed. He rang the bell again, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. The clank of locks opening never sounded so sweet.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Alistair. “Don’t you have your own house?”

“Not anymore,” said Matheus. “Is Bianca around?” He pushed by Alistair, sighing at the calm, warm hallway. The junk seemed diminished. A few of the chairs looked as though they’d been recently washed. Cleaning supplies covered an end table near the library, a heap of dirty rags on the floor. Matheus sniffed, the smell of fake lemons strong in the air.

“Aren’t you worried about leaving Quin alone?” Alistair asked. “Maybe I should pay him a visit.”

“Feel free.”

Of course, Matheus would be forced to rip out Alistair’s cold, unbeating heart, but he ignored that particular thought. It raised all kinds of awkward connotations which not did aid Matheus’ mental health.

“I will,” said Alistair.

Do not bash his stupid face in
, Matheus thought. Beating Alistair into bloody pulp would give completely the wrong impression. He took a minute to admire his self-control. A whole thirty seconds had passed and Alistair still had all his teeth. Although, if Matheus had to look at his smirk for much longer—

“Mat? What are you doing here?” Bianca emerged out of the darkness that shrouded the end of the hallway. She carried a stack of ledgers faded with age and covered with a thick layer of dust. Matheus held the door to the library open and she flashed him a quick smile.

“How could I stay away from darling Alistair?” he asked. “He’s just so damned charming. A pint-size delight.”

Alistair flipped him the finger before disappearing into the warren of junk. Matheus let the library door shut. He hoped Zeb stayed upstairs. Although he hadn’t banned Matheus outright, Zeb didn’t like him. He referred to him as ‘Quin’s little sneak,’ accusing Matheus of trying to steal his work on more than one occasion, muttering about papers going missing. Matheus suspected Alistair encouraged Zeb’s paranoia, but Bianca insisted Zeb was paranoid enough without Alistair’s help.

“I thought you had that meeting with the fence tonight.” Bianca set the records on the desk, catching her mug of tea as it threatened to topple.

“I did. I broke a vase and got paid. I am now a member of the criminal class,” Matheus said.

“At least it’s something familiar,” said Bianca. She sorted the ledgers into three different piles. Matheus leaned against the desk and picked up one of the journals. A pale brown mold spotted the pages, obscuring some of the entries. Matheus didn’t recognize the language, but the Cyrillic letters pointed to a Russian dialect. If she’d remained at Oxford, Bianca would have been the young darling of the linguistics field. They’d been salivating over her before she and Matheus even left high school. Matheus never predicted she’d end up translating dusty ledgers for an insane hoarder. He’d always been intimidated by the speed at which her mind moved. He’d gain a foothold on a concept, only to find Bianca halfway up the mountain and already planning for the next one. Matheus had a healthy respect for his own intelligence, but he admitted Bianca thought circles around him.

“Can you research something for me?” he asked.

“Sure, love. What is it?” Bianca flipped open a spiral-bound notebook. She selected a record, propping it against her mug of tea.

Matheus suspected the tea had gone cold hours ago. Some things didn’t change. “I want to know more about claiming. How it affects people,” Matheus said.

“How come?”

Matheus fiddled with the chain on the desk lamp. Bianca’s pen scratched over the paper and she chucked it away with an annoyed
tsk
.

“Oh, budge over,” she said, digging through the desk’s top drawer. Paper clips flew left and right, pinging off the wooden floor. “Don’t make a big production of it.”

“I’ve been having these dreams,” said Matheus. “Sometimes they’re terrifying and sometimes, they’re…still terrifying, but only after I wake up.”

“But during?”

“Uh, not terrifying. The opposite, actually.”

A smile nudged at the corners of Bianca’s lips.

“Are they sexy dreams?” she asked.

Matheus scowled. Bianca poked him with the tip of her pen, leaving behind a tiny red dot on Matheus’ arm.

“Is a certain tall, dark Roman involved?” Her voice rose at the end, laughter choking her words.

“Bibi, please.” Matheus pressed his fingertips to his eyes. He never wanted to have this conversation, and Bianca’s amusement did not make it any easier. The dreams grew more vivid with each iteration, making them harder and harder to ignore. Matheus wanted some answers, but he’d prefer to skip the embarrassment.

“I don’t know, Mat.” Bianca adjusted the ledger, then bent over her notebook, scribbling with thick, curvy handwriting. The pen carved into the paper, leaving impressions on the pages underneath. “I didn’t think you could dream. You don’t sleep, really.”

“Just find out for me, okay? It’s starting to get weird.”

“Starting?” Bianca laughed. Her hand didn’t stop moving.

“It’s getting weirder, then,” said Matheus. He flicked the chain on the lamp until Bianca moved it out of his reach. She’d already filled a page and a half, writing without pause. Matheus couldn’t tell if she was translating directly or taking notes. The desk cut into his thigh; Matheus shifted, perching next to Bianca, and rested one foot on the lower rung of her chair. Ten years, but some things never changed.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

Bianca looked up at him, her pen paused in mid-word. “Are you feeling all right?”

“It’s nice to have someone, I don’t know, familiar.”

“Oh my, all this sweet talk is going to my head. I feel quite dizzy.” Bianca fanned herself in the manner of a Southern belle.

“Go back to translating,” Matheus said.

Bianca poked him again, then blew him an air kiss. Matheus did not return it. “Ah, there’s that scowl I know and love.” Bianca laughed.

The rain beat against the side of the house. Matheus stood behind the screen door, the occasional sprinkle bursting through the netting and exploding, ice-cold, on his skin. Tiny pieces of hail mixed in with the rain, leaving little craters in the bare backyard. The snow would start soon. Matheus never liked winter in the city. Everything turned grey and slushy, the sidewalks coated with salt and mud. He always arrived at work with wet shoes.

“Three days,” said Quin. He stood behind Matheus, a careful distance between them.

“I like the rain,” said Matheus. Rain washed away; snow lingered.

“It’s miserable.”

“So are you, moping around here all the time. Don’t you have clandestine activities to do?”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Quin asked.

“Is that even possible?” asked Matheus. If he tilted his head, he could see Quin’s reflection in the decorative window sidelight.

“Hope springs eternal.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it today?” Matheus turned, folding his arms over his chest.

Quin blinked at him, then a taffy-pulling smile exposed his snaggletooth. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flirting with me,” he said.

Matheus fought an answering smile. He clamped his lips, giving Quin a stern look. “Then it’s a good thing you know better.”

“Uh-huh.” Quin continued to smile. He stepped aside as Matheus stomped forward. “There’s something I have to tell you,” he called.

Matheus stopped. “That’s not worrying at all,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” said Quin. “I’m not breaking up with you.”

“You are not funny. I don’t know who told you that you were funny, but they lied. Maybe they were trying to get into your pants, I don’t know, but you are definitely not funny.”

Quin opened his mouth.

“And don’t say you made Julius Caesar laugh once,” Matheus said. “Because that is complete bullshit.”

“Julius Caesar died over three hundred years before I was born,” Quin said. “Why do people assume everything that happened in history happened at the same time?”

“Can you just tell me what you have to tell me so I can go be somewhere you are not?”

“Someone’s coming to stay with us. He’s going to be doing some work for me.”

“What kind of work?” Matheus asked.

“That’s none of your business. Don’t bother him.” Quick slices with his hand punctuated Quin’s words.

Matheus marched forward a few steps. He didn’t know where Quin got off, accusing him of mood swings when Quin could go from teasing to dominating in three sentences.

“Is that to protect me or to keep me from finding out your little secret project?”

“There’s nothing you need to know,” said Quin. “If you ever need to know, I will inform you, but until then you will stay out of it.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Matheus spun around. He yanked open the hall closet, letting the door slam against the wall. Bits of plaster scattered over the floor. Matheus grabbed his coat, a half-dozen others tumbling down with it.

“Sunshine,” Quin said.

Matheus convulsed, dropping his jacket. Glaring at Quin, he snatched it up and forced his arms into the sleeves. He shoved the mass of coats and hangers into the closet, then kicked the door closed. A ring of plaster circled the doorknob, with a matching hole in the wall.

“Matheus, what are—?”

“I’m going for a walk,” Matheus said. “Is that allowed? Do I have your permission, oh kind master, sir? Or maybe you’d like to chain me to my bed so I can do nothing but stare at the walls for the next fifty years, how does that sound?”

“Pretty fucking tempting,” said Quin. He reached around Matheus, slapping his palm on the front door before Matheus could turn the handle. “It’s raining out.”

“Gosh, is it?” Matheus let his jaw go slack in the spirit of yokels everywhere. He thickened his accent to
Deliverance
levels. “Is that what it’s called when water comes out of the sky? Thanks for telling me because I’m a goddamned moron.”

“Jesus, Matheus. What is wrong with you?”

“You don’t need to know. If you ever need to know, I will inform you,” Matheus said, exaggerating every other word.

“I’m trying to keep you safe.” Quin held his jaw tight. His fingers twitched at his side.

“Move your hand.”

“It’s sleeting. If you’re going to have a tantrum, have it indoors. I’m not letting you—”

“Letting me? You don’t get to ‘let me’ do anything.”

“I’m so sorry my vocabulary choices upset your sensitive ego,” said Quin, flinging his free hand as though he was trying to slap some sense into the air. “Clearly, storming off into the freezing rain is the only reasonable response.”

Matheus lunged, jabbing at Quin’s mid-section.

Quin slapped him away, realization breaking over his face a half-second too late. Like most of the world, Quin was right-handed. He’d used his right hand to hold closed the door. The same hand he’d used to smack away Matheus’ feint.

Matheus let out a startled laugh. He ripped open the door and jumped over the steps. Quin’s fingers skated over his back in a desperate grab. Matheus stumbled as he landed, but righted himself with a tiny lurch. He ran down the path onto the sidewalk, until the rectangle of light disappeared from the corner of his eye.

Matheus’ sneakers sloshed in the puddles. Each beat of rubber on pavement prompted another curse on Quin’s head. Matheus sprinted, tiny missiles of ice striking his face. Buildings blurred together, details merging and disappearing into a grey backdrop. The rain soaked through his clothes, a throbbing cold settling into his flesh, sinking down into his bones. Matheus’ stride faltered. He slowed, the cold converting his anger into drawn-out shivers. Matheus had trouble maintaining a steady rage when all he could think about was wrapping himself around a radiator until he turned into jerky.