Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (34 page)

“That’s profiling,” said Matheus. “Maybe they’re Oscar Wilde fans.”

“He did have great clothes.”

“Proving that stereotypes can span centuries.”

“I like to do my part,” said Quin.

Matheus wiggled down the bed, rolling onto his side. He pulled the blanket tight, trying to preserve the last of the shower’s warmth.

“Did you really know Oscar Wilde?” he asked.

“No,” said Quin. “It’s not like in the books. You don’t run into historical personages all over the place. I did meet Empress Matilda, but no one remembers who she was.”

“That’s because Showtime hasn’t made a series about her yet,” said Matheus. “When am I supposed to start these fighting lessons?”

“Later. Tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming,” said Quin.

Matheus wished Quin had put on a shirt. The presence of nipples distracted him. Matheus didn’t want to look at Quin’s nipples, but he found his eyes wandering down anyway. Another development Matheus do not want to think about. He pushed the thought aside, making room for a whole new thought. He propped himself up on an elbow.

“Did you follow me?” he asked, thinking of the strange itching between his shoulder blades.

“No, I….” Quin paused. He looked at his hand slashing through the air, then sighed. “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“Do you follow me everywhere?”

“No.”

“Quin.”

“Not
everywhere
,” Quin said. “I do have other things I have to do.”

Matheus groaned. He flopped onto his back, pulling his pillow over his face. The feathers muffled his shouts.

“You’re a stalker,” he said, throwing the pillow at Quin. “That’s creepy. Really goddamned creepy. Stop following me. They give out pamphlets about that kind of behavior. Showing up in a pamphlet is never good, Quin.”

“I worry,” said Quin.

“I don’t care. Knock it off. You’re going to drive me insane, and then we’ll both be crazy, and where will that get us?”

“I can’t imagine.”

Matheus made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “It’s not funny,” he said. “Give me back my fucking pillow.”

He snatched the pillow out of Quin’s hand. Flipping away from Quin, he pounded the pillow into submission before lying down again. The bed shook as Quin stood up.

“You’re leaving?” Matheus asked.

Quin let out a long exhale. Muttering something under his breath, he sat down.

Matheus watched him over his shoulder, jerking his head back when Quin looked at him.

“This doesn’t mean I want you following me.” Matheus wanted to drive that point home with a jackhammer.

“I’ll just install a tracking device,” said Quin. “Like those chips they put in dogs.”

“Anything you try to put in me is getting snapped in half,” said Matheus. “And I do mean anything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sunshine.”

“Good.” Matheus punched his pillow a few more times.

“I assume that was a not-so-veiled reference to my penis,” said Quin. “That’s a little presumptuous of you, don’t you think?”

Matheus scowled at his nightstand. He dug his fingers into his pillow, abusing the blameless feathers. He bit back his first response, and his second, settling on an entirely new topic after ten minutes of hard thought.

“What happens if I lose I finger?” he asked.

“It grows back.”

“At once?”

“Depends on how much blood you drink. More blood, faster healing.” Quin leaned on Matheus’ shoulder, wiggling his hand in front of Matheus’ face. “This hand? Chopped off three times.”

“Bullshit,” said Matheus.

Quin withdrew his hand.

Matheus relinquished his death grip and rolled over to face Quin.

“Dismemberment is a popular punishment, although its appeal is waning,” said Quin. “The master of coven would cut off body parts to correct misbehavior. Hurts like hell, but it isn’t permanent unless the blade is silver.”

“I thought witches had covens,” said Matheus.

“It’s a fancy way of saying ‘gang’.” Quin shrugged. “Some people like being part of a group.”

“Not you.”

“I’ve been in a few. It never ended well. I like being on my own.”

“Except when shanghaiing innocent civilians.”

“No one likes to be alone all the time.”

I did
, Matheus thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. “Is that why you turned me?” he asked. “Why couldn’t you just get a puppy?”

“It’d pee on the carpet.”

“About that,” Matheus said. “Can I, uh, you know.”

“‘You know’ what? You don’t piss. I would have thought you’d figured that out by now.”

“No.” Matheus resisted the urge to hide underneath the blanket. He’d skipped all of Grade Nine Health for a reason. “You know.” He gestured vaguely.

“Hail cabs?”

“No, jackass.”

“Wave goodbye from a ship? What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just flinging your hand around.”

“Jerk-off,” said Matheus, looking anywhere but at Quin’s face. Or his nipples. This was almost as bad as the time Matheus’ seventy-year-old housekeeper caught him, uh, giving himself a helping hand. Almost, but since Quin seemed unlikely to start hitting him with a duster while yelling in Polish, Matheus ranked the housekeeper incident higher on the mortification scale.

“I don’t see why not,” said Quin. “Were you planning on doing it right now? Because that might weaken your ‘I’m not gay’ stance.”

“Go fuck a cactus.”

“I’m surprised you had to ask. It’s usually the first thing people try.”

“Well, what with the grotesque deaths and torture and random beatings, I haven’t found the time. Prick.”

“Are you sure you’re male?” asked Quin.

“Seriously, go fuck something pointy and painful,” Matheus said. “Seventeen hundred years and you’ve never been unable to get it up?”

Quin bounced to his feet. “This has been a nice chat,” he said. “You should rest now.”

“Coward!” Matheus yelled as the door closed behind Quin.

Matheus lay face down in the dirt, contemplating his new life.

All in all, it sucked. Pun unintended.

According to everything pop culture told him, he should be beating women off with a stick. They should swarm, Beatles-style, whenever he left the house. One brooding, smoldering glance from Matheus, and women would hurtle toward him like steel to an electromagnet.

Lies. Horrible, horrible lies.

“I think focusing on a single style would be better,” said Bianca. “Once he has the basics of one, then he can move on to others.”

“I disagree,” said Juliet. “A more rounded approach is required.”

Matheus raised his head enough to see two red-soled heels and a pair of Converse All-Stars face off. He groaned and returned to his original dirt-eating position.

“I’m not talking about years of dedication. Mat’s not going to be winning any MMA titles. I’ve seen more graceful amputees. I just think focusing on one thing at a time would give him more of a chance to succeed and build confidence. Confidence is very important.”

“So is flexibility. One has to adjust to the situation.”

“Excuse me,” said Quin. “I’m the one training him.”

“You’re doing a terrible job,” said Juliet. “Look at Pet just lying there. It’s pathetic.” She clucked her tongue, kneeling low enough to pat Matheus on the back of the head, but not so low that the hem of her skirt touched the ground.

“Like watching a kitten trying to fight a walrus. No, that would be adorable. Mat, do you have Internet here? I need to look something up on YouTube,” Bianca said.

“Go home, both of you,” Quin said. “You aren’t helping.”

“Quin, darling—”

“I’m trying to help—”

Juliet let out a loud
oh
at the same moment Bianca gave a startled squeak. Matheus lifted his head enough to see the heels and the sneakers dragged out of sight. The gate to the street opened, accompanied by feminine cursing. Juliet used language a Hell’s Angel might think twice about. Bianca kept repeating she was trying to help. The gate slammed shut and a new pair of shoes appeared in Matheus’ line of sight.

“Are they gone?” Matheus asked.

“For now,” said Quin. “Are you planning on getting up anytime soon?”

“It’s comfy here.”

“Do you know how many feral cats have pissed in this yard?”

Matheus shot to his feet so fast he got whiplash. “You’re disgusting,” he said. He beat at the damp earth clinging to his clothes.

“Got you up. Ready to try again?”

“No. My knee hurts. I’m going to go lie down.” Matheus stomped toward the house.

Quin grabbed the back of Matheus’ shirt, and dragged him down the porch steps. A slick of ice coated the wood.

Matheus hit the edge of the last step wrong, landing flat on his back with Quin standing over him.

“Sunshine, you’re just a little awkward,” Quin said, barely trying to conceal his grin. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Matheus rolled over, pushing himself up with jerky movements. The muscles around his mouth ached; his lips pressed down into a constant glower. The temperature had dropped again, bringing the snows even closer. Frost edged the puddles from last night’s rain in lace. Matheus shivered in his long-sleeved shirt. At least he didn’t have to worry about sweat freezing to his skin. On the downside, none of this exercise did him any good, body heat-wise. Matheus wondered if people had ever really considered the disadvantages to being dead.

“People don’t instinctively know how to move,” Quin continued. “They have to practice, over and over, until it feels natural. It’s going to feel weird at first. You have to work past that part.”

“Thanks, coach,” said Matheus. “I feel so inspired. Why don’t you play some
Eye of the Tiger
and complete the picture. Maybe do a montage of me running up and down some stairs.”

“You can either learn to defend yourself or get used to having a permanent stalker. Those are your options.”

“What about my third option? This is America. Why can’t I buy myself a big frigging gun?”

“Guns don’t work on the undead,” said Quin.

“I don’t want to kill people. I just want them to leave me alone.”

“You’d shoot your foot off.”

“Would not,” said Matheus. His father started taking him hunting after his sixth birthday. Learning to shoot had been involuntary. Of course, it’d been fifteen years since he’d held a gun, and a .30-06 rifle didn’t have a lot in common with a Desert Eagle handgun, but he did have the sense not to aim for his own appendages.

“I’ll make you a deal,” said Quin. “If you can knock me down, I’ll stop pestering you and buy you the biggest penis substitute available.”

“I do not need a penis substitute.” The frost appeared balmy next to Matheus’ voice.

“It’s okay. You’re not that much below average.”

“I’m not below average at all! I’m above average! Way, way above average!”

Quin shrugged. “Maybe you’re a grower, not a shower,” he said.

“I’m going to throttle you,” said Matheus.

“Such big words from such a tiny, tiny man.” Quin grinned, holding his thumb and index finger an inch apart.

Matheus dove at him. He managed not to trip, an unexpected bonus, but things went south after that. Quin pinned him, kneeling on Matheus’ legs and both arms in a tight grip, within thirty seconds. That Quin did the whole thing with the air of a man out for an evening stroll only heightened the embarrassment factor. But both of those paled in comparison to the true horror, which popped into Matheus’ mind in relaxed moments, the liquid rush of ice drowning out any other thought.

Squirming in the mud, Quin’s immovable weight holding him in place, Matheus felt a tiny twist spring open, then warmth spreading out of his gut to prickle at his fingers and cheeks. He bit down on the sudden gasp at the realization, thanking every god in the universe that Quin decided to pin him
face down
. Matheus pushed his hips into the earth, fighting the urge to rock back and forth. The friction wound him tighter, a rubber band about to snap.

“You lose,” said Quin, his mouth next to Matheus’ ear. The words tickled like feathers. An inch closer and Quin could suck the delicate spot just behind—