Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (45 page)

Matheus patted Bianca’s shoulder. She reached up, gripping his wrist for a moment, then dropped her hand to her side. She blinked in his direction, and tilted her head toward Alistair. Matheus made a face, but kept his mouth shut. He walked over to Alistair, arranging himself on the sticky floor.

“Hey.”

“Go away,” Alistair said.

“But I’m already sitting, and I’m tired.” Matheus propped his elbows on his knees, keeping his hands in the air. He wanted to go as long as possible without touching anything.

“I don’t need you judging me.”

“I just want to sit,” said Matheus.

“Sit somewhere else.”

“Stop being an asshat. What is your problem now?”

“I’m a coward,” said Alistair softly.

“Jesus Christ.” Matheus rolled his eyes. “Because you freaked out in a burning building? So what? It was terrifying. There were grenades. Besides, you fought, right? You kept that guy from shooting me.”

“Yeah. I fought.” Alistair sighed, rubbing the back of his hand over his forehead.

Matheus hesitated. He picked up on social signals with the awareness of a diseased banana slug, but even he could read layers piled on with a backhoe. “Were you in a war?” he asked.

“World War Two,” Alistair said. “I was a medic.”

“So you don’t like it when things go boom. That’s fine.”

Alistair bent his head. “I’m weak,” he said in a voice so quiet, the sound of the water drops nearly smothered his words.

Matheus searched for something to say. He opened his mouth, inhaled, then closed it again. He scratched the back of his neck. Bits of glass fell out of his hair. Leaning forward, he shook out his shirt.

Alistair continued to stare at the floor.

Matheus flicked a sliver of glass into the darkness. “Oh, get over it,” he said.

Alistair’s head snapped up. “Eat shit,” he snapped.

“Thank God,” said Matheus. “You’re back to normal.”

Water dripped onto Matheus’ forehead. He opened his eyes, blinking up at slime-covered bricks, waiting for memory to click into place. Oh, right; explosions, house burning down, fleeing for his life, sewer. Up to speed on the current horror in his life, Matheus propped himself up onto his elbows. At least the nightmares had taken the day off. On top of everything else, they would be the arsenic icing on the crushed-maggot cake.

“Mat? Is that you?”

“Yeah,” said Matheus. He staggered to his feet, holding his hands outward. The flickering LEDs of Milo’s laptop gave off enough light for Matheus to make out the others. “Oh, God.”

“I know,” said Bianca. “I was going batty with all these corpses. This is not what I had in mind when I went to work with Zeb. Not even my parents imagined this.” She shifted, plucking at her shirt. Muck plastered the fabric to her skin. “Can you come here? I think I’m bleeding through my bandage again.”

“I’m not sure I should touch anything. It’s filthy down here.”

“No kidding,” said Bianca. “Mat, what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Matheus. He nudged Alistair with his foot, jumping back as Alistair groaned.

“What the hell?” Alistair rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself onto his hands and knees.

“Evening,” said Matheus.

“We’re in a sewer,” said Alistair.

“Oh, he’s a clever one,” said Bianca. She grinned in his general direction. “I think I need a new bandage.”

Matheus offered Alistair a hand. After a second, Alistair took it, pulling himself to his feet in a flowing movement. He crossed over to Bianca, checking her wound with quick, sure gestures. Matheus scowled at his back. Even covered in shit and slime, Alistair managed an air of grace. Life held no fairness.

A couple minutes later, Milo pulled out his phone, holding it as he typed with his thumbs. Tucking the phone away, he sat up. He collected his laptop, slinging the bag over his shoulder. Without the LEDs’ glow, Matheus’ ability to see dropped to nil.

“Can we please get out of here?” he asked the blackness. Beside him came the sound of tape ripping off the roll.

“I’m ready,” said Bianca. She let out a sharp gasp.

“Sorry,” Alistair said. Something clattered over the stone floor. “Shit!”

Matheus knelt, feeling along the stone floor. He located a package of sample pills and a roll of bandages.

“Here,” he said, waving them in the direction he thought Alistair was.

“I can’t see you, jackass,” Alistair said. Matheus heard him shuffle forward. “What happened to the—”

Details rose into clarity. Milo held his phone over his head.

“Thanks,” said Alistair. He snatched the things out of Matheus’ hands, then collected the rest of the supplies.

“Are you done?” Milo asked. “It smells terrible.”

“Yes.” Alistair helped Bianca to her feet. She towered over him, but supported most of her own weight.

“Quin’s still out,” said Matheus.

“Drag him,” Milo said.

Matheus looked down at Quin’s corpse.

“Yeah, okay,” he said.

Ten minutes and two turns later, Quin woke up.

“Grugha?” he said.

“Good evening,” Matheus said in a chirpy voice. “Sleep well?”

Alistair snorted.

Quin raised his head, and said, “Urhk,” which Matheus took to mean, “Where the hell are we, why am I being pulled along by my feet, and what is that god-awful smell?”

“Care to walk?” Matheus asked. “Or would you prefer to babble some more?”

“I found a map,” said Milo, farther along the tunnel, walking with his head bent over his phone.

“Well, puh-rayze Jeee-sus,” Bianca said.

“Please, don’t do that again,” said Alistair.

“Spoilsport.”

“There’s a turn…here.” Milo stopped, pointing to his left.

“Put me down,” said Quin.

“A complete sentence,” Matheus said, dropping Quin’s ankles. “And in English, too. Congratulations.”

Quin groaned. He dragged himself upright, then draped himself over Matheus like a damp, fleshy blanket.

Matheus heaved Quin away; he hit the wall, slumping into the shape of the zigzag Tetris piece.

“Are you all right?” Alistair asked him, syrup thickening his voice. “Do you need anything?”

“He needs to wake the fuck up,” said Matheus. He glared at Alistair, who ignored him.

“I can—”

“Where were you going?” Quin interrupted, inching away from Alistair’s dripping concern. He stepped into a puddle, foul water splashing up his leg. He grimaced, holding out his leg and shaking it.

“Out of here,” said Milo.

“Then where?”

“We didn’t get that far.”

Quin set his foot down. He straightened, and pulled at the back of his shirt. The cloth made a squelching noise as it separated from his skin.

“Plans can wait,” he said.

“How did you find this place?” Matheus asked, rubbing a towel over his hair. He dropped onto the sofa beside Quin and swung his feet up onto the glass-and-steel coffee table. Two loveseats sat perpendicular to the couch, all three pieces covered in white leather. Along one wall were bookcases, filled with ornate glass sculptures interspaced with the occasional knickknack, and not a single book. A wall-to-ceiling painting offered the only color in the room: a white canvas with a slash of red from corner to corner. Everything Matheus hated about modern design shoved into one house; if he hadn’t spent the day in the sewer, he’d have run away, screaming.

“It belongs to one of Faust’s clients,” Quin said. “He had to leave the country unexpectedly.”

“That explains the clothes.” Matheus frowned at his ironically retro t-shirt. It billowed on his frame, making him feel like a kid in his dad’s clothes. “Are you sure Faust won’t tell anyone we’re here?”

“No.” Quin tugged on the bottom of his pants. A solid four inches of skin was visible above his ankle. He’d opted for a dress shirt that shimmered between blue and green, from the slimmer of the former tenants, but he’d had no luck with the pants. Matheus offered up a pair of sweatpants identical to the ones he wore. Quin gave him a look like Matheus asked if he wanted to try some delicious baby stew. Matheus had considered telling Quin that he’d picked out a woman’s shirt; the look convinced Matheus otherwise.

“So you put us all at risk in exchange for a hot shower?” he asked.

“Basically,” Quin said.

“Well.” Matheus laid the towel over the arm of the couch. “I can’t argue with that.”

Milo glanced over at them, shook his head, and returned to his laptop.

The house Faust provided belonged to a string of McMansions on the west side of the city. While it lacked the overwrought glitz of Grigori’s estate, the house did boast three bathrooms, one with a tub big enough for diving competitions. Matheus called dibs, but Alistair hustled Bianca inside, emerging only to demand more alcohol.

“What were those guys who attacked us?” Matheus asked.

Quin stopped fussing with his pants. He turned sideways on the couch, leaning his back on the armrest and burying his bare toes between the cushions. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Matheus looked at him for a moment, trying to decide if this was deliberate obtuseness or a genuine request for clarity. He decided to give Quin the benefit of the doubt. Besides, there appeared to be nothing of actual entertainment value in the entire house. Not even a TV, which was downright un-American. Although, given the décor and the address, Matheus assumed a sixty-inch flat screen lurked somewhere behind some Japanese-inspired artisan curtains.

“They moved too fast for humans, but you killed some of them,” he said. He thought for a minute. “I mean, actually dead. As in, they were alive and walking about, but now they’re dead and stationary.”

Quin wiggled his toes, the movement transferring to the cushion Matheus sat on.

With a dark look, Matheus moved to an empty loveseat.

Quin smiled at him, and stretched his legs the length of the couch.

“Blood,” said Milo without looking up.

“Fascinating,” said Matheus. “I feel so enlightened.”

“Our blood.”

“You know what are great? Complete sentences. You should try them sometime.”

“Why?” asked Milo.

“Why?” Matheus raised his eyebrows. “You seriously want to know why complete sentences are a good idea?”

“Wasn’t talking to you,” said Milo. He looked at Quin over his laptop, then tilted his head toward Matheus.

Quin shrugged. “It seemed like the right thing at the time,” he said.

“Fuck you both,” said Matheus. “Are you going to answer my question or just sit on your asses, mocking me?”

“Oh, Sunshine,” said Quin. “I can do both.” He caught the towel Matheus threw at him. “If you inject a human with our blood, they get a…boost, I guess you could call it. Of course, it also kills them within a couple of weeks. Injecting yourself with dead stuff is not a wise life choice.”

“Right. We have the supernatural equivalent of PCP in our veins. Isn’t that just super.”

“Honestly, it’s not an issue that arises very often.” Quin waved a hand, turning the towel in lazy circles. “Most of the humans who do know also know it’s a death sentence. Chances are, whoever gave the blood to the soldier didn’t tell them about the side effect.”

Matheus sank lower in the loveseat. He pushed his hair out of his face, scowling as the wet strands fell back into his eyes.

“Right,” he said. “Mr. Upsets-the-Balance is kidnapping people, stealing our blood, and using it to fuel his super-soldiers. Eventually, he’s going to run out of volunteers, yeah? I mean, if everyone around you keeps dropping dead, you might get the hint that it’s time to look for other employment.”

“Maybe,” said Quin. “Or maybe they’re zealots. Maybe they think they’re martyring themselves for the greater good.”

“But why—”

“Quin,” said Milo. “Look at this.”

He set the laptop on the coffee table, turning it to face Quin.

Matheus half-rose out of his seat, stretching to see the screen. The angle obscured the image; Matheus made out vague lines and nothing else.

“It fits the criteria,” Milo continued.

Quin shifted, swinging his feet onto the floor. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers hovering above the keyboard. “This can’t be the only one,” he said.