Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (49 page)

Matheus peeked around the corner, scanning the empty hallway. He inched toward Bianca’s room, ignoring the voices travelling up the stairs. Whatever Faust wanted, Quin appeared not to be in the mood to accommodate him.

The door to Bianca’s room opened. Matheus plastered himself against the wall, because that always seemed to work in movies. Alistair looked at him, snorted, then vanished into the master bathroom. Matheus heard the water start a minute later. He tiptoed closer to Bianca’s door.

“So, not gay?” asked Milo.

Matheus yelped, and spun around.

“Where the hell did you come from?” he asked.

Milo pushed his glasses up with his pinkie finger. He’d taken off his jacket, but the scarf still hung looped around his neck.

“Third floor,” he said.

“There’s a third floor?”

“They have a pool table.”

“You like pool?”

Milo shrugged. “Not really,” he said. He kept his gaze level with Matheus’, his expression bland.

Matheus twitched, unable to shake the feeling that Milo had discovered the underlying cosmic joke, and was just hanging around for the punch line. He scowled at the fringe on Milo’s scarf.

“I’m not gay,” Matheus said.

“Okay,” said Milo. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, bending his head over the glossy screen.

“That was…that was an aberration.”

“I don’t care.” Milo turned the phone sideways, typing quickly with his thumbs.

“I just don’t feel that way,” said Matheus. He drummed his fingers on the wall. “I like women.”

“Still don’t care,” said Milo.

Downstairs, Faust shouted something that sounded like Middle English. Or possibly he’d had a stroke. Of course, given Faust’s shifting accent, Matheus thought he might have had a stroke or six already. From Bianca’s room came a loud thump. Matheus wondered if she’d fallen out of bed again.

“Sunshine!” Quin’s voice bounced up the stairs.

“You’re being called,” said Milo, still curled over his phone.

“I’m not a dog,” said Matheus. “What do you keep doing on your phone?”

“Work.”

“For Quin?”

Milo shook his head, tucking his phone away.

“What—”

“Matheus!”

“I hate that man,” Matheus said.

Milo raised an eyebrow at him.

“Shut up,” said Matheus. He cast a look toward Bianca’s door, then turned to the stairs. Halfway down, Quin yelled his name again.

“I’m coming!” Matheus bellowed. He slapped open the door to the living room, missing Quin’s nose by a hair.

“Ah, here’s me useful lad.” Faust grinned, or at least moved his skin flaps in a manner that suggested a grin. “Take a gander at this.”

Faust tossed a bundle to Matheus. It hit Matheus’ chest with a thud, heavier than he’d expected. Sitting on the couch, Matheus unwrapped the stained cloth. He glanced up as Milo entered, but he just settled down behind his laptop, blue-white light reflecting off his glasses.

Quin leaned against the side of the loveseat, peering over Matheus’ shoulder. “What is that?” he asked.

Matheus looked down at his lap. Gold, darkened with age, glowed despite the dim light. Gently, Matheus held the piece up, turning it back and forth.

“It’s a crucifix,” he said. “Probably eighteenth century, but it’s never been authenticated.”

“I can see that’s a crucifix,” said Quin. “What do you mean—”

“Where did you get this?” Matheus lowered the cross, laying it flat over his legs. The crucifix had a small, flared base, with the vertical bar about eight inches in height. The gold had been worked into a baroque design, with particular care paid to the saintly agony on Christ’s face.

“Now, now, that’d be telling.” Faust waggled a finger. Glass still covered the floor from Alistair’s early outburst. Faust leaned back on the white sofa, kicking his feet up onto the cracked coffee table. The glass popped as webs splintered outward. Faust appeared not to notice. He rubbed his hands over the back of the sofa, leaving behind a grey haze.

“Tell me.” Matheus leaned forward, tightening his fingers around the crossbar of the crucifix. He felt Quin watching him, heard the questions forming in his mind.

“One of me boys acquired it.”

“Acquired?”

“Aye,” said Faust. “Problem, lad?”

“No,” said Matheus. “No problem.” He folded the cloth over the crucifix, winding the excess into a tight cocoon.

“You’re shaking,” said Quin in a low voice.

Matheus ignored him. He stood up, and handed the bundle back to Faust.

“It’s valuable,” he said. “The gold alone, at the very least. But I’d be careful who you sold it to. It’s a unique piece.”

Glass crunched under his feet as he walked out of the room.

He stood in the hallway for a moment, waiting for the rushing sound in his ears to clear. That cross—the sunlight streaming in through the colored panes, the red beam striking Christ’s side at just the right angle to mimic the flow of blood, Matheus’ father speaking to empty air while Matheus stared at the cross, the patterns of light on the floor, the locked liquor cabinet.

“Sunshine.”

Matheus jerked as Quin touched his shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” Matheus said.

Quin lowered his hand, frowning slightly. “How did you know the cross hadn’t been authenticated?” he asked.

“I just know.” Matheus laughed bitterly. “Maybe I’m fucking psychic.”

“Tell me why it bothers you.”

“Are you my therapist now?”

Quin took a side forward. Matheus made an identical step backward, his heels bumping against the bottom riser of the staircase.

“You’re still shaking,” Quin said. His fingers twitched at his side.

“I’m cold.” Matheus groped behind him for the handrail. He walked up a step without turning, stumbling a little as he misjudged the height. Quin reached out, but Matheus slapped his hand away. “I’m fine,” he said. “Leave me alone.”

“You’re not fine.” Quin slashed his rejected hand through the air.

Matheus rose another step, holding the handrail in a crushing grip.

“It reminded me of someone,” he said.

Quin looked up at him from the bottom of the stairs, his face set in tight lines.

“Who?” he asked. “Someone from foster care?”

Right
, thought Matheus.
Foster care.

“It doesn’t work like that,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re not friends,” said Matheus, taking another step. Tension wound around the muscles in his neck. His back teeth ground together, pain transmitting through his jawbone. “I didn’t come to you for help. You murdered me in a filthy alleyway, remember? You expect me to bleed out my past to you? That’s not going to happen, Quin. That’s not how things work.”

“Sunshine—” Quin raised his foot.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” The tension ate its way upward, wrapping around his brain and threatening to split the bones of his skull. Of all the moments to push him, Quin chose the worst one. The barriers between past and present thinned and pulsed, memories crowding forward, pressing their imprints into the malleable walls.

Matheus crushed the handrail into sawdust, and tried to keep his two lives separate.

“My patience is not infinite,” Quin said.

Translate that into German, and the words fit into his father’s mouth as easily as they did Quin’s.

“Oh, yes, veiled threats. The perfect way to gain trust. I really feel like I can open up to you now.”

“You are beginning to irritate me, Sunshine.” Razorblades hid among Quin’s words.

“That’s your fault,” said Matheus. “I don’t believe I was asked about this whole undead murder bond thing before. I can’t recall any consent forms, can you?”

Upstairs, the shower switched off. Matheus heard Alistair moving around the bathroom.

“You’re hiding something from me, and now you’re trying to divert the issue,” said Quin.

Matheus brought his hands together in a mockery of applause.

“Gosh, aren’t you clever,” he said. “Figured that all by yourself. It sucks, doesn’t it, being kept in the dark?”

“You’ve proved your point,” Quin said.

“No, I haven’t,” said Matheus. “Because you’re still here.”

The stairs shook as Quin closed the gap between them in two strides.

Matheus inhaled sharply, lurching at Quin’s sudden proximity. His heel slipped forward, and he landed hard, sprawled across the upper steps.

“Ow.” Matheus winced, easing up a step. Pain throbbed out from his tailbone, sadly familiar after years of icy sidewalks. “What the hell….”

He trailed off as Quin leaned forward, so close Matheus could delineate each inky black eyelash. He swallowed, his mouth dry, flashing back to that first night he’d woken up.

“What do you want, Matheus?” Quin asked. He didn’t blink, didn’t move any part of his except his lips.

Matheus felt like a moth stretched across a board and pinned.

“Do you want me to be the bad guy? Does that help?”

Matheus fought the urge to crawl up the stairs. He shivered with the effort. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

“I can make you hate me,” Quin said. “I can give that to you, Matheus, so easily. You only have to ask.”

Closing his eyes, Matheus counted in a steady pace, measuring each breath, imagining the cool air flowing through a labyrinth in his mind, a river of calm over his incoherent thoughts.

“Matheus,” said Quin.

“Please,” said Matheus, and stopped.

“Please, what?”

“I don’t know!”

“Open your eyes.”

Matheus shook his head.

“Sunshine, open your eyes.”

Clothing rustled. Matheus opened his eyes to see Quin sit back, crouching on a lower step, balancing with his fingertips. Quin tilted his head to the side, then looked away, rubbing a hand over his hair. The short strands stood up in tiny spikes.

“You frightened me,” Matheus said.

Quin continued to stare at the wall. After a minute, he exhaled, and stood up in a single fluid movement.

“Remember what I said. My patience is not infinite.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you need to make a decision. One way or the other.”

“I thought everything was shades of grey,” said Matheus.

“Then pick your spot on the spectrum and stick to it,” Quin said, flinging his hand back and forth. “Don’t go whirling from one end to the other and expect people around you not to get seasick.”

“You like the waves,” Matheus said, regaining equilibrium in his thoughts.

“Until they capsize the boat.”

“But then….” Matheus flicked a lock of hair out of his eyes. “I think I’ve lost track of the metaphor. What are we talking about again?”

Quin flung both hands up, waving them asymmetrically, appearing to slap an invisible person with the left, and strangle a mongoose with the other.

“You are driving me crazy!” he yelled.

“Not far to drive,” said Matheus.

With a groan, Quin covered his face with the palm of his hand.

“I should have gotten a dog,” he said, voice muffled. “Dogs don’t talk back.” He turned, still mumbling as he jogged down the stairs.

“Yeah, well, I wish you’d gotten a dog, too!” Matheus called after him. “Prick!”

Matheus dodged Alistair as he came out of the bathroom, draped in magnificently fluffy towels the color of red wine. A merlot beehive perched precariously on top of his head, requiring constant pats to balance it as he walked down the hall. For a moment, Matheus thought Alistair planned to stay in Bianca’s room, but he emerged a few minutes later, the beehive beginning to lose structurally integrity. He caught the end of the towel just as he disappeared into one of the other bedrooms.

Slipping out of his hiding spot, Matheus ran down the hall to Bianca’s room. He held the knob as he shut the door, easing off the latch silently. The lights were out, but enough of the security light glowed through the gauzy curtains to highlight the contours of the room. Matheus blinked a few times, and color filtered into the outlines.

Bianca lay on her back, her hair spread over the pillow in a tangled explosion. Her chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm; a soft, whistling sound threaded through her breathing. Matheus shuffled through the discarded pillows. With the movements of a sloth, he sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at the thin curtains, then at the closet door. He supposed he could claim one of the other rooms, but this house wasn’t like Quin’s. All the bedrooms had windows.