Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (50 page)

Matheus crept across the room to the closet. Coats in plastic liners hung to one side; a mosaic of hatboxes covered the overhead shelf. Matheus opened one of the Rubbermaid totes: baby toys jumbled together with bottles and old clothes. He dragged out the totes, and settled down in their place. After a couple of seconds, he slipped out, returning with the heavy duvet from the master suite.

Inside the closet, Matheus crammed a coat into the crack under the door. He curled into the corner, arranging the duvet over himself. He wasn’t sure of the minimum amount of sunlight required before immolation; another thing he needed to ask Quin.

The bottom dropped out of Matheus’ stomach. He scooted down the wall, pulling his legs in, tucking the blanket under his feet. He didn’t want to think about Quin; thinking about Quin meant thinking about himself, about his zigzagging emotions. Matheus scowled at his knees.
You were supposed to have figured this stuff out years ago
, he scolded his brain,
not wait until we’re almost thirty.

His brain, as on most occasions, offered up no help.

The blanket trapped the sound of his breathing. Matheus stopped; the sounds of the house filled in the silence. The creaks sounded wrong, came from the wrong places. Every building made its own soundtrack, fading with familiarity. Matheus wondered how many small noises disappeared from life. He leaned his head against the wall. The leaden sensation of day numbed his limbs, spreading deeper as dawn approached. The image of the crucifix gleaming in the sunlight popped into his head. More questions, more confusion. Matheus shoved it aside. He counted down the last seconds to sunrise, each number taking longer and longer to form, dragging like chains on his collapsing neurons, until…nothing.

Matheus jerked, clawing at the foul creature clinging to his face and throat. He kicked the wall, triggering a hatbox carpet-bombing of the closet. With herculean effort, he yanked the smothering evil free and cast it away. He scrambled upward, tripping over hats and keepsakes, pressing his palms against the wall for leverage. He gained enough momentum to smack the top of his head against the shelf, triggering a second-wave box attack. Cursing, gripping his head, Matheus lurched out of the line of fire, banging against the closet door. The latch, clearly not one to rely on in a crisis, popped, and Matheus landed face down on the bedroom floor. At least the layer of pillows softened his fall.

“Goddammit,” he said, his face wedged into a pillow embroidered with songbirds.

Above him came a bright burst of laughter. Matheus yanked at the blanket tangled around his feet, and stood up. The nightmare dispersed at the sight of Bianca, curls shaking with her giggles.

“Oh, love,” she gasped. “I can’t breathe. Remember the time you tripped in the park and landed in a pile of droppings? Nothing’s changed.”

“So happy I amuse you,” Matheus said, shoving the cascade of hatboxes into the closet.

“I still have the photos in a box somewhere.”

“It’s not nice to mock people.”

“Who said I was nice?” asked Bianca with a grin. “You should have read the label.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for the future.” Matheus stretched, muscles popping. He might be a corpse during the day, but he swore he could tell the difference between being folded into a cramped closet and sprawled over a warm bed. “How do you feel?”

“Bored. Starving.”

“Are any of the others awake?”

“I don’t know,” said Bianca. “Being bedridden severely limits my ability to gather knowledge. Did you miss the part where I said I was starving?”

“Alistair said you heal faster than a human.”

“I do, although some sort of protein is required as fuel.”

“I feel like you’re trying to tell me something,” said Matheus. “You’re…thirsty?”

“I haven’t eaten for two days, Mat, and at the moment, the only food I see thinks he’s being funny.”

Bianca’s eyes held an unfamiliar glint. One side of her mouth curled up, revealing a flash of tooth. Matheus wondered why he never noticed how abnormally long Bianca’s canines were. He had the inexplicable urge to cover his throat.

“Okay,” he said, edging toward the door. “What do you want? Is a ham sandwich okay, or do I need to go out and slaughter a cow for you?”

“A ham sandwich will do nicely, thank you.”

Downstairs was empty. Matheus assumed he was the first up. He emptied the lunchmeat drawer onto the counter. The bread had hardened to the consistency of brick, but Matheus managed to pry a couple of slices loose. The package of ham had no expiration date. Matheus sniffed the meat, gagging a little at the smell. He tossed the whole package. Cheese and tomatoes, it was.

Bianca devoured the sandwich. She stared at Matheus, licking her fingers.

“Seconds?” Matheus asked, trying not to bolt for the door.

Four sandwiches later, the creeping sensation between Matheus’ shoulders faded. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Bianca gulped down ice water.

“Thanks,” she said. “I wasn’t quite feeling like myself.”

“Right,” said Matheus. “Should I leave some snacks on the nightstand tomorrow? I don’t want to wake up with my legs gnawed off.”

“Oh, Mat, you should be able to recognize an idle threat when you hear one.” Bianca leaned forward, adjusting her pillows. She sat back with a sigh. “But yes, that would be lovely. I reckon you lot forget not everyone’s on the liquid diet.”

“How are your stitches?”

“Still holding my guts in,” Bianca said cheerfully. “Alistair left a bag on the dresser. Check and see if there’s any more of those wonderful little pills.”

“I’m not sure you should take any more.” Matheus dug through the bag of supplies, and pulled out the last remaining sample pack. The pills rattled in their plastic containers. “Aren’t these addictive?”

“Most likely. Gimme.” Bianca held out her arms, opening and closing her hands.

Matheus tossed her the package. One more dose wasn’t going to transform her into a meth addict.

Bianca swallowed the pills dry. She tugged the blanket up, tucking it around her thighs and hips.

Matheus dropped the shopping bag onto the vanity. A handful of decorative bottles tumbled over, tinkling against one another. Carefully avoiding his reflection in the oval mirror, Matheus set them upright.

“Have you heard anything about my father?” he asked, nudging the bottles into line.

“Why?” Bianca asked.

Matheus glanced at her in the mirror, then back at the bottles. He shrugged.

“I only know what my parents have told me,” said Bianca, turning to stare out the window. She plucked absently at a fringed pillow, shaking the freed threads onto the bed. “He leaves us alone, the enemy of my enemy sort of thing. Too focused on your lot. Some big names have disappeared. It’s chaos over there.”

She worked her way around the corner of the pillow. “I saw him a few times before I left. He always looked so tired.”

“So he is still in London.”

Bianca blinked. She shook her head slightly, then smiled at Matheus. “As far as I know,” she said. “Why are you asking? Have you heard something?”

“No. I’m just being stupid,” Matheus said. Some of tension bled away. His father didn’t have the monopoly on baroque crucifixes. Ten years had passed since Matheus was last in his father’s office. The past blurred. Probably any gold cross of that type would trigger the same memories.

“Mat,” Bianca said slowly.

“Hmm?”

“I’m not saying I agree with him, but maybe…maybe you should talk to him.”

“And say what, exactly? ‘Gee, dad, sorry I vanished a decade ago. Now that I’ve become the embodiment of everything you’ve spent your entire life trying to destroy, let’s reconnect. Oh, and I might fancy blokes. Haven’t quite sorted that part out yet, but I’m definite on the bloodsucking part. What’s that? You want to lop off my head and bury it at a crossroads? Excellent, I love father-son bonding.’”

“Yes, all right,” said Bianca. “But, one hears things, you know. Mum says—wait, you might fancy blokes? Drugged up for two days and I miss all the juicy bits. Did
the
Quin introduce you to the joys of the love that dare not speak its name?”

“No,” said Matheus. “Jesus. There’s something wrong with you, you know that?”

“Alistair? A slap, slap, kiss kind of thing?”

“Oh, God, no. Never.” Matheus shuddered.

Bianca frowned. She picked up some of the orphaned fringe, running the strands through her fingers.

“Not Milo,” she said. “One hates to make assumptions, but I get the impression—”

“It wasn’t anyone.” Matheus slapped his hand on the vanity. The tiny bottles rattled against one another. “Okay? Leave it alone.”

“Mat, love, if you wanted me to stay out of it, you never would have mentioned it in the first place,” said Bianca with an irritatingly fond smile.

Matheus crossed his arms, and looked away. He scowled at the remaining hatboxes scattered amongst the pillows. Down the hall, a door opened and closed. Matheus held his breath, but the footsteps passed the door without stopping, fading down the staircase.

“Would you say I’m useless in bed?” he asked, the memory of Juliet’s words surfacing. Not that they had far to rise. Things like that tended to float, bobbing in and out of conscious thought.

“Well.” Bianca coughed. She bent forward, arranging the strands into the beginnings of a braid. “Yes. But, bless your heart, you gave it your all.”

“What?” Matheus dropped his arms with a whoosh. They dragged his shoulders along. His mouth decided to join in, for kicks. “I—really?”

“Don’t fret about it. You were fifteen. Teenage boys are not known for their lovemaking skills.”

“Yeah, but…I mean…. You made some pretty convincing noises!”

“I was fifteen, too,” said Bianca. “I thought that’s what it was meant to be like. Porn can be very deceptive, you know.”

Matheus covered his eyes with his palms, massaging his forehead with his fingertips.

“Right,” he said. “Fine. But I want it noted that I did get better.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any evidence to support that,” said Bianca. “Until I see a notarized testimony, the record stands.”

A second door opened and closed. Footsteps travelled down the hall, stopping just past the room. The bathroom door opened and closed, followed by the sound of running water. Matheus wondered if anyone would notice if he threw Bianca out the window. She was tall, but scrawny. He could take her.

“Why are you asking now?” Bianca asked.

Matheus lowered his hands. He tried to look at Bianca, but found his gaze drifting down to where her feet mounded the blanket. Leaning one hip against the vanity, he brought his index finger to his mouth, absently gnawing on the nail.

“Did I seem, I don’t know, unenthused?” he asked.

“You aren’t exactly a fount of bubbly excitement,” said Bianca.

“I meant in bed.”

Bianca held her braid in front of her face. She squinted at it for a moment before laying it over her leg. Gathering more strands, she weaved them into the braid.

“It’s been quite a while,” she said. “You seemed enthralled by my breasts, if I remember correctly. Not that I have much to be enthralled by.”

“Well, they were new,” said Matheus. “It’s not like I have any of my own.”

“True. Though with modern surgery—”

“No.”

Bianca laughed. She tossed the braid aside, drawing her knees up. She patted the mattress next to her.

Matheus dragged his feet over the carpet. He dropped onto the bed, making Bianca bounce.

“Stop it,” she said, slapping his shoulder. “I’m still injured, prat.”

“Why haven’t the painkillers kicked in yet? I like you so much more when you’re incoherent.”

Matheus pulled himself upright. He leaned against the headboard, stretching out his legs. He wiggled his toes, then shoved his feet under a pillow.

“I sort of provoked Quin into jumping me yesterday,” he said.

“Ooh.” Bianca clapped her hands. “Was it nice?”

Matheus stared at her. Slowly, he pushed her wrists down to her lap, then covered her hands with a satin pillow.

“No,” he said. “Just…no.”

“No, no, no. That’s all you ever say.” Bianca pouted.