Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (57 page)

“Tell me how to open the door,” Matheus said. He heard the sound of a drawer opening, then a click. He turned the doorknob, trying not to let his relief show as it gave way.

“You will be human again,” said Carsten.

Matheus stopped. He looked into the hall, at a nineteenth-century vase overflowing with Madonna lilies. One white petal had fallen off, resting with a delicate curve on the carpet. Matheus inhaled. The scent of the lilies lilted through the air.

“That’s impossible,” he said.

“There have been developments.”

“What kind of developments?”

“Close the door.”

Matheus tried to remember the last time he’d smelled lilies. They’d always had them around the house. He’d never asked why. It seemed strange now, thinking back. Why lilies, and not orchids? Expensive and elegant, orchids fit better with Carsten’s view of the world. But Matheus remembered only the lilies.

He shut the door. The lock clicked.

“What developments?” he asked.

“Our work here has not been for our own amusement.”

Matheus turned around.

His father sat at the desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. A small remote lay next to his elbow.

“So you can fix me. Just like that,” Matheus said.

His father glanced down.

“No,” said Matheus. “Of course not.”

“The process is incomplete,” said his father. He raised his head, keeping his gaze fixed on Matheus’. “More experimentation is required.”

“You can’t just grab people and use them as test subjects!”

“They are not people, Mattias.”

“What about me? Am I a person?”

“You are….” His father trailed off. “It is no matter. Soon the process will be complete, and you will be returned to the light.”

“You talk like a cult leader,” said Matheus. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I wished to have this conversation in
Deutsch
. If you have a problem with my phrasing, then you must place the blame upon yourself.”

“It’s like you learned English exclusively from Gothic novels.”

“Mattias!” His father slapped his palm on the desktop. “Why must you derail every serious conversation with your inane musings? Focus on the matter at hand.”

“What? You being the deranged lovechild of Adolf Hitler and Van Helsing? Fine, let’s talk about that. How many
subjects
have you gone through to get your developments?”

“The number is irrelevant.”

“It’s relevant to me.”

“The extermination of evil in the name of a greater good is a holy task.”

“Are you listening to the words coming out of your mouth? I mean, I know you must hear them, you’re not deaf. But do you ever actually listen to yourself?”

“I do not have the time to deal with you,” said Carsten. “Make your decision. The process will be finished soon. You may either reap its benefits or be cast into the depths with the others of your kind.”

“The others,” Matheus said. “You’re not extending your glorious cure to them as well?”

“Only to the ones that are judged worthy.”

Matheus snorted.

“Right. I wonder who the judge will be.”

His father bowed his head.

“I serve the will of God,” he said.

“You arrogant bastard. What the hell makes you think you know a damned thing about what God wants?” Matheus asked.

Picking up the remote, his father pointed it toward the door. The lock clicked open.

“What are you—” Matheus cut off as a pair of guards grabbed his arms, pinning him between them. “Hey!”

“You must realize I cannot allow you to roam around freely.” His father stood, returning his fingertips to the desktop. “You will be given accommodations until the process is completed. I suggest you use the time to speak with Our Lord and Savior. I know you will make the correct choice.”

Carsten nodded to the guards.

“Wait!” Matheus dug his heels into the thick carpet. “You can’t do this!”

The guards dragged him into the hall, unmoved by his squirming. He watched his father sit down and open a file, ignoring the scene in front of him. Carsten removed a pen from his desk drawer, and bent over the file. He made a careful note as the door swung closed.

“Fuck!” Matheus craned his neck to look at his captors. They towered over him, with arms the size of his thighs. Apparently, his father had located the lost race of Titans. Matheus felt as though they’d shackled iron rings around his biceps.

“I don’t suppose you guys take bribes,” Matheus said.

One of the guards growled at him.

“Never mind.” Matheus sighed. “I didn’t have anything to bribe you with anyway.” He slumped in the guards’ grips, letting them haul him down the hall.

The scent of the lilies faded away.

Matheus flopped onto the bed, his arms spread out. He stared at the drop ceiling, the only indication that he hadn’t left the warehouse. The room definitely topped Matheus’ list of prison cells. Thick curtains covered the bricked-over windows. A pastoral scene hung on one wall, a padded bench underneath. A single recessed light shone a soft yellow. The bed had a thick duvet, but no pillows. Matheus sighed. He didn’t need a pillow—hell, he didn’t need a bed—but he still wanted one.

“You will receive pillows when you deserve pillows, Mattias,” Matheus said, imitating his father’s voice. “
Scheiße
.”

He sat up, folding his hands in his lap. The door had three deadbolts, all of which unlocked from the outside. Matheus didn’t have anything to use as a pick, anyway. The guards had searched him before tossing him inside the room. Matheus had his clothes, and nothing else. He’d already checked under the bed, behind the bench, for anything useful. He didn’t know what he expected to find. Inspiration, maybe.

He felt the sunrise approaching. Matheus tried not to be too grateful for that. Eight hours without brain activity sounded fantastic. A faint buzz shimmied up and down his nerves. He felt Quin nearby, hurt, but not too badly. Nothing like before. Matheus remembered the scorching acid sensation when he’d removed the stake for the first time. He closed his eyes, shuddering at the memory.

Did his father’s process attempt to burn the death out of the body, like cauterizing a wound? Would that even work? Quin said he couldn’t go back. Humanity had sealed the door after him, no reentry. Did Matheus trust Quin to tell him the truth? Or, maybe, Quin didn’t know the truth. Science manufactured miracles on a regular basis. Maybe life had a window to slip in through.

Dead is dead
, Matheus thought. He clenched his hands in a mockery of prayer. His father’s offer pulled at his mind, splitting him in two. Being human again. No more blood, no more murders. Real sleep, waking up with the sun, free of darkness.

A cage of light. Matheus had no illusions about his father. He didn’t have to be a psychic to see the future. He could read it in his past. No more Matheus Taylor, no more
him
.

Milkshakes; he could have milkshakes again. Chocolate, so thick sucking it up a straw required Ironman training, with a mound of honest-to-God whipped cream on top. Take-out Chinese food, laced with MSG. Deep dish pizza, each slice needing a backhoe to lift it.

Matheus shook his head. He didn’t even like milkshakes, hadn’t had one since before puberty. But now he wanted one. He wanted the possibility of a milkshake. He never woke up with the sunrise either, but now he ached for the ability. He bent down, pressing his forehead to his clasped fingers.

Did he even have a choice? Staying dead meant staying a killer. He needed to eat. He’d always thought vegetarians a bit mad, but the last four months had given him a new perspective. At least cows didn’t talk, or build families, or paint their faces for football games, or have scars from the time they ran their bike into a tree in grade school. Did he have the right to survive off the lives of others? He wouldn’t even be sacrificing his life.

Only my identity
, Matheus thought. He imagined his father’s reaction if he tried to run again. Matheus had defied him once, and gotten away with it. He doubted he’d manage escape a second time. Matheus rocked his knuckles over his forehead. A long, frustrated groan escaped his lips.

His father or Quin. The light or the dark. Life or death. What difference did it make in the end? Either path ended in a trap. Held under his father’s thumb, or bound to Quin forever. Impossible, infuriated, sexy, psychotic Quin. Who kissed him.

Who murdered him.

And saved him.

And
kissed
him.

Matheus had liked the kiss. He groaned again, then bit hard on his lower lip. Bianca said the bond didn’t affect things that way, but what if she got it wrong? Matheus didn’t know if he was gay, or bisexual, or just bloody confused.

“I don’t know what to do!” he yelled, flinging himself backward. He stared at the ceiling some more.

He wanted both, and neither. The weight of choice crushed down upon him. The urge to flee built in the back of Matheus’ mind. He closed his eyes, imagining stealing a car, and driving as fast and as far as possible. Maybe all the way down to Cape Horn. He’d learn Spanish, buy a houseboat, and forget he’d ever heard the names Quintus Livius Saturnius or Carsten Schneider. Matheus sank deeper in the fantasy, spinning a new identity. He had become someone new before; the second time should be even easier. He knew what to avoid. He’d run and hide, and no one would ever see Mattias Schneider or Matheus Taylor ever again. Matheus let the reverie overwhelm reality, sweeping the turmoil and uncertainty underneath the rug of daydreams.

The lethargy of oncoming day seeped into his limbs. Matheus let the numbness carry him away to the edge of night, before falling into the silence of dawn.

Matheus counted fourteen paces lengthwise and ten paces widthwise. He lay on the bed; nine tiles by six. Sketching sums onto the blanket, he tried to work out the length of each tile. He gave up after half a minute. The digits kept switching around on him.

He stood up, then made the bed to military perfection. He flicked a piece of lint across the room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Matheus rocked back and forth, tapping his feet on the floor. The tile in the far corner had three, dark, coffee-colored spots arranged in a pyramid shape. Matheus dragged the bench beneath the tile and climbed up. He pushed up the tile, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

A leaky pipe to his right explained the spots. He hopped off the bench, and brushed the dusty spider webs out of his hair, grimacing as they clung to his palm.

Three hours since sunset. Three hours trapped in the same room with not so much as a cereal box to read. Nothing to do but sit and stare at the rolling fields of pre-industrialized England. Matheus took the painting off the wall and set it on the floor. He ran his hand over the paper backing, but there appeared to be nothing hidden inside. Matheus sat back on his heels and scratched his neck. He shrugged. He didn’t expect to find a set of lock picks or the map to a secret passageway, but something to do, anyway. Matheus had just torn through the backing when the lock clicked. He tensed, still gripping the paper between his thumb and forefinger. Maybe his father had changed his mind, and decided Matheus didn’t make the cut for
saving
.