Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (62 page)

“I see you’re feeling better.” Matheus’ father leaned back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. A stack of folders sat open on his desk, staggered over one another with robotic precision.

Matheus held his arms behind his back. Faint red lines still marred his skin, even four days later. He licked his lip, still soft and new, with a lingering tenderness.
Four days
, he thought. A whole week since he’d tried to rescue Quin. Three days of madness, four of healing, and he had nothing to show for any of it. He vacillated between staying and escaping, unable to believe fully in his father’s cure, but trapped by the possibilities, nonetheless. Not that it mattered what he decided. He had no plan. Not even the inkling of a plan. He’d considered sneaking out through the drop ceiling, but a broken tile and a bruise the size of Buick ruled out that option.

His second idea consisted of overpowering the guards as they escorted him to and from his father’s office. But Matheus had a personal rule never to attack men with fists larger than his head. He had another chance to escape, but his mind shied away from the thought. Even with the tainted reunion, Matheus didn’t want to see his sister for the first time in ten years, then bonk her across the temple and do a runner.

Deep down, Matheus suspected he didn’t want to escape. When he closed his eyes, he saw the final look on Quin’s face. What did he have to escape
to
, after all?

Matheus frowned at the thought. Where had that stupidity come from? He had had a life before Quin. He could have one afterward. A real life, if his father’s cure worked.
A life under his father’s control
, he thought.

“Mattias?”

Matheus blinked, realized he’d been staring at the wall behind his father’s head. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“You are completely healed?”

“It was only scratches.” Matheus shifted his weight. The massive guards waited by the door, breathing like oversized bulldogs. The nerves on the back of his neck crawled at the sound.

His father flipped the folders closed. He tapped them into a pile, aligning the edge to the corner of the desk.

“Fletcher informed me they were quite deep.”

“Well, you know, that’s the good part about being an undead freak of nature,” said Matheus.

His father’s mouth tightened. “Do not be flippant, Mattias. I will not stand for it.”

Don’t say it, don’t say it—

“Good thing you’re sitting, then,” Matheus said.

Goddammit.

His father slapped his palm against the desk. The top folder slipped loose, papers scattering over the floor.

“Do not test me,” Carsten said. He pointed to the papers. One of the guards hastened forward, gathering up the papers into a messy stack. He returned the folder to the desk, then resumed his position by the door.

Matheus snorted. He had half-expected the guard to genuflect before retreating. “Or what? You’ll stick me in one of your cells?” he asked.

His father smiled.

Matheus felt sick. He shrank down, spine turned to feta cheese.

“An excellent idea,” said his father. “It will give you perspective.”

“My father has no sense of humor,” said Matheus.

Quin glared at him from across the hall. He sat in the center of his bench, elbows resting on his thighs. Blood crusted his arms, his throat, stained his clothes. He’d broken his fingers again, or had them broken.

“I know it’s a stereotype, Germans being humorless, but in this case, it’s true,” Matheus continued. He knew Quin couldn’t hear him, but the words kept coming anyway. “I think I heard him make a pun once, when I was eight. Nearly gave the housekeeper a heart attack. I don’t even want to mention his reaction to Benny Hill. Not that I find Benny Hill particularly amusing, either.”

Quin raised his broken hand, and wiggled the mangled fingers at Matheus.

Matheus didn’t think Quin wanted to say hi. He glanced down at the gray floor, scratching the back of his head. More babble pushed at his vocal chords, straining to break loose.

“He actually banned Monty Python in our house because he thought they were mocking him. Not a man like him, but actually him. He wrote the BBC about it.” Matheus glanced across the hall.

Quin had rested his injured hand on his leg. He trailed his fingertips over his bent pinkie finger.

“What kind of lunatic writes to the BBC?” Matheus said, watching Quin’s hand move back and forth. “That should be right up there with thinking you’re Napoleon and saving your bodily fluids in—fucking Christ!”

A sickening crunch reverberated up Matheus’ arm. His guts plummeted, pooling somewhere around his shoes. He held his wrist, staring through a gray haze at his twisted pinkie finger. With a low moan, he cradled his hand to his chest.

Across the hall, Quin waved his healed pinkie finger.

“You bastard!” Matheus screamed at him.

Quin grinned. He pointed to his ring finger, then began rubbing it.

“It’s not my fault!” Matheus swayed as he stood up. He staggered to the glass wall, shaking his head with exaggerated swings. “I didn’t do anything!”

He pounded on the glass with his good hand. “Don’t—Ooooh, fuck.”

Matheus sank to his knees as his ring finger snapped. “What is wrong with you?”

The rounded end of a bone stuck out through his skin.

Quin shrugged, and mouthed
bored
.

“You’re a psychopath,” said Matheus.

Tilting his head to the side, Quin waved a hand.

“Psychopath.” Matheus stretched the word over his lips, elongating each syllable. He stabbed a finger at Quin. “You.”

Traitor,
Quin mouthed back.

“No!”

Quin gripped his middle finger.

“No!” Matheus smacked the glass. “Listen to me! You—shit! Shit! Shit!”

He slumped against the side of the cell, arm throbbing from fingertip to elbow. “For fuck’s sake, Quin.”

Matheus shut his eyes, resting his forehead on the glass. He waited for the next crunch of bone, but none came. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, before Matheus lost track. He thought he might have fainted. When he opened his eyes, Quin sat cross-legged on the floor, his knees pressed against the glass wall. The hallway stretched wide between them.

“It wasn’t me,” Matheus whispered.

Quin tapped his arm.

“What?”

Rolling his eyes, Quin traced lines over his forearm, then pointed at Matheus.

“Oh.” Matheus mimed scratching his arms, following the faint red marks still present.

Quin nodded. He looked at Matheus, eyebrows drawn slightly together, the edges of his lips dragged downward. His hand hovered a couple of inches above his leg, twisting left and right. After a minute, he stood. He curled onto the bench, turning his back to Matheus, long legs folded up.

He looks thin
, Matheus thought, then snorted. Quin looked exactly the same as he always had. Corpses didn’t diet. Matheus scooted down, raising his knees. The pain in his hand had faded to a distant pulsing, but movements brought up sharp reminders.

Bastard
, he thought. When they got out of here, Quin was going to get it. Matheus didn’t know what
it
was, but
damn
, was Quin going to get a whole truckload of it.
Lord of the bastards. King of the bastards. Grand High Sultan of the land of Bastardia.

Matheus flicked a glance at Quin’s back. He wondered what that last look meant. He almost preferred Quin torturing him to being ignored. His mind skittered away from the image of Quin bent and tucked around himself. Apparently, his mind took the opportunity to sneak down to his stomach, making Matheus feel as though he’d just eaten an industrial size box of Pixy Stix.

“Bastard,” he said. He banged on the glass.

Quin didn’t move. He didn’t move all night. When the guards came the next night to escort Matheus back to his room, Quin still lay in the same folded up position.

Sometimes, Matheus wished people came with instruction manuals.

“Get up.”

Matheus opened his eyes to the sight of Godzilla looming over him. Since the guards had failed to produce their names, Matheus took it upon himself to grant them new ones. Godzilla had a unibrow and
Eliane
tattooed across his left forearm. Matheus had asked him if he knew the correct spelling of Elaine had the
i
after the
a
, but Godzilla had just called him a faggot and tossed him into his room.

“Why?” asked Matheus.

“Why you think?” Godzilla flexed his biceps. He’d cut the sleeves off his uniform, or perhaps he’d burst through them, Popeye-style. Maybe Matheus’ father let him stray from the regulation attire because he’d gotten tired of purchasing a new shirt every time Godzilla needed to intimidate someone.

“For multiple reasons,” said Matheus. “Mostly so I don’t end up a paste-eating mouth-breather. You should try it, but start slowly. You don’t want to strain yourself.”

Godzilla added some pec pumping to the mix. He glared at Matheus, but experts in the fine art of malevolence had glared at Matheus, and by comparison, Godzilla had all the venom of a purring kitten.

“The boss wants you,” said Godzilla when Matheus failed to cower sufficiently.

Matheus adjusted his blanket. “Please inform my father I am terribly busy counting the number of green carpet fibers and planning my conversion to Rastafarianism, and thus, cannot meet with him at the present time.”

“Get up.”

Clearly, Godzilla had exhausted his conversational repertoire. Matheus sighed.

“Me no go,” he said. “You leave now.”

Thirty seconds later, Matheus found himself wedged between Godzilla and his partner, Foot Fungus, a meaty arm wrapped around each arm. His toes dragged over the carpet.

“No one here has a sense of humor,” Matheus said. He grimaced as his broken fingers banged against Foot Fungus’ side. He swore the man contained nothing inside but molded concrete under beef jerky skin.

As they approached his father’s office, Matheus caught the borders of raised voices. Above his head, the guards exchanged glances. They slowed to half-pace. Carsten Schneider, striking fear into the hearts of the undead and bodybuilders the world over.

“—complete yet!”

Matheus frowned. He recognized Fletcher’s voice. She never yelled at their father; she left that for Matheus. He tried to recall a time she’d shouted at their father and came up empty-handed. Fletcher’s rebellions tended to lean toward the deceitful. The tattoo marked the end of a long career of getting away with everything. He strained, trying to hear his father’s response.

“It doesn’t!” Fletcher again. “God! They’re just zombies!”

The door to Carsten’s office stood open, Fletcher positioned just in sight, her hands gripping the chair backs. The guards halved their pace once more.

“Your concern does not allow you to take the Lord’s name in vain, Fletcher,” said Matheus’ father. “The process works as required. The damned are purified. That is all that matters.”

“We can wait until further testing—”

“And allow the cursed to continue to darken this world? No. We begin now.”

“Mattias is your son.” Fletcher’s voice softened. “Please, another month at least.”

“Do you doubt your purpose? Our purpose?”

“Of course not.”

“I will not allow my son to remain tainted. I will cleanse his soul. Is that clear?”

“Father—”

“Is that clear, Fletcher?”

From the doorway, Matheus saw Fletcher’s shoulders drop. She released the chairs, tucking her hands behind her back.

“Yes, Father. Excuse me.” Fletcher started when she saw Matheus. Ducking her head, she pushed past, pumps tapping rapidly down the hall.

“
Ich komme
,” Matheus’ father said. “
Setz dich
.”

Godzilla thrust Matheus toward one of the chairs. Matheus tripped over the edge of the rug, sprawling forward and smacking into a chair. Godzilla snickered.

“That will be all,” said Carsten.

Godzilla’s laughter choked off. With a final glower at Matheus, he and Foot Fungus left to go lurk somewhere else.

“
Setz dich
.” Matheus’ father gestured to the chair.