Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (9 page)

Finally, the edges of Quin’s lips quirked up. “Plus, you know, your hair.”

Matheus knocked his hands away, released at last. “You are, without a doubt, the most insane person I have ever met,” Matheus said. “And really, that’s saying something.”

“It’s so shiny.” Quin grinned.

“Stop talking about my damn hair.”

“Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite so…blond.”

“Shut up.”

Matheus didn’t understand the fixation with blonds. Many people had blond hair. If nature hadn’t accommodated, the local grocery store sold boxes in shades from honey to ash. Matheus didn’t know when the blond mythos began, but he wanted to find the original author and punch him or her in the gut. If he had to listen to Quin rattle on about his hair for the next hundred years, someone would get hurt. And since Matheus had the athletic acumen of a sea cucumber, it would probably be him.

“It’s going to be sunrise soon,” Quin said. “Can you feel it?”

“Yes,” said Matheus. He felt as though a coil of rope emerged from the center of his chest, the end attached to a winch turning faster as the day approached. Matheus rubbed his palm over his sternum. The sensation grew to the point of physical pain, only five or ten minutes before sunrise. He inched forward, stretching out his legs and folding his arms behind his head. The ceiling of the van had escaped the purge, although long rips marred the plush fabric. Matheus imagined that not everyone captured by the hunters had his and Quin’s docility.

“Quin?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“Why did I go all twitchy when you got hurt?”

“You’re mine,” Quin said as though that explained everything. He mimicked Matheus’ pose, his feet crossed neatly at the ankles beside Matheus’ head.

“So?”

“So, I claimed you.”

“That statement is not disturbing at all,” Matheus said, rolling his eyes.

Quin waved his hand, making the same slashing gesture Matheus had noticed earlier. The movement seemed to be shorthand for
I’m thinking
or
I don’t know
or even
why the hell do you care?

“We’re connected,” he said. “I’ll always be able to find you. I’ll know when you’re hurt, if you need help.”

“So, why could I find you?”

“Apparently it works both ways.”

“Apparently?”

“Well,” said Quin. “I’ve never claimed anyone before.”

“Fantastic,” said Matheus. “It’ll be an exciting adventure for the both of us.”

The numbness that the heralded the day moved through his limbs. Matheus didn’t feel tired; what occurred during the day couldn’t be considered sleep. He thought of switching off his laptop; one by one, his processes shut down. Daybreak threatened, only seconds away. As soon as the sun appeared over the horizon, whatever magic animated Matheus would cease to work and he would die. He tried to push the thought away, but kept circling back, fascinated and repulsed at the same time. Matheus wondered if he would ever get used to being a corpse for twelve hours each day.

“How do you know they won’t kill us while we’re…while we’re asleep?” he asked, his vocabulary failing him yet again. Despite the broad reaches of the English language, the concept of
temporarily dead
hadn’t arisen often enough to merit a new word. At least, not one Matheus had come across.

“That would go against the rules of the hunt,” Quin said. “They’ll keep us safe until sunset tonight. After that, we’re on our own.” He laid his head back, closing his eyes. “Sunrise.”

Matheus didn’t respond. The day had already taken him.

Matheus pretended to be asleep. Or rather, he played dead. He’d been awake for close to twenty minutes, listening to Quin get up and unlatch the doors. The van shook as Quin jumped down, leaving the doors wide open. The fresh air carried the smell of damp earth and musty evergreens. Quin’s footsteps crunched as he circled the van, before reaching inside to slap Matheus on the shin.

“Time to get up, Sunshine,” he said.

Apparently, Matheus had not been as stealthy as he had thought. He opened his eyes, propping himself up onto his elbows.

Quin stood in the clearing outside, scanning the forest. Matheus could see the track the van had taken, an old logging road grown over with grass, only two muddy ruts left behind. Thick ferns covered the ground into the woods. The logging company must have abandoned the site years earlier or never harvested the area. Trees crowded around the clearing. Large canopies of orange and red leaves formed a dome over the tiny clearing, the night sky peeping through. Pine trees, branches poking out of the trunks like a sea urchin’s spines, mingled with the other trees. Matheus eyed the spikes and wondered if running around in a place full of pointy, wooden things was not the best idea ever.

“I hate nature,” he said, climbing out of the van. “Bugs and dirt and things with teeth.”

“You’re a thing with teeth,” Quin said absently.

“So if we get attacked by a mountain lion, I’ll ask it to wait nicely while I find its jugular.”

“You do that.”

“You’re not paying attention to me.”

“Sorry, Sunshine, but I have more important things to worry about than your whining. And stop pouting. Anyone would think you were the gay one.”

“I’m not pouting,” Matheus muttered. He dug the toe of his shoe into the ground, jumping back as the residents of the anthill he disturbed launched a frontal attack on his sneaker. He tried to dislodge the ant commander without actually touching using his hands.

“Come on,” Quin said, grabbing Matheus’ wrist. “We have to find a place to spend the day.” He dove into the trees, Matheus whipping back and forth behind him.

Branches loomed up uncomfortably fast, pine needles slapping against Matheus’ face. Black mud soaked into Matheus’ shoes, squishing up through his socks. The ground sloped downward as they ran. He heard running water in the distance.

Quin dodged around trees, ducked under low branches, jumped over logs. He dragged Matheus after him like a child’s pull-toy, pausing only to fish Matheus out of fir trees.

Spitting out evergreen needles, Matheus fantasied about Quin landing face-first into a copperhead’s nest. He tried to shake his arm free, but Quin’s grip tightened until the bones in Matheus’ wrist creaked with the strain. After the fourth time Matheus slipped, he remained on the muddy ground, forcing Quin to stop and glower down at him.

“I’m sorry,” Matheus said, spitting out a mouthful of leaves. “Just leave me here.” He sighed, flapping his hands in an effort to keep the ever-present ferns out of his face. “Maybe a bobcat can eat me or something.”

“Moron.” Quin yanked him upright. He looked at Matheus for a moment, taking in the streaks of mud, the leaves plastered to the back of Matheus’ head. Fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket, he passed it to Matheus.

Matheus held square of silk between two fingers, lips pursed before arching an eyebrow at Quin.

With a noise like Matheus’ old nanny, Quin snatched the handkerchief back, using it to wipe the globs of mud off Matheus’ face. He had the gentleness of Matheus’ old nanny as well, which was to say, not much.

Matheus batted him away, trying to grab the handkerchief at the same time, but he misjudged the distance, ruining Quin’s work with a face-plant into a patch of damp moss.

Quin let out a strangled noise. He stood over Matheus, one hand held over his face, his shoulders shaking. After a second, a burst of laughter escaped, frightening some birds into flight.

“Bastard,” Matheus said.

Quin laughed more, reaching down with his free hand to help Matheus up.

“Try and stay on your feet, yeah?” he said. “Come on.”

“Quin, wait.” Matheus held up a finger, silencing Quin’s question. He pointed to their right. “Do you hear that? Over there.”

Something travelled through the woods, slow and deliberate. At the occasional twig snap, all sounds would cease, then resume a few seconds later. Matheus didn’t think the sounds came from an animal. He stared hard through the trees, wishing his new night vision included a zoom function.

“Can you fight?” Quin asked, his voice low. “Never mind, stupid question. Can you climb?”

“What?” The noises moved closer and divided.

“Up that tree. Now.”

“I want to help.”

Matheus wondered who had said that. Not him, because he would never have let something so monumentally stupid leave his lips. He’d always been a fan of the run and hide method of conflict management.

“Help by getting up that damn tree,” Quin replied with a shove.

Matheus fell, hitting his cheek on a rock. He looked at it for a moment, an idea forming in his head.

“Hurry up,” said Quin.

“I’m going,” Matheus said. He pried the rock and a couple of its compatriots out of the ground, sticking them into his jacket pockets. They banged against his hips as he scrambled to his feet. “Don’t growl at me, I’m going.”

As he grabbed the lowest branch, Matheus tried to remember the last time he’d climbed a tree. Close to twenty years, at least. His legs shook as he reached for the next branch. Pale green lichen grew over the wet bark. Matheus flailed, wrapping his arms around the trunk. Muddy sneakers did not provide the grip required for tree climbing. He dug his nails into the bark, silently thankful Quin did not pick a pine tree. A face full of candle-scented needles from the porcupines of the arboreal word did not appeal to Matheus.

“Stop fooling around!” Quin hissed from the ground.

Matheus almost beaned him with a rock right then and there. With a grunt, he hauled himself up to the next branch, digging rivulets into the lichen as the tree shimmied.
Nature is evil
, Matheus thought.
Trees are evil
. He made a face at the moss clinging to his palms.
Moss is evil.
The litany of evil things grew, the higher Matheus climbed. Finally, he reached a solid branch about halfway up the tree. Straddling the branch, he inched out as far as he dared.

From his position, he could see Quin standing, loose-limbed, about twenty feet from the base of the tree.

Three men approached, surrounding him. All wore night-vision goggles and carried crossbows. The one nearest to Quin had a broadsword strapped to his back. He looked big enough to wield it, too, with arms thicker than Matheus’ waist. Aside from the goggles, the men could have been on their way to the local Renaissance Fair. Not one of them had a weapon designed after the Middle Ages. Then again, maybe the hunters didn’t consider a 30.06 semi–automatic rifle sporting.

“This is too easy,” said the big man as they circled around Quin. “What happened to your boyfriend?”

“I killed him already,” Quin said easily. He matched the man’s movement, rising slightly on the balls of his feet. He smiled. “Sorry to take away your fun.”

The big man shrugged. The other two edged closer, loaded crossbows aimed at Quin’s chest.

Quin appeared not to notice them. He focused his attention on the big man.

“Ah, he was just the warm-up anyway. You’re the real game,” said the hunter.

“I’m flattered,” said Quin. The hunter to his right took another step forward, a stick cracking beneath his foot. Quin feinted towards him, spinning at the last second toward the big man with unnatural speed. All three fired at once, the hunter to Quin’s right jumping at the twang of his bow. His bolt went wide, embedding into the trunk of an oak. The other two hit home, one in Quin’s calf, the other in his chest. He collapsed as the hunters reloaded with smooth practice.

Matheus crammed a fist in his mouth, struggling not to cry out.

Get up
, he thought.
Get up, you stupid bastard.

The big man waved the other two back, drawing his sword as he approached Quin’s body. He nudged Quin’s shoulder with the toe of his combat boot, then delivered a solid kick to Quin’s ribs.

Matheus winced as he heard the bones crack.

“Pathetic,” said the hunter. He raised the sword. The blade hovered in the air before swinging downward, but the tip never completed its arc.

Quin shot up, yanking the bolt from his chest and burying it in the hunter’s gut.

“You missed,” he said.

The other hunters fired. Quin twisted around with the wounded hunter, using him as a shield as he dug his fangs into the man’s thick neck. The hunter’s eyes bugged wide as he choked, blood bubbling out of his mouth. Quin’s throat worked furiously as he swallowed all he could.

“Fuck,” gasped one of the hunters, slapping another bolt into his crossbow.

Quin raised his head, a manic grin plastered across his face. Blood smeared over his mouth, down his chin. As Matheus watched, Quin’s shattered cheekbone knit together, forming the sharp ledge to match its twin. Quin grinned wider, digging his hand into the hole in the big man’s gut, then sucking his fingers clean.

“Dammit!” shouted the other hunter. He fired, and Quin spun, the bolt piercing the big man’s eye.

“Tsk, tsk,” said Quin. “Shooting at your allies, that’s just not nice.” Throwing the big man’s body at the hunter, he dove for the other. He tackled him to the ground, the crossbow flying away into the darkness. They grappled among the ferns, each scrambling for dominance. Quin might have speed, but he lacked enhanced strength. At close quarters, he had to rely on experience and skill. He pinned down hands trying to gouge out his eyes, then drew back, delivering a set of savage punches to the hunter’s face.