Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (39 page)

Matheus stopped outside the living room. Closing his eyes, he counted to twenty, tapping the toe of his boot in time. He still wore the clothes from the night before, caked with Bianca’s blood. He wondered what year Alistair had died, how long he’d spent with Quin. Would that be Matheus in twenty years, fifty, a century? Clinging to something long over, while Quin moved on to someone new? Matheus’ tapping stopped. He wanted to be free of Quin, didn’t he? As soon as he got the hang of being dead, he and Quin could go their separate ways.

“How’s your friend?”

Matheus glanced up, startled out of his thoughts.

Quin sat sideways in his armchair, leaning backward, long neck muscles extended to enable him to look through the open doorway. He raised his eyebrows at Matheus’ lack of response, then stretched both arms over his head and waved his hands.

“I see you,” said Matheus. “Stop with the jazz hands. It’s disturbing.”

“Jazz hands?”

Matheus dropped onto the couch, slumping down until his butt rested on the edge of the cushion. He raised his hands, wiggling his fingers before letting them drop.

“Jazz hands,” he said.

“Ah,” said Quin. “Do I look that gay when I do that?”

Matheus shot him a glare.

Quin answered with a peaceful smile. He swung his legs off the arm of the chair, sitting up in one smooth motion. A couple tugs on his vest and shirtsleeves, and his clothes fell into place.

“Your friend?” he prompted.

“She’s sleeping,” said Matheus. He scraped at the stains on his shirt before giving it up as a lost cause. There would be no salvaging his outfit. Three hundred dollars straight into the incinerator, and he had yet to pay Quin back. “You turned Alistair.”

Quin paused in the middle of adjusting his watch. After a second, he snapped the clasp closed, the click crisp and loud in the empty air.

“He told you that?” he asked, shaking his wrist until the watch slid into place.

“No, Bianca did.”

“What do you want me to say?”

Matheus stared at the ceiling, the ornate molding hidden with a thick layer of cheap paint. He sighed, closing his eyes, but the inside of his eyelids failed to provide an answer.

“Nothing,” he said.

Alistair sauntered into the living room an hour later, his hair slicked back and the smell of Quin’s soap wafting off him with every movement. He sat on the edge of the couch, nearest Quin’s chair, folding his hands over his knees and smiling sheepishly.

“Are those my pants?” Matheus asked, eying the cuffs on Alistair’s jeans.

Alistair ignored him. “I’m so sorry,” he said, placing a hand on the arm of Quin’s chair. “It was awful the way I spoke to you. Can you forgive me?”

Quin inched to the other side of his chair. “Sure,” he said.

“How’s Bianca?” asked Matheus.

Alistair stood up, taking a perch on the arm of Quin’s chair. “You know how I get when I’m working,” he said, looking at Quin through lowered eyelashes.

“It’s fine.”

Leaning closer, Alistair put his hand on Quin’s knee. “Why don’t I—?”

“Jesus Christ, why don’t you just crawl into his lap and suck his dick?” Matheus asked. “Sure, everything is fine. Dandy, even. You’re acting like a man-whore, Quin won’t tell me anything, it’s all back to normal. Oh, except for the part about my best friend sliced and diced, but she’s just a moon-child or whatever, so who cares about that?”

“She’s resting.” Alistair’s spine straightened like a ruler. The honey leeched out of his face, leaving only the bee-sting. “Is that acceptable to you? I’m sure all those years you spent not attending medical school you must have learned so much.”

“You—”

“Stop it,” said Quin. “Both of you. Alistair, go sit on the couch.”

With a pout, Alistair moved back to the sofa. He crossed his legs, his bare foot bouncing up and down as he pointedly looked away from Matheus.

Matheus crossed his arms and stuck out his tongue at Alistair’s profile. Not his most mature moment, but something about Alistair made him revert to age twelve. Any second now, the fart jokes would begin, and then Matheus would have to hang himself out of sheer embarrassment.

“Tell me what happened,” said Quin.

“We were attacked.”

“Gosh,” said Matheus. “I never would have guessed.”

“Sunshine.”

“Sunshine?” echoed Alistair. He shook his head, mouthing the word a few more times. “Him?”

“Yes, me,” Matheus said. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Oh, I think—”

“Enough!” Quin stood up, his hands on his hips. He loomed over the couch, glowering at each of them in turn.

Alistair looked down at his hands, rubbing the ball of his thumb along his fingers.

Matheus tried to decide who he wanted to smack more, Alistair or Quin. Quin edged out by a hair, but only on the grounds that he forced Matheus into paisley sock ownership against his will. Some things were unforgivable.

“What happened?” Quin asked.

“I wasn’t there,” said Alistair, still staring at his hands. “I was out hunting. I wasn’t out long, only forty minutes. When I returned, the house was on fire.” He paused, sucking his lower lip in and out of his mouth until the flesh was red and shiny. “I think they used grenades.”

“Zeb?”

“I couldn’t find him, but I didn’t look all that hard. I found Bianca in a closet. I think she crawled. There was a blood trail on the floor. I grabbed her and got out.”

“You didn’t see anyone else?”

Alistair shook his head.

“You’re useless,” said Quin.

For a beat, Alistair seemed to contract, then he raised his head, one side of his mouth curving up. He arched his back, dragging his gaze up Quin’s frame to his face. “I wouldn’t say useless,” he said. “I have many…uses.”

Matheus hit him with a pillow.

Sputtering, Alistair grabbed at the pillow. He hurled it at Matheus. The pillow flew past Matheus’ face without even ruffling his hair and knocked over a coatrack standing in the corner of the room.

“Let me guess,” said Matheus. “Little League champion?”

Covering his face with the palm of his hand, Quin strode out of the room. The hall closet door opened and closed.

With Alistair behind him, Matheus walked out to see Quin buttoning his navy jacket.

“Where are you going?” Matheus asked.

Quin glanced up. Crossing the hall, he took Matheus’ elbow, steering him back to the living room. “Stay here,” he said.

“By here, do you mean the living room or am I allowed to—?”

“Sunshine, I’m serious.” The hem of Quin’s coat brushed against Matheus’ thighs. Quin slid down his hands, his fingertips brushing over Matheus’ knuckles before Quin pulled back. He shoved his hands into his pockets, balled fists ruining the line of his jacket.

Matheus fought the urge to run his fingers over his cheek. He scrubbed his knuckles on his pants, trying to rub away the faint tingles.

“You’re going to check on Zeb’s house, aren’t you?” he asked, staring at Quin’s collar. The top button was undone, revealing his tie, the deep red knot tight against Quin’s Adam’s apple.

“Yes.”

“Be careful,” Matheus said to Quin’s tie. The knot bobbed abruptly. Matheus looked up to see Quin’s eyebrows raised.

“Er, you bastard,” he added.

“Lord.” Alistair stalked from the doorway to the sofa, falling onto the cushions with the kind of boneless grace Matheus associated with ballet dancers.

“Keep out of Milo’s way,” said Quin.

“Oh, good luck,” Matheus said, taking a step backward.

“Sunshine—”

“Don’t Sunshine me.” Matheus flapped his hand at the doorway. “Go away before I have to yell at you again.”

Quin closed the gap between them. “You know,” he said, the beginnings of a grin lurking on his face, “I like it when you yell.”

“That’s because you’re a freak,” said Matheus, giving Quin a gentle shove. He waited in place until he heard the front door close, then let his spine slump.

“That was lovely,” said Alistair. “When’s the wedding?” Poison darts had nothing on Alistair’s syllables. Matheus wouldn’t have been surprised if Alistair had a voodoo doll in his image.

“Why?” Matheus asked. “Did you want to be the best man?”

“He’s going to leave. He leaves everybody.”

“What makes you think I want him to stay?”

Alistair snorted.

“We’re not sleeping together,” said Matheus. “I’m not gay.”

Confusion set in as Alistair smiled at him. A real smile, not one of the simpers he bestowed upon Quin. Small lines crinkled around his eyes, soft blue framed in gold lashes. For the first time, Matheus understood why Quin might have chosen him. Alistair rose, patting Matheus on the arm as he headed toward the door.

“Say hello to Mr. Tumnus for me,” he said.

“Who?” asked Matheus. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t remember why. He heard the basement stairs creak, and considered chasing after Alistair, but the state of his clothes changed his mind. Bianca’s blood itched. He needed a shower.

Barefoot and shaking water out of his hair, Matheus walked into Milo’s room. The cool air ghosted over his damp skin, making him shiver. Wrapping his towel around his shoulders, Matheus picked his way through the tangled wires to the bank of computers. The sound of rapid clicking grew as Matheus approached. Milo’s WPM must have broken records.

“You again,” said Milo. “Don’t you own clothes?”

“I was in the shower,” said Matheus. He swore he saw his breath. He wanted to get dressed before coming upstairs, but that meant braving Alistair while in a towel. Matheus preferred to freeze his nipples off.

“You’re not in the shower anymore.”

“Do you purposely try to make people feel stupid or is it just your special gift?”

“The latter,” said Milo. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

“Doing what?” Matheus squinted at the gibberish on the middle screen.

“You don’t need to know.”

Matheus swore at him, then fled to warmer climes. He could wiggle more information out of Milo after he put on a sweater.

He arrived at the basement bedroom in time to help Alistair change the sheets on his bed.

Bianca slept through the whole thing, even as Alistair rolled her back and forth across the mattress. They dressed her in a pair of Matheus’ pajamas, the cotton hanging loose around her slim torso. Matheus avoided Alistair’s eyes, and escaped upstairs as soon as possible. He ended up in the living room, trying to read and failing miserably.

Mr. Tumnus
, he thought.
Mr. Tumnus
…he knew that name. Something to do with…snow. Matheus frowned at his book, a non-fiction account of life during the Tang dynasty. Snow…and fauns.

“Son of a bitch,” said Matheus. “That little—”

“Hello, Pet.” Juliet glanced around the living room. “I expected more panic than this.”

“Juliet.” Matheus drew his knees up, resting his book on the top of his thighs. He pretended to examine a painting of the emperor’s courtiers. “I see you have a new key.”

Juliet tossed her purse on the armchair, and took a seat on the couch. Scarlet pleats draped over her knees, matching the necklace sitting bright against her white top. Matheus wondered what Juliet did for money. She had to do something, to afford the outfits she wore on a regular basis.