Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (23 page)

“I like this one,” she said.

Matheus sat cross-legged at the coffee table, flipping through the newspaper. He’d retrieved his laptop from the box in the attic, but Quin did not have Internet access. The laptop hummed uselessly on the couch, nothing more than an expensive word processor. Matheus made a note to find the nearest coffee shop with free wi-fi, but for the moment, he job-hunted using the traditional method. The phone company had cut off service to his cellphone, leaving Matheus with an expensive brick. He wondered why Quin hadn’t insisted on paying the bill, but he chalked it up to the same reason Quin didn’t have Internet access. Hell, Quin didn’t appear to have a landline telephone.

The front door opened and shut. Matheus turned a page as footsteps came from the front hall. He spun the red marker in his hand over his fingers, pausing to circle a listing. The hall closet opened, coat hangers scratching over the metal rod inside. Matheus tapped the marker on the newspaper. He didn’t look up as Quin entered, dropped into the armchair, then hooked one long leg over its arm. Matheus had yet to see Quin actually sit in the armchair like a normal person, back square, both feet on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Quin asked. He loosened his tie, draping it carefully over the back of the armchair. A three-piece suit day today, chalk stripe in dark blue.

Matheus saw his reflection in Quin’s shoes. He sat up, cracking the kinks out of his back.

“Looking for a job,” Matheus said. “Is it back?”

Tap, tap, tap,
went the marker.

Quin frowned. He bent his leg up, working loose the laces of his so very shiny shoes.

“Yes,” he said, letting the shoe drop.

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then.”

Matheus returned to his newspaper. The second shoe hit the floor with a loud bang.

Quin let out a huff of air, then stood up, collecting his shoes and leaving the room. The stairs to the basement creaked. Matheus glanced up, catching sight of the tie still hanging on the armchair. He listened for a moment, but the stairs were quiet.

Quickly, he grabbed the tie and hid it up the disused fireplace, on a tiny shelf just inside. What purpose the shelf served, Matheus didn’t know. His feet banged against the brass-buckled trunk. Matheus checked over his shoulder, then flipped it open. A briny smell rose up, and Matheus wrinkled his nose, letting the lid slam shut. He didn’t know what he expected, but not a disappointing tangle of ropes. Shrunken heads would have been interesting. Animal specimens in cloudy glass jars. Dental equipment from the nineteen-thirties. Not ropes that smelled as though they’d been last used on a pirate’s galley.

The stairs groaned out their warning. Matheus ran back to his newspaper.

Quin returned, sans jacket and vest. He stopped in the center of the room, his hands on his hips. Matheus peeked up at him, jerking back to the want ads as Quin looked at him. Quin crossed the room, and peered behind the armchair. He straightened, casting another look at Matheus.

Raising his head, Matheus gazed back evenly. The newspaper rustled as he turned a page.

Quin opened his mouth, then shook his head. He circled the room, returning to stand in front of the armchair. Matheus waited for Quin to say something, but instead, he bestowed a peaceable smile on Matheus and dropped into the armchair.

Matheus scowled.

“Anything popping up?” Quin asked, as though a thousand-dollar tie had not just disappeared. Matheus decided Quin must have had siblings.

“Oh, yeah,” said Matheus. “Listen to this stellar opportunity: third-shift production position at local potato chip factory. Boy, was I an idiot to spend all those years in college or what?”

“And you call me a snob?”

“I’m not being a snob.” Matheus crumbled the want ads into a dense ball. He skimmed it off the coffee table; the ball skittered over the floor, slowing on the worn carpet and bumping up against the door to the dining room. “It was hard to get my degree. And damn expensive. So I want to reap the benefits from having it. And one of those is not working in a plant surrounded by potatoes and grease.”

Quin bounced his foot up and down. His pant leg had ridden up, revealing a narrow ankle covered in curling black hair. Matheus compared his own blond hair, so pale and fine that in the right light, it looked like he shaved his legs. He pushed himself up onto the couch, slouching to prop his feet against the edge of the coffee table.

“I might know something you can do,” Quin said. “If you condescend to accept my help.”

“Depends. Are you going to buy me a job?”

Quin’s foot stopped. He narrowed his eyes at Matheus. “It won’t be legal,” he said.

Matheus shrugged.

“As long as I don’t have to break someone’s kneecaps, I’m okay with that.”

“Really? It doesn’t offend your oh, so delicate morals?” Quin asked.

Matheus contemplated telling him about the time he boosted five cars in one night. He’d been thirteen at the time, and bent on impressing the older kids. He was their mascot, allowed to hang around because getting the kid with the weird accent blitzed on whatever cheap liquor they scrounged up always provided them a laugh. Lost time dotted all of Matheus’ memories of that period, the parts he did remember lacquered with deep embarrassment.

“Just tell me what it is,” he said.

“I have an acquaintance who sometimes comes into items of an indetermination origin.”

“A fence.”

“A high-class fence,” said Quin. “No stolen TVs for him.”

“And I would, what? Authenticate stolen goods?”

“And see that they’re properly looked after.”

Better than potato chips
, Matheus thought. At least guaranteeing stolen art related to his degree. He’d chosen art history as a childish act of rebellion. He stuck with it because he turned out to be pretty good at it, and God knew he’d never get a job that required any sort of math skills.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll try it.”

“I’ll talk to Faust,” said Quin.

“His name is Faust?” Matheus envisioned a gloomy goth with a bar through his nose and too much black eyeliner.

“No, it’s Herman, but he feels that doesn’t have enough flare.” Quin made a starburst motion with his hand.

“Is he one of us?”

“He’s human,” Quin said, surprising Matheus. “Barely.”

“Barely?”

Quin wiggled down in the chair until he could rest his dangling legs on the arm of the couch. He crossed his arms, confirming Matheus’ suspicion that Quin naturally felt most comfortable in the creepiest position possible. The overhead light deepened the hollows in his cheeks and darkened his eyes from hazel to solid black. Matheus wondered what Quin had looked like before the unnatural stillness set into his features. He wondered if he would look the same after a thousand years.

“He was an alchemist, back when we had those,” Quin said. “Made a deal with a demon to extend his life. Except demons don’t make fair deals.”

“There are demons? Real, actual demons?” Matheus asked. His worldview took another hit.

“Yeah,” said Quin. “Not biblical demons. They don’t take souls. They’re like the otherworld’s merchants.” He plucked a stray piece of thread off his biceps. “You don’t have to worry about them. We don’t interest them much.”

“Otherworld,” Matheus said. “Juliet used that word.”

“That’s where you live now. Otherworld, as in, not the human world.”

“It’s kind of romantic. Otherworld. I kind of like it.”

Quin pressed a hand to chest, gaping slack-jawed at Matheus. “You like something?” he asked. “Be still, my heart. Oh, wait, too late.”

Matheus threw his marker at him, turning away to hide the involuntary smile.

Quin snorted. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back until it hung over the arm of the chair like a dishtowel.

Matheus looked down at his hands, examining the ragged edges of his nails. He still bit them, finding himself with his fingers at his mouth without realizing he’d moved them.

“Quin?” he said.

“Mmm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” said Quin without opening his eyes.

Matheus rubbed his palms over his thighs. The same question had badgered at him for the last month. “Can we dre—”

“Quin!” Juliet called from the foyer. “You have mail!”

“Goddammit,” Quin said, sitting up. “How does she keep getting a key? I’m going to have to change the locks again. It’s the fourth time, for Christ’s sake.”

Juliet strolled in, holding a small stack of letters. She threw her jacket over the coffee table, smoothing down the back of her skirt as she perched on the sofa beside Matheus. Pale peach nails matched her heels; a trio of delicate bangles hung from one wrist.

“Let’s see,” she said. “This one’s from Apollonia. I recognize the perfume.” She flicked the lavender envelope at Quin. “Tacky gilt and calligraphy, must be from Grigori.” That letter followed the first. “Which means this one is from Zeb. Or whoever’s looking after him at the moment.”

“Shit,” Quin said, catching the last letter. “How did they find out?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone dragged his new pet along on a hunt. Hunters do like to talk, especially about The Dark One.”

“
I
didn’t drag him,” Quin said.

Juliet smiled at him. She crossed her legs, skirt riding up to reveal the edge of her stocking.

Quin rolled his eyes. “Don’t use those stupid nicknames.”

“Darling,” said Juliet, being the kind of woman who could call a person darling without sounding affected. “‘Quin’ doesn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of the masses.”

Quin tossed the stack of letters onto the coffee table. “Why are you here?” he asked.

Juliet leaned toward Matheus, running her hand through his hair. Her nails scraped over his skull, curving around his ear. Matheus froze, as trickles of nausea dripped like ice water down the back of his neck.

“I came to see your pet,” Juliet said, her voice dropping to a purr as she traced the shell of Matheus’ ear.

Matheus jerked his head away, and Juliet laughed.

“Juliet,” said Quin sharply.

“What?”

“He’s not yours to play with.”

Juliet smiled, scooting closer to Matheus, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck. She tapped at his jugular, a gesture that straddled the line between caress and threat.

“Not yours, either,” she said, looking at Quin.

Matheus stood up, taking two steps toward the armchair before he realized it. He stopped, damping down the more animalistic portions of his brain.

“Do you mind?” he asked. “I’m not a toy.”

“Oh, Pet.” Juliet rested her wrist on her knee; the bangles sparkled in the dim light. “You’re a man, aren’t you?” With her other hand, she patted the cushion next to her.

Quin’s feet hit the floor with a thud. He grabbed Juliet’s arm and yanked her up. She stumbled, catching her shin on the edge of the coffee table, hopping on one foot as Quin dragged her toward the door.

“Thanks for visiting,” Quin said. “It’s been lovely having you. Don’t hurry back.”

Juliet’s curses echoed out of the foyer, language even Matheus drew the line at, cut off with an abrupt slam of the door. Quin returned, picked up the letters, and began opening them, seemingly unaware of the nonplussed expression on Matheus’ face.

“What was that all about?” Matheus asked as Quin scanned the first letter. He sat on the coffee table, the sofa tainted by association.

“Just Juliet being Juliet. Nothing to worry about,” Quin said. “Were you going to ask me something?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Matheus watched Quin open the other two letters. None of them appeared to contain good news. Quin took on the air of someone who has just realized it’s time for the yearly visit to the spinster great-aunt in a desperate attempt to woo her inheritance away from her thirty-eight cats.

“What is it?” Matheus asked.

“I’ve been formally invited to present you to the lords of the city,” Quin said.

“What?”

“It’s traditional,” Quin sighed. “I hoped we could avoid it.”

“What the hell is it?” Matheus asked. Quin passed him the letters. They mostly contained the same message, full of the kind of contorted, ornate language last seen in Victorian times or any of the Decemberists’ albums. Matheus thought he spotted a wild
thee
, probably stalking one of the many
thou
‘s. A beautiful, looping script that must have taken the writer years to perfect scrolled over the lavender paper. The second letter looked as though it’d been written with a quill, giving the letters a bold, Gothic appearance. The last was plain ballpoint on computer paper in neat, angled handwriting.

Matheus dropped the letters on the table. “Why didn’t you mention this before?” he asked.

Quin shrugged. “It’s fallen out of favor. It used to be, every time someone was turned, they were presented to the lords of the city, but the young ones don’t care about the old ways anymore.”

“The young ones?” Matheus repeated. “Are you going to start telling people to get off your lawn? What about those kids with their pants around their knees? Want an Ensure?”