Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (46 page)

“Only one what?” asked Matheus.

“Only one owned by a foreign holding company,” said Milo.

Quin’s fingertips brushed the keys. He jerked his hands back, folding them underneath his chin. “So he is here,” he said.

“Could be a franchise,” said Milo. “He’s got a couple of kids. Family business?”

“I don’t think he’d trust anyone else. This is too important.”

“Does he have a name?” Matheus asked. “Or do you get off on all this mysterious bullshit?”

“Sunshine, go check on your friend.”

“Why don’t you just give me a spanking and send me to my room?”

Quin looked at him. “If that’s what you want,” he said, in a slow, cool voice. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

The words lingered in the air, flowed like syrup laced with ice crystals through the curves of Matheus’ ear straight to his central nervous system. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, trapping his initial response of
yes
, along with the follow-up answer of
please
. He gripped the loveseat’s cushion and glared at Quin. Then, unable to formulate a response that would not result in his immediate need to commit seppuku, Matheus stood up and stomped out of the room.

He really needed a quiet minute to sit down with his libido and explain some things. If only people stopped attacking him long enough for that to happen.

“Hey, Bibi.”

Bianca lay ensconced in a glorious mound of pillows. Small pillows, large pillows, square pillows, circular pillows, pillows with embroidery, pillows with tassels, pillows with tassels and embroidery and lace—a cornucopia of stuffing and fabric.

“Wow,” said Matheus. He stopped, his toes just outside the doorway, and leaned into the bedroom.

“Come sit next to me,” Bianca said, waving at him.

“I’m not sure there’s room.” Matheus burrowed into the pillows, tossing them left and right until he’d carved out a space big enough for an adult male. He looked around the room; he’d never felt so aggressively masculine in his life. A pair of teddy bears in gingham stared at him from the vanity. Matheus shifted, but their beady black eyes followed him, watching, waiting. He forced himself to look at Bianca, trying not to search for movement out of the corner of his eyes.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Oh, lovely.” Bianca gave a long, singsong sigh. She continued to wave her hand through the air. “Alistair gave me some more of those pretty little pills.” She sighed again. “I love Alistair. He’s pretty, too.” She frowned. “It’s sad.”

Gently, Matheus lowered Bianca’s hand to the bed. He kept his hand on her wrist, his thumb resting over her pulse-point. “What’s sad?” he asked.

“Hmm?” Bianca swung her head around. She blinked at him, eyelids taking an eternity for the round-trip.

“You said, ‘it’s sad’,” said Matheus.

“Oh. Nothing.” She tilted her head to the side. “I never told you about the dreams.”

“You don’t have to tell me now.”

“I feel like talking.” Bianca leaned forward, her temple resting on a large, cream-and-rose pillow trimmed in lace. “Besides,” she added in a stage whisper, “I think the bears are plotting something.”

“You might be right,” Matheus said, casting another glance at the stuffed animals. He swore the one on the left had moved closer.

“You’re pretty, too,” said Bianca. Her hand resumed waving. “Come here.”

Matheus bent his head, and after a few passes, Bianca managed to pat him on the ear.

“…wish you hadn’t…never wanted….” She mumbled.

“Bibi?”

Bianca straightened with a light laugh. “Sorry. Everything is all…floaty.”

“You don’t say,” said Matheus. He tossed more of the pillows onto the floor and slid across the satin duvet cover. He held up an arm. Bianca wiggled underneath it, laying her head on Matheus’ chest.

“You smell like a girl,” she said.

“You smell like cheap booze,” said Matheus.

“Gosh, Mat, why hasn’t some lucky—” Bianca yawned, the bones in her jaw cracking. “Never mind, I’m too zonked for insults.”

She curled onto her side, one hand fisting in Matheus’ t-shirt. “I didn’t find a lot. Luther the Mad, of course.”

“Luther the Mad?”

“Sixteenth century. Claimed to have visions, started a cult, thought he was the second coming of Protos. But, as I said, mad.”

“I’m fairly certain I’m not insane,” Matheus said.

Bianca let out a soft snore. Her knee dug into Matheus’ thigh; her elbow threatened to impale his pelvis. Stonings resulted in few bruises than a cuddle with Bianca.

Matheus poked her shoulder.

She started. “Was I talking?” she asked. “Oh, yes, Luther the Mad.”

“You can sleep if you want,” said Matheus. “I don’t mind.”

“No, I’m fine. Now, Herman White.”

“The Mad?”

“The alchemist. Nineteenth century. I found his notes.” Bianca shivered. “He was trying to stop the changing just before death. Never worked, I’m afraid; all the subjects died within days. But they did report especially vivid dreams before kicking it.”

“Anything else?” Matheus asked. He nudged Bianca. She raised her head, leaving a trail of drool on Matheus’ shirt.

“Maybe if I’d had more time, but there was that whole pesky maiming and near-burning.”

“It’s okay,” said Matheus quickly.

“The dreams aren’t connected with the claim,” said Bianca. She turned onto her back, and scratched under her shirt. The fabric rucked up on her torso, revealing the edge of the bandage. Bianca clawed at the tape with non-existent nails. “I checked.”

“Are you sure you should be doing that?” Matheus asked.

“It’s so itchy.”

“Well, suffer in silence.” Matheus pushed Bianca’s hand away from her abdomen. He tugged her shirt down with a sharp jerk. “And stillness.”

Bianca exhaled loudly.

“Anything else?” Matheus asked.

“Not much. You people don’t like writing things down.” Bianca’s head lolled to the side, her eyelids half-closed. “Oh, they’re plotting something, I can tell.”

“What?”

“The bears,” hissed Bianca. “No, don’t look. Then they’ll know we know.”

Matheus peered at the bears out the corner of his eye. “I think you’re—Bibi?”

“Gruk.” Bibi raised her head with a jerk. She glanced around the room, her dazed expression clearing as saw caught sight of Matheus. “It’s traditional, you know.”

“Murderous teddy bears?” Matheus asked.

“Nooooo,” Bianca clung to the long
o
like a long-lost love.

“Claiming.” She giggled, the laughter shaking down through her body. “The stronger protects the weaker.”

“What does the weaker do?” Matheus didn’t think he wanted to know the answer.

Bianca made a loose fist and moved it back and forth, her tongue pushing against the side of her cheek.

Matheus knocked her hand down.

Bianca giggled more.

“It’s not funny,” Matheus said.

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s not com-pul-sor-y.” Bianca frowned and mouthed the word a few more times. “You’ll be able to find each other, or if the other is hurt, but that’s about it. No magic sexified mind control.” She paused, laughed again, then said, “The lusty stuff is all you.”

“I’m pleased you find my suffering so amusing.”

“Everything is amusing right now. I love everything. Except those fucking bears.” Bianca stabbed her finger at the vanity. “I’m onto you!”

“Okay,” said Matheus. “I think we’ve moved beyond drugged up into full-blown lunacy.”

“Hmm? No, no, I’m fine.”

“Uh huh.”

“Mmm-hmm. Ask me something.”

Matheus sighed. “Can Quin read my mind?”

“Telepathy doesn’t exist, Mat. Don’t be silly.”

“Right. Because the existence of people who turn into wolves is so realistic.”

“Well. I’m real.” Bianca blinked at him, a slight wrinkle between her eyes. “Anyway, Quin might be able to guess your general mood, but Mat, love, your general mood is annoyed. It doesn’t take a claim to know that.”

“A claim?” Alistair stood in the doorway, wet hair a tumbled mess, too-big shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders. He looked from Matheus to Bianca, then back. His lips parted a fraction; white showed clear around the bright blue of his irises.

“Oops,” said Bianca in a small voice. Slowly, she pulled the duvet over her head.

“You’re claimed?” Alistair asked. “By—by who?”

Matheus crossed his arms, glaring at Alistair.

“Who do you think?” he asked. Did Alistair think he went around like some kind of claim-whore, selling himself out to anyone with a working set of fangs?

“Quin?”

“No, the other violent psychopath I live with,” said Matheus.

Alistair convulsed. He continued to look at Matheus, but distance clouded his eyes.

Bianca peeked over the top of the blanket. “Alistair, I—”

Alistair spun around, sprinting out of sight. His footsteps resonated down the hallway.

“Bloody buggering fuck,” sighed Bianca. She gave Matheus a push. “Go on.”

Matheus raised his eyebrows at her.

“Go stop him before he does something stupid,” Bianca said. “I’m riding the morphine express, remember?”

With a groan, Matheus hauled himself out of bed. He paused by the door, his shoulders slumped. Bianca made a shooing motion. Matheus resisted the urge to give the two-fingered salute. He trudged into the hall.

“And be nice!” Bianca called after him.

“Good luck!” Matheus yelled back.

Matheus found Alistair at the door to the living room. One hand rested on the doorknob, his ear pressed to the quarter-inch crack between the door and the frame. He flicked his eyes to Matheus, then down toward the floor. With his other hand, he raised a finger to his lips.

To hell with that
, Matheus thought, and opened his mouth to speak.

“It has to be one or the other,” Quin said.

Matheus froze.

“They were the only two in both places,” continued Quin.

Alistair squeaked as Matheus squished against him. He slapped at Matheus’ arms; Matheus grabbed the back of Alistair’s collar and yanked. A short, hushed fight followed, ending with Alistair in a half-crouch, Matheus standing over him, both of them leaning toward the crack.

“—isn’t Matheus,” Milo said.

“Yeah,” said Quin.

Matheus heard typing, then Milo cleared his throat.

“The woman was injured,” he said.

“And Alistair wasn’t,” said Quin.

Matheus glanced down in time to see the top of Alistair’s head shoot upward. He jumped back, neatly avoiding a head-butt to the chin.

“Alistair, wait!” Matheus’ fingertips brushed the back of Alistair’s shirt as he slammed open the door. “Shit!”

Milo and Quin sat kitty-cornered to each other, Quin on the sofa, Milo in the armchair. Milo looked at Alistair’s face, closed his laptop, then sidled toward the other side of the room.

“What is wrong with you?” Quin asked, head tilted to the maximum arrogance setting.

Matheus covered his face with the palm of his hand.

Alistair stood a few steps in front of him, his hands balled into fists at his sides, as rigid as a wire statue.

“You bastard,” he said, stomping his heel into the pristine white carpet. “You unbelievable bastard!” He stomped again, harder. The knickknacks on the book-less shelves rattled.