Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (54 page)

He moved around to the front of the chair. The stake still jutted out of Quin’s chest. Matheus reached for the dowel, then paused, raising his fingers to his mouth. He’d worked his way down his pinkie by now.

He left Quin in the chair, closing the door after him. He poked his head into the hallway in time to hear the elevator chime. The sound of combat boots on tile travelled down the hall. Matheus ducked back inside. He grabbed the padlock, slotting it through the latch. Dashing to one of the desks, he crammed himself underneath, pulling the rolling chair into place.

Matheus’ chin touched his knees. The soles of his sneakers pressed against the cheap plasterboard of the desk. He squirmed, trying to ease the ache building in his bones. The wheels on the chair dug into his back. He didn’t have a plan. He needed a plan. If he’d had a plan, he wouldn’t be rehearsing his new contortionist routine while waiting for mercenaries to use his body for target practice. Unless getting killed was his plan.

I need a new plan
, Matheus thought. His toes were going to sleep. He tried to wedge himself into a new position, biting back curses as he smacked his head on the desk. With a lot of wiggling, he managed to place one foot flat on the floor. Better for his leg, less so for his nose, now mashed against his thigh.

“Urgh,” he said.

The door opened, and the clank of weaponry entered.

Matheus bit his tongue. He pressed his lips together, swallowing the automatic cry.

The footsteps stopped in front of the desk. The wooden frame creaked as guard leaned his weight against the side.

Matheus heard cellophane and the rustle of paper, then the miniature roar of a lighter. The smell of smoke filtered down. Matheus held his breath. He’d quit smoking ten years ago, and he still had the niggling desire to bum a cigarette off the guard. Minutes passed. Tingles ran up and down Matheus’ legs. His nose molded itself to the curve of his thigh.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Matheus choked, then realized the voice had come from the door.

“Relax,” said the guard above him. “Nobody’s up here.”

“Yeah,” said the man by the door. “What’s in there?”

“You like this job?”

“It’s all right.”

“Then stop asking questions. Come on, let’s report in.”

The door closed behind them.

Matheus counted to five hundred, then unpacked himself. He stumbled, unsteady on numb feet. Leaning against the wall, he rotated his ankle in circles, wincing as feeling returned. He checked the hall, then left.

Voices rose up the stairwell.

He waited around the corner, joining the crowd of people in white lab coats as they returned to their stations. He glanced at their faces, wondering who to pick, how to separate him or her from the others.

Maybe he was a hypocrite, taking a life to save a life, especially when the savee had been around for seventeen hundred years—and wasn’t that long enough?—but Matheus didn’t care. He didn’t care that the person might have kids, or volunteer at the food bank on the weekends, or had a secret dream of sailing around the world in a triple-masted schooner. Quin could recover on his own, but he needed time and Matheus didn’t have any. He also didn’t have centuries of ass-kicking experience. Whatever other faults Quin had, physical inability was not one of them.

Matheus veered around the corner without paying attention. A soft weight bumped into his back. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the woman from the elevator.

“Oh, hello,” she said, giving him a smile. “Crazy, huh.”

“Yeah,” said Matheus.

“It’s not normally like this,” said the woman. She leaned closer to Matheus, stepping out of the flow of people.

“Did something happen?” Matheus tried to keep one eye on the unmarked door.

“They never say. It’s probably a drill. I don’t usually come up here, but everyone’s all muddled now.”

“Mmm,” said Matheus.

“Do you know Jeremy? A little shorter than you with buzzed hair? He’s the only one who can override the automatic shutdown on the computers.”

Matheus switched his gaze back to the woman. He forced a smile. “I think I do,” he said. “I’ll take you to him.”

“You don’t have to bother,” said the woman.

“No, no,” said Matheus. “My pleasure.”

“I’m really sorry about this,” Matheus said. “You seem like a perfectly nice person.”

He knelt down and straightened the unconscious woman’s skirt.

“Except for the whole attempting to claw out my eyes. Which I can hardly blame you for; I would do the same thing. Not quite as effectively, perhaps. I bite my nails. I had quit, but then my life just became a whole mess of unholy stress and I don’t smoke, so….”

Matheus trailed off, ending the stream of babble. He shifted his weight from side to side, putting his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, then taking them out again. He was about to sacrifice a living, breathing person to save a murderer. His murderer. He shoved his hands into his pockets again. The woman looked in her twenties, with a neat pixie cut, and gold-rimmed glasses. A bruise covered the left side of her face, where Matheus had struck her with a paperweight. She’d lost one of her shoes when he dragged her into the back room. A run in her nylon stretched from her toe to the top of her knee.

With a lurch, Matheus spun, facing Quin. He took a step forward, then paused, scrubbing both hands over his face. She worked for a place that advocated kidnapping, murder, and the mangling of body parts.
Is it still murder if the people are already dead?
Matheus wondered. He didn’t feel dead. He didn’t have a pulse, but how many people walked around with their fingers on their wrists, double-checking that their hearts still beat? How necessary was a pulse, really?

“Okay,” said Matheus. “Okay.” With a deep breath, he yanked the stake out of Quin’s chest.

Quin jerked, as though an electrical current had just shot through his body. He rose out of the chair a few inches, then slumped, sliding down the vinyl cushion. His head lolled on a neck made of putty. Blinking, pupils blown, he gazed up at Matheus.

“Sunshine?”

“Hey,” said Matheus. He touched Quin’s arm, then snatched his hand back. He straightened. “There. Take her.”

Quin flopped his head to the right, his eyes narrowing as he tried to focus on the woman.

“I don’t think I can walk,” he said. His voice sounded like two pieces of granite rubbing together.

“She’s two feet away!”

“Oh, God, Sunshine, don’t shout.”

“I didn’t shout,” Matheus waved his finger in Quin’s face. “I brought her here and knocked her out. You want me to bite her for you, too?”

Quin extended a hand and stroked the inside of Matheus’ wrist. His fingertip followed the faint red line, a pale copy of the raw wound on Quin’s skin.

“Fuck,” said Matheus. “Fine. Just let me….”

With an
oomph
, Matheus manhandled Quin out of the chair. He swayed, arms around Quin’s waist, apologizing every time Quin hissed.

“Stop saying sorry,” said Quin, his face buried in Matheus’ shoulder. His arms hung limp at his sides, his feet dragging on the tile floor. “If you say sorry one more time, I’m going to glue your tongue to the roof of your mouth.”

“Sorry,” said Matheus.

With visible effort, Quin lifted his head to look at him.

“It was a reflex,” Matheus said. “You could help me, you know.”

“Sure, and after that, I’ll do a tap dance on the countertop.”

“You do realize I’m rescuing you, right? That I am risking my life and sanity to save your pathetic ass? Maybe a little less sarcasm and a bit more gratitude?”

“
You’re
telling me not to be sarcastic?”

“Right. I’m dropping you.”

“Are not,” said Quin. “Just set me down. Gently.”

“I’m trying.” Matheus’ knees shook as he sank into a squat. “God, you’re heavy. How much do you weigh? Two-fifty?”

“One-ninety-five,” Quin said indignantly. “And that’s muscle.”

“Useless muscle.” Matheus let Quin fall the last couple of inches. He stretched, his spine cracking as he bent backward. “Jesus.”

Quin rolled, half-sprawling over the woman. He tilted her head to the side, sliding his fingers through her short hair.

“I’ll watch the door,” said Matheus.

“Good. Wouldn’t want it to escape.”

Matheus memorized the pattern of chips and dents covering the door. He rocked on his heels, resisting the urge to stick his fingers in ears.

“Do you have to slurp so much?” he asked.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not at my best.” Quin’s voice had grown smoother, deeper, the vocal equivalent of an obsidian blade.

“It’s disgusting.”

“My apologies, your highness. Next time I’ll bring a goblet.”

Matheus pondered which deity he’d annoyed in a previous life. Maybe if he figured out which sacrifices he’d skipped, he could make amends. Did they sell goats at the farmer’s market? Matheus wrinkled his nose. He didn’t want to leave the city, not to mention the issue of travelling with a goat. People frowned on sticking farm animals in the trunk. What if he got a rack of lamb and chanted over that? Sheep were kind of like goats.

“I’m done,” said Quin.

“Good for you,” said Matheus.

“Are you going to turn around?”

“I’m considering it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to rush you.”

Matheus turned, leaning back against the door. He looked Quin up and down, cataloging the damage that remained. Ash colored the warm olive of Quin’s skin, and his fingers still bent at odd angles, but he was smiling, snaggletooth just peeking over the curve of his lip.

Matheus stepped forward, his head drifting away like a hot air balloon.

“I—” he said.

Quin’s smile dipped. He cocked his head to the side. “Sunshine?”

Matheus rested his palms on Quin’s chest. His spine locked straight; he tilted in. He swept his lips over Quin’s, a whisper of a movement, lasting only a second. A soft puff of air brushed Matheus’ skin. He glanced up to see Quin’s eyes, wide and staring. The hot air balloon began to land. Matheus cleared his throat. He moved away, catching his heel on the outflung arm of the woman. Flailing backward, his lungs collapsed as he hit the cold surface of the door. He blinked at the surprise of being vertical. Quin gripped his arms, pinning him in place.

“Um,” said Matheus. “What are you—?”

Quin kissed him.

Matheus’ fingers curled, nails scraping over the door. He kept his eyes open, staring at the slash of Quin’s eyebrows, the tiny lines around his eyes, the faint twitch of his lids. Quin’s stubble rasped against his cheek, unfamiliar and exciting. All of Quin felt rough, the cool pressure of his lips on Matheus’, the callused palm sliding along Matheus’ jawline, the sharp angles of his pelvic bone digging into Matheus. Quin tugged at his hair, coaxing Matheus to arch his neck. Matheus tasted the woman’s blood in Quin’s mouth, lingering, copper-bright traces that danced on his tongue. His arms free, he gripped Quin’s hips, and tried to tell himself Quin was the one shaking, not him.

“No,” he said as Quin pulled away, so quietly Matheus wasn’t sure if he’d spoken the word or just thought it.

Quin rested his forehead on Matheus’. His thumb traced the swell of Matheus’ lower lip. He grinned as Matheus nipped him.

“So,” Quin said. “Not gay?”

“I’m reconsidering my position,” Matheus said.

“Oh, I have a pos—”

“Do not even think about making a bad joke out of that statement.”

“But you made it so easy,” Quin said with the hint of a whine.

“You look older than twenty-five,” said Matheus.

“What?” Quin straightened.

“You don’t look twenty-five.”

“Things were different than. Mid-twenties was middle age. Is this really relevant?”

“Well, you don’t look forty, either.” Matheus forced himself to let go of Quin’s hips. “And you’re tall.”

Quin stared at him. He waved a hand through the air, long fingers making delicate arcs.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m tall. I’ve always been tall. Used to be taller, compared to everyone else. Do you have a point in here somewhere, Sunshine?”

“Not really,” said Matheus. “Just needed to think about something other than the fact that I might be a little higher on the Kinsey scale than I thought.”