Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (56 page)

“
Vater
?” repeated Quin. He looked from the blond man to Matheus. Recognition bloomed across his face.

“Quin,” Matheus said.

“Don’t.” Quin shifted away from Matheus. He stared at the blond man, jaw clenched and twitching.

“Incapacitate the subject and return it to its cell,” said Matheus’ father. “Mattias, with me.”

He walked toward the elevator without waiting. The guards parted automatically.

“Quin, I—” Matheus grabbed Quin’s wrist. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know!”

Quin shoved him aside. He darted forward, then slumped, a bolt sticking out of his back. He landed, knees on concrete, then bent at the waist, his head hitting the floor with a hollow
thunk
.

Matheus started forward, freezing at the sound of his father’s voice.

“Mattias,
komm jetzt mit mir.
”

Matheus’ feet moved before his brain processed the words. He glanced at Quin, then ducked his head and followed his father. In the elevator, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He stopped breathing, each inhale too weak to lift the lead vest compressing his chest. “I hoped it wasn’t you,” he said.

“
Sprich Deutsch.
”

“No,” said Matheus. He opened his eyes. His father stood in front of the doors, his back to Matheus. A vague reflection clouded the control panel, too indistinct to make out details. Matheus didn’t need to see his father’s face to picture his expression, even after ten years. He felt the creeping sensation of being a teenager again, trapped in shame and anger, vain defiance a façade over the deep-seated urge to obey.

“You are stubborn,” said his father.

“I could kill you.” A child’s threat, sullen, said in haste at being denied some petty pleasure. Matheus cringed at his own voice.

“You will not. You are my son and you will behave as such.”

“Of course,” said Matheus darkly.

The elevator stopped on the third floor, the doors opening with a chime. Matheus’ father stepped out.

For a moment, Matheus considering taking the elevator down to the garage. His father didn’t look back, even as the doors started to close. Matheus cursed himself as he pushed them open, stepping out of the car. Goddammit, he had his father bailing him out all over again. Nothing changed.

The third floor gave off the impression of a banker’s executive suite.

Matheus left footprints on the lush carpet. Paintings from his childhood lined the walls, arranged in the same pattern. Ornate coffee tables with huge vases of fresh flowers dotted the hall. Replaced every day, if Matheus remembered his childhood correctly. Carsten Schneider did not tolerate wilting.

They passed several closed doors, but no other inhabitants.

Matheus trailed after his father, trying to convince himself to run and knowing he wouldn’t.

Carsten paused outside a door identical to the others, heavy oak, no industrial steel or glass to be found up here. A small key reader took the place of a lock, the only concession to technology. Matheus’ father swiped his card, then entered a passcode. The latch clicked, the door swinging open a hair. Carsten gestured Matheus inside first. The door locked automatically after them.

“You will sit,” said Matheus’ father. He walked around the desk, a dark Victorian affair stretching six feet across, dominating the room. A pair of chairs with cream and gold upholstery over rigid backs sat in front of the massive desk. Bookcases with glass fronts held leather-bound volumes, first editions, of course. A painting,
The Binding of Isaac
, hung on the wall opposite. Artifacts of Matheus’ childhood filled the room, only the stained glass window missing.

Matheus gripped the back of the chair, his gaze on the old-fashioned fountain pen set exactly within arm’s reach from the chair, equidistant from either side of the desk. Except for a stack of folders, so tidy they seemed to be aligned by laser-sight, nothing else covered the broad expanse of green hide.

Matheus’ father rested his fingertips on the top of the desk. He surveyed Matheus up and down, the lines around his mouth deepening. He said nothing.

Matheus resisted the urge to squirm. He hated this tactic, the prelude to the disappointment speech, which led into the everything-I-have-given-you-speech, which dissolved into the you-are-a-useless-blight-upon-this-family-speech, before wrapping up with the get-out-of-my-sight-you-disgust-me dismissal. Matheus couldn’t produce a single happy, or even neutral, memory from his father’s office. Just memories of a constant stream of Matheus’ many failures. And, as the ever obedient son, Matheus hated to prove his father wrong.

“What are you going to do with me?” he asked, breaking first. He always broke first.

“At the moment, I wish to speak with you. Sit, Mattias.”

Sit, Mattias. Come, Mattias. Heel, Mattias,
Matheus thought.
Good boy, have a treat.

“Matheus,” he said. “My name is Matheus now.”

“Your name is Mattias, and that is how I will refer to you.”

“No,” said Matheus. “It’s Matheus Taylor.”

“I do not care for whatever foolishness you have decided to call yourself. I named you Mattias, and Mattias is what you will be called. Do not argue the matter further.”

“Don’t you get it?” Matheus clenched the back of the chair, the carved leaves and vines leaving their patterns on his skin. “I didn’t want to be Mattias Schneider anymore. He’s gone, vanished. I’m not your son.”

“It is of no concern what you want,” said Carsten. “Things are, and that is all. I suggest you reconcile yourself to the situation. This petty temper tantrum has lasted far too long.”

“Temper tantrum?” echoed Matheus. The scene before him blurred, his father’s outline growing shaky. Matheus inhaled, aiming for English, wanting to deny his father even the smallest victory. “You think this is a fucking
temper tantrum
?”

Matheus jumped as his father slammed his palm onto the desk.

“You will keep a respectful tongue in your mouth or you will lose the right to exercise it. You may wish to taint yourself with gutter speech, but I will not tolerate it.” Carsten held Matheus’ stare, the lines etching deeper into his face.

Matheus pressed his lips together. He looked away first, at his hands, knuckles aching from the force of his grip. He heard his father sigh, the rustle of his clothes as he turned.

“You are not the son I hoped for,” Carsten said. “But despite that, you belong to me, and that cannot be changed.”

Closing his eyes, Matheus curled his shoulders inward, ducking his head.

“I don’t belong to you,” he said softly. His father ignored him.

“I tried to do my best to mold your character, but you lack the strength, weakened by your mother’s flaws. I see now I should have guided you with a firmer hand. I must accept responsibility for my own failures. Your mother was not the woman I thought.”

Matheus raised his head. His tongue felt swollen, trailing thickly down his throat. He stared at his father’s back.

“She bewitched me, convinced me she was pure, but in the end, she was not. Corruption arrives in the most attractive of packages, Mattias.” Carsten turned around, returning his fingertips to the desk. “I realize now it was foolish to expect more from you. You carry her weakness inside you. She also did not have the stomach for what must be done.”

“What…what are you trying to say?” asked Matheus. His knees wavered, knocking against the back of the chair.

“Only that I do not blame you for the faults in your character. One cannot mine for diamonds if there are no diamonds to be found.”

“So it’s not my fault I’m worthless,” Matheus said. “Gosh, Dad, what a lovely sentiment. I’m so glad we had this chat.”

“You are flippant. It does not do you credit.”

“Was my mother flippant? You know, because I got all her bad points and all.”

“I do not expect you to understand,” said his father.

“Right. How could I? Since I’m damaged goods. You should be happy I ran away. No more putting up with your embarrassing mistake of a son. Why not disown me and do us both a favor?”

“I would not disown my own blood,” said Carsten. “Whatever limitations you have inherited from your mother, you also possess part of me.”

“I possess more than that.” Matheus walked between the chairs, mimicking his father’s pose at the desk. He leaned forward, drawing his lips back and triggering his fangs. “See these? You think my mother was corrupted? At least she was human, right? Not me. Not anymore. I’m tainted.
Ein dämon
. A sin against God. Isn’t that what you always said? That you did the will of God, cleansing the Earth of the filthy monsters.”

His father staggered backward, stumbling over the legs of the desk chair. Revulsion twisted his features into an old-fashioned grotesque, suitable for carving into stone. He crossed himself, muttering the Trinitarian formula in Latin, then clasped his hands together. He bent his head, inaudible whispers moving over his lips.

“That doesn’t work,” said Matheus. “Crosses, holy water, God, Jesus, it’s all bullshit.”

Crack!

Matheus put his hand up to his stinging cheek, feeling the slight warmth of the blow in his fingertips. His mouth hung open, blood pooling behind his lip. He’d bitten down at the shock, piercing the inside of his mouth. His father had never struck him, not once. Sure, nannies had spanked Matheus as kid, but never Carsten. Eighteen years, and Matheus couldn’t remember a single time his father had raised his hand in anger. Carsten always held himself in control, kept his cool as Matheus lost his.

Slowly, Matheus lowered his hand, watching his father’s face. He found nothing, no remorse, no regret, only the chilly arrogance of a man with too much faith and too little empathy.

“Put those away,” Carsten said, flicking his fingers at Matheus’ fangs. “Sit.”

“I don’t want to sit,” said Matheus. He folded his arms, tucking his fists beneath his biceps. “I want to stand.”

He grinned, revealing his fangs.

“You still insist on behaving like a child.”

“Last time you saw me, I was a child.”

“And now you consider yourself a man? Perhaps you should behave as one.”

“By being your obedient little lapdog?” asked Matheus.

“By honoring your father. By holding yourself to a higher standard than cheap sarcasm and small-minded rebellion.”

“Now that’s familiar,” said Matheus. “Almost like I never left.”

“I do not know why I expected any different. You do not have the capacity for growth. Nothing has changed.”

“Yes, it has. It’s been ten years. I have my own life away from you. I’m my own person, cheap sarcasm and all.”

Carsten snorted. Matheus tried not to see himself reflected in that gesture, and failed.

“You are a common slave bound to your master,” his father said.

“I don’t have a master,” Matheus said. His father had hit uncomfortably close to the truth. Matheus tilted his chin up, glaring at his father’s nose.

“He controls you even now.”

“No! God, just shut up!”

His father gave him a look of infinite pity.

Matheus clenched his jaw until he thought his teeth would shatter. He fixed his attention to the desk, memorizing every bump and crease in the hide covering.

“Mattias,
mein Sohn
, it is alright. I have forgiven you.”

With a jolt, Matheus looked up.

“You could not help but sin,” said his father. “It is your nature. But you cannot be allowed to continue to spread this…this filth through the world.”

“What are you going to do?” Matheus asked.

Carsten walked around the desk. He placed his hands on Matheus’ shoulders, pulling their heads together.

They were the same height, Matheus realized. Somehow, he’d always imagined his father as being taller. He shifted his weight, inching away until the arm of the chair hit his thighs. His father’s fingers molded their shape into Matheus’ shoulders.

“I will save you,” said his father fervently. A flush had risen on his cheeks, made shiny by a faint sheen of sweat. “
Mein Sohn
.”

Matheus knocked Carsten’s hands aside. His father started, as though awakened from a deep sleep. He blinked at Matheus for a second, before shutters drew over his face.

“I don’t want anything to do with you,” Matheus said with forced calm. He wanted nothing more than to scream, to kick, to throw himself at his father and demand what right Carsten had to
save
him. He didn’t offer any help when Matheus spent days at a time killing off brain cells wholesale, tossing back anything with a blackout at the bottom. Matheus didn’t remember any
saving
going on back then, and God knew, he could have used some.

“Mattias—”

“Matheus! Matheus! You fu—” Matheus cut himself off, biting down on the words. He swallowed, a thin trickle of sour blood burning down his throat.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “Call the guards if you want.” He shoved past his father, counting his steps as he crossed the room.

“I can restore your soul,” said his father.

Matheus paused, his hand on the handle.

“My soul’s just fine, thanks.” He gave the door a tug. It refused to move. He sighed, letting his forehead hit the smooth oak boards. The door locked automatically; he’d forgotten. Of course, the fact that Matheus remembered anything at all impressed him. His father had a strange, mind-hazing effect on him. Things that seemed so clear became confused and muddled, tangled together with anger and desperation and regret. Matheus wondered if everyone had the same reaction to their parents, or if he’d just gotten the short end of the genetic stick.
I don’t belong to you
, he thought, but he knew a lie when he heard one. He’d ran away, changed his name, made himself someone new, but he’d always be his father’s son.