Real Vampires Don't Sparkle

by Amy Fecteau

  “Are you about done?” Quin asked in a cool voice.

  Well, fuck.

  “Why don’t you lock me in a cell for all of eternity? I’ll be safe in there, won’t I?” Matheus asked. He stalked toward Quin, the brief moment of rationality vanishing like fairy dust.

  “Calm down,” said Quin.

  “Go fuck yourself. Calm down? I’ll calm down when I want to fucking calm down!”

  “Stop behaving like a child.”

  “Stop treating me like one!”

  The muscle in Quin’s jaw twitched like he’d swallowed a Tesla coil. A rush of glee swept through Matheus. He planted himself in front of Quin, close enough to see faint lines around Quin’s eyes.

  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you don’t know everything?” Quin asked. He started out slow, words rising in volume as the question went on. “That maybe I learned something over the last seventeen hundred years?”

  “Apparently not people skills,” said Matheus. “Because you suck at them.”

  Quin’s mouth dropped open. “I suck at them?”

  “Yes!”

  “Look in a goddamned mirror!”

  Matheus tilted his head to the side, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “But I’m just a child,” he said. “I don’t know any better.”

  “You—”

  “Pardon me,” said Milo.

  “What?” Matheus and Quin shouted in unison. Matheus had forgotten about Milo, too set on driving Quin completely over the brink. He blinked; the world zoomed out, expanding with breathless speed.

  “Someone is knocking,” Milo said.

  The door shook with heavy thuds at its base. Quin pushed past Matheus, crossing the foyer with long, sharp strides.

  Matheus ignored Quin waving him back. He hovered at Quin’s shoulder, watching as Quin opened the door.

  The smell of blood burst into the house. Matheus rocked on his heels with the force of it, his eyes fluttering shut for a second.

  He opened them to see Alistair, bent with the effort of carrying the body. Blood covered his arm up to his elbows. He’d dragged a hand through his hair, leaving a rust-colored streak through the blond. He swayed, his gaze flicking between Matheus and Quin.

  “Please,” he said.

  Red curls dragged over the front porch.

  Ice spiked through Matheus’ veins, freezing out the anger.

  Blood dripped onto the concrete, every drop landing into deafening silence. Alistair swayed, scrambling for a better grip as a pale arm slipped free, long fingers landing in the pool of blood.

  “Help me,” said Alistair.

  “Bianca.” Matheus pushed past Quin onto the porch. He caught Bianca’s shoulders, propping her head against his stomach. Her arms hung limp at her sides. Someone had tied a folded jacket over her abdomen; the makeshift bandage held on with the bungee cords out of the back of someone’s truck. Blood covered Bianca’s face, flowing out of a large gash over her left eye.

  Alistair jerked his head toward the hallway.

  Nodding, Matheus moved backward, banging the heel of his foot against the bottom of the door. Bianca’s blood dripped onto his arm, warm and tingling on his skin.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Later,” said Alistair. “Quin, we need alcohol and bandages.” His voice held none of the cloying sweetness of his last interaction with Quin. “She’s going to need stitches, too, so get needles and strong thread. Go to Ken-Med, ask for James McKenna.”

  “I—” Quin said.

  “Do it!” Matheus shouted.

  Alistair and Milo both jumped, Alistair nearly dropping Bianca.

  Quin stared at Matheus for a drawn-out moment.

  Matheus glared back, the earlier anger still driving his brain. Bianca’s blood burned, the tingles turning into nettles. She shifted, letting out a whimper audible only in the silence of the foyer. Matheus glanced down. Bianca’s face tightened beneath her mask of blood. She breathed in short, shallow gasps tumbling over one another. Matheus looked back at Quin.

  Please, he mouthed, speech evaporating with his anger.

  Quin swung around.

  “This will be easier if you come, too,” he said, looking at Milo over his shoulder. He grabbed a coat out of the closet at random.

  “It’s not in my contract,” said Milo.

  “It is now,” said Quin. “Move.”

  Lights circled Matheus’ bed. Matheus held up a desk lamp, kneeling, with his elbows propped up on the mattress. His arms shook; every few minutes Matheus had to adjust his grip or his wrists went numb.

  “She’s so pale,” he said.

  “Blood loss,” said Alistair. “Higher.”

  “What?”

  “Light. Higher.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Matheus watched as Alistair wiped clean the gash on Bianca’s head. A flap of skin lay flat against her forehead. Bruising surrounded the wound, purple and black mottling around her eye. Alistair worked quickly, dipping his cloth into a glass again and again until the water turned a cloudy red. Bianca shifted, moaning quietly before going still. Alistair pressed a folded pillowcase to the cut, then grabbed one of Matheus’ wrists, tugging it toward the makeshift bandage.

  “Hold that,” he said.

  “But the—”

  “Hold it!”

  Juggling the lamp, Matheus leaned to the right, covering the pillowcase with the palm of his hand. He adjusted the lamp with small tosses, until the base rested in the crook of his elbow, his fingertips brushing the edge of the bulb. He winced as the hot metal socket burnt his skin.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

  “She’s my friend too.” Alistair unhooked the bungee cords holding the jacket around Bianca’s midsection. The fabric made a sticky, ripping sound as he pulled away the coat.

  Matheus felt like he’d just taken a kick to the chest. The light wavered, shadows flickering wildly over the walls.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “Light,” said Alistair. “Light!”

  “Sorry.” Matheus jerked the lamp up, pinning it between his forearm and biceps.

  Alistair bent over Bianca, peeling away the layers of blood-soaked clothes. A long slash ran through her thin sweater, through the tank top she wore underneath, and into her abdomen.

  Through the blood, Matheus could see bits of white, Bianca’s ribs, where the blade had skated over her chest. The cut deepened at her belly, clean line destroyed in a mess of flesh, sloppy red and purple, streaks of yellow layered under her skin.

  Alistair grabbed another pillowcase off the stack Matheus had retrieved from Quin’s secret stash. He daubed at the blood, a lone umbrella in the face of a hurricane.

  “Will she—?” Matheus said.

  “I brought the supplies.” Quin dropped the bags on the foot of the bed. “Your contact isn’t happy.”

  Alistair ignored him. He dug through the bags, tossing out alcohol, bandages, tape, and enough sample packets of painkillers for an army battalion.

  “Where is the surgical kit?” he asked, head shoved in the bag.

  “Try the other one.” Quin peered at Bianca, his head tilted to the side. He leaned closer, examining the wound in her stomach, before straightening.

  “She looks dead,” he said.

  Alistair shoved him aside, and set a green canvas pouch on the mattress beside Bianca’s elbow.

  “Get out,” he said, tearing open the pouch with a snarl of Velcro. Selecting one of the shining tools, he bent over Bianca, nudging at the bloody mass in her gut. He pinched the tool around something, Matheus couldn’t tell what, then retrieved another.

  Matheus hoped Alistair knew which bits were what, because the whole thing looked like a mixture of strawberry jam, liver and onions, and chicken skin. The smell of raw steak permeated the air, but his hunger remained hidden. Despite himself, Matheus inhaled. Blood coated the bed, his clothes, his hands, everywhere, but not the right kind of blood. Bianca didn’t smell like d
inner; Matheus had never been more grateful for that fact. Red blotches covered his arms where Bianca’s blood had dried and flaked off. Heat off the remaining blood sank into his skin. Even more blood covered Alistair, but despite the contact burns on his pale skin, he showed no signs of discomfort. Matheus risked lowering the light; a flash of Alistair’s eyes and he raised the lamp to its original height.

  “What did you say?” Quin asked.

  Matheus glanced up; he’d forgotten about Quin.

  “I said, get out,” said Alistair.

  Repressing a nervous laugh, Matheus ducked his head. He wanted to remember the expression on Quin’s face for the rest of his life. For two months, Matheus had shouted, argued, and thrown temper tantrums worthy of reality television, and produced nothing close to the amount of confused indignation Alistair managed with four simple words.

  “Why does he get to stay?” Quin asked, flicking a hand at Matheus.

  “He’s helping. Out.”

  Quin slammed the door behind him. Matheus heard his footsteps all the way up the stairs. He hoped Milo had found a good place to hide.

  “He’s such a baby,” said Alistair. He pulled a plastic case out from one of the bags, then selected a fine, curved needle. “I still loathe you, by the way.”

  Matheus stared at the needle, feeling his cheeks go numb. Don’t faint, he thought.

  “Thank God,” he said, his voice a half-octave higher than usual. “I was worried there for a second.”

  Alistair fitted the needle into a device with a handle like a pair of scissors. He tossed a bag of cotton balls at Matheus, along with a pair of clamps.

  “Try to keep the area clear so I can see,” Alistair said. “Hurry up.”

  Matheus looked at the lamp, the pillowcase bandage he held to Bianca’s forehead, then at Alistair.

  “With what?” he asked. “My toes?”

  Matheus swayed. He’d been demoted from nurse to full-time lamp holder. After the third cotton ball he’d lost in Bianca’s abdomen, Alistair had snatched the clamp away, cursing Matheus’ parentage, and questioning his ability to think without drooling.

  Matheus bit back his responses, at least until he knew Bianca would survive.

  “Why isn’t she waking up?” he asked, as Alistair began removing the various clamps from Bianca’s abdomen. “Why isn’t she screaming?”

  “Defense mechanism. Her body’s trying to shut down as much as possible so she can heal,” said Alistair.

  “But—”

  “She’s not human.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Her body reacts differently.” Alistair pieced the flaps of skin together, and began sewing with quick, neat stitches.

  Matheus watched the needle dip in and out of Bianca’s gut, the thin bit of silver flashing with each twist of Alistair’s wrist. Dizziness built behind Matheus’ eyes, travelling to the base of his skull, echoing down through his bones. He closed his eyes.

  “It’s almost sunrise,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Are you going to finish in time? Is Bibi going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know!” Alistair’s temper cracked for the first time.

  Matheus opened his eyes.

  Alistair stopped sewing. He sat back on his heels, needle and thread dangling from his fingers.

  “I don’t know,” he repeated. “Her intestines are intact, and her liver, but her kidneys were nicked….” Alistair trailed off. He stared at the wall for a second, then resumed his stitching.

  “Can we take her to a hospital?” Matheus asked.

  “Don’t you think I would have done that first?” Alistair asked. “Weren’t you listening before? Bianca is not human. If she had a pack in Kenderton, they would take care of her, but she’s alone here. It’s just us.”

  Matheus’ legs felt numb to his knees. In fifteen minutes, the sun would rise and they would die. Matheus didn’t like to think about Bianca waking up injured and alone, bookended by corpses. If she woke up at all. Matheus brushed Bianca’s hair back, his fingers catching in the tangles of dried blood. For once, Alistair didn’t bark about the light.

  “There!” Alistair set down the clamps. He shook out his hand, opening and closing his fingers, then stretching them one by one. “Bandage.”

  “What? Oh.” The lamp hit the floor with a dull thud. Matheus ripped open a packet containing a large surgical bandage, angling it over the length of Bianca’s wound. He had to use two bandages to cover the entire thing. Bianca’s chest barely moved; a whistling sound accompanied each breath. Matheus placed his ear against the bandage, one hand fisting in the bloody sheets.

  “Her pulse is weak,” said Alistair. He slumped beside the bed, resting his forehead against the side of the mattress. Lines Matheus hadn’t seen before marred Alistair’s delicate features. “She could use a blood transfusion.”

  Matheus forced himself to stand up. He pulled the blanket up to Bianca’s armpits, wishing they had time to change the sheets. The room resembled an abattoir. The sheets, blankets, and mattress would all have to be thrown away, possibly the carpet as well. Matheus’ legs gave out after a few seconds. He fell in a heap next to Alistair, his head bouncing off the floor. With effort, Matheus managed to drag his arms across the carpet, pressing his palms down in attempt to stand. His arms had turned to warm rubber, his elbows missing all structural integrity. Matheus had never come this close to sunrise before.

  “If she dies, I’ll kill you,” he said, mumbling into the carpet.

  “That makes no sense.” Alistair sounded drugged. He exhaled each word with a long hiss of air.

  “Then give me someone else to kill.”

  “Later,” said Alistair.

  “O—” Death captured the remaining syllables.

  Matheus opened his eyes, blinking at the blur of green, confused. His pillowcase had tiny blue flowers on a white background, not a single thread of lime, emerald, or jade. He dragged his cheek over the unfamiliar cloth; he stopped before he scoured through his skin. Had he woken up in the Astrodome? He sniffed. The green smelt of dust and mold. Carpet, he thought. He jerked upright as last night’s memories snapped into place.

  “Oh, God,” he said, taking in the bloodstained room, Alistair’s crumpled form, Bianca beneath the thick duvet. Matheus crawled onto his knees, and scooted towards Alistair.

  “Alistair. Alistair!” Matheus poked Alistair’s face. His finger left an indentation in the cold flesh. “Jesus Christ, he’s dead.”

  “Of course he’s dead. You were dead until about three minutes ago.”

  “Christ, Bibi!” Matheus lunged toward the bed, knocking his knees on the side and landing with his weight splayed out on his palms.

  Bianca blinked up at him. The blanket had slipped down beneath her breasts. Her sweater hung off her shoulders, the thick whorls of wool sliced beyond repair. Matheus glanced down before snapping his stare back to Bianca’s.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Goodness, Mat, you’ve seen them before,” Bianca said. She tugged the blanket up, wincing at the brief movement. “There’s not even that much to look at.”

  “Um, right.” Matheus sat carefully on the side of the bed.

  Bianca’s face tightened with each shake of the bed. Hidden freckles stood out in stark relief over her ashen skin. Dark circled her eyes, rested in the hollows of her cheeks.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like a sausage in dire need of a bath,” said Bianca. “Alistair stitched me together, I take it.”

  “Yeah.” Matheus tapped his fingers on the back of Bianca’s wrist. “It was amazing. Horrifying, but amazing. Don’t tell him I said that.”

  Bianca smiled, but her eyes didn’t match her lips.

  “He was a surgeon, before Quin turned him.”

  “Fuck me,” said Matheus. Static filled his mind.

  “I know, he doesn’t seem the type.” Bianca bit her lip, but the soft groan still escaped. Her eyes drifted closed. “I�
��m going to pass out now. Play nice.”

  “Bibi?” Matheus cupped her cheek. Her skin burned like a hot iron against his hand.

  “Is she awake?” Alistair stretched, curving his back into a question mark, then arching back to a bow shape, his arms high over his head. He plucked his shirt and pants; bits of dried blood flaked free.

  “She was.” Matheus frowned. “I’m surprised. She’s better than I thought she’d be.”

  “The children of the moon heal quickly.” Alistair grimaced at his fingernails. “I need a bath.”

  “Aren’t you going to check on Bibi?”

  Alistair paused in his grooming.

  “She spoke?” he asked.

  Matheus nodded.

  “Then she’s fine.”

  “She’s got a great bloody hole in her gut!”

  Alistair scratched at the blood on his forearms.

  “Where’s your bathroom?” he asked.

  “Go fuck yourself,” said Matheus, kicking Alistair in the shin as he stomped out.

  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.