Real Vampires Don't Sparkle

by Amy Fecteau

  “At least he wants you. He didn’t even leave me a note when he left. Just walked out and never came back. Granted, it was in Florence, but still.”

  “Did you leave your wife a note?”

  Alistair’s smile vanished.

  A queasy sensation rumbled low in Matheus’ stomach, but he pushed it down. He folded his arms, holding his gaze on Alistair’s chin.

  The barstool scraped over the tiles as Alistair stood up. “I should check on Bianca,” he said.

  “Fine,” said Matheus. He continued to stare at the spot where Alistair had been sitting.

  The kitchen doors whispered together. Alistair’s footsteps faded up the stairs. Matheus didn’t move until the doors stopped swinging. He walked into the hall, and bounced off Milo.

  “Quin?” Matheus asked.

  “Upstairs,” said Milo. “Alistair?”

  “Also upstairs.”

  They looked at each other, then up the staircase.

  “I don’t hear any yelling,” said Matheus.

  “Maybe Quin already killed him.”

  “There would have been a thud, right? I don’t think Quin killed him.”

  Milo shrugged. He wore his coat buttoned up to his neck; a long scarf trailed down past his knees. Unlike the rest of them, Milo had taken the time to gather his winter wear, although Matheus didn’t remember the scarf.

  “Did you go out?” Matheus asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Needed a scarf.” Milo maintained eye contact, his expression flat.

  “There aren’t any stores around—never mind,” said Matheus, waving his hands. “You just keep on being mysterious. Play to your strengths.”

  He backed away, stumbling a little over the step. “I have to go make sure there aren’t bits of Alistair splattered over the walls, but you can do your hacker-typy-thing or whatever you call it.”

  Shaking his head, Milo turned and walked into the living room. Matheus stuck out his tongue at his back, because it was only immature if he got caught. He started up the stairs, then jumped as a bang broke over the silent house. He ran the rest of the way, slipping as he took the hallway corner, the runner carpet sliding over the floor. Pushing off the wall, Matheus regained his balance and kept going, skidding to a stop after the first bedroom.

  “It’s the bears!” Bianca shouted, struggling to master the complicated task of climbing onto a bed. “They pushed me with their miiiiiiinds.”

  “Okay,” said Alistair. “The bears are going away.” He tucked the bears under one arm, then opened the window. Out went the bears.

  Matheus thought he heard their fluffy screams of vengeance.

  “How’s that? Better?”

  “Don’t let them back in.”

  “I won’t, sweetie.” Alistair hooked his arms under Bianca’s armpits and hoisted her onto the bed. “Go to sleep now. Please.”

  “You’re pretty,” Bianca mumbled into her pillow.

  Alistair sighed. He pressed a kiss to Bianca’s forehead, then walked to the door.

  “The painkillers are reacting oddly with her lycanthropy,” Alistair said.

  “You don’t say,” said Matheus. He took a step back as Alistair flicked his fingers at him. “What are you—”

  The door slammed shut, the wood vibrating a centimeter away from Matheus’ nose. He heard the lock click a second later.

  “Well, fuck you, too.” He gave the door a kick before continuing down the hall. He found Quin in the master bedroom, in the middle of a clothing explosion. Matheus assumed the original owners preferred to keep their clothing in dressers and closets, like most civilized people. He didn’t want to live in a world where hanging bras off lampshades and ceiling fans was acceptable behavior. He waded through the sea of designer ready-wear to the bed. Shoving aside a small fortune in Coach and Louis Vuitton purses, he sat down. A pair of Diesel jeans smacked him in the face.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, tossing the jeans down with the purses.

  Quin paused in his manic quest. He knelt in front of a bureau, several of its drawers dumped around him.

  “Looking for pants,” he said. He returned to his sorting, clothes flying left and right after only the briefest of glances. “Is Alistair still insane?”

  “I’m not sure I’m capable of answering that in an unbiased manner.” Matheus dodged a pair of rogue Dockers. “Did you really leave without saying anything?”

  “I don’t remember. Probably.”

  “Ten years is a long time,” Matheus said.

  Quin yanked out the empty drawer and moved on to the next one down.

  “Not for me,” he said.

  Matheus was quiet for a minute. He wondered how long he’d have to live before a decade-long relationship felt like little more than a fling. “I don’t think you’re going to find magically long pants,” he said.

  “Maybe they had tall friends who liked to stay the night,” said Quin. He finished with the dresser and attacked the closet. No sweater was safe. An evening gown in a plastic dry cleaners bag knocked over a bedside lamp. Trench coats in black, navy, and beige wiped out the shelves of photographs on the opposite wall.

  “Maybe you’re a crazy person,” said Matheus. “Why didn’t you claim Alistair?”

  “Have you met Alistair?”

  “Have you met me? I mean, if I was going to link myself to someone for all of eternity, I would not be my first choice. And I am me. At least Alistair would have sex with you.”

  “Congratulations,” said Quin. “You’ve ascended to the plane of Not-Making-Any-Fucking-Sense.”

  “Bastard,” said Matheus. “That’s a woman’s shirt you’re wearing.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Quin stuck his head out of the closet and pointed to the buttons. “Women’s clothing buttons left to right.”

  “It still looks like a woman’s shirt.”

  “Since when do you care about clothing?”

  “I care about mocking you,” said Matheus. “I’ll use the weapons I get.”

  “I lived through the sixteenth century, Sunshine. Modern fashion is tame by comparison.” Quin disappeared further into the closet. Occasionally, a pair of pants or a winter jacket flew out, accompanied by the sounds of cardboard boxes crashing against walls.

  “Why do you think Alistair sold us out?” Matheus leaned forward, wrapping his hands around the edge of the bed.

  “Quin?” He craned his neck to see inside the closet.

  “What?”

  “Will you come out here? I’m trying to talk to you.”

  Quin emerged, his eyebrows raised to improbable heights. He leaned against the doorframe, and crossed his arms. “There,” he said. “I’ve come out of the closet. Happy now?”

  “Not as happy as I would have been if you hadn’t made that joke,” said Matheus.

  Quin flashed a grin. “I couldn’t resist,” he said. “What were you babbling about?”

  “I wasn’t babbling. I don’t babble.”

  “And you’re doing an admirable job proving that point,” said Quin.

  “I hope weevils lay eggs in your dick,” Matheus said. “Why do you think Alistair sold us out?”

  “One.” Quin held up his index finger. “He wasn’t at Zeb’s during the attack. Two, he left my house before that attack. Three,—”

  “But why would he come back?” Matheus interrupted. “If he knew, I mean.”

  “To divert suspicion. Three,—”

  “So what if he left? Other people knew where you and Zeb both lived. Grigori and Apollonia sent those invitations.”

  “It’s not the finding part. It’s the getting in part. Zeb’s house was—”

  “Maybe they just firebombed Zeb’s house,” said Matheus. “Worked on you.”

  “Zeb has neighbors. Grenades attract attention. Besides, Zeb installed—”

  “You know what it’s like in an anonymous city.”

  Quin slashed his hand through the air. “D
o you actually want me to participate in this conversation?” he asked. “Or can I go back to finding clothes that don’t look like I stole them off a ten-year-old?”

  “I just don’t understand why you immediately leap to Alistair when it could have been anyone. Grigori’s the one who shot you. Why couldn’t it be him?”

  “Zeb didn’t trust Grigori. Hell, he didn’t trust anyone except Alistair and your friend. And Alistair isn’t the one with the air vent in his chest.”

  “He’s also the one obsessed with winning you back,” Matheus said. “Or he was, anyway.”

  Quin rolled his eyes. “Then it was your friend,” he said. “Maybe she allowed herself to be injured.”

  “Bianca,” said Matheus. “Say it with me. Bi-an-ca. And it wasn’t her.”

  “Her kind isn’t fond of us.”

  “I’m not very fond of us, either. Maybe I did it,” Matheus said. “I have a cell phone, I could have called someone. I could get in and out of Zeb’s house. Maybe this was all part of my stealthy plan.”

  “Yes, Sunshine, you’re a secret mastermind. Oh, how blind we all were,” Quin said.

  Matheus threw a Prada bag at him, and followed up with last season’s Louis Vuitton after Quin ducked.

  “I’m trying to make a point, jackass,” Matheus said, scrambling for more ammo. “You’re being hasty blaming Alistair.” He held a Fendi, ready to release if Quin took a step closer.

  Quin stopped halfway across the room, his head cocked to one side. He stared at Matheus like an explorer who couldn’t figure out if he’d discovered a fascinating new subculture or a bunch of locals playing What Can We Get the Foreigner Eat?

  “I don’t understand your sudden affection for Alistair,” he said. “I thought you’d jump at the chance to blame him.”

  “You didn’t see him in the house,” Matheus said. “Plus, he tried to decapitate you with a candlestick. I find that very endearing.”

  Quin frowned. “It could have been an act,” he said.

  “It wasn’t.”

  “You were very close.” Quin took a step toward the bed. “Very familiar with someone you supposedly hate.”

  Matheus lowered the Fendi. He inhaled. The air grew heavy in his lungs, like the thick steam of a sauna. The strange feeling returned to his solar plexus as he looked at Quin, tight and hard and electric beneath his ribs. Matheus forced himself to smile. He leaned back, resting his weight on the palm of his hands.

  “Maybe I had a change of heart,” he said. The room took on a stage-like quality. Matheus pictured them both: Quin, amidst the chaos he’d created, spine stiff, hands rigid at his sides, and himself, posing with false casualness as he fingered the grenade’s pin. He wondered if this was what arsonists felt like as the match flared up. “Alistair’s very pretty. Almost like a girl, with those big blue eyes. With all my new life changes, I should be open-minded, right? Go the whole Anne Rice route. Alistair seems cuddly. Is he cuddly, Quin?”

  A half-dozen expressions flickered over Quin’s face. He took another step toward the bed. He opened his mouth, then pressed his lips together in a tight line.

  What the hell am I doing? Matheus thought. Excitement and terror tangled in his mind until he couldn’t be sure when one ended and the other began. He licked his lips, his tongue scraping over his skin.

  “I’m sure he’s over you now,” he continued, the words tumbling out of control. He dug his fingers into the thick comforter, trying to slow down, maintain the easy tone. “He must be, what with trying to brain you to with horrible knickknacks. Maybe I should ask him out. Maybe skip the going out part, since, you know, there’s this crazy wannabe Hitler running around setting fire to things. Still”—Matheus grinned manically.—”a nice comfy bed is all we really need. Maybe this one. Maybe, if you’re lucky, we’ll let you watch.”

  He watched Quin’s face in fascination, waiting for the explosion. Quin closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. He strode into the closet, muttering under his breath. Matheus exhaled, his shoulders slumping. He searched for something else to say, disappointed at the lack of boom.

  “Do you think we’ll look good together?” he yelled. A loud crash came from inside the closet. “We’re both blonds, so that’s a little match-y for my taste. We’ll have to dress in contrasting colors.”

  Another crash, followed by a long string of curses. Matheus hummed to himself. The pin was nearly free.

  “Maybe we could adopt a cute little dog,” he said, inventing wildly. He’d never realized how hard it was to provoke someone deliberately. It seemed so easy when he wasn’t trying. “Name it Snuffles or Mr. Wagglebottom. If we get married, you could the best man. Of course, since I’m stuck with you, we’ll all have to live together. One big, happy family. You’ll have to get used to hearing the screams of passion, but hey, you can—”

  The air rushed out of Matheus’ chest as Quin pinned him to the mattress. Matheus stared up at him, his eyes wide, shocked into silence.

  “Will you shut up?” Quin hissed, squeezing Matheus’ biceps until he left dents in the bone. “Just shut the hell up. For both our sakes.”

  “I had no idea you cared about Alistair so much,” Matheus said, his voice turning husky in his dry throat. “If you want him you can have him.”

  “I don’t want Alistair.”

  “Oh?”

  The planes in Quin’s face shifted. Matheus traced the sharp angles with his gaze, the tight lines of Quin’s eyebrows drawing together, the slackness around his lips. The expression lasted only a second, just long enough for Matheus to register that for the first time since they’d met, Quin looked worried. He blinked.

  Quin turned aside. He released Matheus’ arms and drew back.

  Matheus shot out a hand and gripped Quin’s shirt. The fabric was slick and stiff, crackling as Matheus compressed it into rough ball in his palm. With his other arm, he propped himself up, closing the distance Quin had created. Giddiness turned his nerves into twitching amplifiers, broadcasting panic and glee and confusion in one jumbled mass.

  Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—

  “What are you doing?” Quin asked.

  “No idea,” said Matheus. He laughed, raw and loud, then cut off with a gulp of air.

  Quin inched his knees along the bed, closer to Matheus. He bent down, just enough to rest his fingertips on the comforter.

  “Sunshine—”

  “Shut up, Quin.” Matheus adjusted his weight, until he could move his arm. He dragged his palm over the duvet, tracing the narrow bones of Quin’s hand. Pressing his fingertips into the soft spaces between Quin’s knuckles, Matheus followed the grooves to Quin’s wrist. Matheus’ skin looked pale compared to Quin’s dark, olive tones. The fine, dark hairs on the back of Quin’s arm tickled against Matheus’ fingers. He looked from Quin’s hand to his face. The sharp features locked; hazel eyes followed Matheus’ movements, the only sign of life in a marble statue. Matheus swallowed, tightening his hand around Quin’s wrist.

  “I—” Matheus began.

  “Quin, there’s a—oh. Ah. Sorry.” Milo stood in the open doorway, a hand over his glasses.

  “What?” asked Quin. Distance colored his voice. He sounded like the statue he appeared to be.

  Milo shifted from side to side. He kept his hand up.

  Matheus tried to decide if he wanted to laugh or punch someone. He opted to laugh, because punching someone required letting go of Quin, and he wasn’t ready to do that.

  So, his ego said, what’s up with that, huh?

  Not now, thought Matheus. Or ever, if he could help it. He bit his lip as the giggles shook through his body.

  Quin arched an eyebrow at him.

  Matheus snorted, releasing a fresh wave of laughter. He tilted his head back, laughing until his abdomen ached.

  “Are you about finished?” Quin asked.

  Matheus nodded. Neither he nor Quin had moved. Milo still looked ready to bolt down the hallway.

  “A man, I think it’s
a man, is downstairs.” Milo said. He lowered his hand, his eyes closed behind his frames.

  Matheus wondered what he did during Gay Pride Week. Lock himself in a windowless room until it passed? Not like Matheus who…locked himself in his apartment, ordered delivery, and pretended to have the flu.

  Matheus frowned and decided to add that to his list of things not to think about.

  “You think it’s a man?” asked Quin.

  “Everything…droops,” said Milo.

  “Faust,” Matheus said. “It has to be. What is he doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Quin. “Seeing as how I’m up here and not down there.”

  “Should I tell him you’re busy?” Milo took a step away from the door.

  “Yes,” said Matheus.

  “No,” Quin said, giving Matheus a look. “I’ll be right there.”

  Milo nodded and disappeared down the hall.

  “I have to go,” said Quin.

  Matheus nodded. He stared the hollow above the center of Quin’s collarbone. Quin smelled of unfamiliar soap, too sweet for his skin.

  “It would help if you let go of my shirt.”

  “Yeah,” said Matheus.

  Quin’s chest rose and fall as a soft puff of air escaped his lips. “Sunshine, let go.”

  Matheus flicked his gaze up to Quin’s, and tightened his grasp. His breath caught as Quin leaned forward, so close his lips brushed against Matheus’.

  “Let go or I will make you let go,” Quin whispered.

  Matheus shuddered, his grip loosening a fraction. He watched through half-closed eyes as Quin pulled free, sliding backward off the bed.

  Quin adjusted his shirt, smoothing his palm over the wrinkles left in the fabric. He looked at Matheus down the length of his nose, the angle of his head dividing his face into light and shadow. The line of his spine was straight, his shoulders thrust back.

  “Sunshine,” he said. “If you so much as look at Alistair, I will tie you to the bed.”

  “You promise?” Matheus blurted out the words without thinking.

  Quin gave him another long look, then walked out of the room in long, sharp strides. With a groan, Matheus dropped backward. He rolled over, pressing his face into a lace-edged pillow. Balling his hands into fists, he smacked them against the mattress, the bedframe shaking with each blow. After his wrists began to ache, Matheus pushed himself onto his knees. He stared at the Colonial-style headboard; although later he’d be hard-pressed to remember any details about it.