Real Vampires Don't Sparkle

by Amy Fecteau

  “You will receive pillows when you deserve pillows, Mattias,” Matheus said, imitating his father’s voice. “Scheiße.”

  He sat up, folding his hands in his lap. The door had three deadbolts, all of which unlocked from the outside. Matheus didn’t have anything to use as a pick, anyway. The guards had searched him before tossing him inside the room. Matheus had his clothes, and nothing else. He’d already checked under the bed, behind the bench, for anything useful. He didn’t know what he expected to find. Inspiration, maybe.

  He felt the sunrise approaching. Matheus tried not to be too grateful for that. Eight hours without brain activity sounded fantastic. A faint buzz shimmied up and down his nerves. He felt Quin nearby, hurt, but not too badly. Nothing like before. Matheus remembered the scorching acid sensation when he’d removed the stake for the first time. He closed his eyes, shuddering at the memory.

  Did his father’s process attempt to burn the death out of the body, like cauterizing a wound? Would that even work? Quin said he couldn’t go back. Humanity had sealed the door after him, no reentry. Did Matheus trust Quin to tell him the truth? Or, maybe, Quin didn’t know the truth. Science manufactured miracles on a regular basis. Maybe life had a window to slip in through.

  Dead is dead, Matheus thought. He clenched his hands in a mockery of prayer. His father’s offer pulled at his mind, splitting him in two. Being human again. No more blood, no more murders. Real sleep, waking up with the sun, free of darkness.

  A cage of light. Matheus had no illusions about his father. He didn’t have to be a psychic to see the future. He could read it in his past. No more Matheus Taylor, no more him.

  Milkshakes; he could have milkshakes again. Chocolate, so thick sucking it up a straw required Ironman training, with a mound of honest-to-God whipped cream on top. Take-out Chinese food, laced with MSG. Deep dish pizza, each slice needing a backhoe to lift it.

  Matheus shook his head. He didn’t even like milkshakes, hadn’t had one since before puberty. But now he wanted one. He wanted the possibility of a milkshake. He never woke up with the sunrise either, but now he ached for the ability. He bent down, pressing his forehead to his clasped fingers.

  Did he even have a choice? Staying dead meant staying a killer. He needed to eat. He’d always thought vegetarians a bit mad, but the last four months had given him a new perspective. At least cows didn’t talk, or build families, or paint their faces for football games, or have scars from the time they ran their bike into a tree in grade school. Did he have the right to survive off the lives of others? He wouldn’t even be sacrificing his life.

  Only my identity, Matheus thought. He imagined his father’s reaction if he tried to run again. Matheus had defied him once, and gotten away with it. He doubted he’d manage escape a second time. Matheus rocked his knuckles over his forehead. A long, frustrated groan escaped his lips.

  His father or Quin. The light or the dark. Life or death. What difference did it make in the end? Either path ended in a trap. Held under his father’s thumb, or bound to Quin forever. Impossible, infuriated, sexy, psychotic Quin. Who kissed him.

  Who murdered him.

  And saved him.

  And kissed him.

  Matheus had liked the kiss. He groaned again, then bit hard on his lower lip. Bianca said the bond didn’t affect things that way, but what if she got it wrong? Matheus didn’t know if he was gay, or bisexual, or just bloody confused.

  “I don’t know what to do!” he yelled, flinging himself backward. He stared at the ceiling some more.

  He wanted both, and neither. The weight of choice crushed down upon him. The urge to flee built in the back of Matheus’ mind. He closed his eyes, imagining stealing a car, and driving as fast and as far as possible. Maybe all the way down to Cape Horn. He’d learn Spanish, buy a houseboat, and forget he’d ever heard the names Quintus Livius Saturnius or Carsten Schneider. Matheus sank deeper in the fantasy, spinning a new identity. He had become someone new before; the second time should be even easier. He knew what to avoid. He’d run and hide, and no one would ever see Mattias Schneider or Matheus Taylor ever again. Matheus let the reverie overwhelm reality, sweeping the turmoil and uncertainty underneath the rug of daydreams.

  The lethargy of oncoming day seeped into his limbs. Matheus let the numbness carry him away to the edge of night, before falling into the silence of dawn.

  Matheus counted fourteen paces lengthwise and ten paces widthwise. He lay on the bed; nine tiles by six. Sketching sums onto the blanket, he tried to work out the length of each tile. He gave up after half a minute. The digits kept switching around on him.

  He stood up, then made the bed to military perfection. He flicked a piece of lint across the room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Matheus rocked back and forth, tapping his feet on the floor. The tile in the far corner had three, dark, coffee-colored spots arranged in a pyramid shape. Matheus dragged the bench beneath the tile and climbed up. He pushed up the tile, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  A leaky pipe to his right explained the spots. He hopped off the bench, and brushed the dusty spider webs out of his hair, grimacing as they clung to his palm.

  Three hours since sunset. Three hours trapped in the same room with not so much as a cereal box to read. Nothing to do but sit and stare at the rolling fields of pre-industrialized England. Matheus took the painting off the wall and set it on the floor. He ran his hand over the paper backing, but there appeared to be nothing hidden inside. Matheus sat back on his heels and scratched his neck. He shrugged. He didn’t expect to find a set of lock picks or the map to a secret passageway, but something to do, anyway. Matheus had just torn through the backing when the lock clicked. He tensed, still gripping the paper between his thumb and forefinger. Maybe his father had changed his mind, and decided Matheus didn’t make the cut for saving.

  “Mattias?”

  A woman stood silhouetted in the doorway.

  Matheus blinked, squinting in the sudden light from the hall.

  “Matheus,” he said. “Who are you?”

  The woman closed the door behind her. In the dim, details fell into place. She wore a discreet pantsuit, the cobalt blue scarf around her neck the only splash of color. Smooth, dark hair cut into an asymmetrical bob, large, liquid eyes heavy with kohl, and minimal makeup elsewhere. In low heels, she stood more than six inches below Matheus’ height. Fingers with French-tipped nails clasped and unclasped over her stomach.

  “You don’t recognize me? I thought the ears would give it away.” The woman brushed aside one sweep of hair, revealing a delicate gold and diamond stud in an ear more suited to one of the Rascals than a sophisticated executive. She gave Matheus a hesitant smile, and let her hair fall forward.

  Matheus frowned.

  “Fletcher?”

  The woman folded her hands together, elbows held straight, like a little girl asking for a lolly.

  “It’s been a long time,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Matheus glanced down at the painting, and coughed. Rising, he picked it up and rested the edge of the frame against the wall. He watched Fletcher shift the lacing of her fingers, right thumb on top, switching to the left thumb, then back again.

  “Father told me you were here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How are you?” Fletcher asked, with high tea formality.

  “Oh, you know. Dead.”

  “So I heard.”

  “And you?” asked Matheus.

  “I’m well, thank you.”

  “Helping out with the family business?”

  “Something like that.” Fletcher drew her hands behind her back. She frowned at Matheus’ feet. “Why’d you leave?”

  Matheus flinched.

  “Jesus, Fletch, just dive right in. You sure you don’t want to build up to that?”

  Fletcher shook her head.

  “You didn’t say goodbye,” she said.

  “You were at school.”

  “We had phones.” Fletc
her looked at him, her eyebrows raised. “An e-mail would have been nice. The postal service hadn’t gone on strike.”

  “I didn’t want to get you involved,” Matheus said to the carpet. “Ow!”

  He looked up, rubbing his shoulder.

  “You are such an asshole!” Fletcher folded her arms, giving a little stomp on the final word.

  “You didn’t have to hit me!”

  “You’re lucky I don’t have you tossed off the roof,” said Fletcher. “Do you have any idea of the hell we went through?”

  “I—”

  “No, of course you don’t, because you ran off to bloody America without so much as a single word. No thought to the rest of us left behind, just like the spoiled, selfish little bastard you always were. Oh my God, what were you even thinking? No, don’t say anything, I don’t want to know.”

  Fletcher marched closer, Matheus matching her steps in the opposite direction. He hit the wall with oomph of air.

  “I could strangle you. Police digging into everything, bloody reporters circling like vultures. Everyone thought you’d been kidnapped, but no one asked for a ransom. And then we find out you’ve been hiding in some rehab center in Wales, of all places, but of course, you’d already gone, and the trust from your mother had been emptied, and we didn’t know what to think. You could have been lying in a coma God knows where, or suffering from amnesia—”

  “Amnesia, Fletch? Really?”

  “I thought you were dead!” Fletcher shouted. She turned away; the stiff line in her shoulders didn’t cover their shaking. Her hair swung forward, revealing the tiny Japanese character on the back of her neck. She’d gotten the tattoo on her fifteenth birthday, in a back alley shop that didn’t care too much about IDs when the cash came out. Their father found out two days later, and enrolled her in a Swiss boarding school the next morning. Matheus saw Fletcher for the last time as she climbed into the town car for Heathrow.

  “I thought— you wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Matheus. “When I left, I didn’t…I didn’t have a plan. I just…. I couldn’t stay, and I found a place, and I couldn’t call you, Fletch. I couldn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t have told anyone,” said Fletcher.

  “You were still a kid.”

  “Of course.”

  “I wanted to. I didn’t want…. You were the only one I would have stayed for.”

  “But you didn’t,” Fletcher said.

  “Yeah,” said Matheus. “That’s why I couldn’t call.”

  Fletcher sniffed.

  “I missed you.” She pulled a tissue out of her pocket, and blew her nose. Shoving the crumpled tissue away, she turned around.

  “Um, your….” Matheus circled his fingers around his eyes.

  Fletcher smiled faintly, and shook her head.

  “Yes, I know,” she said, producing another tissue. Carefully, she dabbed at the black trails underneath her eyes. “Better?”

  “Much.” Matheus shifted his weight, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You look, um, nice.”

  “Nice?”

  “Older.”

  “Those are not synonyms, Mat.”

  “It’s not what I expected,” said Matheus. “Sleek.”

  “I grew out of the pink spikes and extra-large hoodies phase quite some time ago,” said Fletcher.

  “Right,” said Matheus.

  Fletcher crossed the room, taking a seat on the bench. She swung one leg over the other, in exactly the manner not taught by Swiss finishing schools.

  “I missed you too,” Matheus said.

  “You could have written,” Fletcher said. “They stopped reading my e-mail after six months.”

  “Yeah.” Matheus shuffled over to the bench and sat down. He inhaled, Fletcher’s perfume mingling with the salt-tipped smell of her blood. Her pulse throbbed against the fragile skin of her neck. Matheus looked away, holding his breath. He dug his fingers into his knees, willing the sensation to disappear. Damn Quin, he thought.

  “Father says you are taking the treatment. When it’s finished, of course,” said Fletcher.

  “Mmm,” said Matheus. Fletcher’s heartbeat pushed into him, the double beat echoing through his chest, there and not there at the same time. In some ways, Matheus dealt with multiple humans more easily. The overlapping heartbeats conflicted with one other, drowning out the sensations. In other ways, crowds offered a little slice of self-denial hell, but Matheus still preferred that to the unconscious comparison of his baby sister to a steak dinner.

  “Are you all right?” Fletcher asked.

  “Fine,” said Matheus. “I’m, uh, I’m just going to sit over there.” He crossed the room with long strides. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tried to read the expression on Fletcher’s face, unnerved by the smooth gloss over her features. “Do you know when this miracle cure is happening?”

  “Head of the project says no more than a month. Perhaps two, if we can’t access some of the necessary materials.” Fletcher’s foot bobbed up and down.

  “And you’re okay with Dad’s righteous judge act?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m okay with it.” Fletcher sighed. “You know what he’s like.”

  “You’re just going along with it?” Matheus asked.

  “That’s not—I don’t think he’s entirely wrong.”

  “He’s kidnapping people and torturing them.”

  “We’re not torturing them,” said Fletcher.

  “Looked like torture to me.”

  Fletcher switched her position, swinging her left leg over the right. Frowning, she ruined her sleek look by shoving her hair behind her ears.

  “We’re trying to save people,” she said. “This isn’t…. We’re not here for revenge, Mat.”

  “Yeah, you’re all candidates for sainthood. I bet the Pope’s got your names on a list somewhere,” said Matheus.

  “What would you like me to say? That we’ll stop? That can’t happen. People are being murdered every day, and for what? Mainstream research isn’t going to help them. There’s only us.”

  “Everything needs to eat, Fletcher.”

  “At what expense?” Fletcher leaned forward, laying her forearms over her leg. “It’s not cows or salmon we’re talking about here, it’s beings capable of rational, abstract thought.”

  “Out of necessity,” said Matheus. “There isn’t exactly a vegan alternative.”

  “There is another option,” said Fletcher.

  “Really? Because the guy who’s been around for seventeen centuries couldn’t seem to find one.” Not that he bothered to look, Matheus added to himself.

  “Refuse to live off the lives of humans.”

  “So, commit suicide.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you do it? If you were turned, would you kill yourself?”

  “Yes,” said Fletcher. She didn’t blink.

  “Wow,” said Matheus. “He’s really done a number on you.”

  Fletcher jerked as though she’d been struck. She straightened, letting her hair fall back into place. “Don’t,” she said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t make this about Father. It’s not about him. It’s about me, what I think. I am capable of forming my own opinions, thank you.”

  “Convenient how your opinions just happen to fall in line with his.”

  “Only in the sense that it’s what any empathetic, compassionate human being would do.”

  “Right, just hand-wave that instinct for self-preservation away. It’s not like people have a driving need to survive or anything,” Matheus said. “Also, I cannot believe you implied our father is anything close to compassionate.”

  “Just because he has trouble connecting with people doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about them,” said Fletcher.

  “Uh huh,” said Matheus. “Drink some more of that Kool-Aid.”

  Fletcher stood up. “If you’re going to be like this, I’m going to leave,”
she said. “I do have work to do.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry I tried to interject some sense into your perfect little world view. Better run away now, before it sinks in.”

  “Good-bye, Mattias.” Fletcher turned on her heels and marched for the door.

  Matheus’ stomach did a flip-flop. “Wait,” he said, lurching to his feet. “Don’t go. Please.”

  Fletcher glanced at him over her shoulder. “Are you going to stop acting like an asshole?” she asked.

  “Um, probably not,” said Matheus. “But I promise to try really, really hard.”

  Letting out a slight laugh, Fletcher turned around. “I really do have work,” she said. “I can come back later, though.”

  “All right.” Matheus sank down onto the bed. He folded his hands together, and stared at the empty bench. He looked up as Fletcher touched his shoulder.

  “Do you want anything? Some books or a newspaper, perhaps?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Thanks. I—” Matheus paused. He rubbed his palms over his thighs. “Can you…?”

  “Can I what?”

  “Can you get me in to see Quin?”

  “Quin?”

  “Tall, dark, fangs.”

  Fletcher stepped away, crossed her arms. Her nails dug into her sleeves. A harsh cast fell over her features, deepening lines Matheus hadn’t seen before.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I need to talk to him,” Matheus said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m an intelligent woman. I’m sure I’ll grasp the basics.”

  “He turned me.”

  “Not that complicated after all,” said Fletcher. “The answer is no.”

  “Christ, come on, Fletch. I’m not going to try to bust him out. I just need to see him, okay?”

  “Why?”

  “Because!” Matheus jerked upright. He mimicked Fletcher’s pose, holding his frame stiff.

  “‘Because’ is not an answer.”