Real Vampires Don't Sparkle

by Amy Fecteau

  Quin leaned against the side of the cell, crossing his arms. He looked Matheus up and down. Matheus tried not to shudder himself.

  “Another ex?” Quin asked, inclining his head toward Fletcher.

  Fletcher started. She took a step forward, then hesitated. After a beat, she straightened her spine and walked up to the glass, her hands held behind her back. Her breathing came quick and harsh.

  “My sister,” said Matheus.

  “You don’t look alike.”

  “Stepsister. Her mother married my father.”

  “Fascinating,” said Quin. “It’s a regular family reunion.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  “It’s talking,” Fletcher said. Her hands twisted around each other.

  Quin ignored her.

  “I’m the one betrayed and locked in a cell,” he said. “So I think I’ll be as big an ass I want to be.”

  “This…isn’t possible.”

  “…quidquid ero, Stygiis erumpere nitar ab oris, et tendam gelidas ultor in ora manus. Me vigilans cernes: tacitis ego noctis in umbris excutiam somnos visus adesse tuos. Denique quidquid ages, ante os oculosque volabo et querar, et nulla sede quietus eris. Verbera torta dabunt sonitum, nexaeque colubris, Conscia fumabunt semper ad ora faces. His vivus furiis agitabere, mortuus isdem, et brevior poena vita futura tua est.”

  Fletcher glanced at Matheus, her eyebrows drawn together. Unlike him, she’d managed to escape the torturous Latin classes.

  “It’s from Ibis,” said Matheus. “By Ovid.”

  “Oh.”

  “Would you like a translation?” Quin asked, grinning his barracuda smile.

  “No,” said Matheus before Fletcher could speak.

  “It’s very educational,” said Quin.

  Fletcher opened her mouth.

  Matheus released the intercom button, and stepped between her and the glass. He repressed a yelp as silver skated over skin.

  “Fletch, can you give us some space?” he asked.

  “Would you like me to unlock the cell as well?”

  “I’m chained. What do you think is going to happen? Just go stand by the door or something?”

  With a longsuffering sigh, Fletcher moved a total of two feet away.

  “Thanks,” said Matheus. “Very helpful.”

  “You are not in the position to make complaints,” Fletcher said. “Hurry up and finish.”

  “She seems delightful,” said Quin as Matheus turned to face him.

  “Stop it,” said Matheus.

  “Oh, dear me, am I being rude? So sorry. I’d offer you both some tea, but unfortunately I’m all out of cyanide.”

  “Cyanide wouldn’t kill me,” said Matheus.

  “I know,” said Quin. “But don’t fret, I’m very creative.”

  Matheus wished Quin would stop grinning.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said.

  “And yet, there you are, roaming around with your darling sister.”

  “I didn’t know!”

  “Bullshit,” said Quin. The word snapped out like a sonic boom speeding after a jet. He stopped grinning.

  “I didn’t,” Matheus said. He changed his mind. He wanted the grin back; the alternative held depths much, much worse. Quin had moved past Scary Look #9 straight into uncharted territory. The part of the map marked with sea serpents and islands full of cannibals. “You never said who you were looking for, remember?”

  “Apparently, I didn’t need to. Was this Daddy’s plan, or did you come up with it all by yourself?”

  “You think I deliberately offered myself up to be murdered?” Matheus asked. “Are you insane? What the hell kind of plan is that? How would I even know you’d turn me and not just dump my corpse in the alley? You contacted me. You asked for my help.”

  “Yes,” said Quin slowly. “And wasn’t that convenient? A remarkable coincidence, you being Schneider’s son.”

  “It is a coincidence, you jackass!”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Stop saying that!”

  Quin shifted, turning toward the other side of the cell. He rolled his head back, looking up at the ceiling.

  “What I don’t understand is why you are here now,” he said. “What else is there you want?”

  “I want you to stop being an idiot,” Matheus said. “It’s the same thing I always want.”

  “And why that rescue attempt?”

  “Will you listen to me?” Matheus shouted.

  “Like Zeb listened to you?”

  Matheus slammed his hands on the glass.

  “I’m not the traitor!” Behind him, he heard Fletcher take a step forward.

  Quin tilted his head toward Matheus. Ice smoothed over his features.

  Matheus pushed his palms against the slick glass to keep his arms from shaking. He wondered how much force Quin needed to break through. He’d gotten through with a tire iron. Quin had nothing, and still Matheus resisted the urge to pull away. In Quin versus safety glass, Matheus didn’t know which one would win. The continued union of his neck and head relied upon a single piece of glass.

  Matheus bit his lower lip. Given the way Quin stared at him, he’d be lucky to escape with just a beheading.

  “I didn’t betray you,” Matheus said in a low voice, leaning into the speaker. He had to arch his neck to look at Quin while he spoke. “Just think about it. Please. I know…I know it looks bad, but I didn’t.” He glanced over his shoulder at Fletcher, then edged closer to the intercom. “My father…my father is developing a cure.”

  The expression on Quin’s face offered decades of nightmares.

  “Is that what Daddy told you?” he said. “Too bad it doesn’t work like that. You don’t get to go back.”

  “I didn’t know before!”

  “He’ll turn on you, too,” Quin said. “You’ll never be human, Matheus.”

  “Jesus.” Matheus rested his forehead on the glass, and closed his eyes. Quin sounded almost kind, soft words soothing the raw edge in his voice. “I’ll try to convince him…maybe you can—”

  “No.”

  The glass shook with the force of Quin’s strike.

  Matheus jumped back, stumbling into Fletcher. He flinched as she grabbed his arm, jerking the silver cuffs across his skin.

  “Don’t you dare,” Quin yelled, loud enough push the syllables through the glass.

  “That’s enough,” said Fletcher. She yanked on Matheus’ arm. “We’re leaving.”

  “Wait—Just let me—”

  “No, Mattias!”

  Matheus stretched, reaching for the intercom. Fletcher slid across the floor after him, her hands still wrapped around his arm.

  “I’m sorry,” Matheus said. “I have to try, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Quin, please. Please understand.”

  “Mattias!

  Quin didn’t move as Fletcher dragged Matheus away.

  Matheus twisted his head, keeping Quin’s lean frame in sight as long as possible. With quick jabs, Fletcher unlocked the door, and shoved Matheus into the hall. He slumped against the wall, sliding onto his heels. He bent down, staring at the tiles through the gap between his legs. He heard the door bolt slam home.

  “Did you get what you wanted?” Fletcher asked.

  “No,” said Matheus. He pushed himself upright, using the wall for balance.

  “So the whole thing was a pointless exercise?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Matheus shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Fletcher pulled out a slim phone, and illuminated the display.

  “It’s late,” she said.

  “Not for me,” said Matheus, and laughed bitterly. “Can you take me back to my room now? These chains are killing me.”

  “Of course,” said Fletcher. They walked in silence to the elevator. Another group of guards passed, but Matheus kept his gaze on his feet. The stomp of combat boots and the clank of weaponry disappeared around the corner. When the elevator binged, he shuffled inside. Fletcher’s hand hovered ov
er the third floor button, but she withdrew without pressing it.

  “What?” Matheus asked.

  Fletcher touched his cheek, dragging her palm down to cup his jawline. Her warmth sank into Matheus’ bones. She tilted his head up and down, side to side, her dark eyes flicking back and forth.

  “What?” repeated Matheus.

  “Are you gay?” Fletcher asked.

  Matheus jerked out of Fletcher’s reach. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “What is it? Is there a little rainbow that appears over my head?”

  “You were rather intense, speaking to Subject—him.”

  Matheus heard the effort behind the pronoun. He scowled. “My wrists hurt,” he said.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” Fletcher blocked the control panel as Matheus reached for the buttons.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. Am I disqualified for saving now?” Matheus scowled harder, doing his best to summon a portal to the netherworld beneath Fletcher’s feet.

  “Of course not.” Fletcher pushed the third-floor button. She stepped back to stand next to Matheus. “However, I’m not sure Father needs to know.”

  “You think? I guess I’ll cancel the singing telegram then.”

  Stubbles of rough grass dotted the rocky ground, poking through his clothes, blades shaking with tight vibrations as the stars above burnt his skin with cold. The grass extended into icicles, piercing into him and he couldn’t move, couldn’t run away as they rose above him, winding and unwinding into shimmering, icy knots, spaces revealing faces that stared down at him, mouthing words, colors drifting, his father, and Fletcher, and Quin and Bianca and Alistair, all talking at him, drowning him in their silence as he strained to hear them, until the light turned gold and the ice melted in a burst, raining upon him, the sun rising, beautiful and deafening, purple and crimson, streaking orange, warming him, dancing over, under his skin, and he inhaled, pulling the light into his lungs, filling his body, burning more and more until his skin bubbled and blackened, crumbling into fine ash that caught the wind and—

  Matheus bolted out of the bed, then doubled over as lightning zigzagged through his body. With a gasp, he landed on his knees. He curled around himself, the carpet like sandpaper on his bare skin. The salt from his tears scored rivulets over his face. Matheus whimpered. The whisper of his clothing boomed and deafened. He folded himself tighter, squeezing his eyes shut. The afterimage of the sun still burned in his retinas.

  “Mattias?”

  “Don’t turn on the light!”

  Fletcher’s steps faltered. The door stood open, the light from the hall slipping beneath Matheus’ eyelids. He locked both arms across his eyes, pressing hard enough to draw glowing strands and spheres in the darkness.

  “What is it?” Fletcher asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Go away,” Matheus said. He rocked back and forth. Movement helped distract him from the pain. His muscles ached with the constant effort. He moaned at the flick of the light switch.

  “Oh my God.” Fletcher spoke in a whisper. “Oh my God. Mattias, what have you done?”

  “Turn off the light!” Matheus shouted.

  “You’re hurt.” Fletcher knelt in front of him, brushing her fingertips over the long gouges crisscrossing his arms. Strips of flesh dangled loose, a macabre fringe.

  “Please.” Fresh shards of pain stung out every time Matheus moved his mouth. He’d chewed through his lower lip, leaving a raw, shapeless mess. Cool blood had mingled with saliva, coating his chin and pooling on his chest.

  “I don’t understand,” said Fletcher. “What is happening?”

  Matheus couldn’t hold up his arms any longer. He let them drop to his sides, fingers twitching to some uncontrollable impulse.

  “What are you doing to Quin?” he asked. Droplets of blood sprayed outward as he talked.

  Fletcher flinched. A drop hit her cheek and she dashed it away, then scrubbed her hand over the carpet.

  “I’ll get a doctor,” she said, standing, nearly sprinting toward the door.

  “Don’t bother,” said Matheus. “Unless you want me to eat him.” He gave a bubbling snort, then slumped forward, forehead hitting the floor with a dull thud.

  “Turn off the light,” he mumbled.

  The door to the hall swung shut. Darkness swamped the room. Matheus let out a long exhale of air. Muscles trembling, he rolled onto his back, then lay gasping at the effort.

  “I don’t understand,” Fletcher repeated. Her voice came from the doorway. She sounded younger than she had before, more like the girl Matheus had left behind. “Did you do this to yourself? Why? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Quin,” said Matheus. He’d drained even the energy for tiny movements. No more distractions from the scouring pain, chewing away at his veins, digesting him in deliberate bits. Every second, another piece of Matheus consumed, until only a hollow shell remained, containing only the buzzing, burning, blinding pain within.

  “He’s doing this to you? How?”

  “No. God.” A tremor arced up Matheus’ spine, warping the vertebra. Matheus dug his teeth into the bloody mess that remained of his lip, but a high, keening note still escaped. His feet kicked, heels banging into the wall. After a moment that lasted a century, the tremor ceased. Matheus dissolved into the carpet. He floated for a breath, before his body dragged him back.

  “Mattias?” A little closer this time, still hesitant, still a young girl worried about her big brother.

  “Someone is hurting Quin,” Matheus said. “I can’t make it stop. You have to do it. You have to make them stop.”

  “But—”

  “Make them stop. Have to make them stop.”

  “Yes, okay, I’m going. Don’t…. I’ll be right back.”

  Matheus heard the door open and close. Three nights since anyone visited him; three nights of steadily increasing hell. The initial attack after the dream had lasted an hour or so, before subsiding into the familiar buzzing. Matheus assumed someone had staked Quin. He’d spent the rest of the night alternating between circling the room and attempting to beat down the door. The buzzing doubled the second night. The faintest of light left behind blurred afterimages, head throbbing with the migraine of the decade. Matheus had knocked his head against the wall, the external pain comforting compared to the agony from within. By sunrise, he’d torn at his arms, desperate to find the source of the buzzing. The third night brought the unrelenting pain of the first, with no relief from a stake.

  Whoever invented this bonding thing was a fucking sadist. How did sharing pain help anyone? Matheus couldn’t rescue a piece of string from a kitten. The intensification of the buzzing made sense. The bond didn’t want to be ignored. But the hunters had beat up Quin before, and Matheus hadn’t felt those injuries. Leave it to his father to find new and exciting ways of causing him pain.

  Matheus groaned. He tried to calculate how long since Fletcher had left. Three minutes to get to the fourth floor, two to walk down the hall. Did she have the authority to order the experiments halted? How much longer, if she had to go through their father? Hours, Matheus thought. If she succeeded at all. His father probably considered this some kind of divine retribution for being such a shitty son.

  The pain cut off, so abruptly Matheus felt as though he’d been punched in the solar plexus. He passed out, still stretched over the floor.

  Matheus woke up to the sharp smell of disinfectant. A cool, damp cloth covered his eyes. Drawing the cloth away, Matheus saw Fletcher kneeling beside him, soaking a cotton ball in iodine. He hissed as she swabbed at the gouges on his arms.

  “That hurts,” he said.

  Fletcher looked at him through the screen of her hair.

  “How are your eyes?” she asked.

  “Better,” said Matheus. He pushed himself up onto his elbows. His arms shook, and gave out after a handful of seconds.

  “Just lie still,” said Fletcher. She readied another swab.

  “Fletch, I’m dead. Infections
aren’t really a problem anymore.” The fresh scabs around Matheus’ mouth cracked and pulled as he spoke. He ran his tongue over his lower lip, tasting rotten blood, saliva stinging.

  Fletcher sat back on her heels.

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” she said. She looked at the cotton ball still in her hand, then set it aside. “What do you need?”

  “Blood.” Matheus let out a wheezing laugh at Fletcher’s expression. “You asked.”

  “Perhaps I can find a butcher—”

  Matheus shook his head.

  “Has to be human.”

  “I can’t,” said Fletcher.

  “I know,” Matheus said. “It’s okay.”

  He sat up, locking his elbows as they wobbled. His head dipped and bobbed like a dinghy swept into the ocean. He closed his eyes, but the sensation only increased. He opened his eyes and stared at the wall instead, willing his mind as smooth and flat.

  “I still don’t understand what happened,” said Fletcher. She had dark circles under her eyes, and a soft fizz marred her sleek hairstyle. Four hours to sunrise, Matheus thought.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

  Fletcher frowned at him. “We work late hours,” she said. “Experimenting with the subjects in the daylight caused a number of incidents.”

  “Let some people get extra crispy, huh?”

  “Well. Yes. There are other considerations, though. Apart from the sun effect, they seem to react as regular corpses during the day. In order to get results, testing must be done after dark.” Fletcher tucked her hair behind her ears. “We’re still not sure why. There are a few theories, of course, but none with overwhelming evidence behind it. One of our scientists is doing exciting work with artificial sunlight. Apparently it causes a weaker reaction, blistering, sunburn, lassitude, but the effects are reversed immediately after the light is removed.”

  “Fascinating,” said Matheus. “Behold the wonders of science.”

  “We’re trying to help people,” said Fletcher. “The more we understand, the more information we gather, the better equipped we are to fight this disease.”

  “So you think it’s a disease.”