Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (2 page)

Matheus felt pressure against his pulse point, driving the adrenalin level higher. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight the sensation of his body folding into itself. An inner darkness closed on his mind as each panting breath tore out of his mouth. The pressure increased, contracting into a single barb.

“Shit,” Matheus said, and fainted.

Dying is not pleasant. Death is disgusting and messy, body fluids leaking all over the place. Of course, being dead, usually the corpse does not have to deal with the sordid details. It is the livings’ problem. Usually. There are always exceptions.

“Oh, god,” Matheus groaned.

“It’s almost over.”

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

“I should have brought a mop. Why do I never remember that?”

Matheus awoke with a disorientating suddenness unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. No lazy moments of sleep lingered, no consciousness curled in through a foggy mind. Even while asleep, something existed: a dream, a nightmare, a deep-set feeling of
being.
Matheus had nothing.

Slowly, he rolled over, the heavy blanket sliding off his shoulder. The air felt chilled and slightly damp against his skin. A closed-in, musty smell said
basement
. No street lights leaked in through shaded windows, no white glow framed the doorway. Matheus stretched, running his hands over sheets too smooth and soft to be his own. Although, Matheus might have to upgrade, given the sensory thrill ride the linens were giving him. He wiggled down the bed, sighing softly at the feeling.. The sheets whispered over his skin. Every inch of his skin.

Matheus jerked upright, dragging the blanket up to his chest. Memories of last night were beginning to make
ahem-ahem
noises in the back of his mind.
Oh, god
, Matheus thought, holding the blanket like a shield. The alleyway, the voice, the pressure against his neck. Frantically, he ran his fingers over his throat, searching for the punctures, but his skin felt smooth and unmarked.
A dream,
he thought, but that didn’t explain the strange bed, or that feeling of non-existence. Perhaps he’d had a psychotic break. Maybe he’d been taken away by the nice men in white coats and just hallucinated the last thirty-six hours.

Granted, the hallucination appeared disturbingly real. Would Matheus’ mind create the muffled sound of running water in the distance, or the smell of artificial flowers on his pillowcase? The longer Matheus thought, the harder the mental institution theory became to maintain. Matheus really would have preferred being a basket case to the scenario he very deliberately avoided thinking about.

The sound of water stopped. Matheus drew up his knees, then paused, letting the blanket droop. Something didn’t sound right. In fact, nothing sounded right. He slid his feet over the sheets, listening to the gentle scraping of skin over fabric. The noises seemed as though someone had turned up the volume control of the world a few notches. Matheus couldn’t hear anything outside; he barely made out the footsteps of someone moving around. He moved his feet again and shivered.

Something had happened last night. The world had been picked up and put back down in the wrong position. Matheus laid his head against his knees and wrapped his arms around his head. He tried to remember how he got there from the alley, but the memory skittered away when he got too close. Matheus let out a moan of frustration, tired of chasing his own thoughts, and snapped his head back.

“Ow, fucker, shit.” So, his senses had gone demented, in that funhouse-optical illusion way, but at least he still had the familiar sensation of whacking his head against crap. Oh, joy. Matheus rubbed the back of his head while glaring darkly in the direction of the headboard. He blamed the voice. Its owner had done
something,
then brought Matheus back to this godforsaken room with its stealth headboards and irrational audio levels.

The door opened; grey light silhouetted a lean, male figure. Matheus had only a moment to look before the door closed again. The man didn’t say anything for a long moment, but Matheus could hear the soft thud as he rested against the door. Matheus stared at the spot where he thought the man stood, trying to pick something out of the darkness. A thought nudged at him; after a few seconds, he realized he couldn’t hear any breathing.

“‘Morning, Sunshine,” said the man. “Sleep well?” He spoke with the voice from the alley, no less threatening, but with an additional layer of amusement.

Matheus dug his fingers in the blanket, twisting the fabric into a tight knot. “What did you do to me?” he demanded. “Why does everything sound strange? Where are my clothes? Why am I naked? Oh, you didn’t—”

“Yes, because I love nothing more than molesting the unconscious.”

Matheus didn’t have to see the eye-roll.

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” he said, trying not to flinch as he heard the man straighten up.

“A bit braver now, aren’t you?” The man sounded on the verge of laughter.

Matheus had the distinct feeling of being thirteen again.
Bastard,
he thought. His hands spasmed around the knot of blanket.

“Where are my clothes?” he asked.

“I destroyed them.”

“What? Why?”

“They were disgusting,” said the man.

“I liked them,” Matheus muttered, coming to the defense of his sweater vest. Many fine men wore sweater vests. Matheus couldn’t think of any, off-hand, but he knew the list was long and varied.

“I wasn’t talking about the style, although it was wretched. Your clothes were ruined beyond the point of repair. It was easier to throw them away.”

“What are you talking about?” Matheus asked.

“Do you know what happens when a person dies?”

Matheus opened his mouth. Closed it again, then bowed to inevitability and opened it again. Occasionally, gaping like a slack-jawed yokel just couldn’t be helped. He groped blindly, pulling and releasing the blanket.

“Work it out yet?” asked the man.

“Oh, god,” said Matheus. He pressed his fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. He found nothing. He dropped the blanket, pushing his palm against his chest hard enough to feel his ribs creak. His skin, cool and elastic, yielded under his touch. Matheus placed his other hand on top, as though enough force would restart his heart. “I’m dead.”

“More or less.”

“You killed me. You…you…bastard!”

“Is that all? No points for creativity there.”

“You killed me!” Matheus screamed. “Why? I did everything you asked! Everything!”

“Yes, that is why you are only more or less dead.”

“You fucking prick!”

“Sunshine, please. If you are going to insult me, at least use some imagination.”

“You misbegotten piece of excrement!”

“Better. Still, not your best.”

Matheus wondered if anyone had ever exploded from sheer rage. He choked on obscenities, stuttering out malformed threats that spliced and overlapped until they were little more than nonsense syllables. The unspoken entertainment of the man only fueled his tantrum, until the wave of anger crashed hard and swept everything away. Matheus held onto the quiet for a moment, still furious, another wave hovering on the horizon, but calm for now.

“Come here,” Matheus said.

“Why?”

“You killed me. I should at least get to see what you look like.”

“And you can try to rip my throat out?”

“Yes,” hissed Matheus.

“I’ll stay over here, thank you.”

“Scared?”

The man laughed.

Matheus realized he had never known hatred until that very moment. He’d always considered himself a pacifist, but now he knew he had just not found anyone worth the effort of violence. Not anymore.

“No,” said the man. “Just don’t feel like engaging in an act of homoeroticism at the moment. You are still naked.”

“Then give me some damn clothes!”

“So you can kill me?”

“Don’t worry,” Matheus said, voice thick with mockery. “It’s like getting a shot.”

The man sighed. “I can see there’s going to be no talking to you for a while. I’ll return later, after you’ve had a chance to calm down.”

The door opened. Matheus could make out nothing more than the same general shape: tall, lean, and male. Not that it made a difference what his murderer looked like. After Matheus killed the man, he could stare at his corpse all day long.

The man stepped out, closing the door behind him, leaving Matheus to sulk alone in the dark.

“Calm down,” Matheus said, glaring at empty shadows. “Bastard.”

The light around the edge of the door looked like a still from a sci-fi movie, right before the aliens burst in for the big abduction scene. Matheus blinked, trying to will his eyes to adjust faster. A few second passed as Matheus cursed out his rods as lazy SOBs. Or did the cones provide night vision? Biology class had been a while ago. Matheus hadn’t decided the issue when he realized he could see the pale green of the carpet. He stared. Matheus should not have been able to tell that. At this level of light, everything should be a hazy grey, but the carpet insisted on its greenness.

Matheus needed a closer look. He climbed off the massive bed, tripped over the tangled blankets, and ended up with a much closer look than he had intended. Groaning, he sat up. Matheus massaged his nose gingerly. Against all odds, he’d never broken his nose, and he wanted to maintain that status quo. Satisfied that he didn’t need a splint, Matheus freed his feet and stood up.

More and more details sharpened into being. Posies covered the treacherous blanket, which matched the blue sheets and cream-colored pillowcases. Delicate carvings decorated the wooden bedframe; the designs resembled those popular in the mid-nineteenth century. Matheus specialized in prints and lithographs, not furniture, but he knew enough to tell that the bed would fetch a high price at auction. He didn’t care. A nice bed did not make up for assault and kidnapping.

The rest of the room contained a dresser carved to match the bed, a padded bench pushed against one wall, and a pair of nightstands on either side of the bed. They were all old pieces, no IKEA to be found here. Gold and ivory wallpaper, faded and curling with age, covered the walls. Matheus had the impression of several rooms at once: the wallpaper in the first one, the green carpet in the second, and the matching furniture in the third. An old house, Matheus thought, with a series of owners.