Real Vampires Don't Sparkle (40 page)

“The door was unlocked,” she said, plucking some invisible fuzz off her skirt. “
Tsk, tsk
, Pet.”

“Quin was the last one to leave.”

“After Zeb? He’s getting sloppy.”

Matheus flipped a page in his book, creasing the paper down with the heel of his palm.

“You be sure to tell him that,” he said.

“Where did he go?” Juliet tapped her red-tipped nails on the band of her watch. “I have information for him.”

“Zeb’s house.”

Juliet made a clucking noise with her tongue.

“He’s so impatient.”

“Uh-huh,” said Matheus, turning another page.

“Are you paying attention to me?”

“Not really.”

Reaching over Matheus’ knees, Juliet pulled the book from his hands and flung it away. The book hit the mantel, knocking over the pile of half-read mystery novels Quin had stacked there.

“I don’t like it when men ignore me,” Juliet said. Her fingers tightened on Matheus’ knees, nails pressing into the black fabric of his pants.

Matheus sat up, swinging his legs over to the coffee table.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Pet.” Juliet purred the word, ending with a soft, plosive tap on the
t
. She slid across the couch, slipping her arm through Matheus’ and resting her chin on his shoulder. “Don’t be so mean.”

With her other hand, she carded through his hair, lifting up the strands and letting them drift back into place.

“You have such lovely hair, Pet. What conditioner do you use?”

“Stop that,” said Matheus. The arm of the couch dug into his side, his neck canted at a near right angle. “It’s annoying.”

“I want us to be friends.” Juliet pushed closer, her lips brushing Matheus’ cheek.

Matheus jerked upright, dislodging Juliet from the couch. She tumbled to the floor. Her skirt tangled around her legs, the edges of a lacy slip peeking out.

“Sorry,” said Matheus, offering his hand. “Let me—”

He jumped back as Juliet raised her head, her face contorted into something unrecognizable.

“You’re refusing me?” she snarled. “You insignificant—”

“Juliet!”

Juliet ducked, thick, blonde locks covering her face. Her shoulders shook, muscles in her arms tense as she raked her fingernails over the wooden floor.

Quin limped into the room, clutching one arm. He pushed back Juliet’s hair, looking down at her before letting the hair fall.

“He’s no good to you,” Quin said. “Leave him alone.”

“I take whom I please.”

“Juliet, go to a bar, pick up some guy, and have dinner.” Quin held out his hand. “You know you go all psychotic when you don’t eat.”

Shuddering, Juliet took Quin’s hand. She kept her back to Matheus as she rose. With careful movements, she re-pinned her hair, then picked up her purse. She examined her reflection in her compact, making small adjustments to her makeup with the tip of her pinky. As Matheus watched, her posture straightened, shoulders rolling back, chin raised.

“I have information,” she said.

“Tomorrow,” said Quin.

Juliet nodded. She tucked her purse under her elbow and walked out, heels tapping staccato on the floor.

“What was that about?” Matheus asked after he heard the front door close. “I thought she wasn’t, you know.”

Quin dropped onto the sofa. He kicked the coffee table back, stretching out his legs.

“A blood-sucking minion of Satan? No, she isn’t. Not human, either.”

“I knew that.”

“Don’t worry, Sunshine. You don’t meet her dietary requirements.”

“Right. What are her…requirements, exactly?” Matheus asked.

“Male, straight, fertile.”

“I’m not—”

“Gay, yes, I know,” said Quin. “On the other hand, corpses are rarely capable of fathering children.”

“Oh,” said Matheus. “That one.”

Quin rolled his eyes.

Matheus shuffled across the room, sinking down next to Quin. “You do realize you have an arrow sticking out of your leg?”

“I’m aware,” said Quin.

“Do you want me to get Alistair?”

“Not really.”

Quin laid his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. Pain deepened the lines in his face, aging him beyond twenty-five years. The cuffs of his pants rode up; blood stained his sock and the top of his shoe. He didn’t move as Matheus stood up; he still hadn’t as Matheus returned with a pair of scissors.

Slowly, Matheus cut through Quin’s pants, holding the wool tight with one hand. Rust covered the scissors; Matheus’ hand ached by the time he finished. The arrow had imbedded in the fleshy part of Quin’s calf. A stream of blood zigzagged through the black hair, less than Matheus had expected.

“Should I just pull it out?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Quin. He clenched the couch cushion with one hand. “Make sure you pull straight.”

“On three?”

“Just hurry up.”

Matheus shrugged.

“One, two—” He yanked the arrow.

Quin swore loudly.

“What happened to three?”

“Three’s overrated.” Matheus twisted the arrow between his fingers. The arrowhead had three blades, arranged into a pyramid shape. A maker’s name imprinted the metal, but the shaft and fletching both looked homemade. Matheus supposed the demand for wooden hunting arrows didn’t support mass production. He set the arrow on the coffee table, and looked up at Quin.

“Band-Aid?” he asked.

Quin groaned, dropping his head back against the sofa.

“My shoulder’s dislocated,” he said.

“I didn’t ask where else you were hurt. I said, ‘Band-Aid?’”

“Matheus.” Quin sighed.

“You really should let me get Alistair.”

“Just fix it for me. I’ll tell you what to do.”

Matheus found the next few minutes very informative. He learned a collection of new curse words, but more importantly, that twisting a dislocated shoulder the wrong way can make even the most stoic, stone-cold man shriek like a little girl who’s lost her dolly.

“Sorry,” he said. “Better?”

Slumped against the side of the couch, Quin mumbled, “What is the point of being around after the invention of Vicodin if I can’t even take it?”

“I did offer to get Alistair.”

“He’d be all soppy over me.”

Matheus grinned. “Oh, Quin,” he said, pitching his voice in a high tenor. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. Please, may I wash your feet?”

Quin laughed into the cushion, then groaned. “Don’t do that,” he said. “It hurts.”

“But, Quin, I adore you. My life is just a meaningless shell without you.”

“You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Imitating people. Their voices.”

“Oh, that,” said Matheus. “I’ve always been able to do that.”

That wasn’t exactly the truth. He’d had a knack for mimicry, but he’d worked to improve his skill. Copying his friends, actors in movies and on television, strangers he overheard on the tube. Partly out of self-preservation; kids could be vicious toward anyone different. Matheus lost his German accent as soon as he could manage. He traded his London one for the American Standard after he ran away to the United States, although he tended to slip up more than he had as a child. Even still, the accents didn’t cause much of a problem for Matheus. The idioms, the grammar, all the tiny things only native speakers knew caused the most trouble.

“What happened?” he asked. “Who attacked you?”

“Grigori.” Quin sat up, raising his leg and frowning at his ruined pants. “With some of his friends. He seems to think with Zeb gone, he can take over the city.”

“Why attack you? And what about Evil June Cleaver?”

“Apollonia,” said Quin. “If she’s smart, and she is, she’ll stay out of things for a while. Grigori’s strong, but he’s got the impulse control of a three-year-old.” He wiped at the blood with the cut pant-leg.

Matheus looked from Quin’s leg to the arrow on the coffee table. A creeping sensation crawled over his brain. He’d removed an arrow from someone’s leg, just yanked it out like arrow injuries happened every other day. The night before, he’d assisted in some back alley surgery on a goddamned werewolf. And instead of freaking out, he sat in their living room, discussing attacks and hostile takeovers. Matheus licked his lips. His tongue felt like sandpaper.

“What did you find at Zeb’s?” he asked. His voice sounded unnaturally loud, but Quin didn’t seem to notice.

“Ashes, mostly. I need to talk to your friend.”

“Her name is Bianca.”

“Whatever her name is, she’s the only one who knows what happened.”

Matheus glanced at the arrow again.

“Quin, what’s going on?”

“Didn’t I just say I didn’t know?”

“I think you do,” Matheus said. “You know something, anyway.”

He watched Quin smooth down the two halves of his pants, lining up the edges before letting them drop. With quick jerks, Quin untied his shoe, making a face at the stained interior. He peeled away his sock, wiggling his toes, long metatarsal bones visible beneath his skin.

“Quin, tell me
something.
”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Quin, starting on his other shoe.

“Yes, it does! In case you haven’t noticed, I’m stuck with you. Keeping me in the dark isn’t going to keep me safe. It’s going to get me hurt. Unless that is your goal, in which case you could just go the direct route and save us both a lot of time.”

Quin dropped his other sock on the floor. Clearly, he had not had the same nanny as Matheus. “I don’t want you to get involved,” he said.

Matheus waved the arrow in front of Quin’s face. “I just pulled this out of your leg!” he said. “I’m already involved.” He slammed the arrow down on the coffee table, snapping off one of the feathers.

“You don’t—” Quin cut off with a slashing gesture. He let out a sharp hiss, reaching up to rub his shoulder with his good arm.

He glowered at Matheus, which Matheus found unfair. He’d told Quin he’d never popped a shoulder back into joint before.

“You don’t understand—” Quin stopped again. He stared at the fallen coatrack, but Matheus had the impression Quin saw something else. His eyes had a distant cast to them, the pupils unfocused in the hazel. After a long moment, Quin inhaled.

“There’s a man—” He said.

“Bianca’s awake,” Alistair said, standing in the doorway. He looked from Matheus to Quin. “What? I thought you’d want to know.”

Matheus, Quin, and Alistair gathered around Matheus’ bed, all three watching as Bianca pushed herself into a sitting position. She’d refused any help, despite the obvious effort the action cost. Her red curls glowed supernaturally vivid against her ashen skin. Alistair had managed to wipe away most of the blood, but a few traces remained along her hairline and over the tops of her ears.

Matheus rubbed absently at the fading rash along his wrists. Whatever the substance in Bianca’s blood that affected him and Alistair was, its effects didn’t last long. Alistair had been even more exposed, and only faint traces of pink remained on his skin.

Bianca settled onto the mound of pillows, tugging the blanket up to her armpits. She matched Quin’s gaze, forcing a wide smile.

“Debriefing time, I reckon,” she said. “I don’t know how they got in. I was in the library, came running out when I heard the explosion.”

“So they did have grenades,” said Alistair.

Bianca shrugged, then grimaced.

“Not necessarily,” said Quin. “It’s not hard to make explosives.”

“They would have needed something,” said Bianca. “Enough to get through the wall.”

“Would it be that hard to get in?” Matheus asked. “All we did was knock.”

“Zeb’s house is—was a fortress. Walls lined with reinforced steel, booby-traps every ten feet. Zeb’s—Zeb was a paranoid bastard.”

“He’s gone, then,” Quin said.

“Beheaded,” said Bianca. “There were ten, twelve of them, military trained, I think, with spiffy matching outfits. Loaded down with silver, blades, and crossbows. They didn’t bother with me much, just sliced me up and moved on. I crawled to a closet and watched the show from there.” Bianca paused. She covered her eyes with her hand, taking deep, shaky breath. The three men kept quiet, waiting. After a minute, Bianca lowered her hand. She sniffed, blinking rapidly, then cleared her throat. “They bashed Zeb for quite a while before they killed him. Kept asking for the book. Zeb’s book.”