Real Vampires Take No Prisoners (Real Vampires Don't Sparkle Book 3)

by Amy Fecteau

  “Yeah,” said Matheus, thinking about Juliet’s answer to his question. For Lenya’s sake. He didn’t know if she meant her daughter or his mother, and something told him not to ask.

  “Family is important to Juliet.” Quin strapped the last container of gasoline into the back of the truck. “It’s how succubae are designed. Would you want to have children knowing that you’d end up as dinner one day?”

  “I don’t want to have children at all.” Matheus knelt beside the open driver’s side door, a growing pile of screws next to him. He’d volunteered to remove the window. He needed something to occupy himself until Juliet got her people into place. “I get the whole genetic urge to protect your offspring. Not sure it applies to my father, but I understand how non-insane parenting works. Juliet seems a little conflicted about thinking of me as family, though.” He dropped another screw onto the pile. “She called me a mongrel once.”

  “Well,” said Quin. The truck shifted as he leaned against the side. “You’re a man.”

  “It wasn’t a conscious decision on my part.” Matheus waved the screwdriver at Quin. “I don’t know about you, but my time as a mindless collection of cells didn’t include a preference questionnaire.”

  “Neither did Juliet’s. Be happy with what you got, Sunshine.”

  “That wasn’t a complaint,” said Matheus. “I don’t want to be a woman. I mean, high heels. Why?”

  Quin made a humming sound. “I’d like to see you in a pair of heels. Maybe a little skirt.” His voice thickened, growing abstracted. “You’d greet me at the door, all nervous. I’d follow you upstairs, watching your ass bounce under your skirt, getting harder and harder, until―”

  “Quin!” Matheus knew he didn’t blush anymore, but his whole body felt as though he’d just been lowered into an active volcano. He shifted, trying to relieve the ache in his pants. “Jesus Christ.”

  “No?” Quin asked with a note of disappointment.

  “Yes,” said Matheus. “I mean, no. I mean, not now. Later. We don’t even have a staircase here.”

  “Oh, I can find you a staircase.” Quin wiggled his eyebrows. “But my, frankly, quite wonderful imagination aside, I was referring to Juliet’s offer of help.”

  “Right,” said Matheus. “That.” He worked the last screw free, and set the screwdriver aside. He’d opted for the non-electrical version. He didn’t understand the urge to mechanize everything. Some things worked fine without buttons and motors. With his non-existent nails, he pried at the inner panel of the door, managing to work one finger underneath, then another. Eventually, the whole piece of plastic popped free, smacking him on the chin. “Goddammit.”

  “Your ability to do damage to yourself is astonishing,” said Quin.

  Matheus scowled. He tossed the plastic door panel aside and picked up the screwdriver, holding it like a dagger, but decided to attack the screws holding the window in place instead.

  Quin settled to the ground, resting against the truck’s tire and stretching out his legs. He watched over Matheus’s shoulder, ducking to avoid the occasional screw. “Did your troubled youth involve an internship at a chop shop?”

  “YouTube,” said Matheus. “You can find videos for anything.”

  “Can you?” asked Quin. “Fascinating.”

  Matheus wondered if he knew what YouTube was. He didn’t know if Quin even fully grasped the concept of the Internet. He twisted around; Quin’s face held nothing but mild interest. Innocence radiated out of him like the petals of daisy. Mothers would trust him with their babies; Little Red Riding Hood wouldn’t even think about questioning the size of his teeth. If he met the Pope, he’d be canonized on the spot.

  “All right,” said Matheus. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Quin widened his eyes, and blinked.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Quin.”

  “Fine.” Quin shrugged, his expression returning to its normal cold, sharp cynicism. “It wasn’t my idea anyway.”

  His grip tightened on the screwdriver. “What wasn’t?”

  “Some of the others think you shouldn’t be left alone.” Quin’s fingers trailed circles in the air. “I find you more tolerable than most, so I volunteered.”

  “You find me tolerable?” Matheus asked. “Fucking tolerable?”

  Quin smiled. He leaned forward, delivering a quick kiss to Matheus’s lips. “You are a constant delight, Sunshine.” He arched an eyebrow. “Better?”

  Matheus declined to respond. “What others? No, wait. It was Alistair, wasn’t it? I’m going to kill him.”

  “Okay,” said Quin. “Is this something you’d like to do on your own, or would you like some help? Alistair is small, but he fights dirty. Then again, he does trust you, so you might be able to get in a surprise attack.”

  “Quin,” said Matheus, clamping down on his growing smile.

  “He means well.”

  Matheus found he didn’t need to rein in the urge to grin anyway. “Yesterday you wanted to staple his tongue to the roof of his mouth.”

  “I’m a forgiving person,” Quin said.

  “You are not!” Matheus winced as he heard his voice break. He turned back to the truck door. Behind him, Quin’s shoes scraped on the pavement. A shadow fell over him, but Matheus didn’t move. He stared at the screws, trying to remember the stupid mnemonic everyone whispers under her or his breath. His mind returned a 401 page, so he stared at the ground instead. If he tilted his head just so, the oil stain to his right turned into a dead ringer for Richard Nixon. “What does Alistair think I’m going to do?”

  “I imagine he thinks you might freak out,” said Quin.

  “Why the fuck would I do that?” Matheus threw the screwdriver down. He shot to his feet, spinning to face Quin. “I mean, a whole lot of people are trusting me while I send them off to die, but hey, that’s nothing. I can totally handle that. And sure, Gwen and Eamon and Salvatore trusted me, and they all ended up killed or captured or worse, but why should I let that bother me? My father’s going to torture my pregnant sister to death, but hey, that’s two less Christmas presents I have to worry about. I’m supposedly responsible for two dozen people, and I don’t know what the fucking hell I’m doing, but who cares? Let’s have a fucking dance party!”

  “She wouldn’t have left if she didn’t think you could handle it,” said Quin.

  “Fuck!” Matheus slammed the door shut. The window, free of the trim and missing most of its screws, slipped loose, shattering across the tar.

  “Okay,” said Quin. “Sorry I brought it up.”

  With a burst of manic laughter, Matheus fell back against the truck. He ducked his head, choking on hysterics, feeling the laughter turn to sobs. The tiny part of his mind kept separate, the observer, thought Christ, this is pathetic. His vision blurred, the edges darkening as a roaring sound drowned out the world. He didn’t know how many minutes passed before he realized Quin stood in front of him. Quin’s fingers threaded into his hair, kneaded the rigid muscles along Matheus’s neck and shoulders. Whispers of Latin floated in past the roaring. Matheus leaned into the soothing touch. He had no idea what Quin said. The words ran together, too low and quick to decipher.

  Eventually, he pulled away, keeping his gaze fixed on Tricky Dick. He cleared his throat and wiped his face with his sleeve. Although, that probably did little except smear more filth around.

  “Better?” Quin asked. He rested his hands on Matheus’s hips, lightly, not constraining, but with the promise of strength.

  “I feel like an idiot,” said Matheus. “I don’t…”

  “During my first battle, I was so frightened I pissed myself,” Quin said. “My commander never let me forget that.” He paused. “I suppose it evened out after I ate him.”

  “Please tell me that was after you died.”

  “He was my first meal.”

  “Super,” said Matheus.

  He’d worked his gaze up to Quin’s knees, over his stomach, fi
nally settling on his chin. After a few seconds, he flicked a glance upward. Quin smiled at him. Something about his smiles reminded Matheus of the parable of the scorpion and the frog. Sure, on land the scorpion seemed friendly, even reasonable, but get to the middle of the river, and bam! Out comes the stinger. Any sane person would run. Except, when Quin smiled at him like that, Matheus only wanted to smile back. And then possibly find out what other fantasies he had tucked away in his head.

  I’m doomed.

  “Do you really think this is going to work?” he asked, nodding toward the truck.

  “Would you stop if I said no?” Quin asked.

  “No.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “Quin,” said Matheus. “It matters.”

  Quin’s grip tightened on his hips. He stepped closer. Matheus wondered when he’d forgotten how to breathe. A second later, air hardly mattered at all, because Quin’s lips moved against his, and his hands pressed him against the cold steel of the truck.

  “Quin,” Matheus gasped, needy fear feeding into the rising lust. Quin rocked against him, and he whimpered. “Oh, God, quick, quicker!”

  Quin thrust a hand between them, yanking at Matheus’s zipper. He wrapped his fingers around Matheus’s cock, moving with rough, frantic strokes.

  “Sunshine,” he said, pleading into the crook of Matheus’s throat.

  Dizzy from sudden departure of blood, Matheus groped for the fly of Quin’s pants. Swearing, he tugged at the button, nearly weeping with relief when it popped off, flying into the night. The zipper scraped his wrist, but he didn’t care. Quin’s cock quivered in his palm. He matched pace, their knuckles banging together, neither one slowing. Quin’s teeth sank into Matheus’s neck. No tenderness, only raw, aching need. Matheus arched his back, moans escaping into the night sky.

  “Come for me, Sunshine,” Quin whispered, his voice vibrating through Matheus’s nerves. “My beautiful, brilliant Sunshine.”

  “God, God, oh.” Matheus’s entire existence compressed into a single, infinitely small point, then exploded into a universe of stars. “Oh, my God, Quin! Oh, fuck, fuck.”

  Quin’s cock pulsed, and a slick wetness coated his hand. Quin shook, his spine curving, his grip on Matheus’s hip harder than the steel frame of the truck. He collapsed against him with a choking whimper.

  The sound of their panting filled the air around them. Quin wrapped his arms around Matheus’s waist, brushing kisses over the bruising bites he’d inflicted. An internal warmth filled him, the kind that had nothing to do with temperature.

  “I really hope no one saw that.”

  Quin laughed, the sound muffled in Matheus’s neck.

  “It’s not the worst situation I’ve been caught in.”

  “I don’t want to know,” said Matheus. “Pervert.”

  Quin laughed again. He pulled away, grimacing at the mess on his hand. “I don’t suppose you have a tissue.”

  “Nope.” Matheus scrubbed his fingers over his jeans. Not his first choice, but considering the state of his clothes, a little semen didn’t make much of difference. “Hey! Use your own pants.”

  “Too late,” said Quin. He fixed his zipper, and frowned at the missing button. “We really need to go shopping.”

  “If we survive tonight, I’ll buy you whatever you what,” said Matheus.

  Quin looked at him, a strange sideways smile on his face. “I’ve never been a kept man before.” He cupped Matheus’ jaw. “Better now?”

  “Define better,” said Matheus.

  “Sunshine, I’m going to tell you the same thing my father used to tell me. Stop whining or I’ll sell you to a brothel.”

  “Charming. How is that supposed to help?”

  “It doesn’t really,” said Quin. “I would like to add that I know a few highly illegal establishments overseas that would not be averse to making a deal.”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Matheus.

  Quin bent down and picked up the screwdriver. “Take out the other window.” He handed the screwdriver to Matheus. “We don’t have a lot of time.” He walked off toward the movie theater.

  “I don’t believe you,” Matheus yelled after him. “There are no brothels. Quin!”

  The door to the building swung shut.

  “Shit,” said Matheus.

  Juliet returned twenty minutes later. She confirmed the plan with Matheus, and vanished again, leaving behind a cloud of Chanel No. 5. Matheus passed the news to Alistair. They gathered the group together for one last meeting. Alistair gave a quick run-through before he stepped back, nodding to Matheus.

  Great. Another speech. He cleared his throat. Fuck it.

  “This is probably going to end badly,” he said. “We’re outnumbered and outgunned. Chances are, a lot of us are going to die. So, umm, there’s that.” He paused, scratching the back of his head. “It sucks, but it has to be done, and we’re doing it. Right.”

  Alistair let out a groan. He covered his face with his hand, his head slowly shaking.

  “So, uhh, thanks for, you know, helping and sorry about the death thing.” Matheus stepped back, hoping that signaled the end of the speech, but no one moved. “That’s it. End of speech.”

  “They’re waiting for you to give the order to go,” Alistair hissed around his hand. “Idiot.”

  “Oh,” said Matheus. He looked over the crowd of horrified faces. “Umm, okay. Go. Try not to die.”

  “Fuck yeah!” Joan hefted a chainsaw skyward. “Group Let’s Kill Some Fuckers with me!”

  Three others followed Joan outside. Matheus had the impression that all of them had matching jackets that the nice people at the hospital had given them. He wondered if Charles Manson had lost a few followers.

  The rest of the room broke in the groups of two or three. Drew and a few others carried enormous flashlights. They worked in pairs, one to do the blinding, and the other to do the maiming and slaughtering. All of them had sunglasses perched on the top of their heads. Milo nodded to Matheus as he walked past. He stuck a Bluetooth device in his ear, typing on his phone with his other hand. His handheld cannon hung under one arm. More people walked by, all of them making some kind of gesture to Matheus. Desdemona with the burnt sugar voice. The nervous brunette who called Matheus “Protos.” Thomas, carrying a box of Molotov cocktails, and trailed by the survivors of his crew. Blanche, who despite being mostly concerned with the state of her nails, had managed to not only save herself from Apollonia’s attack, but also drag two others out with her. As each person passed, the barbed wire in his gut twisted a little tighter. A parade, tossing guilt instead of candy.

  “Brilliant speech,” said Quin. “Very inspiring.”

  Matheus spun around, away from the line of future gravestones. “I can’t do this.” His voice sounded low, frantic. “Call them back.”

  Alistair glanced up from his clipboard. He stepped closer, enclosing the three of them in a small, separate group. “You can’t. They’re going with or without you.”

  “They’re going to die.”

  “Yes, you covered that,” said Alistair. “I think it’d be best if you avoided public speaking from now on.”

  “Alistair,” said Matheus. He raised his arms, and dropped them to his sides. “I don’t― This isn’t going to work.”

  Alistair flicked his gaze toward Quin and back to Matheus.

  “Come here,” said Alistair, walking out of earshot.

  The muscle in Quin’s jaw jumped, but he made no comment as Matheus followed Alistair. Matheus wondered if they’d spend the rest of their days locked in their own personal cold war.

  “What?” he asked Alistair.

  “Listen to me, darling,” said Alistair. “And remember I’m your elder, and know what the hell I’m talking about.”

  Matheus crossed his arms. “You made Quin watch me like I’m a goddamned child.”

  “Yes, and I’m not going to apologize for that. I know how you felt about Heaven. Your sister is
in danger, and you’re under more stress than you’ve probably ever had to deal with before. I love that you want to keep everyone safe, but you can’t, and that’s winding you up like a guitar string. If you snapped, I didn’t want you to be alone.” He reached up, plucking a bit of fuzz off Matheus’s shoulder. “I thought you’d prefer Quin over me.”

  “Alistair, I―”

  Alistair shook his head. “It’s just how things are.”

  “You’re my best friend,” said Matheus. He sighed. “Quin doesn’t… he doesn’t understand.”

  “Quin grew up in a time when it was acceptable to leave deformed babies in the garbage dump,” Alistair said. “Sanctity of life is a modern invention.”

  “Knowing that doesn’t help.”

  “Nothing does,” said Alistair. “But look at it this way. Every one of those people is a freethinking adult. You didn’t lie to them. Lord, you told them outright they’re probably going to die. They could have run, but they didn’t. They made a choice. Don’t take that away from them. It would have come to this with or without you, Matheus. Maybe by being here, you’ve made things a little better.”

  “Right,” said Matheus. “Thanks.”

  Alistair raised his eyebrows. “That helped?”

  “Not really, but I appreciate the effort.”

  Matheus put on his blinker and veered onto the exit. The wind rushed in the glass-less windshield, reminding him of why he’d never liked convertibles. His hair whipped around his head, occasionally stabbing him in the eyes. He knew he’d swallowed a bug at some point. He wondered if he’d cough up a fly later, or if it’d stay in his stomach, rotting over the years. Assuming the bug died, and didn’t just stick around, buzzing. Matheus pressed a hand to his stomach. He really hoped he didn’t end up with larvae crawling up his esophagus.

  “What did Alistair say to you?” Quin asked.

  “Huh?” Matheus asked, still thinking about his new job as a maggot breeding ground. Quin repeated his question. “Oh. Why?”

  “You were less tense afterward. Quin held his hand out the window, providing an excellent example of why airplanes fly. His other hand gripped the edge of the seat, his knuckles stark white.