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

by Amy Fecteau

  “Panic attack.”

  He hunched over, saliva dripping onto the ground. A creak of metal told him the gate opened. Guards grunted, hefting something heavy inside. Their package made a thud against the back of the cage. The gate clanged shut, before keys jangled together. Footsteps disappeared up the stairs, turning into creaking floorboards overhead.

  Matheus’s arms surrendered to the inevitable. He landed on his stomach, face pressed into the hard-packed earth. Another round of choking scuttled up his esophagus, but he forced a deep, dirt-laced breath into his lungs. He counted to fifty, and exhaled. The choking sensation dissipated, some semblance of logic returning to his mind. Keeping the count steady, he flopped onto his back.

  The smell of blood assaulted him. Heavy and thick, languid in the air. He inhaled, letting the scent roll over his tongue, copper and salt and delirious heat. His injuries faded from conscious thought, overshadowed by the promise of blood. His brain transferred to autopilot. He rolled over and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. The heartbeat danced in his nerves, echoed in his chest. Matheus didn’t need his eyes. He crawled toward the beating warmth, his fangs springing free.

  He found a chest, clothed, rising and falling beneath his palm. He moved his hand upward; fine, tangled hair clung to his fingers like down. The blood pulsed, distinct and seductive, travelling along his spine into his legs, muscles contracting in concert, to the soles of his feet. The beat reached the tips of his fingers, the delicate flesh of his lips, the rhythm enveloping his mind, his brain pushing against his skull, ba-bum-ba-bum.

  Matheus twisted his fingers into the fine hair, arching the head back. He bent forward, searching out the artery with his other hand. A pulse fluttered beneath the pad of his fingertips. With a needy moan, he sunk his fangs into flesh. He’d misjudged slightly, but the first trickle of blood only increased his hunger. He bit again, and fire burst into his mouth. Blood trickled out the corners, burning trails down his chin. The nails-on-the-chalkboard sensation screeched under his skin, but the sweet, all-consuming taste of the blood overcame any objections. He moved closer, latching onto the wound with hard suction.

  The blood twitched beneath him, letting out soft moans. His grip tightened, growing rougher with each whimper. Blood swept down his limbs, an inferno scorching away the pain. A hand brushed his shoulder. With a growl, he knocked the arm aside. He curled around his meal, ignoring the fire eating into the soft tissue of his mouth. Bone knit together, flesh solidified. He exchanged a large suffering for a smaller one, and considered himself lucky. The blood moaned, louder, longer. Its arm circled his head, winding around his neck. Matheus tugged, but the blood clung to him, its nails hooked into his skin. The hand held Matheus in place, binding them together. Matheus relaxed. He stroked the blood’s hair, smoothing down the soft strands.

  The thrumming beat slowed into lazy, lingering pulses. Matheus chased the final beats, following the blood down into death. The hold on his neck loosened, then released, the hand falling away. He sucked, drawing in the last drops, the bright taste already dimming. He sat up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Trembling, afraid of what he might find, he raised his fingertips to his eyes. He shuddered, relief flooding him. He felt his eyelids, delicate skin fluttering beneath his touch. A tingling spread down his neck, out to his fingers and toes. The bar hadn’t been silver. Matheus had never felt so giddy in his life. He giggled. Covered in blood and filth, sitting in a cage, crouched beside a corpse, Matheus giggled.

  Reality settled onto Matheus like a lead apron. His respite had come at a price. He rubbed away dried blood and pried his eyes open. A sucker punch landed in Matheus’s gut when he looked upon his savior.

  “Oh, Eamon.” He let out a long exhale. Part of him had known. The singer who’d soothed him taken away, returned with the taste of silver in his blood. Matheus had known even as he drank, the thought submerged under the desperation and bloodlust. His cheeks wet, Matheus leaned over, closing Eamon’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, tidying Eamon’s clothes. Little more than rags remained, but he did the best possible. He rested his palm on Eamon’s chest. “I’m s-sorry.” He looked away, staring into the dark corners, rubbing the heel of his hand over his cheeks. “I d-didn’t mean f-f-for this to h-happen.”

  He glanced at the corpse, anger rising at the serene expression on his face. Matheus held the memory of Eamon’s arm around his neck. The logical part of his brain didn’t blame the man, but that didn’t stop Matheus from thinking that Eamon had cheated somehow. He’d gone away, leaving Matheus behind to stick things out alone.

  “Son of a bitch.” Matheus tasted salt in his mouth. He scrubbed his palms over his face. “Stupid fucking idiot.” He inhaled a ragged breath. “You―Jesus Christ―you―” He jerked away, heaving himself to his feet. He tottered, and slapped his hand against the wall. His knees shook with internal debate. The left advocated collapse, but the right insisted he was too big to fail. Overriding them both, he took a tiny, shuffling step. Eamon’s blood had helped, but not healed him completely. He’d taken a lot of damage. The memory of the hammer clattering over his teeth rose to the surface; the smell of leather and his own blood, the man’s tongue, sticky and slick over Matheus’s ear―

  He shivered and shoved the memories aside. Later, he’d have to deal with them, but not now. He edged around the cage, working out the mechanisms in his legs. His knees settled into a compromise. Matheus risked releasing the wall. He staggered the few steps toward the lock, and dropped to kneel. The electricity in the fence made the hairs on his arm stand on end. He wondered how much more fuel the generator had. Did the guards bring more gas when they returned Eamon to the cell? Matheus didn’t remember, but he and reality hadn’t been speaking at the time. He looked up at the wire connecting the generator to the cage. Electrical tape covered the top bar; no way to knock the wire loose. Back to his original plan, then. Maybe he’d have better luck freeing one of the stones now.

  Overhead, boards creaked. Voices filtered through, too indistinct to be understood. The cellar door creaked open, and thumped closed. Combat boots thudded down the steps, the voices growing louder. With a speed that left sore muscles kvetching, he darted to the darkest part of the cage. The guards fell silent as they entered the tiny room. One remained by the door while the other continued into the next room. A few seconds later, the hum of the generator cut off. The guard returned, wiping his hands on his pants.

  “Frigging Hauser always gets oil on the frigging button.” The guard stopped in front of the cage door. He held his crossbow in one hand, the tip of the bolt pointed at the ground. “Goddamn, it’s dark down here. You got him?”

  “Hang on, I’ll get the light.” Guard number two braced his crossbow on his shoulder. He fumbled for the flashlight hanging off his belt. “Fuck. Batteries dead.”

  “Give it here.” Guard number one with the oily fingers leaned his crossbow against the wall. He shook the flashlight, and smacked the end against his palm. The bulb flickered, a pale yellow circle cast over the floor before fading away. Matheus fought the urge to snicker.

  “You got yours?” Guard number two asked.

  “Yeah.” Guard number one tugged at the clip. “Frigging thing―won’t―frigging open.” He grunted, yanking at the flashlight.

  “Are you pushing in the button?”

  “Yeah, I’m pushing the frigging button.”

  “You gotta hold the bottom and twist.”

  “Goddamn, who frigging ordered these stupid things?” Guard number one said, still fighting with the flashlight clip. “Was it Hauser? I bet it was frigging Hauser.”

  Matheus cleared his throat. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting, you know.”

  Guard number one’s head snapped up. The flashlight hit the ground with a thud, rolling across the floor. “Shit!”

  “Got it,” said Guard number two, already bending down.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Matheus, letting his voice deepen in a b
ored drawl. “If you worked for me, I would have shot you ages ago.”

  “Shut up!” Guard number one seemed to have a bit of a temper.

  The flashlight clicked on. A circle of light flew across the floor, landing on his face. He grinned. He knew what he looked like: fangs out, mouth and chin smeared with blood, crouching on the ground like a feral animal.

  “Fuck,” said Guard number two in a quiet voice. “Fuck.”

  “Just frigging shoot him already.”

  “You shoot him.”

  “Shit.” Guard number one reached for his crossbow. He screamed as the trigger released, the bowstring snapping with a sharp twang. The bolt stuck in the dirt, the fletching vibrating.

  Matheus let out a delighted laugh.

  “You shut the hell up!” Guard number one leapt forward, slapping his hands on the cage. The fencing rattled. Matheus laughed again, deeper, darker.

  “Holy hell, Hank. Where’d you learn you shoot, fucking clown college?” Guard number two stuck the flashlight under his arm and swung the crossbow down. The beam of light wavered, zigzagging as the guard fumbled with the bow and the flashlight.

  Matheus sprinted to the other side of the cage. Guard number two swore. He turned, trying to keep the light on Matheus. Every time the beam landed on him, he dodged away.

  “You little fucker,” said Guard number two. He swung around, aiming at Matheus again. The flashlight slipped from beneath his arm. Plastic cracked, pieces scattering over the floor as the light vanished.

  “Cheap Chinese crap!” Guard number one, Hank, groped for a new bolt.

  “I should warn you,” Matheus said. “He really doesn’t like failure.”

  “Shoot him!” yelled Hank, dropping the bolt as he tried to load the crossbow.

  “I can’t see anything!”

  “I mean, I’m his son, and look what he did to me,” said Matheus, conversationally. “Imagine what he’s going to do to you.”

  Hank tossed aside his crossbow. He marched up to Guard number two, snatching away his bow.

  “What the… Hank!”

  “Oooh,” said Matheus “What’re you going to do with that, genius?”

  With a growl, Hank fired into the direction of Matheus’s voice. Too bad he’d already slid to the left, well clear of the bolt.

  “Missed me!” Matheus called in a singsong.

  “Hank, stop—”

  “I’m going to kill the bastard.” Slotting another bolt into place, Hank strode up to the cage. He held the crossbow against the fencing, the tip of the bolt poking through one of the holes. “Say something, you frigging prick.”

  “Hi,” said Matheus. He snatched the bolt off the crossbow a microsecond before the string released. Hank the guard let out a low, strangled moan. With his other hand, Matheus grabbed the crossbow, jerking it out of Hank’s grasp. The bow banged against the fencing and hit the ground.

  Hank the guard took a half step back, not far enough. Matheus thrust his arm past the fencing and dragged Hank forward by his belt, holding him flush against the cage.

  “No―” The plea dissolved into a whimper. Matheus thrust the bolt into Hank’s throat, in the soft, tender spot underneath the jawbone. He released Hank’s body and listened to the wet, sloppy gurgles fade away. He inhaled the sweet smell of blood, wishing he’d had a chance to drain Hank before he died.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” said Guard number two. “Hank? Hank, what happened?”

  Upstairs, someone screamed, high-pitched, sliced off in the middle. Footsteps pounded on the floor. Matheus frowned; the stink of ammonia pierced the blood. He backed away, covering his nose.

  “Hank!” yelled Guard number two. “Fuck. Fuck.” He hovered in the doorway, afraid to move closer, afraid to leave.

  A staccato burst of gunfire ripped the air, followed by the scream of someone who’d just had his spine used as impromptu club.

  “Oh, good,” said Matheus. “My friends are here.”

  The guard gave him a wide-eyed look, his face slack with terror. “Please―”

  Gunfire cracked over the stone walls, muzzle flare stinging Matheus’s eyes. The guard dropped, the back of his skull a bowl of red Jell-O.

  “Alistair!” Matheus pressed his face against the fencing. “You’re gorgeous, I love you, you’re fantastic, get me the hell out of here.”

  The gun in Alistair’s hands looked familiar. He held the pistol grip with both hands, in a stance straight out every cop movie in existence. After a second, he realized the gun belonged to Milo; the cannon to which Heaven had objected. Explosions popped overhead, and Alistair jumped, hitting the trigger. The guard’s left arm exploded into hamburger.

  “Alistair?” Matheus asked. “Are you okay?”

  Alistair blinked. He lowered the gun, his whole frame shaking. Inching around the bloody mess, he walked up to the cage. His eyes widened as he scanned Matheus up and down.

  “Am I okay? Lord, Matheus, look at you.”

  Matheus didn’t stop the grin from breaking over his face. He thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful as Alistair standing there, wrinkling his nose at him.

  “Get me out,” he said. “Shoot the lock off or something. Fuck, I don’t care.”

  “That doesn’t work in real life.” Alistair pulled a wallet out of his back pocket. “I thought you might need these.”

  “Oh, hello, my babies,” Matheus cooed, selecting a lock pick. The padlock clicked open in seconds. Overhead, various screams and shouts overlapped, interspaced with gunfire.

  “Quin was very annoyed,” said Alistair. He tilted his head, looking at the body inside the cell. “Is that—?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gwen and Sal—”

  Matheus shook his head.

  Alistair exhaled, long and slow. “Okay. Okay.”

  “I can’t explain,” said Matheus. “Not―here. Not now.”

  “Okay,” repeated Alistair. He took the picks back, and tucked them into the back of his jeans. “We need to find Quin.” He turned toward the door, avoiding Matheus’s gaze.

  Plaster and debris rained down as a tremendous bang rattled the entire house.

  Matheus paused, looking upward. “Umm… On a scale of one to ten―”

  “Oh, darling,” said Alistair. “He’s going to murder you, resurrect you, and then murder you again.”

  “Right,” said Matheus. “Good to know.”

  he stairs shook as Matheus followed Alistair up, boards squeaking and posts swaying. Smoke drifted in from around the doorframe. The tendrils slid over the open sides of the steps, curling down to the floor. The smell of cordite and charcoal intermingled in the air, overshadowed by the neon bright scent of blood. Hunger lurched in his gut. With every step, another lead weight attached to his legs. The strength of Eamon’s blood drained away, along with the bravado that had buoyed him while he dealt with the guards.

  From the first floor came the sound of breaking glass. Matheus stopped, one foot hanging in midair. He stared without seeing. A haze rolled over his vision, bringing the taste of metal to his tongue, and the smell of sizzling flesh to his nose. He choked, panic spreading as he wheezed, air trapped in his throat.

  “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

  Matheus jumped and grabbed the railing, checking his fall. The adrenaline still raced, but he overrode the impulse to run.

  “Fine.” He forced his foot up a step, then another, and another. His legs trembled. The grain of the handrail left imprints in his palm. A burst of smoke accompanied the opening of the door; the cloud roiled, trapped beneath the ceiling. Heat prickled over his skin. “Does my father have to set fire to everything?”

  “I think this one you can blame on Joan,” said Alistair.

  Matheus climbed the last few steps, concern buried in a shallow grave, its limbs poking out from beneath a blank expression.

  “Joan’s here?”

  “And Milo.”

  “And how much did that cost?”

  “He v
olunteered.”

  Matheus paused at the top of the stairs. “This is a dream, isn’t it? I’m still in that room, taped to the chair.”

  “Quin did say that if you died, Milo shouldn’t count on getting paid.”

  “Right. Now it makes sense.”

  A bang rocketed down the hall, accompanied by a blinding blue-white flash. Matheus staggered into the wall. Ringing drowned out the curses and screams; only dim echoes of gunshots reached him. He blinked. Hyperblack afterimages did the salsa over his eyeballs. A hand latched onto his wrist and he screamed. He clawed at the hand, his feet slipping over the hardwood floor as he tried to run.

  “Stop!” Alistair’s face appeared out from the haze. He leaned in, putting his mouth next to his ear. “It’s just a flash-bang. Milo brought them.”

  “Oh.” Matheus’s voice bounced around his head, trapped by the bells. The pealing faded as details of the hallway solidified into being. Alistair didn’t bother to hide his concern now.

  “Are you―?”

  “Fine.” Matheus lurched forward, one hand pressed against the wall. He squinted at the smoke. Vague shapes flitted back and forth at the end of the hallway. Wood creaked and snapped as people sprinted down the stairs. Someone screamed, cut off in the middle with a crunch of bone. Between the bursts of gunshots came the crackle of fire and hissing blasts of extinguishers. He doubted the firefighters had a chance. Joan probably learned arson in the crib.

  A figure draped in shadow moved closer. A glimpse of metal flashed amid the haze, swiping with a rapid slash forward. He froze, the point grazing his Adam’s apple. The sword-bearer stepped nearer, a familiar lean silhouette.

  “Quin,” said Matheus. The blade nicked his skin. “Quin, it’s me.”

  “I know who it is.” The sword didn’t waver.

  “Lord in Heaven,” said Alistair. “Stop it. You didn’t come here just to kill him.”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” said Quin.

  Matheus shuddered, his bones melting to pudding. He lunged around the sword, launching himself at Quin, his defenses melting away into a blubbering mess. He clung, hands fisted in Quin’s shirt. Words poured out of his mouth, garbled into a teary mess. Behind him, Alistair gasped, which meant at least some of what he said managed to be decipherable. Everything drained out of him, the entire previous night pouring out in a torrent.